#rafe smit

Could’ve Fooled Me

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x Reader

Masterlist

Context / Tropes: • Secret relationship, Mean!Rafe, Kook!Reader, Angst with moments of fluff

warnings: emotional manipulation, toxic relationship dynamics, public humiliation, sexual comments, strong language, angst, hurt/no comfort, secrecy, internalized shame, unhealthy attachment

a/n: this chapter contains some heavier emotional content and relationship toxicity, so please read with care <3

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

My relationship with Rafe was complicated.

That was the word I used whenever I couldn't bring myself to say what it actually was. Complicated sounded manageable. It sounded neat. It didn't sound like the kind of thing that kept me up at night, staring at my ceiling and replaying every look, every silence, every time he stood beside me and still somehow made me feel alone.

The truth was, it hurt.

We were together. Really together. Not casually, not halfway, not in some vague, meaningless way I could brush off if anyone asked. It was almost a year of stolen time and hidden touches. Quiet conversations in the dark. Fingers brushing under tables where no one could see. Kisses that felt so full of feeling they left me shaky for hours after. We built something real, something alive, in private.

And still, in public, I didn't exist.

Not in the romantic, thrilling kind of secret way either. Not the kind that makes your heart race because it's forbidden. It wasn't exciting. It wasn't passionate. It was just... humiliating. Like I was something to be tucked away. Something inconvenient. Something that didn't fit into the version of himself he showed everyone else.

I never fully understood why I accepted it.

Maybe because I loved him.

Maybe because when Rafe looked at me like I was the only person in the world, I could almost forget that the second we stepped outside, he'd go cold.

I told myself love was enough. I told myself that if what we had was real, if the way he touched me and looked at me and said my name when it was just the two of us meant anything, then the rest shouldn't matter.

But it did.

It mattered every single time Topper opened his mouth.

Topper never let anything go. Neither did Kelce. They had this way of making everything sound like a joke, like they were just messing around, but every word landed exactly where it was meant to.

"Didn't know you were a theater kid," Topper would say with that smug little sneer, like he'd caught me doing something pathetic.

Kelce would snort and bump his shoulder against Topper's. "What, you gonna start singing on the docks next?"

They'd laugh. Always laugh.

And I would smile like it didn't bother me because reacting would've made it worse. My chest would go tight. My stomach would twist so hard it made me feel sick. I'd keep my face calm and wait.

I always waited for Rafe.

For him to say, Knock it off. For him to look at me like he knew me. For him to do something, anything, that made it clear I wasn't standing there alone.

He never did.

Sometimes it was worse than silence.

Sometimes he joined in.

"Yeah," he'd say with this short laugh, shaking his head like I was ridiculous. "Didn't see that coming."

He'd say it so easily too. Like it cost him nothing.

Coming from anyone else, it would've stung. Coming from him, it felt like something inside me cracked clean through.

And the worst part was that half the time, when I looked at him after, there'd be this flicker in his face. Something tight around his eyes. Something unreadable. Like maybe he knew. Like maybe he hated himself for it. But he never took it back, and after a while, I stopped pretending that almost mattered.

Then there was Kiara.

One afternoon, somebody spat the word Pogue at me just because they'd seen me talking to her. Sharp. Mean. Ugly in a way that made the back of my neck burn.

The irony would've been funny if it hadn't hurt so much. We were all Kooks. Every single one of us. But that didn't matter. Not when tearing me down was easier than thinking for half a second.

I snapped before I could stop myself.

"I'm not a Pogue," I shot back, my voice already shaking. "You know that."

I hated that my voice shook. Hated that they could hear they'd gotten to me.

Rafe barely looked up.

He just shrugged, casual as anything. "Relax. It's not that serious."

I remember staring at him, thinking, Are you serious?

Not that serious.

Maybe not to him. But it was serious to me.

It was humiliating. It was isolating. It was exhausting.

Every time he laughed something off, every time he stayed quiet, every time he acted like I was asking for too much just because I wanted him to acknowledge me, it felt like a choice. Like he was choosing them. Choosing comfort. Choosing his image. Choosing everything else over me.

Like he was reminding me exactly where I belonged.

In the background. Unnamed. Unclaimed. Easy to overlook.

I told myself I should leave. I did.

There were nights I'd lie awake and think, I can't keep doing this. I deserve better than this. I deserve someone who won't touch me like they love me and then look straight through me the next morning.

Sometimes I even pictured it. Me walking away. Me finally saying no. Me choosing myself for once.

But I never did.

Because when it was just us, he changed.

He always changed.

The hardness in him would slip. His voice would go softer, lower, like he was letting me hear something no one else got to.

He'd pull me into him and press his mouth to my temple and say, "Hey. Come on. I didn't mean it like that."

Or he'd cup my face, forcing me to look at him, and murmur, "I'm sorry, okay? You know I care about you."

And I believed him. Every time.

Maybe that made me stupid. Maybe it just made me in love.

Because I did love him.

I loved him so much it scared me sometimes. Loved him deep enough that I kept making room for the hurt. Deep enough that I swallowed my pride and called it patience. Deep enough that I accepted apologies that started sounding more like routine than change.

Lately, though, something's different.

The hurt lingers longer. The words echo louder. The apologies don't settle over the damage the way they used to.

And somewhere in the middle of all of that, this quiet, awful question has started to take shape inside me.

How long can love survive if it only exists in the dark?

"Coach has been running us into the ground," Rafe mutters, yanking his uniform shirt over his head like the fabric personally offended him. "Swear to God, it's like he gets off on making us suffer."

He drags the shirt down hard and exhales through his nose, already irritated at the day and it's barely started.

I sit on his bed and watch him through the mirror in my compact, pretending I'm focused on my mascara.

I'm not.

I'm watching the shadows under his eyes, darker than usual. The way his hair sticks up at the back because he clearly didn't bother fixing it properly. The slight slowness in his movements that he would never admit to, like he's more tired than he wants anyone to know.

There's something about him like this that gets to me every time. Not polished. Not smirking for show. Not sharp enough to cut anyone who gets too close. Just tired. Real. Mine, for a little while.

It makes my chest ache with this stupid, tender kind of love I can't ever seem to get rid of.

It's only eight-thirty in the morning. The sun's barely up properly. No one our age should be awake, let alone dressed and pretending to function.

But Rafe drives me to school almost every morning.

Under the excuse of tutoring.

At eight-thirty. Every day.

The lie is ridiculous, honestly.

I can already hear the way he says it to Topper and Kelce. Lazy voice. Dismissive shrug. Like it's barely worth mentioning.

"Yeah, man, it's just easier before class. Only time that works."

As if I'm a timeslot. As if I'm not the reason he gets up at all. As if he doesn't text me when he's outside and wait until I get in the car before peeling away from the curb.

The excuse is paper-thin, and we both know it.

I never call him on it.

Because even this is something. These quiet mornings in his room. These little pieces of him before the rest of the world gets him. These half-hours where he lets himself look at me like I matter.

It shouldn't be enough. But with him, somehow, it always feels dangerously close.

"Maybe you should try for captain again," I say, keeping my tone light while I run mascara over my lashes. I have to hold the compact awkwardly in one hand because he doesn't have a desk, so I'm perched on the edge of his bed with my knees tucked in, concentrating hard enough that my tongue presses against my cheek.

He lets out a humorless laugh from across the room. "Yeah, no. Hard pass."

I glance up. "Why not?"

Rafe looks at me like I've asked the dumbest question he's ever heard. "Because I don't feel like dealing with a bunch of idiots who need everything spelled out for them all the time."

I smile despite myself. "You say that about literally everything."

He starts buttoning his shirt, expression flattening into that smug look he wears so naturally. "Not everything."

Then, quieter, like he's trying to sound casual and missing by a mile, he says, "Come over tonight."

My stomach flips so fast it almost annoys me.

Part of it is excitement. The instant, stupid kind I can't control whenever he wants me close. Part of it is hesitation, old and familiar. The kind that asks, Tonight in private? And tomorrow what?

Still, I roll my eyes because if I don't tease him, he'll know exactly what that did to me.

"Oh, I'm sure you do," I say, snapping the compact shut.

His mouth twitches.

Then he crosses the room and stops between my knees.

Too close. Close enough that I have to tilt my head back to look at him. Close enough that his cologne, clean and expensive and so specifically him, settles into my lungs.

He always does this. Just steps into my space like he already owns it. Like he knows I won't move.

Maybe he does know.

"I bought that game you were talking about," he says, voice dropping slightly, that teasing edge creeping in. "Figured we'd order food. Hang out for a bit."

I raise an eyebrow. "Hang out?"

He gives me a look. "Don't start."

I bite back a smile.

His gaze flicks to my mouth for half a second, and my pulse picks up right away. It's embarrassing how fast my body reacts to him. How easy it is. How after everything, after all the ways he can hurt me, one look from him still makes me feel warm all over.

"Sounds perfect," I admit before I can stop myself.

Then I add, because I need some kind of shield, "But only if I get a chicken burger."

"A chicken burger?" he repeats, like I'm asking for something deeply unreasonable.

"Yes."

"That's your condition?"

"That's my condition."

He stares at me for a second, then leans in until his forehead rests against mine.

His eyes go mock-serious. "Then a chicken burger is what you shall receive."

I laugh softly.

He pauses, then adds, thick with sarcasm, "Babe."

"You're such a dweeb," I mumble, even though my whole face feels warm.

He grins at that. A real grin, not the sharp, mean version he gives everyone else. It's unfair, honestly, how different he can look when he's actually happy.

I try to shift away, mostly to save myself, but he suddenly drops his weight onto me and sends us both falling back on the bed.

I let out this breathless half-squeal, half-laugh and grab at his shoulders on instinct. "Rafe!"

"What?" he says, laughing like he's innocent.

"You're literally the worst."

"Yeah?" He dips his head and presses a quick kiss to my mouth. "You seem obsessed with me, so."

"You're insane."

He kisses me again. Quick. Light. Then again. And again.

Playful little pecks that make me laugh so hard I can barely get a proper breath in.

"Rafe," I say, squirming under him. "Stop."

He kisses the corner of my mouth. "Make me."

I shove weakly at his chest. "Just kiss me properly. You're so annoying."

He pulls back just enough to look at me.

And there it is.

That look. Dark eyes gone warm. Mouth curved like he knows exactly what he's doing to me. Something soft underneath all the arrogance, all the bite, all the damage.

Entirely too familiar. Entirely mine, for now.

Then he leans down and kisses me properly.

Slow. Certain. Unrushed in a way that feels almost dangerous, because it tricks me into believing he has nowhere else to be. Like the world outside this room doesn't exist yet. Like he isn't Rafe Cameron, and I am not the girl he hides.

One of my hands slides into his shirt, fingers curling there just to feel the warmth of him. To make sure he's real. To make sure this is.

His mouth moves against mine with a kind of confidence that should irritate me and somehow never does. He always kisses me like he knows I'll follow. Like he knows I already have.

When he finally pulls back, it's only enough to murmur against my lips, "So bossy."

I smile, breath still uneven. "Only with you."

And that's the truth.

There are versions of myself no one else gets. The softer one. The needier one. The one who wants to stay right here and pretend love can survive on moments like this.

With anyone else, maybe I'd hold more back. With him, I never really could.

For a few seconds, I let myself stay there.

Wrapped up in him. In the warmth of his body over mine. In the quiet hum of the morning. In the version of us that only exists behind closed doors.

I let myself pretend this is enough.

That the way he looks at me now matters more than the way he won't later. That his hands on my waist mean more than his silence in the hallways. That loving him like this isn't slowly hollowing me out.

Because soon, we'll pull apart. We'll fix our clothes. He'll grab his keys. I'll grab my bag. We'll slip right back into character like we always do.

I'll be the girl he tutors. He'll be the guy who barely looks at me at school.

And this soft, secret version of us will vanish the second we walk out that door.

That's the part that hurts the most.

Not that he loves me. I know he does.

It's that he loves me here. Only here.

And I hate how much of me is still willing to take that and call it enough.

---

"I honestly don't know what I'm doing anymore," Kiara says, slamming her locker shut hard enough to make the metal rattle down the whole row.

I flinch a little at the sound but keep my shoulder pressed against the locker beside hers anyway, letting the cold seep through my shirt. It grounds me. Or maybe it just gives me something else to focus on.

Kiara scrubs a hand down her face and lets out this hollow little laugh that doesn't sound like her at all. "I've got Pope on one side and JJ on the other and I swear to God, I'm losing my mind."

I glance over at her. "That's dramatic."

"I'm being serious." She turns to face me fully now, her brows pulled together. "I know this makes me sound like a terrible person, but I don't even know if I want to be with either of them."

I shrug, trying to make it look easy, like this conversation isn't digging under my skin in ways I don't want to examine too closely. "Then don't."

She blinks. "What?"

"Don't be with either of them," I say again, a little slower this time. "You don't have to pick someone just because they're there."

Kiara stares at me like I've said something completely ridiculous. "But that's the problem," she says, pushing off the locker just enough to throw her hands up. "With Pope, it's easy. He gets me. Like, actually gets me. He knows when I'm joking, when I'm annoyed, when I need space. Everything with him just... works."

She trails off, chewing the inside of her cheek.

"And JJ?" I ask quietly.

Her whole expression changes.

It's so small I almost miss it, but it's there. Softer. More confused. More honest.

"JJ's a mess," she says, and there's this helpless little breath of a laugh in her voice. "He drives me insane. His ideas are always stupid, and somehow I still go along with them. He's reckless and loud and he never thinks anything through. Being around him is like standing too close to a fire. It's exhausting."

"But?" I say.

She looks down at the floor. "But he makes me feel alive. Like, in the worst way. In the best way too. And I hate that."

I nod slowly, even though something in my chest tightens so hard it almost hurts.

I know that feeling. I know exactly what she means.

The kind of person who wrecks your peace and becomes it at the same time.

"Maybe you need time," I say, and my voice comes out steadier than I feel. "Like, actual time. By yourself. Figure out what you want when nobody's in your face asking for something."

She doesn't answer right away.

The words just sit there between us. Heavy. Too honest.

Because I didn't just mean her. And I think some part of me knows that.

Kiara lets out a quiet breath. "That's what Sarah said too."

"Sarah?" a voice cuts in, thick with mockery. "What the hell does Sarah have to do with anything?"

My eyes close for half a second.

Of course.

"God, jog on, Topper," Kiara groans.

I straighten automatically, my back pressing flat to the locker now instead of leaning against it. Something instinctive. Defensive. Like my body knows before my mind catches up that this is about to go bad.

Then I see him.

Rafe.

My chest tightens so fast it steals my breath.

He's standing next to Topper like he belongs there, arms crossed over his chest, posture loose in that way he does when he's trying to look unaffected. His jaw is set. His expression is blank in that carefully controlled way I know too well.

And when his eyes flick to mine, there's nothing in them.

Nothing.

No warmth. No softness from this morning. No trace of the boy who kissed me breathless in his bedroom and laughed against my mouth like I was the only thing in the world worth smiling at.

Just cold. Flat. Dismissive.

Like I'm in the way. Like I shouldn't even be here.

My throat tightens.

He's pretending, I tell myself immediately. He has to be. This is the rule. This is how it works.

Still, it stings every single time.

"Shut it, Pogue," Kelce says, looking right at me.

His voice is full of that lazy kind of contempt that rich boys like him wear so easily, like cruelty's just another language they were raised speaking.

I let out a short, disbelieving scoff. "You do realize we're not even Pogues, right?"

Kelce shrugs. "Could've fooled me."

Before I can say anything else, Rafe speaks.

"Yeah," he says flatly. "Could've fooled us."

The sound of his voice hits harder than I want it to.

It's not loud. Not even especially mean by his standards. But it's careless. Distant. Like I'm nobody to him.

Topper laughs, loud and obnoxious, and the noise crawls all over my skin.

He'll fix it later, I tell myself. He always does. He'll pull me aside and lower his voice and touch my face and tell me he didn't mean it like that. He'll say he had to play along. He'll say sorry.

He always says sorry.

"Oh, really?" Kiara snaps, crossing her arms. "Why don't you three go ask daddy to donate some new uniforms? Yours looks a little tight, Top."

She gestures toward his chest, and for a second, despite everything, I almost smile.

Almost.

Topper gives her this fake amused look. "You're just jealous I won't hit."

Kiara makes a disgusted face.

And before I can stop myself, before my brain catches up with my mouth, I cut in.

"Yeah, right," I say. "Like we'd ever want your dick, Topper."

There's a beat of silence.

Kiara's eyes widen. Topper looks offended. Kelce starts laughing.

And from the corner of my eye, I see Rafe swallow.

It's subtle, but I notice it. I always notice him.

A flicker crosses his face. Tight. Sharp. Possessive in a way that sends a hot, confusing pulse through my chest even now.

If he gets jealous that easily, you'd think he'd finally do something about it. Say something. Claim me. Anything.

But of course, that's not how this goes.

Kelce tilts his head, looking between me and Rafe with sudden interest. The second the idea lands, I can practically see it happen.

"Oh," he says slowly, grinning. "She doesn't want Topper's."

My stomach drops.

"Kelce," Rafe says, low and warning.

But it's too late. And he doesn't sound angry enough. He sounds irritated, like this is inconvenient, not cruel.

Kelce ignores him completely. "No, no, I get it now. She'd want yours."

Topper barks out a laugh. "Jesus Christ."

Heat rushes up my neck so fast I feel dizzy.

"Shut up," I say, and I hate how thin my voice sounds.

Kelce's eyes narrow. "The way you stare at him? It's honestly embarrassing."

I don't. I don't stare.

Except maybe I do. Maybe sometimes I look too long in the hallways because even if he won't look back, I can't help checking anyway. Maybe I look for him in every room without meaning to. Maybe loving someone in secret teaches your body stupid habits before your head can stop them.

"I don't," I say, but the words come out smaller than I want.

Kelce grins wider, sensing weakness like guys like him always do. "You're a fucking stalker."

I look at Rafe then. Really look at him.

His jaw twitches. That tell. That tiny movement he gets when he's holding something back.

Hope sparks in my chest so suddenly it almost hurts.

Say something. Please. Just once, pick me.

Kelce glances at him, still smirking. "Isn't that right, Rafe?"

Rafe exhales slowly, eyes still on me. Too slowly.

For one stupid second, I think maybe he's not going to do it. Maybe he's going to tell them to shut the hell up. Maybe he's finally reached a line he won't cross.

Then his expression shifts.

Not much. Just enough.

That cold little curl at the edge of his mouth. That mean, detached look he slips into when he wants everyone around him to know he doesn't care.

"She would," he says.

Everything in me goes still.

Topper lets out this shocked laugh, like even he didn't think Rafe would go there.

And then Rafe does what he always does when he feels cornered. He pushes harder. Meaner. Crueler. Like if he's going down, he'll drag the whole room with him.

His lip curls.

"I'd have her screaming too."

The world drops out from under me.

For a second, I can't hear anything properly.

My heart slams so hard it climbs into my throat. Heat floods my face. My palms go slick. There's this awful ringing in my ears, like my body's trying to shut the whole moment out before it can settle in.

We had never talked like that. Not once.

Not as a joke. Not in front of other people. Not ever.

He'd touched me like I was precious. He'd kissed me like I was something worth being careful with. He'd held my face in both hands and looked at me like he didn't know what to do with how much he felt.

And now he's standing there talking about me like I'm a body. Like I'm a punchline. Like I'm something he can throw to his friends and laugh about after.

I could take the teasing. I could even survive the silence.

But this?

This feels like betrayal.

Real betrayal. The kind that doesn't just hurt. The kind that rearranges something inside you.

"Go fuck yourself, Rafe," I snap.

My voice cuts through the hallway sharper than I expect, loud enough that a few people nearby turn to look.

I don't care.

"Don't you have practice?"

For the first time, something breaks across his face.

It happens fast, but I catch it. Uncertainty. Regret, maybe. Something shaken loose behind his eyes like he only just realized how far he took it.

And God, I hate that some pathetic part of me still recognizes that face. Still knows him well enough to see the exact second the mask slips.

But he doesn't say anything.

He doesn't come after me. He doesn't tell Kelce to shut up. He doesn't fix it.

He just stands there.

And then Topper claps Kelce on the shoulder, laughing, and the moment is gone. They turn like it's nothing. Like they didn't just crack something open in the middle of the hallway and leave it bleeding.

They walk away loose and easy, all smug confidence and stupid laughter.

Rafe goes with them.

He doesn't look back.

I stand there shaking. My fists are clenched so tight my nails bite into my palms. My heart is still racing so hard it makes me feel sick. I stare at the floor because if I look up, I might cry, and there is no way in hell I'm crying here.

Beside me, Kiara mutters, "Douche."

I don't answer. I can't.

Because for the first time since being with him, I'm not standing here telling myself he didn't mean it.

I'm standing here wondering what it means that he did.

And the worst part, the part I don't want to look at too closely, is that I still love him.

I love him even now, with my face burning and my chest aching and humiliation sitting so heavy inside me I can barely breathe around it.

I love him enough to know exactly why he said it. Because Topper was watching. Because Kelce was pushing. Because Rafe would rather light something good on fire than let anyone see how much it matters to him.

I know him. I know the ugly, broken logic of him. I know that when he feels trapped, he gets mean. When he feels exposed, he makes sure someone else bleeds first.

And maybe that should make me hate him.

Maybe it would be easier if I did.

But all it really does is make me feel sick, because I know beneath all that cruelty, beneath the performance and the ego and the fear, he is still the same boy who looked at me this morning like I was the only soft thing he had left.

That is what makes this unbearable.

Not that I don't know who he is. It's that I do.

Its nothing 

Dad!RafeCameron x Reader 

“Wait… you did what?” I whispered, my hand gripping the edge of the kitchen counter like it could hold the world together. My heart was racing, and my brain refused to process what I’d just heard.

Rafe didn’t even flinch. He was slouched in the armchair, laptop perched on his knees like a general surveying the battlefield. “I had to, baby,” he muttered, his voice soft, almost pleading, like he’d done something heroic instead of catastrophic.

I narrowed my eyes. “Rafe… you are unbelievable. You… you can’t just do things like this!”

He finally looked up, blinking innocently. “I… couldn’t help myself. She looked so cute.”

“Cute?” I scoffed, pacing the kitchen like a caged animal. “Rafe, that’s not cute! That’s… that’s financial insanity! You can’t just—just—decide to do this without talking to me!”

“I think… maybe you’re being a little dramatic, baby,” he said, tilting his head, trying that cocky grin that I’d secretly melted for a hundred times before.

“You. Don’t. Get. To call me that!” I hissed, crossing my arms tightly. “I am not in the mood for your charming little manipulations!”

“Okay, okay… but seriously, you are being dramatic,” he countered, shrugging like he was telling me the sky was blue.

I threw my hands up in exasperation. “You bought our daughter a $500 necklace, Rafe!” My voice rose with every word. “You say it like it’s nothing, like it’s just… just some trinket!”

He shrugged again, guilt and pride warring on his face. “It is… nothing,” he muttered.

“She’s six!” I screeched, pacing faster. “Six! She’s supposed to be making macaroni necklaces and painting rocks, not getting jewelry that costs more than my car insurance!”

Rafe’s expression softened. He leaned against the counter, eyes warm. “I just want what’s best for my girls,” he said, voice low, full of that quiet conviction that made my knees feel weak.

I felt my anger falter. “I know you do, Rafe…” I started, the edge in my voice softening.

He cut me off with that mischievous glint I both loved and feared. “So… you wouldn’t kill me if I got you the matching bracelet?”

I froze. “You… what?” I groaned, dropping into a chair, burying my face in my hands. “Rafe. Rafe.”

“It was only $470,” he said, as casually as if he’d just commented on the weather.

“Only?!” I yelled, looking at him like he’d grown another head. “That’s… $970. Spent. In one day. On jewelry! Are you insane?”

He smirked and moved closer, wrapping his arms around me from behind, pulling me into his chest. “Oh, stop whining,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to my shoulder. “You love it, really.”

I froze, caught between exasperation and affection. Maybe I did love it. The thoughtfulness, the sparkle of the necklace, the way he always went overboard for us—it was infuriating and sweet all at once.

“Maybe I do,” I admitted softly, leaning back against him.

Rafe pressed his lips to my neck, whispering, “See? That wasn’t so dramatic, was it?”

“I hate you,” I groaned, but the corners of my mouth twitched upward.

“Yeah, you love me,” he whispered, nuzzling closer.

Before I could respond, Lana’s tiny voice rang out from the living room. “Mommy! Daddy! Look what I got!”

Rafe released me just enough to watch her come bounding in, holding the necklace box like it was the crown jewels. “Lana!” I exclaimed, glancing between her and Rafe. “Did you open it already?”

She shook her head furiously. “No! Daddy said it’s a surprise! But I helped him pick it!” She beamed, little dimples flashing.

“And you… bought matching ones for mommy?” I asked, looking at Rafe, who shrugged, feigning innocence.

“I mean… only if you wanted me to,” he said, raising his eyebrows like a mischievous cartoon villain.

I groaned again, dramatically, flopping back into the chair. “You are impossible,” I muttered.

“And you love it,” Rafe teased, leaning over and kissing my temple.

“Maybe…” I admitted softly, sighing, and finally letting the tension melt away.

Dalton, sensing the mood shift, clapped his tiny hands from his high chair. “Da-da! Da-da!” he squealed.

Rafe laughed, scooping him up. “Yeah, buddy, Daddy is amazing, right?”

I couldn’t help it—I laughed too, exasperated, overwhelmed, and full of warmth. “You’ve ruined me,” I said softly, shaking my head. “Completely.”

“And you love it,” Rafe whispered again, cheek against mine, as Lana bounced around with her new treasure and Dalton gurgled happily in Rafe’s arms.

Hands on the Wheel - Part 1 here

P A R T T W O

The next morning felt unreal.

Like the whole night before had happened to someone else. Someone I’d watched from far away instead of actually lived through with my heart trying to claw its way out of my chest.

But my body remembered.

My shoulders were still tight. My stomach still dropped every time I thought about the car, the speed, the way his voice had gone cold and sharp and then weirdly soft when he realized I was actually leaving.

I hadn’t answered any of his texts.

Hadn’t even opened them.

I just stared at my phone every time it lit up, then turned it facedown again like that was somehow gonna make the knot in my chest loosen.

It didn’t.

By the time I found Sarah, I was running on basically no sleep and way too much adrenaline.

She took one look at me, paused with her coffee halfway to her mouth, and frowned. “What happened?”

I gave a weak shrug and looked off to the side like maybe that would make me less obvious. “Nothing.”

Sarah lowered her coffee and narrowed her eyes at me. “Oh, don’t do that. Do not give me the fake ‘I’m fine’ shrug. I know that shrug.” She pointed at me with the cup. “That shrug is terrible.”

Even with everything, I let out the tiniest laugh. I rubbed my palm against my jeans and looked back at her. “We need to talk.”

Her whole expression changed. She set her drink down right away and straightened up. “Okay. Right now?”

I nodded once.

Sarah didn’t even hesitate. She jerked her head toward the quieter side of the room. “Come on.”

We ended up tucked into a corner away from everyone else, and the second she looked at me again, really looked at me, the whole thing came rushing back.

I crossed my arms over myself, mostly without thinking, and stared down at the floor. “Rafe lost it last night.”

Sarah’s face tightened instantly. She leaned against the wall and folded her arms. “What do you mean, lost it?”

I picked at the sleeve of my hoodie and kept my eyes on my hands. “He got mad after the bonfire.”

Sarah tilted her head, already looking unimpressed. “Mad why?”

I swallowed and gave this humorless little shrug. “Because I was talking to some guy.”

Sarah blinked slowly, then let out a sharp breath through her nose. “Oh my God. Of course.”

I laughed once, but there was nothing funny about it. “Yeah. Of course.”

Sarah shifted her weight and lifted her brows. “Like talking talking?” she asked. Then she waved a hand. “Or literally just existing near another male?”

I looked up just enough to meet her eyes for a second. “Pretty much the second one.”

Sarah muttered, “Insane,” under her breath, then shook her head. “Actually insane.”

Her jaw was already set, like she knew exactly where this was going and hated it before I even got the rest out.

I took a breath that didn’t help and pressed my arms tighter across my stomach. “We got in the car and he just...” I stopped for a second and swallowed hard. “He started driving like an idiot. Like actually scaring me on purpose.”

Sarah went still.

The kind of still that always meant she was trying really hard not to react too fast.

She lowered her voice and looked at me carefully. “On purpose?”

I let out a laugh that didn’t sound like one and nodded, staring past her shoulder. “Yeah. On purpose.”

Sarah lifted a hand between us and shook her head like she needed me to pause for a second. “Wait. No. I need you to say that again because I wanna make sure I’m hearing this right.” She stared at me, her voice going flat. “He was angry, and then he started driving reckless while you were in the car?”

I nodded again.

Sarah just looked at me for a second, totally stunned. “Are you kidding me?”

I rubbed a hand over the back of my neck and looked down. “I wish I was.”

She dragged a hand down her face and stepped back. “Y/N, that is not just him being moody.” She dropped her hand and looked at me hard. “That is psycho behavior.”

I stayed quiet.

Sarah caught my expression immediately. She pointed at me, almost offended. “No. Don’t make that face.”

I blinked and frowned. “What face?”

She gave me a look. “That face where you’re already halfway to defending him.”

I straightened a little and shook my head. “I’m not defending him.”

Sarah let out a dry laugh and crossed her arms tighter. “You were literally about to.”

I frowned at her. “I was not.”

“You absolutely were,” Sarah shot back, not missing a beat.

I looked away and picked at my thumbnail. “I was just gonna say he didn’t...”

Sarah cut in right away, holding both hands out in disbelief. “He didn’t what?” she demanded. “He didn’t mean it? He didn’t think? He was upset? He was having a moment?”

I didn’t answer.

Sarah threw both hands up. “There it is,” she said. “Exactly that.”

I hated how predictable it sounded, mostly because she was right.

I swallowed and said quietly, “I told him to slow down.” I glanced up at her, then back down. “And he just kept going.”

Sarah’s expression changed again, the anger turning into something colder. She leaned forward a little. “You told him to slow down?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

She stared at me. “And he kept going?”

“Yes.”

Sarah looked away for half a second like she was physically stopping herself from losing it. Then she looked back at me. “Oh, absolutely not.”

I told her in pieces.

Not perfectly.

Not all at once.

Just little bits. The way he’d been angry before we even left. The way the car picked up speed when I told him to slow down. The way he kept twisting the fight until somehow I was the one supposed to feel bad for him.

Sarah didn’t interrupt much.

She just listened with her arms folded and her eyes getting harder with every sentence.

When I finally stopped, Sarah looked at me for one long second and said flatly, “I hate him.”

I looked up, tired more than anything. “You don’t hate him.”

Sarah gave a tiny shrug and lifted one shoulder. “Okay, fine. At this exact moment?” She held my gaze. “I hate him a lot.”

That almost made me smile.

She noticed and pointed at me. “Like, genuinely, what is wrong with him?” she asked, sounding completely disgusted. “You flirt with a guy, or don’t even flirt, apparently, just breathe near one, and his reaction is to turn into some Fast and Furious villain?”

I let out a small breath and nodded. “I know.”

Sarah pushed off the wall and started pacing a little. “No, because that’s crazy,” she said, looking back at me. “That’s actually crazy.”

I pressed my lips together. “I know.”

She stopped pacing and looked at me dead-on. “That’s not jealousy. That’s control.”

I flinched a little at the word.

Sarah noticed right away. Her voice softened, but only a little. “I’m serious.”

I nodded slowly. “I know you are.”

Sarah exhaled through her nose and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “And then what?” she asked. “How did it stop?”

I looked down at the floor and heard my own voice go quieter. “And then I got out.” I rubbed my arm and swallowed. “At a stop sign. I just got out and walked.”

Sarah blinked at me, stunned. “You what?”

I gave her a tired look. “I got out.”

Sarah stared at me. “Of the car.”

I nodded once. “Yes, Sarah.”

She lifted both brows. “In the middle of the night.”

“Yes.”

She just looked at me for a second, then pushed a hand into her hair. “You walked home?”

I gave a small shrug and looked away. “Some of it.”

Sarah’s mouth actually fell open. “Y/N.”

I shifted uncomfortably. “I called for a ride eventually.”

Sarah repeated it like she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Eventually?” She stepped closer. “What does eventually mean?”

I sighed and rubbed at my forehead. “I don’t know. After a while.”

Sarah stared at me. “A while?”

I looked at her, exhausted. “Sarah.”

She shook her head, not letting it go. “No, because what is a while? Ten minutes? Thirty? An hour?” She searched my face. “Were you alone?”

I answered quietly. “Yes.”

Her eyes widened immediately. “Oh my God.”

I crossed my arms again and looked away. “I’m fine.”

Sarah pointed at me again, sharp and immediate. “You are not allowed to ‘I’m fine’ me right now.”

I let out a breath and said it again, quieter this time. “I am fine.” Even to me, the words sounded weak.

Sarah rubbed a hand over her face and muttered, “I swear to God.”

Then she straightened and held her hand out toward me. “Phone.”

I frowned at her. “What?”

She wiggled her fingers impatiently. “Let me see if he texted you.”

I hesitated. “I already told you he did.”

“I know,” Sarah said. “I wanna see if he went with the classic lineup.”

I blinked. “What classic lineup?”

Sarah started counting on her fingers, her expression going dry and disgusted. “One, ‘Where are you.’ Two, ‘Answer me.’ Three, ‘I’m sorry, but you made me mad.’” She lifted another finger. “Four, ‘You’re overreacting.’” Then she lifted her whole hand. “Five, random sad boy message at two in the morning.”

I stared at her.

Sarah stared right back. “How close am I?”

I made a face and huffed out a breath. “Annoyingly close.”

Sarah dropped her hand and rolled her eyes. “Ugh. Men are literally so embarrassing.”

That got a real laugh out of me, small and shaky but real.

Sarah’s expression softened right away. She pointed at me gently. “There she is.”

There was a second of silence after that.

Then she looked back at me, really looked at me.

Her voice dropped when she asked, “Are you okay?”

And that hit harder than I expected.

Because I didn’t really know.

I was okay in the technical sense. Nothing had happened, not really, not in the way people usually meant it.

But something had happened too.

Something that felt harder to explain.

I looked down, picking at the edge of my sleeve, and admitted, “I don’t know.”

Sarah’s expression softened.

She stepped closer and said quietly, “Okay.” After a second, she added, “Then you don’t have to know yet.”

I looked at her.

She leaned in a little, her eyes steady on mine. “But what he did was not okay,” she said. “And I need you to hear me when I say that.”

I swallowed and nodded.

Sarah kept her voice calm, but firm. “He can’t do that to you.”

I looked away. “I know.”

She shook her head. “No, I mean it.” She waited until I looked at her again. “He can’t scare you because he’s mad. He can’t act like that and then expect you to just get over it because he says sorry, or because he had a bad night, or whatever excuse he comes up with.”

I pressed my lips together.

The worst part was that I already knew what his apology would sound like.

A little defensive.

A little wounded.

Just enough guilt to make me question if I was being unfair.

Sarah knew it too.

She gave me a knowing look. “He’s gonna try to talk his way around it.”

I let out a tired laugh. “Obviously.”

Sarah folded her arms again. “He’s gonna act all soft and tragic.”

I snorted and tipped my head back against the wall. “With the whole tortured stare.”

Sarah pointed at me right away. “Yes. Exactly.” She dropped her voice in mock imitation. “‘You know I’d never hurt you.’”

I groaned and covered my face for a second. “Stop. That’s literally what he’s gonna do.”

Sarah dropped her hand. “I know. Because boys like that all use the same script.” She lifted a brow. “They just change the outfit.”

I laughed again, this time a little more for real.

Sarah let me have the laugh, then her tone went serious again. “And you can’t let him confuse you,” she said. “You can be sad. You can love him. You can miss him. Whatever.” She pressed a hand to her chest, then pointed at me. “But do not let him make you feel crazy for being upset about this.”

I dropped my hands and looked at her. “I came to you, didn’t I?”

That got the smallest smile out of her.

Sarah nodded once. “Yeah,” she said softly. “You did.”

Then she reached over and squeezed my hand.

“And for the record,” Sarah added, her mouth tightening again, “if he tries to pull something when I’m around, I will actually ruin his day.”

I snorted and glanced at her. “How?”

Sarah gave a thoughtful hum and tilted her head. “Oh, I don’t know. Public humiliation. Creative insults. A very targeted drink spill.” She shrugged. “I’ll decide in the moment.”

I shook my head, smiling anyway. “You’re insane.”

Sarah put a hand to her chest like she was offended. “I’m loyal,” she corrected.

I smiled despite myself.

Still, she didn’t look relieved.

If anything, she looked like she was already bracing for the next part.

Which, unfortunately, came sooner than either of us wanted.

Later that afternoon, the country club was all bright sun, trimmed grass, and people pretending their lives were perfect.

Everything looked polished.

Neat.

Controlled.

Which felt almost insulting, considering how messy everything in my head still was.

----

Out on the golf course, Rafe was doing what Rafe did best.

Acting like nothing got to him.

He stood with a club in one hand and his sunglasses shoved up in his hair, all loose posture and bored expression, like he wasn’t two seconds away from snapping at literally anything.

Kelce was talking shit about something pointless, as usual, and Topper was half listening, half lining up his shot like he was on the PGA tour and not three bad swings away from launching his club into a lake.

Rafe took his shot hard enough to make it sound personal.

The ball flew down the fairway.

Kelce let out a laugh. “Jesus Christ. You trying to kill it or fuck it?”

Topper snorted, not even looking up. “He’s in one of his weird little moods again.”

Rafe rolled his eyes and grabbed another ball. “Shut up.”

Topper finally looked over at him and smirked. “You’re the one swinging like the ball called your girl a whore.”

Kelce leaned on his club, grinning. “Speaking of. You and Y/N fight or what?”

That made Rafe go still for half a second.

Tiny pause.

Barely there.

But it was there.

Topper caught it immediately and gave this smug little nod. “Ah. There it is.”

Rafe set his jaw and looked down the course instead of at either of them. “Mind your business.”

Kelce’s grin got wider. “So yes.”

Rafe adjusted his grip on the club. “It’s not a thing.”

Topper and Kelce exchanged a look.

That alone said enough.

Kelce gave a shrug. “If she’s not answering you, that’s usually a thing.”

Rafe’s mouth tightened. “She’s being dramatic.”

Topper looked over at him, brows lifting. “That sounds like you definitely did something.”

Rafe let out a short laugh, but there wasn’t much humor in it. “Why do you both automatically assume it was me?”

Topper gave him a look. “Because you’re you.”

Kelce laughed. “Seriously, man. Look at your face right now.”

Rafe dropped a ball near his feet and teed it up harder than necessary. “Nothing happened. She got pissed, made a whole thing out of it, got out of the car.”

Topper straightened. “She got out of the car?”

Rafe instantly got defensive. “At a stop sign. Relax. I wasn’t gonna hit her with the damn car.”

Kelce’s grin faded a little. “Okay, but why was she getting out?”

Rafe didn’t answer.

He just stared down at the ball like it had personally offended him.

Topper narrowed his eyes. “Rafe.”

Rafe took the shot.

It sliced badly into the rough.

Kelce winced. “That was disgusting.”

“Yeah,” Topper muttered, watching the ball disappear. “Not just the shot either.”

Rafe glared at both of them. “Can we not do this?”

Kelce lifted both hands. “Do what?”

“Act like I committed a felony because she got mad.”

Topper adjusted his grip on his club and gave him a flat look. “No one said that.”

Kelce looked between them, then back at Rafe. “What’d you even do?”

Rafe scoffed. “Nothing.”

Topper laughed under his breath. “That means it was bad.”

“It wasn’t bad,” Rafe snapped.

Kelce tilted his head. “Then why’s she ignoring you?”

Rafe opened his mouth, then shut it again.

That was answer enough.

Topper pointed at him with his club. “Yeah. Exactly.”

Kelce started walking toward his own ball, still talking. “What, you got jealous? Said something stupid? Started a fight over nothing?”

Rafe followed a few steps behind, jaw tight. “She was talking to some guy.”

Topper let out a laugh. “Oh my God. That’s what this is about?”

Kelce looked back over his shoulder. “No way.”

Rafe’s voice went flat. “I said what I said.”

Topper shook his head. “So she talked to a guy, and you lost your mind?”

“I didn’t lose my mind.”

Kelce barked out a laugh. “You absolutely lost your mind.”

Rafe stared him down. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Kelce spread his hands. “I know enough. She flirted with some dude, you got pissy, now she won’t answer you. Pretty simple.”

Topper bent to line up his next shot. “That’s embarrassing, by the way.”

Rafe scoffed. “Oh, like either of you would be fine with your girl all over some guy in front of you.”

Topper looked up. “Talking to someone isn’t being all over them.”

Kelce smirked. “Depends how hot the guy was.”

Topper snorted. “Shut up.”

Kelce took his shot too fast and immediately cursed when it hooked left. “Fuck. That was still better than yours.”

“It literally wasn’t,” Topper said.

“It looked better.”

“That’s not how golf works, dumbass.”

Kelce ignored him and looked back at Rafe. “So what, she’s ghosting you now?”

Rafe looked away. “She hasn’t answered.”

Topper whistled low. “That bad, huh?”

Kelce gave him a nasty little grin. “Just fuck her back into her place.”

Rafe’s head snapped toward him. “Shut the fuck up.”

For the first time, Kelce looked a little surprised.

Topper glanced between them and let out a quiet, “Well.”

Kelce lifted his brows. “What?”

Rafe stepped closer, voice low and sharp. “I said shut the fuck up.”

Kelce held up a hand, half amused, half backing off. “Jesus. Fine.”

Topper looked at Rafe for a second longer, like that reaction had told him more than anything else had.

Then, because he was still Topper, he broke the tension with, “You’re both acting insane. Also, Kelce, if you say something that stupid again, I’m hitting you with my club.”

Kelce grinned. “You say that like it’s not foreplay.”

Topper looked disgusted. “Nobody wants to fuck you, man.”

Kelce put a hand to his chest. “That’s not what your mom said.”

Topper took a step toward him. “I’m gonna kill you.”

Kelce laughed and backed up. “See? Emotional. Must be that time of the month.”

“God, you suck,” Topper said, trying not to laugh.

Rafe shook his head and grabbed another ball, but he wasn’t really in it. He looked pissed now in a way that wasn’t for show anymore.

Kelce noticed too, even if he didn’t say it.

Topper did.

He set his club down and looked at Rafe. “What actually happened?”

Rafe didn’t answer right away.

He stared out across the course, squinting into the sun.

Then he shrugged, but it looked forced. “She was being annoying. I told her to stop acting like a brat. She kept going. I got sick of it.”

Topper’s face changed a little. “And?”

Rafe’s jaw flexed. “And nothing.”

Kelce gave him a look. “That’s bullshit.”

Rafe snapped another ball onto the tee. “I drove. She freaked out. End of story.”

Topper went quiet for a second. “You scared her?”

Rafe looked at him. “I didn’t do anything.”

Topper didn’t look convinced.

Neither did Kelce.

But Kelce, being Kelce, only lasted about three seconds before ruining the moment.

He looked down at the bunker, then at Topper. “Bet you twenty bucks you chunk this into the sand like a virgin trying to take a bra off.”

Topper looked offended. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“It makes perfect sense.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Yes, it does. There’s panic, confusion, no technique.”

Topper laughed despite himself. “You’re such a loser.”

Kelce grinned. “And yet I’m still right.”

Topper took the shot.

The ball clipped the edge and dropped straight into the bunker.

Kelce doubled over laughing. “Holy shit. Exactly like a virgin trying to take a bra off.”

“Shut up,” Topper said, laughing now too.

Even Rafe snorted at that, barely.

For a second, it almost felt normal again.

Kelce was still laughing when he straightened up and pointed at the sand. “That ball got less action than you do.”

Topper flipped him off. “Eat shit.”

Kelce grinned. “Take me to dinner first.”

Topper groaned. “Why are you like this?”

“Natural talent.”

Teenage boy stupidity moved on fast, and within minutes they were right back in it.

Talking shit.

Arguing over whose shot counted.

Making stupid jokes that got worse every time one of them laughed.

Calling each other idiots.

Pretending nothing serious existed as long as they stayed loud enough.

----

At the club bar, the air was cooler, shaded from the heat outside.

Sarah sat across from me with a drink she’d barely touched, watching me over the rim of the glass like she was trying not to push too hard.

I appreciated that.

Because if she pushed, I’d probably crack.

“I just don’t get why they always act like being jealous is romantic,” I said, tracing the condensation on my glass with my fingertip. “Like if a guy acts insane enough, it means he cares more.”

Sarah made a face and set her drink down. “Because this place is allergic to emotional maturity.”

I let out a quiet laugh.

She leaned back in her chair and glanced around the room. “Seriously. Half the people here need therapy, a reality check, and like... a court-ordered personality transplant.”

That got a real smile out of me, even if it didn’t last.

“Maybe two transplants,” I muttered.

Sarah pointed at me. “Exactly. See? You get it.”

I shook my head and looked down at my drink again. “It’s just so pathetic. Like, congratulations, you scared me. What a flex.”

Sarah’s expression hardened. “Yeah. Real prince charming behavior.”

I opened my mouth to say something else, but Sarah’s eyes shifted past me.

Her whole face changed in that tiny, immediate way that told me exactly what I was about to see before I even turned around.

Rafe.

Kelce and Topper were with him, still carrying that sunburned, careless energy from the course, but the second my eyes met Rafe’s, it all dropped out.

The room didn’t actually go quiet.

It just felt like it did.

Kelce looked between us once and suddenly got very interested in the bottles behind the bar. Topper, at least, had the decency to look uncomfortable.

Rafe stared at me for half a second too long.

There was no anger on his face this time.

Just tension.

And something almost uncertain, which looked so wrong on him it threw me more than I wanted it to.

Sarah sat up straighter beside me.

Of course she did.

Rafe stepped closer, just enough to make it clear he wasn’t leaving. He shoved one hand into his pocket and looked at me like he was trying to keep himself under control. “Can we talk?”

I looked back at my drink. “No.”

It came out flat.

Simple.

No room to twist it into something else.

Rafe stayed where he was anyway, like he thought if he just stood there long enough I’d eventually cave. “Y/N.”

I still didn’t look at him. “I said no.”

He exhaled through his nose. “Can you not do this here?”

That made me look up.

A sharp little laugh almost came out, but I swallowed it.

“Do what here?” I asked. “Refuse to help you act like last night didn’t happen?”

Rafe’s jaw tightened. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

Sarah stayed quiet, but I could feel her listening to every word.

Rafe glanced at her for half a second, then looked back at me. “I just wanna talk to you. Alone.”

I leaned back in my chair. “Yeah, that’s not happening.”

His mouth twitched, frustrated. “Seriously?”

I gave him a blank look. “Seriously.”

Kelce shifted awkwardly behind him. Topper looked like he wanted the floor to open up and swallow all of us.

Rafe rubbed at his jaw and lowered his voice. “You’re really gonna do this right now?”

I stared at him. “You mean in public? Where people can see you being the problem?”

His eyes flashed. “Jesus Christ.”

“No, go ahead,” I said. “What exactly is it you want from me?”

Rafe laughed once under his breath, but it wasn’t amused. “I want you to stop acting like I’m some psycho because we had a fight.”

Sarah let out the tiniest scoff beside me.

I turned fully toward him then. “A fight?”

Rafe spread his hands a little, already defensive. “Yeah, a fight.”

“You were driving like a maniac because you were pissed at me.”

His expression hardened. “I was not driving like a maniac.”

I stared at him. “See, that right there? That’s exactly why I’m not doing this with you.”

Rafe leaned in a little, voice low. “I wasn’t gonna do anything to you.”

“That is not the point.”

“Then what is?” he snapped, and there he was.

Not the polished version.

The real one.

The one who always sounded most like himself when he was angry and trying not to be.

I stood up before I even realized I was doing it.

“What is the point?” I repeated. “The point is that I told you I was scared and you kept going.”

Rafe’s face changed, just slightly. “You always do this.”

I blinked at him. “Do what?”

“You take it way too far.” He ran a hand through his hair, already unraveling. “You act like everything is some huge thing when it’s not.”

Topper looked down at the floor.

Kelce rubbed the back of his neck.

Good.

Let them hear it.

Let it sit there.

I laughed once, sharp and disbelieving. “Oh, okay. So I’m dramatic now?”

Rafe lowered his voice like that made him sound more reasonable. “I’m saying you know how to push people.”

Sarah sat forward immediately. “Okay, no.”

Rafe looked at her, irritated. “Stay out of it.”

Sarah’s brows shot up. “You walked over here.”

“Sarah,” I said quietly, not taking my eyes off him.

She leaned back, but only barely.

Rafe looked at me again. “I’m trying to fix this.”

I shook my head. “No, you’re trying to shut it down before people hear about it.”

His whole posture shifted at that.

Not much.

Just enough.

Because it was true, and he knew it.

“That’s not what this is,” he said.

“Then what is it?”

He didn’t answer right away.

His mouth opened, then shut again.

And honestly, that was answer enough.

I folded my arms. “Exactly.”

Rafe looked away for a second, then back at me. “You really wanna do this in front of them?”

I let out a short laugh. “You keep saying that like I’m the one who brought this to the bar.”

He stepped closer. “Can you stop talking to me like I’m the enemy?”

I looked at him for a second, and that almost hurt more than the rest of it.

“Then stop acting like one.”

That landed.

I saw it in the way his expression flickered.

For a second, he actually looked hit.

Then it was gone, covered back up in irritation and pride.

“You’re seriously just gonna keep shutting me out?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “Until you grow up.”

Kelce looked away. Topper went very still.

Rafe gave this short, disbelieving laugh and dragged a hand over his mouth. “Grow up?”

“Yes.”

He stared at me. “You think that’s what this is?”

“I think you don’t get to scare me because you’re mad, then come find me the next day and act like I’m being difficult for not wanting to talk.”

His jaw tightened again. “Scare you?”

I cut him off before he could start.

“Yes. Scare me.”

The words sat there between us.

Heavy.

Ugly.

True.

Rafe looked at me like he wanted to argue with it, like his first instinct was still to push back hard enough to make the whole thing disappear.

But he couldn’t.

Not with Topper and Kelce standing there.

Not with Sarah right next to me.

Not with me looking right at him.

“You were driving like a maniac because you were pissed at me,” I said. “Then when I told you I was scared, you called me dramatic. So no, Rafe, I’m not doing this thing where you come over here and try to smooth it out because people are watching and you don’t like how this looks.”

His face changed again.

Not a lot.

Just enough.

Because that part was true too.

Rafe looked down for a second, then back at me. “You think that’s all I care about?”

I held his stare. “Right now? Yeah.”

He laughed once, harsh and offended. “You know what, fine.” He nodded like he was talking himself into staying calm. “Fine. Be mad. But don’t stand there and act like I was trying to hurt you.”

I went still. “I don’t actually care what you were trying to do.”

That shut him up.

I could see the exact second it landed.

“Because you still did it,” I said quietly.

Silence.

Even Sarah looked a little surprised at that one.

Rafe’s face went still.

Not cold.

Not angry.

Just hit.

I picked up my bag from the chair beside me.

“You need to grow up,” I said. “Seriously. You can’t keep losing it every time you feel out of control and then expect everyone else to clean up the mess you made.”

He looked like he wanted to argue, wanted to defend himself, wanted to pull me back into the conversation on his terms.

For once, I didn’t let him.

“You wanna talk?” I said. “Figure out how to be someone I actually feel safe with first.”

Sarah stood up beside me and grabbed her bag too. “Come on,” she said.

I didn’t take my eyes off Rafe.

“I mean it,” I said. “Grow up.”

Then I turned and walked away with Sarah next to me, leaving him standing there with Kelce and Topper in the middle of all that polished country club perfection, like maybe for once there wasn’t an easy joke or a smooth enough line to get him out of what he’d done.

Behind me, no one called my name.

Tomato soup, Cheese toasties and Parmesan cheese

Dad!Rafe Cameron x Reader 

Lana is 5 years old 

Dalton is 4 months old

“Grab that one for me, princess,” Rafe said to his five-year-old daughter, Lana, nodding toward the packet of Parmesan.

“Okay, Daddy,” she replied with a smile, reaching up to take the cheese from the shelf.

Rafe chuckled as she carefully hugged the parmesan packet to her chest like it was fragile. “Good job. You’re my best helper today.”

“I always help,” Lana said seriously, toddling back over and dropping it into the cart with a proud thump. “What’s next?”

Rafe glanced at his list, then leaned down to her level. “We need pasta. Think you can spot it before me?”

Her eyes widened. “Like a race?”

“Exactly like a race,” he smirked.

Lana gasped dramatically and spun around, scanning the aisle. “There!” she pointed, already halfway down the row.

“Hey—no running in the grocery store,” Rafe laughed, pushing the cart after her. “You’re too fast.”

She stopped by the shelves of boxes, hands on her hips. “Daddy, there’s too many. Which one do you like?”

Rafe picked up two boxes, pretending to think hard. “Hmm. This one… or this one…”

Lana squinted, then tapped the blue box. “That one. It’s happier.”

“Happier pasta?” he raised an eyebrow, amused. “Alright, I trust your judgment.”

As he put it in the cart, she beamed. “See? I’m good at shopping.”

“You really are,” he said softly. “Couldn’t do this without you.”

They moved on to the cereal aisle, where Lana’s eyes immediately locked onto a brightly colored box. She tugged gently on his sleeve. “Daddy… can we get this one?”

Rafe followed her gaze and sighed playfully. “Does it have marshmallows?”

She nodded. “And stars.”

He pretended to consider it, then shrugged. “Well, stars are important.”

“Yes!” Lana cheered quietly, clapping once before remembering where they were.

As they headed toward the checkout, she leaned against the cart, swinging her legs. “This was fun.”

Rafe smiled down at her, feeling lighter than he had all week. “Yeah,” he said. “It really was.”

---

“Babe?” I called out when I heard the front door open. I was stirring a pot of tomato soup on the hob—the same one Lana and I had made earlier. Rafe had decided we needed cheese toasties to go with it, but we’d run out of Parmesan, so the two of them had gone to the shop.

“Yeah, baby,” Rafe replied from the hallway as I shifted Dalton higher on my hip.

“Mummy!” a little voice called out, followed by the sound of tiny feet pattering into the kitchen. Lana appeared, clutching a shopping bag that was far too big for her. It didn’t look very heavy, though.

“Ooo, what’s in there, love?” I asked as Dalton giggled softly against my side.

“We got Parmesan!” she squealed—her favourite cheese. “Daddy made us get pasta too. He says it’s for your lunch tomorrow.”

I smiled to myself. He really was a good husband. And a great dad.

“Hey, baby,” Rafe said as he stepped into the kitchen. He kissed my cheek before taking Dalton from my arms, pressing a kiss to the top of his tiny head. Then he looked down at our girl.

“You gonna help Daddy make the toasties for Mummy?” he asked, settling Dalton into his high chair.

“Yes, Daddy,” she said with a grin.

Rafe smiled at her enthusiasm, grabbing the loaf of bread from the counter. “Alright, chef Lana. First rule—clean hands.”

She immediately held them up. “Already clean!”

He laughed. “Of course they are.”

I watched from the stove as he lifted her onto the little step stool beside the counter. “Okay,” he said, lowering his voice like it was a big secret, “you’re in charge of the cheese.”

Lana gasped. “The important job?”

“The most important job,” Rafe nodded seriously.

She carefully opened the parmesan packet, sprinkling some onto the bread a little too generously. “Daddy, is this enough?”

Rafe peeked over. “That’s… a lot.”

She frowned. “But mummy likes cheese.”

He grinned. “You’re right. Carry on.”

From his high chair, Dalton banged his hands happily against the tray. “Ba!”

“You hear that?” I smiled. “He agrees with Lana.”

Rafe leaned over to Dalton, mock-whispering, “Buddy, you’re not getting toasties yet.”

Dalton responded by squealing and kicking his feet.

Lana looked over. “He can have soup though.”

“Eventually,” I said, laughing. “When he’s bigger.”

Rafe slid the pan onto the stove and glanced at me. “Smells good in here.”

“That’s because Lana helped,” I said.

Lana puffed her chest proudly. “I’m a good cooker.”

Rafe nodded as he flipped a toastie. “Best one I know.”

She giggled, watching the cheese melt. “Mummy, can we all eat together?”

“Of course,” I replied softly.

White coat, scrubs and an ID badge

Doctor!RafeCameron - Situationship 

I’d been in hospital exam rooms before, but something about sitting on that paper-covered table felt more humiliating today than usual. The paper crackled under my bare thighs every time I shifted, clinging obnoxiously to my skin. The air felt too cold against the thin gown, like the AC was set for equipment, not people.

Maybe it was because I was exhausted, that deep, heavy tired that settled behind my eyes and made everything feel foggy and too sharp at the same time. Or because the bright fluorescent lights overhead made everything look harsher. The corners of the room felt scraped raw by the brightness. The pain felt sharper. The nerves felt louder. And the guilt, the fact that I shouldn’t have waited two full days before finally coming in, sat like a stone in my chest.

But the biggest reason was the one I tried not to think about.

The door opened with a soft click.

Rafe stepped in, the same way he did every morning when he started his shift, like the room belonged to him and he was already ten minutes into his day. White coat, ID badge clipped neatly to the lapel, blue scrubs slightly wrinkled from what I knew was a long night. His hair was a little messy, the front pushed up like he’d run his hand through it too many times between patients. There were faint shadows under his eyes. He had that focused expression he always wore at work, the one that pulled his attention inward and made everything else fade.

He looked like a doctor.

Which was the point.

But he also paused the moment he saw me.

It was fast, maybe half a second. Someone else wouldn’t have noticed the way his shoulders went still or how his eyes widened just slightly before he schooled his face. But I did. I always did.

“Hey,” he said. His voice came out calm, measured, in that way he only managed when he was deliberately trying to stay neutral. “When did this start?”

No greeting. No smile. Straight to business.

That was also the point.

I swallowed. My mouth felt dry and tasted faintly like the bad coffee I’d choked down hours ago. “Two days ago.”

He set the chart down on the counter with more care than necessary. “You didn’t tell me.”

Heat crawled up the back of my neck. I stared at the white tile floor. “I didn’t want to bug you while you were working.”

His jaw tightened almost instantly. It wasn’t dramatic or angry. Just that small, controlled clench he got when he was trying not to say something he’d regret. I could almost hear the words he didn’t say: Seriously? We’re doing this again?

“Okay,” he said, in that patient but not really patient tone. “Describe the pain.”

I forced myself to focus. “Lower stomach. Sharp. Mostly on the right.”

His pen moved across the chart. “Radiating anywhere?”

“No.”

“Fever? Nausea?”

“No fever. A little nauseous this morning.” I tried to say it lightly, like it was no big deal, but my voice sounded thin.

He nodded, already pulling on gloves. The latex snapped softly around his wrists. His eyes drifted briefly to my hands, specifically my left one, and I realized my ring was still on. I’d meant to take it off in the car, but I’d been too busy trying not to throw up and convincing myself this was nothing.

He didn’t say anything about it. He never did in here.

But his eyes lingered for a second longer than they should have, just enough for my stomach to twist for a reason unrelated to the pain.

“Lie down,” he said, his voice softening just slightly, smoothing out the edges.

I eased back onto the table. The paper beneath me crackled loudly, the sound too big for such a small movement. The thin pillow crinkled behind my head. The ceiling tiles above me were speckled, and one corner was stained a faint yellow, like water had seeped through at some point.

“Tell me where it hurts the most,” he said, placing his hand gently on my abdomen.

His fingers were warm despite the gloves. They pressed through the thin cotton of the gown, slow and careful. I’d always noticed that about him, the steadiness of his hands. They never shook. Even now, when mine wanted to.

He pressed lightly at first, moving in small, methodical circles. He wasn’t dramatic about it. No intense stare, no lingering touch that would give anything away. Just a doctor doing his job. But there was something familiar in the way he watched my face for reactions. Not clinically. Personally. Like he already knew all my tells and was trying very hard to pretend he didn’t.

His gaze dipped to my eyes every time his fingers pressed a new spot. I tried to keep my expression neutral, but the building pressure made my muscles tense on their own.

When his hand moved to the right side, pain shot through me like someone had taken a knife to the inside of my abdomen and twisted. I flinched, a sharp hiss escaping before I could stop it.

“That?” he asked immediately.

“Yeah.” I breathed out through my teeth. “Definitely that.”

He nodded, lips tightening. I watched his throat work as he swallowed. “Okay. I’m going to order bloodwork and an ultrasound. It could be a few things, nothing life threatening, but enough that we should check.”

The words “nothing life threatening” were supposed to be reassuring, but they echoed in my head in a way that made my fingers curl into the paper beneath me. I exhaled shakily. “Great.”

He peeled the gloves off with efficient little snaps and tossed them into the bin. Then he leaned back against the counter, the white coat pulling slightly across his shoulders. He crossed his arms, not in a defensive way, more like he was stopping himself from pacing.

“You shouldn’t have waited two days,” he said quietly.

I stared at my knees under the gown. My skin looked pale, washed out under the overhead light. “I thought it would go away.”

“You always think that.”

“That’s because sometimes it actually does.”

He gave me a look. A real one. Not a doctor look. Not a professional look.

The one he gave me at home when I did something stupid and he was trying very hard not to say I told you so.

The look stung more than the pressure in my stomach.

“Next time you feel something like this,” he said, “don’t wait.”

I shrugged lightly, the paper whispering under my shoulder blades. “I didn’t want you to worry.”

His eyes softened immediately, in that way he probably didn’t want them to.

“I’m going to worry no matter what,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

The room went quiet.

Not tense.

Just quiet.

The faint hum of the air conditioner filled the space between us. In the hallway outside, a cart rolled past, wheels squeaking over the linoleum. Somewhere down the corridor, a monitor beeped in a steady rhythm.

He cleared his throat and picked up the chart again, shifting back into doctor mode like flipping a switch, his shoulders drawing back, his voice steadying. “I’ll put the orders in. It shouldn’t take long.”

He started toward the door but paused, his hand resting on the metal handle.

Then, without looking back, he asked, “Did you at least eat something today?”

I hesitated. Guilt flared again. “…Coffee.”

He sighed through his nose, a familiar, quiet sound of resigned frustration. “That doesn’t count.”

“I know.”

“Eat something after the tests.” His voice softened again, almost careful. “Please.”

He left.

The latch clicked behind him, and the room suddenly felt bigger and emptier. I stared at the sink in the corner, the box of gloves, the sharps container on the wall with its bright red label. My stomach throbbed in time with my pulse.

The ultrasound tech came and went, efficient and polite. She was middle-aged, with dark hair pulled into a low bun and tired eyes that still managed to be kind. She introduced herself, then got straight to work.

The gel was cold when she squeezed it onto my skin, a slick, icy puddle that made me tense up. The wand pressed firmly over the sensitive spot, the pressure making the pain spike again. The machine hummed and beeped quietly, the screen casting a bluish glow across the dimmed room. I watched the indistinct gray shapes flicker on the monitor and pretended they meant something to me.

She didn’t make small talk, which I appreciated. Her silence felt like a gift. Every now and then, she’d tell me to breathe or shift slightly, her voice calm and detached.

When she finished, she wiped the gel off my stomach with practiced, quick strokes of a paper towel. “Your doctor will review the scans and be back in a few minutes,” she said.

“Okay,” I said, but she was already halfway out the door.

The room felt too quiet after she left, the sudden absence of the machine’s hum making my ears ring. I sat there, the gown sticking faintly to the spots where the gel hadn’t been completely wiped away, the air feeling even colder on my damp skin.

Five minutes passed.

Ten.

Fifteen.

Time stretched in a strange way inside hospital walls. My sense of it wobbled between I’ve been here forever and It’s only been a second. I twisted the necklace around my fingers without thinking, feeling the familiar shape of the small gold initial pressing into my skin. The chain slid over my knuckles, warm at first from my body heat, then cooler as I fidgeted with it.

The letter always felt comforting, a weight I chose. But right now it felt too heavy, like it announced something I wasn’t supposed to say out loud within these four walls.

The door opened again.

Rafe walked in holding a folder, his white coat moving around his knees. His gaze went straight to me, then dropped to my hands. The moment he saw me still fiddling with the necklace, his eyebrows pulled together slightly, a tiny crease forming between them.

“You alright?” he asked as he closed the door behind him with a soft click.

“Just bored,” I said, letting the necklace fall back against my collarbone. “And thinking.”

“That’s usually when you get yourself worked up.”

A huff of something close to a laugh slipped out. “You’re not wrong.”

He came closer, stopping beside the exam table. Not too close. There was still space, still a line between us, but it was close enough that I could smell his soap and the faint trace of coffee on his breath. Close enough that he felt like a person, not a doctor detached behind a desk.

“Your scans look okay,” he said, flipping open the folder. His eyes skimmed the papers in quick, practiced movements. “You’ve got a small ovarian cyst. They happen. It’s painful, but it should resolve on its own.”

Relief hit me so fast it was almost humiliating. My shoulders dropped. I hadn’t realized they’d been up around my ears.

“So I’m fine.”

“You’re fine,” he confirmed. “You need rest. Hydration. Heat. Anti inflammatories.”

“No surgery?” I could hear the thin edge of fear that had been sitting there all morning.

“No surgery.” He met my eyes and held them, his expression steady, grounding. “You’re not dying.”

My throat tightened. I let out a breath I’d been holding since I’d Googled right lower abdominal pain at two in the morning. “That’s good.”

“You say that like it was a possibility.”

“Well, I Googled…”

He closed his eyes briefly, like he needed a second to gather himself. “Please tell me you didn’t.”

“I did.”

“Of course you did.”

He pressed his lips together like he was trying not to smile. A real one, the kind that softened the lines around his mouth. Not the polite ones he gave everyone else in this building.

“You’re going to go home and rest,” he said.

“You’re prescribing rest?”

“Yes.”

“That’s very official.”

“I can write it on paper if you need proof.”

I snorted, the sound bursting out of me before I could stop it. The tension in my chest loosened a little. “I think I’ll trust your verbal orders.”

His eyes drifted to my necklace again, to the small gold letter resting against the thin fabric of the gown. He didn’t touch it, but he tilted his head slightly, a small smirk forming at the corner of his mouth.

“You know,” he said quietly, “you look good with that letter around your neck.”

I rolled my eyes, but I felt heat climb up my cheeks anyway, my skin going hot under the cold air. “It’s just a necklace.”

“Sure.” His smirk grew, just a little.

“Stop.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You implied.”

“Did I?”

I shook my head, trying not to smile and failing just enough that he’d notice. “You’re impossible.”

“And you were supposed to take it off before coming here,” he added, his voice low.

I looked down at it, guilt twisting under my ribs. “I forgot.”

He hummed in that way he did when he was pretending not to care but absolutely cared. The sound was quiet and familiar, something I heard in the kitchen, on the couch, not usually in an exam room. Then his eyes flicked to my left hand again.

“To be fair,” he said lightly, “you forgot that too.”

I pulled my hand back instinctively, covering the ring with my fingers. “Habit.”

“It’s fine,” he said quickly. The words came out faster, like he wanted to get them in before I could apologize. “Just… be careful, okay? People notice things.”

“I know.”

We went quiet again.

Not awkward.

Just full.

The air between us felt crowded with all the things we couldn’t say in here. My heart thudded a little harder, not from fear this time, but from the awareness of him, of us, of the way the fluorescent light picked up the faint shine on his ring.

He stepped closer and spoke softer than before, his voice almost intimate in the clinical room. “You scared me.”

I looked up, caught off guard by the rawness in his eyes. “Rafe…”

“I’m serious.” He rubbed the back of his neck, a familiar, nervous gesture that made him seem younger, less invincible than he did in his white coat. “When I saw your name on the intake list this morning, I… well. I didn’t like it.”

My chest tightened, not in a painful, medical way, but in that too full way that made it hard to think. The idea of him seeing my name a few floors away, not knowing why I was here, made my stomach twist for a new reason.

“I’m okay,” I said, my voice softer than before.

“I know.” He exhaled slowly, his shoulders dropping a fraction. “I just… I wish you’d told me.”

“I’m sorry.”

He nodded, accepting it like he always did when he’d decided to let something go. He offered a small, tired smile, the kind I only ever saw when it was just us and the day had been longer than either of us wanted to admit.

“You ready to go?” he asked gently.

“Can I?”

“Yes. I’m signing you out.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You’re not supposed to…”

He cut me off with a quiet snort. “Please. Half the doctors here sign out their own families.”

My heart stuttered at the word. I tried to cover it with a teasing tone. “Is that what I am?” I asked, testing him just a little, the question hanging there between us heavier than my voice made it sound.

His eyes flickered briefly to the ring on my hand again, then back to my face.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “You are.”

The room felt warmer suddenly. Or maybe it was just him standing so close, the heat of his body cutting through the chill of the AC.

He helped me sit up, not dramatically, just steadying my elbow like someone who’d done it a hundred times before. His hand was firm and sure, his touch practical but somehow still careful. He handed me my jacket from the chair, holding it open just enough to make it easy for me to slip my arms in.

“Let’s get you home,” he said.

He didn’t kiss me in the exam room. He didn’t hold my hand. He didn’t do anything that would break rules or cross lines or give anyone walking past a reason to look twice.

But as he walked beside me down the quiet hallway, the rhythmic squeak of my shoes on the linoleum the only sound, I caught the faint glint of his wedding band under the fluorescent lights when he adjusted his coat.

Show off

Toxic!RafeCameron

Rewrite of my old fic.

I’d been excited for this party for weeks.

Borderline giddy, honestly. I’d picked the dress days ago, laid it across my bed like something sacred, smoothing the fabric again and again until there wasn’t a single wrinkle left. I’d already pictured how the sequins would catch the light in somebody’s living room, how the skirt would move when I walked. I’d lined my eyeliner three times to get it right, wiped it off twice, curled my hair until my arms ached. The shoes were waiting by the door, heels a little too high, already threatening blisters I decided I didn’t care about.

I just wanted tonight to feel good. Simple. Easy. Like how normal couples laugh on the drive over, windows cracked, singing along off-key to some dumb pop song. Sneak kisses in the car before going in. Argue about stupid things like music choices and then laugh again. Complain about parking. Hold hands.

Except we weren’t a normal couple.

We were me trying, always trying, and him wrestling with whatever storm lived under his skin, the one that flared up every other day like clockwork and left me tiptoeing around the edges of it.

Still, I hoped. Hope was a habit I couldn’t kick.

I fastened my necklace, a thin gold chain that suddenly felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. My fingers trembled with that jittery pre-party excitement, part nerves, part caffeine, part desperate optimism. The perfume on my wrists smelled too sweet, heavy in the warm air of the bedroom. For a second, in the mirror, I almost believed I looked like the kind of girl who had a nice boyfriend and a nice night ahead of her.

Then I glanced over my shoulder, and the feeling died in my chest so fast it left me a little dizzy.

He was already holding a red cup. Half full. The cheap liquor in it was the color of bad decisions, sloshing dangerously close to the rim as he leaned against the doorway like he owned the whole room. Like he owned me.

He hadn’t even waited for us to leave the house.

The smell hit me first, sharp and bitter, cutting through my perfume and hairspray. My stomach dipped, a small, familiar drop, like missing a step on the stairs. My tongue went dry. The backs of my knees prickled with heat.

“Are you seriously not going to wait until we arrive?” I asked, trying to keep my voice light, casual, as if maybe it could still be a joke.

He didn’t even pause. Didn’t even look at the cup like he was doing something questionable. Just lifted his eyes to mine, something cold and impatient flickering there, like I’d already ruined his night.

“Why do you care?” he said.

The tone cut sharper than the words. Flat. Bored. Like he was already tired of me. Like I was annoying him for daring to want anything from him at all.

Heat crawled up my neck. I swallowed, my throat tight. “Because maybe, just tonight, we could try to get there sober? Maybe actually enjoy it together? I don’t know, is that crazy?”

He scoffed, a humorless breath through his nose, the corner of his mouth pulling into a smirk that wasn’t really a smile. He took another drink, eyes still on me, like he wanted me to see him do it.

“You always make shit complicated,” he said.

My heart did this stupid hopeful lurch, then dropped again. I took a small step toward him, the floor cool under my bare feet, the hem of my dress brushing against my thighs. I lowered my voice like softness could fix it, like I could smooth over the jagged edge in him if I just stayed gentle enough.

“I’m not trying to,” I said. “I just… I wanted this to be good. For both of us.”

He stared at me with that look he got whenever he was slipping. Irritated, restless, coiled too tight, like there was something under his skin he was dying to tear out and I was the easiest target in reach.

“Yeah? Well, maybe stop telling me what to do,” he said.

He took another lazy sip while he said it, like I was background noise.

The words weren’t shouted. That somehow made it worse. Sharp, quiet, dismissive. A blade slipped between ribs while he pretended he hadn’t moved at all.

A familiar ache curled up in my chest, warm and awful, spreading out into my shoulders and down my arms. My fingers twitched with the urge to do something, anything. Touch his arm. Block the doorway. Grab the cup and pour it down the sink. Instead I just stood there, nails digging lightly into my palm, pressing half-moons into my skin.

“Rafe, I’m not telling you what to do,” I tried again, even though I was. Even though we both knew it. “I’m just asking. Just tonight. Can you try?”

He laughed, short and ugly. The sound bounced off the walls and made the small room feel even smaller.

“Jesus, here we go,” he muttered. “You hear yourself? ‘Can you try?’ Like I’m some fucking project you’re gonna fix.”

“That’s not what I said.” My voice came out too fast, too eager to untangle his anger. I hated how quickly I rushed to defend myself. My chest felt tight, like a band was pulling around it.

“It’s what you meant.” His eyes dragged over me, slow and assessing, not in a loving way. More like he was checking for flaws he could point out later. He tilted his head. “You look nice, by the way. For someone who never shuts up.”

The compliment and insult tangled together, confusing my brain the way it always did. For a heartbeat, the words you look nice floated up, offering me something warm, then crashed against never shuts up and dissolved.

“I just want us to have a good time,” I said quietly. “Together.”

“You think I’m not trying to have a good time?” His voice sharpened. He pushed off the doorframe, the cup tilting, a few drops spilling onto the hardwood. “Maybe I’d have a better time if you didn’t start nagging me the second I pick up a drink.”

“You picked it up before we even left the house,” I said. I heard the edge in my own voice and winced. His jaw ticked.

“So what?” He took a step closer, close enough that I could see the faint redness in his eyes, the way his pupils looked a little too blown already. “You gonna babysit me all night? Count how many sips I take?”

“No,” I said, even though I basically had planned to. “I just don’t want to spend the whole night worrying about which version of you I’m going to get.”

His eyebrows shot up. He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Which version of me?” he repeated slowly, like he was tasting the words. “You really think you’re that important?”

“That’s not what I meant.” My pulse thudded in my ears now. My armpits felt damp under the smooth lining of the dress. The room seemed to tilt half an inch.

“You think everything’s about you,” he said, voice low and almost calm, which was worse than when he raised it. “You know that? I have one drink and suddenly you’re a victim. Poor you. Rafe’s ruining your night again.”

A sick, hollow feeling opened in my stomach. Part of me wanted to argue. Another part, the trained, exhausted part, started flipping through every conversation we’d ever had, searching for proof that maybe he was right. That maybe I was dramatic. Too sensitive. Too much.

“I didn’t say you’re ruining anything,” I whispered.

“You didn’t have to.” He took another sip, then licked a stray drop from his thumb, casual and deliberate. “Your face says it. That little disappointed look you get. Like I kicked a puppy or some shit.”

I blinked hard, my eyes stinging. I hated that he noticed that look. Hated that he knew exactly where to press.

“I’m just scared it’s gonna end the same way it always does,” I said, the words slipping out softer than I meant them to.

He snorted. “Here we go with ‘always.’ You love that word. ‘You always do this, Rafe.’ ‘You never listen, Rafe.’ You keep poking at me, and then when I finally say something back, you act like I hit you.”

My cheeks burned. I pressed my lips together so tightly they hurt.

“I’m not trying to fight,” I said.

“You already are.” His eyes narrowed a little, studying me like he was looking for a crack. “You know what? If you’re gonna be in that mood all night, maybe you shouldn’t come.”

The air left my lungs for a second. My hands went cold.

“What?” I asked, even though I’d heard him clearly.

He shrugged one shoulder, like it was nothing. “Stay home if you’re gonna kill the vibe. I’d rather go by myself than have you whining in my ear the whole time.”

Something in my chest twisted sharply, then tried to fold itself into something smaller, more acceptable.

“I spent all day getting ready,” I said, and my voice sounded thin to my own ears. Childish. “I thought we were going together.”

“Yeah, and then you started with your bullshit.” He took another drink, draining most of the cup now. “You don’t get to make me feel like crap and then cry when I don’t want to hang out with you.”

The worst part was, a small, poisoned part of me believed him. That maybe I was ruining it. That if I’d just kept my mouth shut when I saw the cup, we’d be halfway to the car by now, with him playing some too-loud playlist while I pretended not to mind.

Snappy. Moody. Then soft and sorry when the sun came up and he remembered he loved me, just not enough to stop the cycle.

A cycle I hated. A cycle I swore I’d leave someday.

But not tonight. Not yet.

So I forced my shoulders to relax. I smoothed my dress with shaky hands and tried to make my voice sound even.

“Fine,” I said. “Forget it. Let’s just go.”

He watched me for a long second, then smiled, almost charming again.

“See?” he said. “There you go. That’s better.”

He reached out and tapped my chin with his knuckles, like I was a kid who’d finally behaved. The touch made my skin crawl, but I stood still and let him do it. He finished the drink in two quick gulps, tossed the empty cup into the trash without looking, and grabbed his keys from the dresser.

“Come on,” he said, like nothing had happened. “We’re already late.”

I nodded and slipped my feet into the waiting heels. They pinched immediately. I told myself the tightness in my chest was just the dress.

I told myself it would be fine.

Hope was still a habit I couldn’t kick.

---

The music hit me first, loud enough to thrum through my chest and vibrate under my feet. The bass crawled up my legs, rattled my ribs, and made the air feel thick, like I was breathing through someone else’s smoke. Chlorine and cheap vodka clung to the night, mixing with the sharp bite of weed and the sweet, sticky scent of spilled something on the concrete.

People were everywhere, pressed shoulder to shoulder, laughing, shouting, diving into the pool hard enough to splash the concrete and soak the edges of my sandals. Someone cannonballed, a wave of cold water hitting my calves, and a girl shrieked, her drink sloshing over the rim of her cup and down her arm.

Normally, I loved this kind of chaos. I usually fed off it, let it swallow me up until there was no room to think about anything heavier than who was DJing next or whether my eyeliner was smudged. But tonight, it felt like the whole party existed on the edges of a storm cloud that clung to him, following every move he made. It was like the noise bent around Rafe, like even the music knew better than to get too close.

At first, he was… okay.

He wrapped his arm around my waist, his palm warm and heavy against the thin fabric of my dress, fingers digging in just enough to remind me he was there. He pressed a quick kiss to my temple, lips cool from his drink, then pulled back with that easy smile he wore like a mask. He nodded at people as they passed, greeted them like the world hadn’t already bent under the weight of whatever he carried inside. For a second, watching him, I almost let myself believe this could be a normal night. Almost.

Then I saw his eyes. The way they were already a little too bright, a little too empty. The way his smile never quite reached them.

He tipped his head back, draining what was left in his cup, the ice knocking against his teeth. I watched the way his throat worked, the slight tremor in his hand as he lowered the cup. He laughed at something Kelce said, a little too loud, a little too fast, like he was trying to outrun something only he could feel.

The more he drank, the more the edges of him frayed. His grip on his cup tightened until his knuckles turned white. His jaw set just a fraction too hard, the muscles there ticking every time someone brushed too close to me, every time another guy’s gaze even flicked in my direction. He took another shot, tequila burning down his throat, and his hand trembled ever so slightly. That was when I felt it, that familiar flutter of panic in my stomach, the one that started small and sharp and then spread, like ink in water.

You should say something, I told myself. Before it gets bad. Before he flips.

My fingers brushed along his elbow, skin hot from the humid night and the alcohol humming in his veins. “Rafe,” I murmured, leaning in so my lips almost grazed his arm, “don’t you think maybe you’ve had enough?”

His head snapped toward me so fast I flinched. Irritation sparked in his eyes, bright and sudden, like static right before a lightning strike. The air around us seemed to tighten.

“What?” he said, voice flat, like he was daring me to repeat myself.

I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry. “I just mean… you’ve been drinking a lot. Maybe slow down a little.” I tried to keep my tone light, careful, like I was tiptoeing over glass.

His lip curled, that almost-smirk he got when he thought someone was being stupid. “For fuck’s sake, Y/N,” he muttered, snatching a blunt from Kelce with a motion sharp enough to make my fingers sting where they’d been resting against him. “Live a little.”

Kelce laughed, already high enough not to care. “Yeah, relax. It’s a party.”

My chest tightened, the air catching halfway to my lungs. There it was, the switch I’d learned to dread. The version of him that felt dangerous and untouchable, like he could tear something down just to prove he could.

“Oh,” I whispered, my voice shrinking without my permission. “Sorry.” The word tasted sour. I hated how quickly it came out of me.

He exhaled sharply, like I’d just made breathing harder for him. His eyes slid away from me, over the crowd, over the flashing lights reflecting in the pool, like he was already bored with my concern. My stomach sank, heavy and cold.

Then, almost too quickly, his finger hooked under my chin. His touch was sudden, a little rough, his thumb pressing against the soft part of my jaw as he tilted my face up to his. The irritation bled from his expression in an instant, his eyes softening, the storm pulling back just enough to reveal a lazy, familiar heat.

“Hey,” he said quietly, his voice dropping into that low, smooth tone that always made my chest ache. “C’mon, angel. Didn’t mean to snap.”

His breath smelled like whiskey and weed, warm and bitter. He smiled, softer now, the edges of it curved just right, like he knew exactly what buttons to press to make me stay.

And just like that, he kissed me. His mouth was warm and gentle, coaxing, his fingers splaying across my lower back to pull me closer. His lips moved slow, like we were alone, like there hadn’t been anger crackling through the air seconds before. The kiss felt safe, but my body didn’t believe it.

I froze against him. My hands pressed lightly against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart under my palms, too fast, too strong. My own chest tightened in ways I couldn’t name, panic and longing crashing into each other until I couldn’t tell which was which.

That whiplash, the way he went from sharp edges to soft touches, from venom to sweetness in a breath, was the worst part. It made me feel dizzy, off-balance, like the floor might give out underneath me at any second.

Because I never knew which Rafe I’d get. And no matter how much I loved the soft version, the one who kissed my forehead and called me angel, I knew the storm was never far behind. It didn’t matter how sweet he sounded. It was always chased by something darker.

The second Topper approached, Rafe's spine straightened, shoulders rolling back as if he needed to take up more space. His chin lifted a fraction, his expression tightening into something smug and cold. He puffed up instantly, like he had something to prove just by existing.

His presence seemed to push the air around him into sharper angles, a warning sign only I seemed to notice. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled.

Topper laughed at something Kelce said, this loud, careless sound that cut right through the music and made me grit my teeth. It was the kind of laugh that said nothing in the world could touch them, that consequences were for other people.

“Bro, you’re gone,” Kelce snorted, clapping Rafe on the back hard enough to jostle me. “You’re not even pacing yourself.”

Rafe smirked, dragging from the blunt now dangling between his fingers. His arm slung around me again, heavier this time, almost possessive. I felt the weight of his gaze dragging down my body, slow and deliberate, like he was cataloguing every inch for an audience.

“Look how short your dress is, angel,” he said loudly, voice rough and edged with something cruel. His eyes scanned my legs, pupils blown and bloodshot. “Trying to get someone’s attention tonight?”

Heat surged to my cheeks so fast it made me dizzy. Every pair of eyes nearby suddenly felt like they were pinned on me. My skin burned under the weight of his words, like he’d stripped me bare in front of everyone.

My fingers twisted at the hem of my dress, tugging it down even though there wasn’t much to pull. I tried to shrink into myself, to fold up and disappear into the floor. “It’s not that short,” I muttered, the words barely audible over the music. I hated how weak I sounded, how small.

“It’s a little short,” Topper added, smirking, his gaze sliding down my legs like he had the right. He took a drink, clearly enjoying the tension.

Kelce snickered. “Rafe’s gonna end up killing someone tonight if they look at her wrong.” He said it like a joke, but there was a flicker of truth in his eyes that made my stomach flip.

“Shut up,” Sarah snapped, appearing at my other side, smacking Topper’s arm hard enough to make him swear. Her eyes flicked to me, then to Rafe, worry creasing her brow. “You’re being weird.”

I swallowed, forcing myself to look up at Rafe. My heart thudded against my ribs, hard and uneven. “It’s not funny, Rafe,” I said, trying to sound firm, even though my voice wobbled. “Stop.”

He only chuckled, a low, careless sound that scraped along my nerves. It was that laugh he saved for moments when he didn’t care what I felt, when he knew he could pull me under and I’d still come crawling back.

“Relax,” he muttered, leaning closer, his lips brushing my ear. His breath was hot and smelled like smoke and liquor. “Didn’t think you’d get all sensitive.”

It wasn’t an apology. Not really. Just a shrug made of words, a casual flick of his tongue that dismissed everything churning inside me. My throat burned. I stared straight ahead, watching the pool lights ripple across the water, trying to steady my breathing.

“You know I’m just messing with you,” he added, a little softer but not kinder. His hand slid lower on my waist, fingers digging into the skin there. “You’re mine. That’s obvious enough, isn’t it?”

The way he said mine made something in my chest twist. Part of me wanted to lean into it, to let it mean safety and belonging. The other part wanted to tear his hand off me and run.

Sarah’s gaze lingered on me, eyes asking if I was okay even though she didn’t say the words out loud. I gave her the smallest nod, the kind that didn’t mean yes so much as I’ll survive.

Rafe turned back to his friends, already laughing at something else, his attention sliding away from me like I’d never been the center of it. The ache he left behind sat heavy in my chest, a knot I knew I’d be untangling alone later.

That was always the worst part.

The way he could make a careless comment, toss it out like it weighed nothing, then smile, take another hit, and move on. He’d leave me standing there, hands shaking, heart pounding, untangling the damage in the dark corner of my mind while he acted like nothing had happened.

Because it wasn’t nothing to me. It never was. And somehow, no matter how many times he did it, I still found myself hoping that next time, the storm might pass me by.

---

I stood there, watching the man I loved dissolve into someone I barely recognized.

He wasn’t listening. He wasn’t seeing me. He was chasing a high, a laugh, a rush of attention, completely blind to what it cost us, what it cost me.

The bass from the speakers thudded through the floor and crawled up my legs, vibrating in my ribs. The air in the house was thick with sweat, cheap cologne, and spilled liquor. Someone’s sharp laugh cut through the music, and Rafe’s laugh followed, louder, harder, almost manic.

“Rafe,” I tried again, tugging gently at his arm. My fingers lingered on his forearm, feeling the tense coil of muscle underneath his skin. He was warm and damp, and my hand felt suddenly small on him. “Please… just stop for a second.”

He jerked away like I’d burned him, my hand slipping from his arm and hanging uselessly at my side. The loss of contact made my stomach drop, like I’d missed a step on a staircase.

“Y/N, I’m fine,” he snapped, lifting his cup and taking a long, messy swig. Liquor sloshed over the rim and dripped down his fingers, but he didn’t even flinch. His eyes were too bright, pupils blown, cheeks flushed. “It’s just fun. Loosen up.”

I swallowed hard, my throat dry, trying to keep my voice steady even as heat crawled up my neck. “I… I don’t think it’s fun. You’re being a dick.” My voice came out smaller than I wanted, but the word hung heavy between us.

His eyes widened for a second, like I’d said something unforgivable, like I’d crossed some invisible line he’d never told me about. Then instead of softening, he hardened. His jaw clenched, the corners of his mouth tightened, the warmth I craved evaporated, replaced with something cold and sharp.

“You’re so dramatic,” he said, shaking his head with a humorless scoff. “Every time. You always gotta make it about you.”

“That’s not what I’m doing,” I said, but it already felt useless. I could hear my own voice getting thin, frayed at the edges. “I’m just trying to talk to you.”

He rolled his eyes like a bored teenager. “You’re always trying to talk. You nag, you whine, you cry. For what? I’m just having a good time.”

He turned his head as a girl passed by and touched his shoulder, giggling. He leaned into her, that easy, reckless charm slipping right into place, like he hadn’t just gutted me in front of everyone.

“Then stop complaining,” he muttered, already half turned away, his attention snapping back to the group beside him. He laughed at something some guy said and the sound of it sliced right through me. He didn’t even bother lowering his voice. “God, you’re exhausting, you know that?”

A few people glanced at me, then quickly looked away, pretending they hadn’t heard. The music suddenly felt too loud, the lights too bright. I could feel heat burning behind my eyes.

That was it. The breaking point. That cold, dismissive shrug that said I didn’t matter.

My throat closed up, tears stinging the back of my eyes, and the room blurred around the edges. My chest felt tight, too small for my own lungs. I pressed my tongue to the roof of my mouth, willing the tears not to fall. Not here. Not in front of him. Not while he was doing this thing he always did, pretending I was overreacting, pretending I was crazy.

He glanced back at me with a crooked smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “You gonna cry now?” he asked, voice low but dripping with mock concern. “Is this where you storm out and make a scene?”

I flinched. “I’m not making a scene.”

“You are,” he said simply, like it was a fact. “You always do. You love this. You love playing the victim.” He took another swig and looked right through me. “If you’re gonna pout, go do it somewhere else. You’re killing the vibe.”

A sick, cold feeling settled low in my stomach. I hated that a part of me still wanted to reach for him, still wanted him to soften and say he didn’t mean it, that he was just drunk, just stressed, just anything other than what he was actually being.

But he didn’t soften. He never did.

So I left.

Quietly.

Without another word, I turned away. My legs felt stiff and shaky, like they didn’t quite belong to me. I moved through the crowd, brushing against shoulders and dodging elbows, the smell of alcohol and perfume clinging to my clothes. No one stopped me. No one asked if I was okay.

The music dulled the farther I got from him, turning from a pounding in my chest to a distant, muffled thrum. I pushed open the front door and the hinge squeaked in protest. Cool night air rushed over my skin, raising goosebumps on my arms. It smelled like wet grass and cigarette smoke and freedom that didn’t feel like freedom yet.

Behind me, the echo of his careless laughter followed, spilling out of the doorway and into the dark. It trailed after me like a shadow, like a bruise I couldn’t see yet but already felt forming. Every step down the front path felt heavier than the last, dragging me farther from him and closer to the part of me I’d been ignoring for too long, the part that kept whispering that this wasn’t love.

I didn’t look back. Because I knew he wouldn’t notice. Because he never really did. Because if I turned around and saw him not looking for me, I knew it would break something in me that I wouldn’t be able to fix.

So I kept walking, my eyes burning, my hands shaking, my heart pounding against my ribs like it was trying to get out.

And he stayed behind, laughing like I’d never been there at all.

---

He called three times before I finally answered.

Three vibrating buzzes lit up my screen, rattling on the nightstand while I stared at his name. My heart pounded against my ribs, too loud in the small, dark room, and my stomach twisted like I was bracing for impact.

On the first call, I just watched it ring out. On the second, I turned the phone face down, like that could make him disappear. By the third, my hand was already shaking as I picked it up.

When I finally answered, my voice barely existed. It scraped out of my throat, dry and thin. “What do you want?”

His exhale shuddered through the speaker, uneven and shaky, like he was trying to breathe through panic. I could almost picture him pinching the bridge of his nose, pacing, jaw clenched, pupils blown the way they always were after a long night of drinking.

“Y/N… angel, I messed up. I’m sorry.”

I didn’t respond.

Partly because I didn’t trust my voice. Partly because I was afraid that if I let a single word out, everything I’d been holding back would crack open and spill all over him. Partly because I didn’t know if I even wanted to hear whatever version of him was calling now: drunk, guilty, lonely, or all three.

He filled the silence anyway. He always did.

“I didn’t mean to get so drunk.”

I let out a bitter, humorless breath and sat up, my back pressing against the cold headboard. My free hand fisted the sheet, nails digging into the fabric.

“That’s not an excuse,” I snapped, heat creeping into my tone before I could calm it down. “You embarrassed me. You made fun of me. You ignored me. You pushed me away like I didn’t matter.”

A beat of silence.

Then a broken whisper. “I know.”

Another inhale, rough and shaky. I heard something in the background, like glass clinking or a door slamming. It sent a ripple of dread down my spine.

“And I fucking hate myself for it. You know I do.”

His voice cracked, raw and desperate, stripped bare in a way he’d never let anyone else hear. It was the version of him only I ever saw, the one hidden under the bravado and anger, buried beneath the smirk he wore like armor.

I knew this part. The script never changed. He hurt me. He spiraled. He called. I picked up.

“You know I love you,” he whispered, his voice shaking like the words cost him something. “You know that, right? Tell me you know that.”

My throat tightened. My chest ached, heavy and sore. I swallowed, feeling every fragile piece of me turn over at the sound of his voice.

God. I wanted believing that to be enough. I wanted it to fix the ache in my chest, to make last night disappear. I wanted love to erase the bruises his words left, to wipe away the way he’d laughed at me in front of everyone, like I was just another joke.

But wanting wasn’t the same as healing.

“I’m still upset,” I said quietly, the truth heavy on my tongue. My voice shook, but I forced the words out anyway. “You can’t keep doing this.”

He scoffed, breath rough against the mic. “Doing what? I had a bad night, alright? Everyone gets too drunk sometimes.”

Anger flared under my skin. “You didn’t just get drunk. You tore me down in front of your friends. You called me pathetic because I wanted to leave. You grabbed my wrist so hard it still hurts.”

I glanced at the faint red marks circling my skin, the memory of his fingers tight and unyielding. Shame burned in my chest, hot and sharp.

“I was joking,” he said, quick and defensive. “You’re too sensitive, you always are. I didn’t grab you that hard.”

I closed my eyes, fighting the sting behind them. He always did this too. Twist it. Minimize it. Make me question what I knew I felt.

“You can’t keep doing this,” I repeated, more to myself than to him.

“I’ll fix it,” he said instantly, the words tumbling out too fast, too eager, like he’d been waiting for the right line. “I’ll be better. Just… don’t walk away from me.”

His voice trembled on the last word, like he was terrified this was the moment everything would fall apart. I heard him suck in a breath, like he was swallowing back something darker. A crash sounded faintly on his end, something hitting a wall. My pulse spiked.

“Rafe, what was that?”

“Nothing,” he snapped, then softened his tone so abruptly it made my skin prickle. “Nothing, angel. Just… dropped something. Don’t start, alright? Please.”

The please came out thin and sharp, like a threat dressed up as a favor.

My heart, stupid and hopeful and bruised, softened around the edges anyway. It always did. That was the worst part. I hated that he knew it.

“I forgive you,” I murmured, closing my eyes as the words left my mouth. My shoulders sagged, the tension bleeding out and leaving a dull ache behind. “But we need to talk, Rafe. We need to actually change. Not just say we will.”

“Okay,” he breathed, relief washing through every syllable so hard it almost sounded like a laugh. “Okay. Whatever you want, angel. I’ll do whatever you want.”

“You say that every time,” I said quietly. “And then it happens again.”

There was a pause. I could almost feel his temper coil through the line, electric and dangerous.

“So what?” he said, his tone tightening. “You want me to grovel more? You want me to cry? Is that what you want?”

His words cut, sharp and mean, but underneath them, I heard it again. Fear. Panic. Obsession.

“No,” I whispered. “I want you to stop hurting me.”

He exhaled, long and shaky, like I’d hit something he didn’t want touched.

“I’m not letting you go,” he said, voice dropping, quiet and too calm. “I don’t care how mad you are. You’re mine. You hear me?”

A chill slid down my spine. I swallowed, my fingers tightening around the phone until my knuckles ached.

“Rafe…”

He shifted suddenly, the edge smoothing out of his voice, like he’d flipped a switch. “I’ll be good. I promise. You’ll see. Just give me one more chance, angel. One more. I swear I’ll make it right. I’ll make you forget all of this.”

His promises wrapped around me like smoke, sweet and suffocating.

And for a moment, just a moment, I let myself believe him. I let myself imagine a version of him that didn’t hurt me. A version of us that didn’t feel like walking through a minefield.

I knew better.

But knowing and leaving were two very different things.

Overthinking it

Toxic!Rafe Cameron

The sun slanted through the blinds, painting stripes of pale gold across the room, the kind of light that made everything look softer than it really was. It turned the dust into glitter, slow and lazy in the air, drifting in little spirals that caught in the light before disappearing. The air smelled faintly like detergent and Rafe’s cologne, that sharp, expensive scent that always clung to my clothes after I left. My skin still felt warm from the shower, my hair damp against the back of my neck, and every small comfort in the room only made the tension in him feel louder.

Dust drifted lazily in the air, slow and unbothered, so starkly opposite to the tension twisting through Rafe that it almost felt cruel. His agitation buzzed like static. I could feel it in the bed frame, in the way the mattress dipped every time he turned, in the tight pull in my own shoulders that had nothing to do with me and everything to do with him.

His phone lay facedown on the bed beside me, screen still glowing with whatever message had set him off, the bright edge of the notification peeking out from under the black case. I could see his name at the top of the thread, the little preview of words I wasn’t trying to read, but they were there anyway, humming like a live wire. My fingers tingled with the urge to flip the phone over, to know, to prepare, but I didn’t move. I’d learned the hard way that curiosity around Rafe could be dangerous.

My eyes weren’t on the screen. They were on him, pacing the length of the room in tight, agitated strides, restless and caged in his own skin, wound so tightly I could almost hear it humming in the floorboards. His jaw worked, teeth grinding, his hands flexing and fisting at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them if they weren’t holding something. Or someone.

I pulled my legs up, tucking them close to my chest, my heels digging into the duvet as if I could anchor myself that way. The cotton felt soft and cool against my shins. I curled in on myself, trying to make myself smaller so maybe he’d calm down quicker, like shrinking would give him less to aim the storm at. Watching Rafe spiral always made something in my chest tighten. Worry, frustration, fear, and this strange, unwanted ache that felt too much like love for comfort.

His movements were sharp and almost frantic, like he was trying to outrun his own thoughts and losing. He kept raking his fingers through his hair, leaving it pushed back and wild, his T-shirt hanging crooked on his frame where he’d yanked at the hem.

“Okay, you’re seriously tellin’ me you didn’t see him lookin’ at you like that?” he snapped, dragging both hands down his face hard enough that his cheeks went briefly red. His voice hit the room like a slap, too loud for the small space, bouncing off the walls and sinking into my skin. Underneath the bite I could hear it though, that wobble he’d rather die than admit. The fear. The insecurity. The ugly, raw part of him that always showed up as anger.

My heart gave a stupid little jump at the volume, like it hadn’t heard him yell a hundred times before. Heat climbed up the back of my neck. I blinked at him, incredulous, a humorless laugh caught in my throat, stuck behind the lump of anxiety that always showed up when he got like this.

“Rafe… the guy was the cashier. He asked if I wanted a bag.” My voice sounded smaller than I meant it to, too soft in comparison to his.

His head snapped toward me so fast I heard the faint crack of his neck. His eyes narrowed, hard and bright, that icy blue going even colder, jaw clenched so tight I could see the muscle in his cheek twitching. He looked me over like I was something he owned, checking for damage, for betrayal.

“Yeah. Exactly.” His lip curled, like I’d confirmed something for him. “And he asked it like he knew you. Like he was tryin’ somethin’. People do that. They do that with you.”

He spat the words like they tasted bad. I shifted my weight, a prickle of irritation sparking under my skin, tangled with the kind of tired that went bone-deep. I wanted to roll my eyes, wanted to tell him he was being ridiculous, paranoid, insane. But moments like this, when he was frantic and overwhelmed, felt fragile. Like one wrong move and he’d shatter, and I’d be the one standing barefoot in the glass.

“You’re hearing yourself, right?” I asked quietly. “He rang up gum and a water, Rafe. He’s not in love with me.”

He laughed once, short and humorless, pacing again. “You don’t get it. You never fuckin’ get it.” His fingers scraped over his scalp, then he knocked his knuckles against his forehead, a sharp little tap like he was trying to knock sense into himself or knock something loose. “You think I don’t see the way they look at you? At the club, at the gas station, at the damn grocery store?”

I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry. Part of me wanted to argue, to tell him he was imagining it, but another part of me remembered the way the cashier’s eyes had lingered a half-second too long when he handed me the receipt. The way strangers’ gazes always seemed to stick when I was with Rafe, the way I never knew if it was because of me or because of him.

Two strides and he was in front of me, close enough that I could feel the heat rolling off him. He loomed, the shadow of his body blocking the stripes of light across the bed, but he didn’t feel dangerous. Not to me. Never to me, even when I knew better. Even when there was a part of my brain that whispered I should be more afraid.

His posture was all squared shoulders and storm clouds, fists still half-curled at his sides, but when he touched me, everything in him softened. His fingers threaded through my hair, slow and careful, grazing my scalp with a tenderness that made my chest ache. It almost felt like an apology he didn’t know how to say. It hit me then how often he did that, how often he used gentleness like a bandage over something he’d just ripped open.

“Look, I’m not pissed at you, alright?” he said, his voice dropping, warming, going quiet in that way that always made me lean in. There was a raw edge under it, something vulnerable and jagged. “Can’t blame ‘em. You look good today.”

A smirk tugged at his lips like it had been rehearsed, but it didn’t reach his eyes. His gaze was still frantic, still searching, like he was looking for proof I wasn’t about to vanish.

I arched a brow, because it was easier than admitting my stomach fluttered at the compliment when he was like this. “You’re jealous.”

“Okay. I’m not jealous.” He pulled his hand out of my hair, exhaling through his nose, like the word itself offended him. He paced one short line in front of the bed, then sat down heavily beside me, the mattress dipping under his weight. He paused, searching for a word big enough to hold all his emotions and not finding it. “I’m… aware. There’s a difference.”

“Awareness doesn’t usually come with yelling,” I said, my tone light, but there was a tremor under it I hoped he didn’t hear.

He ignored that. He leaned back on his palms, staring up at the ceiling like it might give him instructions on how to be okay. His chest rose and fell too fast, like he’d run a mile, not argued about a stranger. The room hummed with the thud of his heartbeat, or maybe it was mine.

“Been with you a year and I still feel like… any guy in this damn town would jump if you gave ‘em a chance,” he muttered, the words slurring together like he didn’t want to fully commit to saying them. His voice had dropped so low it almost blurred into the quiet of the room, like he didn’t want me to hear and also desperately needed me to.

Something in my chest squeezed tight. Because he said it like it was a fact, like something he’d already accepted about the world. Everyone else was a threat. Everyone else was an option. He was the one waiting for the inevitable moment I realized I could do better.

“Rafe,” I started, but he cut across me, voice sharper again.

“And don’t do that thing where you laugh it off,” he warned, turning his head to look at me, his eyes narrowed, pupils blown wide. “Don’t fuckin’ gaslight me and act like I’m crazy. I see it. I see the way they look at you. I’m not stupid.”

Guilt stung, even though I hadn’t done anything. Or maybe I had, by existing, by being visible, by not shrinking myself enough to make him feel safe. I shifted closer anyway, my knee brushing his thigh. The contact grounded me, and then I focused on grounding him.

“But I’m with you, Rafe,” I said, steadying my voice. “You know that.” I let the truth of it sit between us. I’d chosen him and kept choosing him, even when it felt a little like choosing the edge of a cliff.

He tilted his head toward me, studying my face with that look he only ever gave me when he was scared. Like he was reading between the lines of my skin, searching for the lie he was sure would show up eventually. His gaze flicked from my eyes to my mouth, to the way my hands twisted in the blanket, then back.

Slowly, he reached for me, pulling my legs into his lap like he was claiming them, arranging them there gently but firmly. His fingers wrapped around my calf, his thumb pressing into the muscle just a little too hard, like he needed to feel that I was solid and real. He held on like my legs were something fragile and precious he was afraid he might drop, or break.

“Say it again,” he whispered. Not demanding this time, not quite. It wasn’t the sharp edge of control. It was something softer and worse. Just desperate.

Those blue eyes burned into me, and suddenly I wasn’t annoyed anymore. The anger, the eye roll sitting on the tip of my tongue, all of it dissolved under the weight of how small he sounded. I was just soft. For him. Always for him, no matter how many times I told myself I shouldn’t be.

“I’m with you,” I repeated, steady and sure, even if a tiny part of me wondered how long I could keep saying it.

He exhaled shakily, like he’d been holding his breath since the store, maybe longer. He nodded, once, twice, like he needed the words to sink deep enough to touch whatever raw nerve had been buzzing under his skin. “Okay. Good. Yeah.” His grip on my leg loosened a fraction, enough for the pressure to ease, his thumb shifting to a slow stroke over my ankle.

Silence settled over us then. Not empty, not uncomfortable, just thick. Heavy and warm, humming with everything he didn’t know how to say out loud. The air felt denser somehow, like we were underwater. His thumb traced circles on my skin, absent and automatic, like he needed the contact to keep himself from spinning out again.

I watched his profile in the sideways light. The tense line of his mouth, the little furrow between his brows that never seemed to go away anymore. He wasn’t pacing, but I could feel the restlessness still humming under his skin, like an engine idling too high.

“You know what scares me?” he asked suddenly, his voice so low I almost thought I imagined it.

My heart stuttered. “What?”

He swallowed, his throat bobbing. His eyes stayed fixed on my legs in his lap, on where his hands were wrapped around me. “It’d be so easy for you to leave. You could walk out that door right now and there’d be ten guys ready to make you forget I exist.” His jaw clenched again, knuckles whitening where he held me. “And I can’t… I can’t fuckin’ handle that. I’d lose my mind.”

A chill slid down my spine at the way he said it, not like a fear, but a promise. Like if I ever did leave, he’d follow the crack it made in him all the way to the end, no matter who got hurt on the way.

“You’re not gonna lose me,” I said automatically, because that was what I was supposed to say. The words tasted like habit on my tongue.

He finally looked at me again, and there was something wild in his eyes now, something bright and unsteady. It made my stomach swoop. “You say that like you can guarantee it,” he murmured. “Like you can control what happens. People change. They get bored. They… they decide I’m too much.”

You are too much, a small, honest voice whispered in the back of my skull. But I swallowed it down.

I shifted my foot, my toes brushing against his ribs. He caught my ankle, his fingers tightening again, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind me how easily he could.

“Rafe,” I said softly, “I’m here. I’m with you. I chose you. I keep choosing you.” I paused, my chest feeling impossibly tight. “You don’t have to freak out every time someone looks at me.”

He let out a humorless breath. “You think I like this? You think I wanna be the psycho boyfriend who loses it over a cashier?” His mouth twisted. “I know how it sounds. I just… I know what people are capable of. I know what I’m capable of.”

The words landed heavy. There was a threat in them, but it wasn’t pointed at me, not directly. It was just there, in the room with us, sitting quietly in the corner like it was waiting.

My chest ached, not just from him, but from me too, from the way I was sitting here letting him wrap himself around me like chains I kept telling myself were a blanket.

And suddenly it hit me, clearer than the sunlight striping the room. Rafe Cameron wasn’t just jealous. He was terrified in a way that made him dangerous. Terrified of being replaced, of losing control, of losing me, the one thing he hadn’t already broken or been broken by. Terrified enough that he’d twist anything, anyone, to keep that from happening.

So I stayed. Not because he asked this time, not because he needed me to, even though he did. I stayed because in that moment, with his hands warm and unsteady on my skin and all that fear crackling under the surface, I wanted to. Or maybe I didn’t know how not to.

Too Toxic

Rafe Cameron

It was raining, not the dramatic kind, just a soft, steady drizzle tapping against the windows like a lullaby. The kind of night that begged for blankets and bad movies.

We were curled up on the couch, limbs tangled, the glow of the TV flickering across our faces. The living room smelled faintly like laundry detergent and buttered popcorn, the kind of warm, lived-in scent that felt like safety even when I knew it was a lie.

Rafe had claimed the corner seat like it was a throne, one ankle hooked over the other, shoulders spread out like he owned the whole apartment. Somehow I’d ended up half on top of him, tucked beneath his arm, legs draped over his lap. The cushion under us sagged a little, tilted so that my body kept sliding closer, like the couch itself was conspiring to push me into him.

He refused to let me move. Every time I shifted, even slightly, his grip tightened, fingers digging into my hip like I might disappear if he didn’t anchor me there.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he mumbled into my hair, his breath warm against my scalp, voice muffled and almost pouty.

“I was adjusting,” I laughed, nudging his ribs with my elbow. “You’re crushing my spine.”

“Your spine’s fine,” he said, pulling me closer until my cheek was pressed against his chest. His heartbeat thudded steadily under my ear, a low, constant drum. “You’re not allowed to leave. Ever.”

The way he said it was light, teasing, but something in my stomach pulled tight anyway. I rolled my eyes, hoping he couldn’t feel that tiny, involuntary flinch.

“You’re clingy tonight,” I said, aiming for playful.

He tilted his head down to look at me, blue eyes sharp even in the dim light, pretending to be offended. “Tonight? Babe, I’m clingy every night. I just hide it better when people are around.”

There was truth in that, and we both knew it. I snorted, because laughing was easier than thinking too hard about it.

“You literally tried to follow me into the bathroom earlier.”

“That was love,” he said solemnly, like he was making a vow. His hand slid a little higher on my thigh, possessive. “You were gone for like… thirty seconds. I missed you.”

I burst out laughing, the sound muffled against his hoodie. The fabric was soft against my cheek, smelling like his cologne and the cigarette smoke he thought I didn’t notice. He grinned, clearly proud of himself, then reached for the remote and switched the movie to something ridiculous, a rom-com with a plot so bad it looped back to being good.

“You picked this?” I asked, eyebrows raised as the opening credits rolled in big pink letters. “Seriously?”

“Obviously,” he said. “It’s got kissing, chaos, and a dog. What more do you need?”

“Actual plot?” I teased.

“Overrated,” he said, pressing a kiss to my temple. His lips were warm, lingering for a second longer than necessary, like a claim. “I’m just here for the cuddles.”

I melted a little, not that I’d ever admit it out loud. Heat spread through my chest, a soft, traitorous warmth that always showed up when he was like this, sweet and stupid and magnetic. His fingers traced lazy patterns on my arm, little circles and lines that made goosebumps rise along my skin. Every so often he’d whisper commentary about the movie, dramatic gasps, fake sobs, totally exaggerated predictions that made me laugh so hard I nearly spilled the bowl of popcorn balanced on the coffee table.

At one point, I tried to sit up to grab my drink. My throat was dry, my leg half-asleep from the way I was twisted, but the second I shifted, he tightened his arm around my waist and let out a sound.

He whined. Actually whined.

“Rafe,” I said, laughing as I pushed weakly at his chest. “I need hydration.”

“You have me,” he said, wrapping both arms around me like a koala, locking his hands together at the small of my back. His grip was firm, just shy of painful. “I’m emotionally hydrating.”

“You’re insane.”

“And you love it.” He didn’t say it like a joke this time. He said it quietly, right against my ear, like a statement of fact. His thumb pressed into my side, a slow, warning drag. “You do love it, right?”

A little knot formed in my throat. I forced a smile he couldn’t see and nodded against his chest.

“Yeah,” I said. “I do.”

He relaxed a fraction, like I’d passed some invisible test. “Good. Don’t scare me like that. You know I hate it when you pull away.”

Pull away. I’d literally tried to reach for my water.

“I was just thirsty,” I muttered.

“You don’t need anything but me,” he said lightly, but his fingers tightened again, like a vise. “I take care of you. Don’t I take care of you?”

The room suddenly felt warmer than it had a minute ago, the air thicker. The TV flickered in front of us, casting bright colors across his jaw, his cheekbones, the dark look in his eyes when he glanced down at me.

“Yeah,” I said softly. “You do.”

He smiled then, satisfied, and went back to pretending to watch the movie, his hand never leaving me, always touching, always holding, like I was something fragile he might break or lose if he let go for even a second.

I did love him. Or at least I loved these moments, the quiet ones, the ones that felt normal. The ones where his jealousy just looked like affection and his neediness just felt like warmth.

God, I did.

At least I thought I did.

A scene on the TV made the audience couple on-screen start yelling at each other in the rain, clichés piled on clichés. Rafe snorted and kissed the side of my head again.

“See?” he murmured. “People out there are a mess. We’re perfect. I don’t let you walk away and you don’t make me chase you. That’s healthy.”

I laughed weakly, the sound catching in my throat.

Healthy.

Sure.

I sank a little deeper into his hold, feeling the weight of his arm like a promise I wasn’t entirely sure I’d agreed to.

At least I thought I did…

---

The evening light settles over Figure Eight like honey, warm and golden and just a little too sweet. It drips across the water in slow, lazy ripples, catching on the white hulls of tied-up boats and the wet ropes hanging off cleats, casting everything in a glow that feels more like a trick than a gift. The kind of light that makes even broken things look beautiful, that smooths over splinters and cracks and bruises and pretends they were never there.

We sit at the edge of the dock, legs dangling above the darkening water, the boards creaking softly beneath us every time we shift. The wood is warm from the sun but rough under my palms, tiny splinters catching my skin. Salt hangs in the air, thick and familiar, mixing with the faint smell of gasoline from the boats and the sweeter scent of someone grilling a few docks over. A gull cries somewhere behind us, sharp and distant.

Rafe’s arm is wrapped around my waist, his fingers resting just above my hip, pressing into the thin fabric of my shirt. His thumb taps once, twice, then stops, like he’s counting something only he understands. To anyone watching from shore, or from the wide glass windows of the houses behind us, we probably look perfect. The golden couple. All laughter and low whispers, silhouettes framed by sunset and money.

And for a moment, I let myself pretend it’s true.

I lean into him, letting my head rest against his shoulder. His shirt is soft against my cheek, smelling like his cologne and the faint burn of bourbon. He laughs at something I say, that low, gravelly sound that always makes my chest tighten in a way I still haven’t learned how to control. His breath smells like bourbon and mint when he turns his head, brushing his mouth close to my hair, and his skin is warm against mine, even as the breeze picks up off the water and sends a shiver stroking over my bare arms.

Under his hand, I feel it.

The tension.

His grip is just a little too tight. Not painful, not yet, but firm enough to remind me he’s holding on. That he’s afraid I’ll slip away if he loosens his fingers even slightly. Firm enough that I can already tell what kind of night this is going to be.

Part of me wants to inch away, just to see what he’d do. Just to prove to myself that I still can.

My phone buzzes in my lap.

His body stiffens.

I feel it in the way his arm goes rigid, in the way his fingers pause, then dig in just a fraction deeper. I feel it before I even glance down. His eyes dart toward the screen, then away, then back again. Like he’s trying not to care. Like he’s failing.

I don’t move. I don’t reach for it. I just let it buzz again and fade, feeling the vibration tremble against my thigh. The sound seems loud in the quiet, a tiny electric insect trapped between us.

Rafe shifts beside me, the wood beneath us creaking in protest. His thumb starts to move again, slow circles against my side now, like he’s trying to smooth over the moment, paint over it with something softer. Like he knows I noticed and wants to rewrite what I felt.

“You’re quiet,” he murmurs, eyes still on the horizon.

“I’m just tired,” I say, though it feels like a lie even to me.

I keep my gaze on the horizon, where the sun is melting into the sea, the sky bleeding into shades of peach and violet and bruised blue. The light hits the water in shards that make me squint. It’s beautiful. It’s quiet. It almost feels like another world, one where my heart doesn’t constantly exist somewhere between my throat and my stomach.

My phone buzzes again.

His jaw clenches. I see it in the sharp line of his profile, the tic in his cheek.

“Hey,” Rafe says, his hand tightening on my waist just as the last of the evening light catches in his hair, turning it almost copper at the edges.

“Hey,” I answer softly, trying to keep my tone light even though I can feel the tension coiling beneath his fingers, winding around my ribs like barbed wire.

“You’re texting again,” he says. His voice is low, almost lazy, but there’s an edge under it that scrapes along my nerves. His eyes narrow as he leans closer. I can feel the heat of him, the way he takes up all the space.

I look down at my phone, biting my lip before I can stop myself. The screen lights up my thighs with a pale glow. “It’s just Sarah,” I say, forcing a laugh that feels hollow and thin. The words taste flat in my mouth.

Rafe scoffs, shaking his head slowly like he’s disappointed in me. “I don’t buy it,” he says, and his hand comes up, brushing my hair back from my face a little too roughly, fingers snagging at the roots. “You’re hiding something.”

“I’m not hiding anything,” I say, my voice rising despite the warning bell going off in my head. Don’t escalate. Keep it calm. Be small. “Why do you always assume the worst?”

“Because I know people,” he snaps, the edge in his tone sharp enough to slice through the heavy air. The gulls seem to quiet, or maybe it’s just in my head. My chest tightens, that familiar squeeze that always shows up right before things go bad. “I know when someone’s lying.”

I can feel his stare like hands on my skin. I swallow.

“I’m not lying,” I say, staring out over the water again, letting the rhythm of the waves thudding against the pilings fill the silence between each heartbeat. My throat feels dry. “Why is it so hard for you to just trust me?”

“You know why,” he says, leaning closer, his breath hot and damp against my ear. It makes me want to flinch, but I stay still. “Because I don’t trust people who flirt with me and then hide their phones.”

A little spike of indignation flares in my chest, bright and brief. “I’m not flirting with anyone, Rafe. It’s just a text.”

“A text,” he repeats, his voice dripping with disbelief, each word drawn out like he’s tasting it and finding it sour. “Right.” He grabs my chin then, gently but with a force that leaves no room for argument, his fingers digging into the soft skin just under my jaw. He forces my face toward his. “Do I look stupid to you?”

My pulse thuds against his fingers. My vision blurs a little at the edges.

“No,” I say, my heart hammering so hard it almost hurts. “Of course not.”

“Then why do you keep secrets from me?” he asks. His tone shifts, softening for a second into something that almost sounds like vulnerability, like the boy he might have been if no one ever taught him how to turn love into a weapon. “You know I hate it when I don’t know everything.”

My stomach twists. I pull back slightly, or try to. His hand follows, holding my chin in place for a beat too long before he finally lets go. The familiar knot of fear and frustration tightens low in my gut, the one that never really unravels anymore.

“Because sometimes I need space, Rafe,” I say, my voice coming out rougher than I intend. “Not everything has to be about you.”

His jaw tightens so hard I can almost hear his teeth grind. He laughs once, short and humorless.

“Space,” he repeats, like it’s a joke, like the word itself offends him. “Space is for people who aren’t mine.”

The boards under us feel suddenly less stable. I swallow hard, the words bitter on my tongue.

“You don’t own me,” I say, the quiet fury in my voice more powerful than I meant it to be. My hands are shaking, so I curl my fingers into fists against the wood to hide it. “I’m not yours.”

Rafe’s eyes darken, the blue of them going almost flat. For a second, I almost don’t recognize him. There’s something cold there, something calculating, like he’s considering his options.

“You don’t get to say that,” he says, his voice low and dangerous now, each syllable deliberate. “You’re mine. Don’t forget it.”

The way he says it makes my stomach drop. The words wrap around me like chains, heavy and invisible. I flinch, tiny, probably only noticeable to him.

“Rafe…” I start, his name coming out more like a plea than I want, but he cuts me off.

“No,” he says sharply. The sound slices clean through my sentence. “Don’t start with that soft, sad voice. You know it doesn’t work on me.”

Shame burns hot across my cheeks. I look away, biting my lip until I taste metal. There’s that old familiar ache between us again, that push and pull that makes me dizzy and exhausted and somehow still craving the next hit of his attention.

“I just… I wish you’d trust me sometimes,” I whisper, my voice cracking at the edges. The air feels thick in my lungs.

Rafe leans back a little, eyes scanning my face like I’m something he owns and is trying to assess the damage on. The dock rocks slightly under us from a passing boat’s wake, and my stomach lurches.

“I do trust you,” he says after a long pause that stretches too far. “I just… I don’t trust anyone else around you.”

The words should sound sweet. They should sound protective. They just feel like another lock clicking shut.

My chest tightens again, a slow squeeze that feels like someone’s hand closing over my heart.

“So it’s me against the world, huh?” I ask quietly. “That’s your idea of love?”

He smiles then, slow and dangerous, like a predator showing his teeth not because it has to, but because it wants to. “No,” he says, his hand brushing my cheek now, his touch suddenly soft, almost tender. The contrast makes me shiver. “It’s my idea of survival. I can’t lose you. Not to anyone. Not to anything.”

The way he says it, like losing me would be the end of the world, should make me feel special. Instead it feels like a threat dressed up as devotion.

I swallow the lump in my throat. “You’re suffocating me, Rafe,” I whisper. The words scrape on the way out. “I can’t breathe sometimes.”

His eyes flick down to my mouth, then back up. Something sharp flashes there.

“You’ll breathe,” he says softly, almost soothing. His hand slides around to the back of my neck, fingers curling against my skin. “I’ll make sure you always breathe.”

There’s a promise in his voice, but I can’t tell if it’s a promise to save me or keep me right on the edge.

I want to push him away. I want to stand up, walk down the dock, and keep walking until my legs give out and my lungs burn in a clean, honest way. I want to scream at him that this isn’t love, that love shouldn’t feel like this constant calculation of what will set him off and what will keep him calm.

Instead, I let him pull me closer.

I let him kiss me, his mouth hot and insistent against mine, his hand tightening in my hair until my scalp stings. The familiar mix of longing and fear swirls inside me, thick and confusing. His teeth catch my bottom lip, a little too hard, and I gasp against him. He smiles into the kiss like he heard something he wanted.

A part of me melts, traitorous and hungry. Another part shrinks into itself, watching from nowhere, silently screaming.

When I finally pull back, breathless, my lips feel swollen. My heart is racing, but not in the way it should. I can see it in his eyes now, in the way they’re blown wide and fixed on me. Not affection. Not tenderness. Possession. A dark, consuming need that makes my stomach twist and my skin crawl and my chest ache all at once.

“You feel it too, don’t you?” he murmurs, resting his forehead against mine. His fingers drum lightly against my side in a rhythm that doesn’t match my heartbeat. “You know you can’t stay away.”

I close my eyes, trying to steady my shaking hands where they rest on his forearm. His skin is warm, his muscles tense under my fingers. I feel like I’m holding onto something that’s always a second away from snapping.

“I… I don’t know anymore,” I admit, the truth slipping out before I can catch it. My voice is barely above a breath. The words hang between us, fragile and dangerous.

His fingers stop moving.

“You do,” he says firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. He lifts my chin again, not as rough this time, but not gentle either. “You do know. That’s why you’re here. That’s why you keep coming back.”

I look at him then, really look. The sunset paints shadows along the sharp lines of his face. I see the danger lurking in his smile, the tension coiled beneath his skin like a spring always pulled tight. I see the boy who wants to own the world because he’s terrified it’ll leave him. I see the man who’s learned that fear can look a lot like rage.

And I realize I’m addicted to it. To him. To the high and the crash, to the way every look from him feels like a test I can’t stop trying to pass. And that scares me more than anything else.

Rafe sighs, leaning back against the dock post behind him, the wood knocking dully against his shoulder. “I just… I can’t stand it when you pull away,” he says quietly now, almost vulnerably. His eyes flicker down to my hands, then back up. “It’s like… like I can feel you slipping through my fingers. Like you’re already looking for an exit.”

I want to tell him he needs help. That this isn’t healthy. That I shouldn’t feel like property or a possession or a prize he’s terrified of losing. That I am not his to hold onto like this. The words line up on my tongue and then fall away, heavy and useless.

Instead, I sit there in silence, the boards pressing into the backs of my legs, watching the sun finally dip behind the horizon. The sky deepens into a darker purple, then blue. The first stars prickle faintly overhead. The air cools, brushing against the damp skin at the back of my neck.

“You know,” he says after a long pause that stretches out so far I almost think the conversation is over, “we’re like fire and gasoline. Dangerous, yeah… but we burn so good together.”

His smile curls, proud of the metaphor.

I let out a shaky little laugh that doesn’t sound like me. “That’s not a compliment, Rafe.”

“It is,” he says, smirking, eyes gleaming with something wild and satisfied. “You just… you just don’t want to admit it.” He tilts his head. “You love it when I lose it over you. Don’t pretend you don’t.”

My stomach drops. “I don’t love it,” I say quietly. “I admit it,” I add after a second, because lying feels impossible right now. “I know we’re dangerous. But I don’t know if I can keep going like this. Living like I’m always walking on eggshells around you.”

Every word tastes like fear.

He leans forward again, pressing his forehead to mine, closing the distance like he can’t stand even inches between us. His fingers slide under the hem of my shirt, resting on bare skin now, cold at first, then warming.

“You will,” he says. It’s not reassurance. It’s certainty. “Because you need me. And I need you.”

The way he says it sounds less like a relationship and more like a sentence.

I close my eyes, trying to breathe past the panic rising in my chest, that tight, tingling feeling that makes my arms feel light and my fingers numb. I focus on the sound of the water slapping against the pilings, the far-off hum of a boat engine, the chirp of insects starting up on shore.

“I need… something else too,” I admit, the words barely above a whisper. They feel huge, like they might crack the dock in half. “I need space. I need… freedom.”

He repeats the word again, like he’s testing it. “Freedom,” he says, almost laughing. He leans back just enough to look me fully in the face. His eyes are bright, a little wild. “You think freedom matters when I’m around? You think you get to choose that over me?”

Something cold slides down my spine.

“Rafe,” I start, but my voice comes out thin. I shake my head, a tear slipping hot and fast down my cheek before I can blink it away. “I don’t want to fight you,” I say softly. I sound tired. I am tired. “I just… I want to be me. And I can’t when you’re like this.”

He watches the tear like it’s fascinating, his gaze tracking its path. For a second, his expression softens into something almost gentle, then shifts again, darker.

“I can’t change, Y/N,” he says, his voice quiet but sure. “That’s who I am.” His thumb brushes the tear away, smearing the salt across my skin. The touch sends a shiver through me that I hate. “That’s who we are.”

I swallow, knowing he’s right and wrong at the same time. That I am already too caught up in him, already too entangled to walk away without ripping myself in half. That he’s turned “we” into something that feels less like a partnership and more like a trap.

The night creeps in slowly, the last streaks of color draining from the sky until it’s a deep navy. Porch lights flick on one by one along the water, casting yellow halos and long shadows across the surface. Somewhere, someone turns on music, faint and tinny. A mosquito whines near my ear.

We stay there on the dock, silence stretching between us like a thin wire pulled tight. I can feel every inch of where our bodies touch, the weight of his arm, the heat of his thigh against mine. The urge to pull my phone out and text someone, anyone, just to remind myself I exist outside of him, presses against my ribs. I imagine typing out everything, seeing the words on screen, proof that this isn’t normal, that this isn’t okay.

I don’t.

Later, when the sky is fully dark and the water has turned into a glossy black mirror, my phone buzzes again on the nightstand in my room. I’m alone now, the dock a memory, but I still feel the ghost of his fingers on my skin.

I see his name on the screen before I even pick it up. The contact photo is one he chose, one where he’s smirking at the camera, eyes bright, hand around my waist. His grip looks sweet in the picture. I know better.

I open the text slowly.

“I can’t lose you. Don’t make me worry like that again.”

I stare at it, my heart pounding loud in my ears. My fingers tremble where they hover above the keyboard. My room is quiet, shadows long against the walls, the only sound the distant hum of the air conditioner and my own uneven breathing.

I know what replying means. It means reassuring him, calming him, promising again that I’m his, that I’m not going anywhere. It means stepping back into the cycle, the apology and the kiss and the next fight waiting just out of sight.

It means surrender.

I set the phone down on my chest and stare at the ceiling, my eyes burning.

And I don’t reply.

Because some part of me, buried deep under all the fear and the wanting and the history, knows that replying means surrender.

And some part of me already has.

---

“Ward outdid himself this year,” I said, stepping carefully across the manicured lawn, my black dress brushing the grass.

“Yeah,” said Rafe, his hand sliding to the small of my back, guiding me like I wasn’t capable of standing on my own. “But none of this matters without you here.”

I smiled, but it was automatic, the kind of smile people wore when everyone else was watching. Inside, my chest tightened, a slow, familiar squeeze. I’d learned to navigate Rafe’s moods like walking a tightrope over a dark pit, every step measured, every word tested in my head before it left my mouth.

Fairy lights were strung from the trees, casting a soft golden haze over the lawn. Laughter drifted across the yard, clinking glass and low music threading together into something that should’ve felt like celebration. Instead, it all felt a little too bright, a little too sharp, like everything was turned up and I was already on edge.

“You look amazing,” he said, voice soft but certain, and I felt the small warmth he could still make me feel slide in under my ribs. That old, stupid flutter.

“Thanks,” I whispered, shifting slightly under his touch, trying to move without making it obvious. “You look… dangerous,” I teased, hoping to lighten the tension, to nudge him back toward charming instead of whatever was simmering just under his skin.

He smirked. “I get that a lot.”

Of course he did. The dark hair pushed back just enough to look careless, the tailored shirt that stretched over his shoulders, the way he held himself like he owned the space. People stared. They always did.

We moved through the crowd, champagne glasses clinking in polite toasts, laughter spilling across the lawn in bright, fizzy bursts. The air smelled like cut grass, expensive perfume, and something sweet from the catering table. People noticed us, of course. Ward’s parties always drew attention, and Rafe thrived in it. The charming, public-facing Rafe. The one who could smile at strangers while his eyes were already calculating threats.

My hand rested lightly on his arm, because that was what I was supposed to do. Girlfriend accessory. Pretty and pliant. I could feel the tension in his muscles, the way his body never really relaxed, not even when he laughed.

“Topper,” Rafe said casually, voice carrying just enough to draw attention. “Talking to my girl again?”

I turned, forcing my expression to neutral. Topper was laughing at something I’d just said, his head tipped back, his grin wide and harmless. I’d rolled my eyes lightly, the playful tease I always gave him. It was easy with Topper. Safe. No sharp edges.

“Relax, Rafe,” I said, tucking my hair behind my ear, fingers shaking just a little. “It’s just a joke.”

Rafe’s jaw tightened. I watched the way his molars pressed together, the small muscle ticking near his temple. “Yeah, you’re real funny when guys look at you like that.” His tone wasn’t loud, but the edge in it sliced through my chest.

A couple near us glanced over, then quickly away. No one ever stepped in. They just pretended not to hear.

I forced a laugh, brushing it off as if it were nothing, as if my heart wasn’t suddenly beating too fast. “Rafe, come on. It’s just Topper being stupid. He’s like that with everyone.”

“Stupid doesn’t mean harmless,” he said, stepping closer. His hand on my back was firm now, more claiming than guiding, fingers pressing just a bit too hard through the thin fabric of my dress. “You like it when he pays attention, don’t you?”

Heat crawled up my neck. I could feel my skin prickling. I froze, trying to measure my words. If I said the wrong thing, the night would be ruined. For me, anyway.

“I… no,” I said carefully. “I like being here with you.”

“Do you?” he asked, tilting his head, eyes darkening in that way that made my stomach drop. “Because it looks like you enjoy the spotlight more than you enjoy me sometimes.”

A sour swirl of guilt and frustration twisted in my stomach. “Rafe, stop. You’re making it weird.”

“Weird?” he said softly, leaning closer so only I could hear him. His breath warmed the side of my face. “I’m trying to keep my girl safe. From everyone. Including him. You have no idea what people think when they look at you.”

I swallowed hard, the champagne suddenly sour on my tongue. “I’m not your girl to protect. I can handle myself.”

His mouth curled, not quite a smile. “You can try,” he said, voice dropping lower, that cold little thread weaving through it, “but you’re mine. You always will be.”

The words settled over my skin like a weight. I looked at him, heart thudding, realizing he didn’t just mean it as possessiveness. He meant it as a promise, or a warning. A threat wrapped in love. I wanted to step back, to say something cutting, to pull away from that look in his eyes, but my voice caught in my throat.

“Rafe…” I whispered, the single word barely audible.

He softened suddenly, like a switch flipped. He brushed a loose strand of hair from my face, his fingers gentle where they’d been harsh a second before. “Hey, I’m sorry,” he said, voice almost tender. “I’m… I’m just protective. I care too much. You know I love you, right?”

The apology slid over me like something rehearsed. I’d heard versions of it so many times that I could’ve mouthed the words along with him. I wanted to believe him. I wanted the warmth to wash over the fear, to let his touch erase the lingering sting in my chest.

“I know,” I said quietly, letting him pull me close, leaning my head against his shoulder because it was easier than pulling away. The fabric of his shirt was warm against my cheek, smelling like his cologne and the faint trace of cigarettes. “I know you love me.”

“Good,” he said, voice low, a hint of a smile curling his lips against my hair. “Because I can’t imagine anyone else having you.”

He said it like it was romantic, but it landed in my stomach like a stone.

We lingered there near the back porch, the laughter and champagne in the background fading into something distant and muffled. The wooden boards under our feet were warm from the day’s sun, and somewhere to our left, someone burst into loud, carefree laughter that felt like it belonged in a different world.

“See anyone staring at you?” he asked, eyes flicking toward Topper, who had returned to his group of friends near the pool. Their voices rose over the music, easy and unbothered.

“No,” I said, forcing my tone casual, my shoulders loose. “Everything’s fine.”

“You sure?” His voice was sharp now, that protective edge creeping back in. “I don’t like the way he was looking at you. He thinks he’s slick.”

I sighed, leaning into him despite the knot forming in my throat. My body knew the pattern before my mind caught up. Soften. Agree. Diffuse. “Rafe, he’s just joking. He’s not…”

“Joking doesn’t matter,” he said, cutting me off. His fingers dug into my side, just enough to make me flinch. “Not when it comes to you.”

I flinched at the possessiveness, at the way his words wrapped around me like chains, cold and invisible. I wanted to argue, to push back, to tell him he was being unreasonable, paranoid, cruel. To tell him I was a person, not a thing he could guard.

But it was useless. I knew how that conversation would go. I’d seen it play out too many times already. He would twist it, make me feel guilty, make me feel like I was the one who didn’t care enough.

He was always like this, intense and consuming, his love a fire that burned up all the air in the room. And I… I was tired.

“I don’t want to fight,” I said softly, hoping to calm him, hoping to calm myself. My voice sounded small even to me.

“You’re not fighting,” he said, voice dropping lower again, almost tender. “I just… I can’t help it. You’re all I have. You’re mine. You know that, right?”

There was a desperate edge under his words that made my skin crawl and my heart ache at the same time.

I wanted to pull away, but the part of me that still loved him, or loved who he’d been at the beginning, stayed. The part that remembered late-night drives and quiet conversations and the way he’d once made me feel chosen instead of trapped. I let him brush my cheek with the back of his hand.

“You know,” he said, leaning his forehead against mine, his breath warm and steady, “I don’t care about anyone else. Not Topper, not Ward, not anyone. Only you. And I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure no one else ever gets close.”

A chill slid down my spine at the way he said it. Whatever it takes. I believed him. That was the worst part.

I closed my eyes, feeling the weight of it pressing down on me, heavy and suffocating. “Rafe…” I whispered, trembling just enough that I hoped he wouldn’t notice. “This isn’t… healthy.”

“It’s love,” he said simply. No hesitation. “It’s just… intense. People don’t understand what it’s like when you really love someone. They think it’s supposed to be soft all the time. It’s not.”

I wanted to believe him. I wanted to pretend that the intensity was love and that the possessiveness was just care. That this tightness in my chest was passion instead of warning.

But deep down, in the quiet place inside me that he hadn’t touched yet, I knew the truth. This wasn’t love. This was obsession. This was control dressed up as devotion.

“I know you think that,” I said quietly, my voice barely carrying over the music. “But I can’t keep living like this. Walking on eggshells all the time, worrying about what’ll set you off.”

He pulled back, searching my face, his eyes scanning every inch like he could find betrayal just by looking hard enough. “Eggshells?” he asked, voice rising slightly. A few heads turned. “You think I’m trying to hurt you? I just… I can’t stand losing you. You don’t get how that feels.”

Guilt stabbed at me like it always did, automatic and familiar, but I forced myself to push through it.

“You’re hurting me, Rafe,” I said, voice breaking around the words. My throat felt raw. “Every time you corner me, every time you accuse me, every time you act like I’m not allowed to breathe without your permission, you’re hurting me.”

He looked at me, a flicker of guilt crossing his face so fast I almost missed it. His grip on my arm loosened for a heartbeat before tightening again. “I… I don’t want to hurt you,” he said. His eyes went glassy, like he might cry, and for a second my chest squeezed with old, automatic sympathy. “I just… I don’t want anyone else to have you. They don’t deserve you. They’d wreck you. I’m the only one who actually cares what happens to you.”

I shook my head, tears pricking my eyes, the lights around us blurring slightly. “That’s not love, Rafe. That’s possession. That’s control. I… I can’t stay in this forever. I can’t keep feeling like a prisoner at every party we go to.”

He grabbed my hand suddenly, fingers clamping down tight, knuckles whitening. Pain shot through my wrist. “You will,” he said, voice fierce and quiet and terrifyingly sure. “Because even when you want to run, you can’t. Not really. You always come back to me. You know you do.”

My breath hitched. I pulled back slightly, testing the limits of his grip, my heart racing so hard I could hear it in my ears. Part of me wanted to scream, to shove him away, to make a scene. Another part was frozen, stuck in the familiar script.

“I don’t know if that’s true,” I whispered, looking at him and seeing the danger I loved and feared all at once. The boy who had once made me laugh until my sides hurt, and the man who now made me afraid to speak.

He leaned closer, brushing another strand of hair from my face, his touch deceptively soft. “I love you,” he said softly. “And you love me too. Admit it.”

I looked away, staring at the darkened lawn, at the silhouettes of people moving under the string lights, all of them looking so effortless. I felt the heaviness of his gaze on me like pressure on my skin.

“I… I don’t know,” I admitted. The words felt like betrayal and truth at the same time. “I want to love you. I do. But I’m scared.”

His lips brushed my ear, and I felt him smile, not with warmth but with some twisted kind of satisfaction. “Good,” he said, pressing his forehead to mine again. “Scared is good. It means you care. It means you get what it would do to you if you lost me.”

I closed my eyes, trying to steady my shaking hands, curling my fingers into the fabric of his shirt so no one would see them tremble. I knew he was wrong. I knew that fear wasn’t love, that caring wasn’t supposed to feel like walking into a room and immediately searching for exits.

But I let him hold me anyway. I let him kiss me, soft but insistent, his mouth trying to erase doubt with pressure, with force disguised as tenderness. I felt that mix of longing and fear swirl inside me, hot and confusing, and I hated that part of me still answered to him.

Across the lawn, near the French doors leading back into the house, Sarah stood half in shadow, watching us from the crowd, worry etched on her face. Her champagne flute hung forgotten at her side. I saw her glance at me, eyebrows drawn, lips pressed tight, and I knew she understood. She knew what I was feeling, that tightrope, the push and pull, the dangerous magnetism of someone I was already addicted to.

Our eyes met, and for a second I wanted to walk straight to her, to let her pull me away from him, to say, “I can’t do this anymore.” But Rafe’s arm tightened around my waist, as if he’d heard the thought.

“You’ll never leave me,” Rafe whispered in my ear, his voice a low, calm certainty that made my stomach lurch. “You couldn’t. You wouldn’t know what to do without me.”

I wanted to scream that I might. I wanted to tell him I couldn’t stay, that I was suffocating. I pictured myself saying it, my voice steady, my feet already moving toward the gate.

Instead, I only let my head rest against his shoulder, letting the weight of him settle around me like a heavy coat I couldn’t shrug off.

Because some part of me already knew that even if I wanted to, leaving him wouldn’t be easy.

And some part of me… didn’t want to.

That was the ugliest truth of all.

---

I can hear him moving, pacing across the apartment, the faint scrape of his shoes against the tile. I picture the pattern he always walks, that same angry path carved into the floor, like he’s wearing a groove into the world just by existing in it.

I pace too, arms crossed over my chest, trying to stop the shivering that’s not just from the cold. The air feels thick, heavy with the smell of rain and damp clothes and his cologne that clings to everything. My skin feels too tight, like I’m wearing a body that doesn’t quite fit anymore.

“You can’t keep doing this,” I say finally. My voice trembles despite my best effort, and I hate that he can hear it.

“Doing what?” His voice is low but sharp, the kind that cuts through the noise of the storm outside and straight into my spine. I can hear the rain hammering the windows, the distant rumble of thunder, but somehow his voice is louder.

“This,” I spit out, gesturing vaguely toward the apartment, toward the rain-soaked windows, toward him. My hand shakes. “Checking where I am, who I’m with. Acting like I’m going to run the second you look away.”

Rafe runs a hand through his hair, fingers tugging at the strands like he’s barely holding himself together. His jaw is tight as stone when he takes a step toward me. “Because you might,” he says. His voice drops, rougher now, edged with exhaustion and something darker that makes my stomach twist. “You don’t see it, Y/N. Everyone’s waiting for you to leave me. They talk, you know. They watch you. They look at you like they’re just waiting for their chance.”

I shake my head, stepping back instinctively until my shoulder bumps the wall. The cold tile presses through my shirt. “No one has to wait. You’re doing a good job pushing me there yourself.”

His eyes flash, something sharp and dangerous lighting them up, and for a second I think he’s going to throw something or punch the wall like he’s done before. I feel my body brace without my permission, muscles tightening, breath catching. But then, almost immediately, there’s a flicker, a crack in the armor. For a heartbeat, I see the boy underneath it all. The one who used to make me laugh in the middle of grocery store aisles, who used to fall asleep with his head in my lap like I was the only safe place he had. The one I fell in love with before the anger and chaos swallowed him whole.

Then he shuts it down again, hard, his face closing off like a vault. That softness vanishes as if I imagined it.

“You’re not leaving me,” he says quietly. The words are almost a whisper, but the weight behind them feels like it could crush me. “You’re all I have.”

I look at him, really look at him, and my chest aches. His shoulders are tense, his hands curled into fists at his sides, knuckles pale. There’s a wildness in his eyes, something frantic and cornered. The desperation behind the anger is raw and unfiltered, like an open wound.

My heart twists in two, caught between love and fear. God, I love him. I really do. I remember the first night he kissed me in the rain, how he laughed when my hair stuck to my face, how he held me like I was something precious. But now the memory feels like a lie someone else told me. Love shouldn’t hurt like this. Love shouldn’t make your bones feel like they’re breaking under the weight of it.

“I… I can’t keep doing this either,” I say, my voice shaking. My throat feels tight, like I swallowed glass. “I’m not the problem, Rafe. You’re the one who keeps trying to control everything. You can’t just dictate how I feel, who I talk to, where I go. That’s not love. That’s…” I swallow. “That’s something else.”

He takes a step closer, closing the space between us. His presence is overwhelming, like standing too close to a fire that could warm you or burn you alive. His hand hovers near mine but doesn’t touch me. I can feel the heat radiating off him.

“I’m not trying to control you,” he says, though the heat in his eyes betrays him. His gaze flicks to my phone on the counter, to the keys by the sink, to the door. Always checking, always measuring the distance between me and escape. “I’m trying to protect you. I don’t know how to… not. You’re mine, Y/N. Always have been. You said that once. You remember?” His mouth twists. “You said you were mine.”

I remember. I remember whispering it into his neck, believing it then. It feels like I handed him a knife and taught him where to cut.

I shake my head, stepping back, trying to find the strength I feel slipping with every heartbeat. “I’m not yours,” I say quietly but firmly. The words taste strange, like they don’t belong in my mouth yet. “I can love you. I can care about you. But I’m not yours. You can’t own me, Rafe. That’s not how it works.”

Something in his expression freezes. He stops moving then, his chest heaving, his jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscles jump. For a moment, his face is unreadable, a mask I don’t recognize. And in that pause, I catch it again, the vulnerability he buries under the anger, under the possessiveness.

“I… I don’t know how to let you go,” he admits, voice breaking slightly. His eyes flick to the door again, then back to me, like he’s daring me to reach for it. “I can’t imagine anyone else… having you. Touching you. Saying your name.” His lip curls slightly. “They don’t deserve you. They wouldn’t know what to do with you. They’d break you.”

“You’re breaking me,” I want to say, but the words stick. Instead, I whisper, “I’m not anyone else.” I take a cautious step closer, my heart aching at the boy I see hiding behind the rage. “I’m me. And I’m scared, Rafe. I’m scared that one day, I’ll wake up and realize I can’t do this anymore. That I can’t survive this constant fear of breaking you or losing myself in you.”

He swallows hard, his throat working. He looks away for a moment, staring at the bathroom door like it’s mocking him, then back at me. His jaw is tight, his eyes shining with something that might be tears or might just be anger turned inward.

“I can’t lose you,” he says quietly, almost pleading. His voice drops, rough and hoarse. “I just… I don’t know how to live without you. You’re everything. My family, my life… my heart. You know what it’s like there without you.” His mouth twists into something bitter. “It’s empty. They don’t care. They never cared. But you did. You do. I need that. I need you.”

The way he says need makes my stomach knot. It doesn’t sound like love. It sounds like obsession.

I feel tears prick at the corners of my eyes, the room swimming for a second. I blink hard. “I don’t want to hurt you,” I admit softly. My voice feels small in the tiny bathroom, swallowed by the sound of the rain hammering the roof above us and the steady drip from the showerhead. “I just… I can’t keep feeling like this. Like my entire world is one misstep away from anger or blame or… chaos. I can’t breathe when it’s like this, Rafe. My chest hurts all the time. I jump when my phone buzzes because I’m scared it’s you, angry about something I didn’t even know I did. And I love you too much to let us destroy each other.”

His eyes darken at the word scared, like it offends him. He steps closer again, crowding my space, and this time, I don’t move. My back is already against the cool bathroom wall, nowhere left to go. My body trembles, my heart a chaotic drumbeat against my ribs. I can feel every inch of the small space we’re sharing, the humidity, the faint smell of his cologne mixed with sweat and rain.

His hand lifts and brushes my cheek, fingers tentative now, almost careful, but the weight of it still feels like possession. His thumb grazes the corner of my mouth, and I feel my breath hitch.

“I don’t want to hurt you either,” he says, voice low, almost reverent, like I’m something holy. “I’m… I’m broken too. They made me this way. You know that. You know what they did to me. I don’t know how to be any other way.” His fingers tighten slightly against my skin. “But I can’t let you go. I won’t. I’d rather burn it all down first.”

A chill runs through me at the way he says it. I believe him. That’s the worst part. I believe he would.

I close my eyes, letting the tension in my shoulders sink just a little, feeling the storm inside me and the storm outside collide. My head feels light, my hands numb. “Rafe,” I whisper. His name feels like a prayer and a warning all at once. “I love you. But love isn’t supposed to feel like this. It’s not supposed to hurt this much. It’s not supposed to feel like I’m choosing between you and myself every single day. And if we don’t figure out how to stop hurting each other, I don’t know how much longer we have.”

He presses his forehead to mine, and I can feel his breath hitch, warm and uneven against my lips. His lashes are damp, and I don’t know if it’s from the rain or his eyes. “I’ll do anything,” he says softly. There’s a tremor in his words. “Anything to make this work. Tell me what to do. I can stop checking your phone if you want. I can try not to call you ten times when you’re out. I can do that. I can change. Just… don’t walk away from me. I can’t lose you. I can’t.”

I open my eyes slowly, staring at him, seeing the desperation, the love, the chaos, all rolled into one dangerous package. His pupils are blown wide, his breathing shallow. I can feel the way his fingers twitch against my jaw like he’s fighting himself.

And I realize that even though I love him, even though part of me wants to melt into him and forget the world, something deep inside me knows that love shouldn’t feel like this. Not this constant push and pull, not this fear, not this suffocating weight that settles on my chest every time he raises his voice.

“I don’t want to lose us either,” I whisper, my hand finding his and gripping it lightly. His skin is warm, almost feverish. “But we can’t keep doing this. We need… something different. Something healthier. Or one day, we’ll break for good. And it won’t be something we can take back.”

His fingers tighten around mine, almost painful. He looks at me then, really looks, and I can see the fight draining from him, leaving something raw, open, and trembling in its place.

“I… I don’t know if I can be different,” he admits. The honesty in his voice makes my chest ache. “I can try. I swear I’ll try. But I don’t know if I can fix myself fast enough for you. I don’t know if I can turn it off. The thoughts. The pictures in my head of you with someone else. It makes me crazy.”

I squeeze his hand, feeling the warmth and the ache all at once, like holding something sharp and refusing to let go. “Then we start slow,” I say quietly. “One step at a time. But we stop hurting each other. We stop trying to control, to possess. You stop checking my location. Stop showing up places just to see who I’m with. Stop punishing me for things you only imagined. Or we’ll lose everything. You, me… us.”

His mouth parts slightly, like he wants to protest, to tell me I’m overreacting, like he’s done before. But he closes it. He nods slowly, eyes glistening in the dim bathroom light, and for the first time in hours, the tension between us eases, replaced with something fragile and tentative.

“I love you, Y/N,” he whispers, voice raw. His thumb strokes the back of my hand in slow, shaky lines. “Even when I scare you, even when I hurt you… I love you. You know that, right? You have to know that. I did all of it because I love you. Because I can’t stand the thought of losing you.”

The justification scrapes against me, but I let the words sit between us for a moment.

“I love you too, Rafe,” I admit, my voice breaking slightly. The truth of it hurts. “But love shouldn’t feel like this. And if it keeps feeling like this, we won’t survive it. Not really. It’ll turn into something ugly. It already is, a little.”

We stay there, hand in hand, my back against the cool bathroom wall, his body a solid line of heat in front of me. The rain hammers the roof above us, and water slides noisily through the gutters outside. Our hearts feel heavy, like they’re sinking, but our fingers stay tangled. We breathe in the storm and each other, standing in the middle of something that could be a beginning or an ending.