#softrafe

Now he was with the FBI, devoting his life to solving crimes in an attempt to bring meaning to all the chaos. The latest case haunted him in particular: a killer was targeting young women. All the same—around thirty, single, brunette, living in Los Angeles.

It had been several weeks since he’d been working this case with his partner and the rest of the team, barely sleeping. Not that he’d slept properly in years anyway, so he might as well put the time to use.

“Agent Cameron, we were called in after an assault.”

That night, the police had contacted him about a young woman who had been attacked… but survived. Same profile as the previous victims—except she was still breathing.

The nurses led them to the room, where the attending doctor was finishing his exam.

“She won’t wake up right away. Wait in the hallway, and we’ll let you know when she’s able to answer your questions.”

Rafe leaned toward the small window of the room. A young woman, hooked up to machines, her face swollen and bruised, lay motionless.

“I’ll get some coffee,” his partner said.

Rafe nodded silently. He loosened his tie, almost violent against the fabric choking him, and planted his hands on his hips. He almost missed his police uniform, unable to stand the suffocating seriousness of a suit.

God, he couldn’t wait to get out of here—this place brought back too many bad memories.

“I’m telling you, I’m fine!”

It was almost incomprehensible—how a voice unheard for years could still shake you to your very core. The same ferocity in the tone, the same burning anger, untouched by time.

Rafe slowly turned, mouth slightly open, brows knitted. His instincts already knew what he was about to see.

The door in front of him burst open. A female silhouette appeared in profile, her face tight, shoving away the hands of a nurse who was trying to wipe off the blood.

The blood, the wounds, the unbroken anger in your eyes… it all clashed together in a brutal mix that twisted his gut.

“Ma’am, you’ve been knocked around and—” “And nothing! I can clean this up myself!” you snapped, yanking the sterile pad and antiseptic from his hands. “Don’t need a degree for that!”

You weren’t usually this harsh, but hospitals dug up too many bad memories—memories that still cut just as deep.

When you turned to leave, your eyes met his. The blue of his gaze locking with the brown of yours stole the breath from your lungs. Your body froze, your heart stopped, and your breath hitched in your throat in a suspended instant.

Rafe Cameron stood there, looking just as stunned as you were, as if time itself had chosen to stop for the two of you.

The door slammed shut behind you, a barrier between the two of you. The nurse noticed your face suddenly pale as you sank back onto the bed. Your hands gripped the mattress, searching for an anchor, for something solid, as if to keep from collapsing under the vertigo of that encounter.

The nurse was talking, but all you heard was a low hum. He dared to clean your wound, afraid you might push him away again… but you didn’t. You let him.

Rafe flinched when the door slammed, dragging him back to a reality where you still existed. What the hell were you doing there? He had moved away precisely because living in the same city as you had become impossible—every street a memory, the downtown café a nightmare.

Running a hand through his messy hair in a nervous gesture, he left the hospital without hearing the doctor call after him, lighting a cigarette the second he hit the air.

As if every drag could make you disappear. As if poisoning himself could ease the weight of his guilt. Pathetic.

“Shit!”

One cigarette was never enough. The butt barely crushed under his shoe, he lit another—fire and smoke his only refuge. He didn’t cough anymore; his body was numb, even whiskey had lost its taste.

He shut his eyes, pressing his palms to his temples, desperately trying to erase you from his memory. But your face pushed through anyway, inevitable: those wide dark eyes staring into his with surprise, the dried blood on your temple, running down your cheek and split lip…

What the hell had happened?

His phone buzzed. Heyward, his partner, asking what the fuck he was doing.

He could already hear your voice echoing down the hallway, stress and anger vibrating in every word:

“I just want to leave!” “You’re a key witness in this case!”

He watched his partner trying to reason with you, but Rafe, caught in the middle of the scene, understood nothing. Key witness? And in what case, exactly?

“Listen, I just tried to help this girl!” you shouted, pulling on your jacket. “The guy came out of nowhere and slammed me against his car. I didn’t see him, I didn’t get his plate—I’m useless!”

So you were tied to their ongoing investigation… the serial killer.

You knew he was just doing his job—your brother would have reacted the same way—but you didn’t have the patience. Fatigue weighed on you already, and seeing Rafe Cameron didn’t improve your mood.

“She’s alive, right? Then question her!”

A hard body hit you when you spun around. Your body reacted before your mind.

He still carried the same scent, that familiar warmth that had crossed you back when you were teenagers. Memories came rushing back: your friends, tight-knit like a family… until the nightmare began.

Rafe’s hands instinctively went to the sides of your face, careful not to hurt you further as he saw the wound. A warmth rose in you, as if your skin recognized something you had long suppressed. Too sensitive, you felt the pads of his fingers against you, as if to make sure you were really you, not a mirage.

“Don’t touch me.”

Not wanting to make a scene in front of strangers, you hissed through your teeth, low enough that only he could hear. His words struck him in the chest before he stepped back.

You shoved him to put some distance between you, ignoring the other cop’s calls, and rushed straight for the stairs to get out of there.

“Damn it, why didn’t you hold her back?!” “What?”

He blinked, trying to gather his thoughts, but everything felt too fast, too brutal. Pope Heyward was yelling facts, vital information about the killer and tonight’s assault, but Rafe only caught fragments, the rest drowned in the panic twisting his stomach.

“Cameron!” Pope roared, exasperated. “That girl might have seen the killer when they ran! What if he followed the ambulance?”

Pope had never been bothered by Rafe’s silence, used to his almost pathological calm. But this time, he wasn’t reacting at all.

Rafe blinked several times, finally processing the information Pope was trying to get across, and then set off to find you.

You couldn’t be far: the ambulance had dropped you at the hospital, and you were on foot. Alone. In the night.

When he spotted your silhouette, he hesitated for a moment, but he had no choice.

“T/P!”

Your body tensed instantly, realizing he had followed you. Yet you kept moving, hand clenched on the strap of your backpack as if it could make you walk faster.

“T/P, wait!”

Of course, that bastard had always been in impeccable shape. He caught up to you in a few strides, his hand landing on the front of your arm to make you turn. You pulled away, as if his touch could burn through the fabric.

Rafe felt it too—the persistent burn he had never managed to extinguish.

“I told you not to touch me!” you roared, your voice trembling with anger.

His eyes met yours, shining with restrained rage and silent pain. He saw the hatred you felt for him, and it ate at him.

“Okay… I’m sorry,” he breathed, raising his hands in surrender. “Just listen to me…” “No, damn it! Fuck off!”

He wanted to smile at your foul language, which hadn’t changed. He had never met a girl who could swear that much… and yet, deep down, he knew you were still a soft-hearted little thing. What he had sensed long ago, that vulnerability hidden beneath your armor, now seemed buried under hard, tired features.

“That girl…” he started, hesitating. “If I’d known I’d see you because of her, I would’ve let her be!”

Of course, that wasn’t true. When you had heard her screams as you left the library, your feet had instinctively taken you to her… and to the guy trying to force her into his car.

Still, your words—he knew they were sincere in your mind—hurt Rafe and made him less conciliatory.

“Glad to know your hatred for me matters more than a life,” he sneered, voice tight. “But that girl nearly became another victim of a serial killer… and so would you!”

For the first time since their confrontation, you fell silent. Rafe felt a slight release within himself, an almost inaudible sigh slipping past his lips as he pinched the bridge of his nose.

“We’ve been on this case for weeks, and this is the first time we’ve found a living victim.”

Talking about the investigation kept you quiet, but he had so many questions.

He wanted to understand why you were here, in Los Angeles. What had happened in those five years? Had you continued to hate him? And the others… what had become of them?

“Is it…” “Are you done?”

Seeing him hurt you horribly. More than you’d imagined, despite the time that had passed.

His hair, a bit long and messy, framed his face, and he was still wearing that ring… the one you had given him when, as a kid, he’d decided to pierce his ear. Damn stupid memories.

Eventually, your natural instinct resurfaced. He stared at you, too long for it to be purely friendly, but not long enough for you to really understand.

His blue eyes grew cold, his demeanor detached.

“All the victims share the same profile,” he said in a harsh voice. “They’re all the same age, brunettes, without family, they…”

Your hollow, almost cynical laugh cut him off. He almost wanted to hit himself for his clumsiness.

“I… I—” “If I have no family, I owe it to you, Rafe. Remember? You killed John B.”

You stepped back, your expression hard, giving him a cold smile before vanishing into the street, swallowed by darkness.

Rafe looked up at the starry sky, but the stars offered no comfort. His heart was pounding, each beat echoing like a cruel reminder.

That night, it wasn’t just his best friend who had been torn from life… but also your brother. And he hadn’t been able to do anything. Nothing.

Rafe Cameron masterlist JJ Maybank masterlist Steve Harrington masterlist Comments, likes and reblogs greatly appreciated✨ Requests are open🌙

All you had to do was step back, escape his embrace, ask to leave and return to that life where your brother was no longer there. But he was there, his scent everywhere, and you could sense that guilt on his face, even with your eyes closed. And it was eating you alive, damn it. You wanted to hate him for everything that had happened, but seeing him again brought back feelings you thought you had buried. It tore at your guts, biting your hand to stifle a sob that was clawing its way up your throat.

“Baby…”

You felt him pull away, so you drew him back to you without thinking. Your lips crashed violently against his, and he responded instantly. His hands tangled in your hair, his tongue brushing against yours as if silently begging for entry. That night, you would have given him everything. And you did.

Your tongues brushed against each other, taming and learning one another before everything ignited between you. Tension built inside your body, making your hands tremble as you began unbuttoning his pants. You had undressed men before, but not him. Rafe wasn’t just anyone. He was the boy from your teenage dreams, the first one you thought of when you ever loved someone. Rafe was everywhere. Even now.

His hands slid beneath your top, pressing against your back, keeping you trapped against him as he continued to ravage your mouth. Every touch set you ablaze, every brush of his skin burned with impatience. You stumbled back into your room. The bed, still unmade from the night before, received your bodies as you fell onto it.

Rafe wasn’t thinking anymore about what was happening. The moment your lips touched, it was as if a switch had been flipped to shut him off.

In so many ways, he had imagined kissing you. Maybe under a sunset where you used to meet. At the ice cream shop, the hangout spot with the crew at night. After a hot chocolate he would have bought you to win you over. And fuck no—here he was devouring you after a fight and the insinuation that he was responsible for your brother’s death.

Not taking the time to truly discover you because urgency was simmering, for him as much as for you. Because your scent surrounded him and drove him mad, making his movements rough.

His fingers caught the waistband of your sweatpants, sliding them down your legs, the lingering coolness making you shiver. Or was it the fact that he was finally touching you? The faint ray of moonlight barely lit your face, but he could see the reflection of his own inner battle in your eyes.

Could you really do that?

Absolutely, you could. When he stopped kissing you, frustration took over, and you pulled him back to you, placing your hands on his face. You could feel the beginnings of his beard, that scar near his temple from a fall on the docks. You wanted to feel him differently, the way a man can love a woman. Two cursed lovers.

You quickly found yourself in lingerie before him. His tongue lingered on the top of your chest, every brush making you shiver. Your hands, meanwhile, were busy trying to undo his pants—the ones you hadn’t quite managed to remove earlier. You both straightened up, trying to finish what you had started. He pressed his body closer to yours, and you could feel his heart beating against yours, as if your pulses were connected, pounding in unison. Years spent imagining this moment, and now it was finally happening.

Your legs parted to welcome him, his hands finishing removing your panties to rub against your folds. “Oh fuck…” His breath brushed against your ears, his teeth nipping at the flesh of your neck as he entered you.

It was a whirlwind of emotions: the thrill of finally having Rafe Cameron in your bed, the pleasure of feeling him move in and out, the joy of discovering that longed-for body. Your skins slapped against each other in the silence of the night, your ragged breaths growing more intense with each harder thrust. It was brutal, painful, almost unbearable… yet it felt as if you were finally alive. Because of him. Ironically.

His hands gripped your face as he felt the tension in his hips release, signaling his climax, while he felt you tightening around him. His thumb brushed over your clitoris, the motion that brought you to orgasm with him. The pressure around him as your walls clenched increased his pace, and he came inside you in turn. His breathing gradually calmed before he moved away from your body to lie down beside you.

Silence fell, heavy. The shock of what had just happened coursed through your veins, and you didn’t dare move. That would make it real. Rafe’s presence. The act you had just shared.

When the air became too suffocating, you rose slowly, picking up your panties from the floor and your sweatshirt, as if to reclaim some sense of protection. You needed air. You opened the kitchen window, letting the cold seep into your lungs. It burned slightly, awakening your senses, slowing the racing of your breath as if to ward off another panic attack.

The sound of the rain softly hitting the panes calmed your thoughts, a steady rhythm against the turmoil inside. You sat on the chair, burying your face in your arms wrapped around your thighs, trying to curl into yourself. Your gaze drifted to the street. The few passing cars were invisible and indifferent, and no one could see how vulnerable, empty… worthless you felt.

After a moment, Rafe came through with his things and froze when he saw you in the kitchen, waiting for… who knows what. Your legs were bare, shivering from the cold you let in. The hood of your sweatshirt was pulled over your head, as if to hide from him after he had seen everything.

He didn’t hesitate and sat down beside you. Your eyes met, and just looking at him made you feel a mixture of desire and pain. He was so beautiful it was almost cruel: his tired eyes, messy hair, unbuttoned shirt, and that presence that enveloped you.

Rafe pulled a cigarette from the pack lying in his jacket, lit it, losing himself in the warmth of the flame near his face, and inhaled as if it helped him hold on. He noticed you shivering from the cold and stood to close the window.

“No.” Your outstretched hand stopped him, and you added, softly but firmly, “I need it.” The cold had always had a way of calming your fears, freezing your grief, and you weren’t ready to let it go.

Rafe exhaled the smoke through the slightly open window, then handed you his cigarette as he prepared a hot chocolate. Lactose-free milk, three spoonfuls of bitter chocolate. Nothing had changed on that front.

“Stop!” he said, pulling the cigarette from your mouth. “Your brother would kill me if he knew I let you smoke!” You took the cup he offered without looking at him. “But he’s the one who’s dead, remember?” A silence, then you added, “He’s the one who made me try it the first time.” You had coughed so hard you swore never to do it again. But promises… over time…

The first sip, still scalding, felt good, and you held the cup between your hands.

“Where’s everyone else?” Rafe asked, elbows on his knees, staring into space.

A smirk tugged at your lips at this simple, almost mundane conversation

“Kiara is a biology teacher. She’s very dedicated to turtles, as you know.” Rafe smiled, momentarily lost in the memory of his friend, the one who had created a massive traffic jam by blocking the road because some turtles had gotten lost.

“JJ opened his surf shop. It’s doing pretty well, and he’s taking evening business classes.” The rebellious blond had finally managed to make it despite his broken family.

“Sarah is raising Teddy on her own. He’s going into his second year of preschool. He looks like John B., but thankfully he has his mother’s nose.”

You chuckled, but Rafe remained silent. The cigarette butt, almost finished, burned between his index and middle fingers, but it was nothing compared to the pain squeezing his chest. A little boy had been born without his dad.

“Breathe, Rafe. What’s done is done,” you whispered, emotionless. He tossed the butt into the sink, the smell of cold tobacco filling the space between you. “You should go now.” You stood and passed in front of him. “I need to sleep.”

He made you fall onto him, and, by surprise, you dropped your cup, which shattered on the floor, splashing your legs with the scalding liquid. The pain made you wince, but Rafe held your face in his hands, his eyes burning with an intensity you couldn’t ignore.

“I didn’t kill him, y/n.”

Your body tensed at his words, which you hadn’t expected.

“That guy showed up out of nowhere, and John B. wanted to—” “Shut up!” “He tried to step in, and the shot went off.” Rafe closed his eyes, jaw tight, each word coming with effort. “I tried to go toward him… and I got shot. I couldn’t do anything, damn it.”

He replayed the scene as if it were happening before his eyes: John B.’s smile fading as life left him, the pool of blood spreading around him, mixing with the one flowing around Rafe, lying on the ground too. The smell of death hung heavy, suffocating, impossible to forget.

“I didn’t kill him.”

And maybe you both needed to hear it to accept the truth: that night, nothing could have changed the course of events. Even if John B. had taken another path, he would have arrived at the same moment as the shooter. Fate had imposed itself, relentless.

Rafe’s hands rested on your icy thighs, searching for an anchor in your silence. You didn’t know what to do, or what to say. You had spent the past few years cursing him for the tragedy you had endured. It had been so much easier to blame him for John B.’s death than to tell yourself it was fate, inevitable.

“I should have come to see you.” He looked at you. “At the hospital…” “I wish you had. I waited for you. I thought I’d see you walk through that damn door… but you never came.”

The weight of those words hung in the air between you, heavy and painful.

Kiara had done it. JJ too, though they weren’t very close. Both reassuring him that he wasn’t responsible. Relief came with Sarah, tearful over losing her partner, but grateful that Rafe was still alive. He thought she would be angry at him too, that she’d lash out for surviving while he, with no family, remained alive as she built hers. But she wasn’t.

The worst was you.

“You didn’t come.” he repeated softly.

Your arms wrapped around his neck in a gentle, fragile embrace, but one you hoped would be enough to show him, without words, how sorry you were. The grief had been too heavy back then to cross that door, while your brother lay in the morgue of the same hospital, cold and irreversible. Fear, pain, and despair had frozen you, keeping you from seeking Rafe, even for a moment.

And then there had to be someone to blame. Hatred did the rest, like a silent poison that had kept you and him apart all those years.

That night, Rafe loved you a second time, taking his time this time. He undressed you completely, counting the freckles on your chest and kissing each one. He found that scar on your thigh, a reminder of the day you tried to prove to everyone that you could do a trick on a skateboard you hadn’t mastered. He brushed his hands over your skin, loving its softness, a contrast to your fiery temper. He cupped your heavy breasts, licking your folds with adoration as you came.

And that time, just before falling asleep, he pressed you against his chest, arm firmly around your waist, so you wouldn’t run away again.

For that night, and maybe beyond, you were there for each other.

Another body had been found: a young woman with no family, who had been living on the streets for some time. Her body was discovered in a park when a jogger stumbled upon a hand sticking out of a bush. Frustration was immense when no clues were found and the investigation stalled. Again.

A few days passed, and despite the entire team’s determination to catch this lunatic, nothing came of it. When two more bodies were discovered, morale collapsed, and it was in a state of fatigue and frustration that you found Rafe on your doorstep. You hadn’t really spoken since that night together: a few messages exchanged, but nothing serious. You weren’t sure it was a good idea, but the dark circles under his eyes and his worn-out face convinced you to let him in.

He went straight to your bedroom, passing through the bathroom, before collapsing from exhaustion into your sheets. Like an old regular. As if one night of making love had been enough to become a constant in your life. When you went to bed, you had made sure to wear pajamas that left no room for desire, to avoid temptation or to show that you wanted nothing. Yet, in his sleep, his hand slid gently under your t-shirt, resting on your chest.

“I’m going to be sick.”

Rafe rolled his eyes and gestured for the rookie to step back so as not to contaminate the crime scene. Pope stood beside him, lowered to the level of the two bodies recently discovered near a dumpster area. Two young women, brunettes, and after checking, with no family.

“There are two,” Pope noted. “Something’s not right.”

Rafe held back a sarcastic remark at the obviousness of it and simply observed the bodies. Both were positioned as if holding hands, supporting each other in the horror that had greeted them.

“Look at their hands.” He stepped closer, putting on a glove. “There’s something here.”

Carefully, as if not to disturb them in death, he separated their fingers and removed a carefully folded piece of paper.

“What does it say?” Pope asked, standing up. “The second one is your fault” Rafe read, perplexed.

Pope exhaled in exasperation. As if this investigation weren’t already complicated enough, now riddles were being added to their path.

“Maybe there are two killers?” he suggested. “And they’re communicating with each other?” “I don’t think so,” Rafe replied. “There’s something we’re missing.”

Like every night for a while, Rafe had taken refuge at your place, leaving a few things lying around so he’d have clothes to wear for work the next day. It was four in the morning, and a strange feeling had pulled him from sleep. The house was silent, except for the soft hum of the heater and your steady breathing. He smiled, noticing that his hand still instinctively found the right spot on your body, then brushed your neck with his lips before leaving the warm bed. By the kitchen window, a steaming cup of hot chocolate in his hands—damn habit he had picked up—he stared at a car with its headlights on, parked below your place. It wasn’t raining, and the streetlights cast sharp shadows on the asphalt, revealing the color of the Mercedes.

“Rafe?”

Your sleepy voice pulled him from his observation, and he rushed straight back to the bed, where he found you. You, too, had picked up the damn habit of having him by your side.

Rafe arrived in a good mood that morning. You had left before him for the library, leaving a cup of hot chocolate on the table. He found it cute, a small, simple gesture that made him smile despite his fatigue.

But his smile faded when he saw Pope’s tense face. “What’s wrong?” he asked, stepping toward the desk, his eyes landing on the screen full of photos. “What is it?” “The car of a possible suspect,” Pope replied, his tone heavy with tension. “The young woman who survived the attack says this car has been circling her place for a few nights.” Rafe narrowed his eyes, frustration already building. “How long have we known?” “This morning…” Pope sighed. “They thought she was imagining things and didn’t think it was worth reporting.” A curse slipped from Rafe’s lips. “What a bunch of idiots!”

Rafe couldn’t stand incompetence in their line of work. Every detail had to be taken seriously. He asked Pope to transfer the photos. When he received them, a chill ran down his spine—the same uneasy feeling that had woken him that morning. Zooming in, he saw it was a Mercedes, the same color as the one parked below your place.

“Fuck…” he murmured, pressure building in his chest, a sharp ringing in his ears. “Cameron?” Pope called, worried at his agitation. “Answer, come on!” Rafe hissed, dialing your number as fast as he could.

The answering machine. Three times in a row.

Without wasting a second, he bolted from the office, Pope at his side, who alerted the chief that a problem had just erupted.

In the car, Rafe drove like every second counted, explaining his intuition with cold determination:

“There were two that night. The girl who survived… and the one who helped.” You.

Pope was starting to follow his reasoning. Rafe didn’t have time to wait for the elevator. He rushed up the stairs, two at a time, to your floor. Without keys, he kicked the door down with his shoulder. The apartment was empty, freezing. The open window let in the cool air… and your scent. Moving carefully, he noticed a cup of hot chocolate, still steaming, on the table. A small piece of paper slipped underneath caught his attention.

“No hard feelings, you owed me one.”

Rafe Cameron masterlist JJ Maybank masterlist Steve Harrington masterlist Comments, likes and reblogs greatly appreciated✨ Requests are open🌙

You clenched your teeth, wiping the sweat from your forehead, unable to understand why the pain wouldn’t ease.

Migraines weren’t unfamiliar to you, but they had never been this strong, never to the point of making you want to vomit or faint.

You had never liked medication, yet you were ready to take one right away if it could finally give you some relief.

Your skull was splitting, but it seemed you heard a noise behind the front door, like a light knock.

Or maybe it was that damn serial killer Rafe had mentioned?

What if he had really been following you?

Nonsense.

The noise continued, and you finally gave in, trying to get up slowly. Most people would have just knocked once or twice, then left when faced with the silence.

But the person behind the door seemed determined, as if refusing to leave without seeing you.

Normally, you always peered through the peephole before opening, just to avoid unpleasant surprises.

But this time, crushed by pain, you opened without thinking, indifferent to the image you projected and unconcerned about who might be waiting.

And when your gaze met those haunting blue eyes again, you realized you should have.

The pain surged again, blurring your vision as you barely made out his lips moving, his gaze full of worry.

Then, blackout.

“Fuck, you should have checked”

The male voice reached you, distant and muffled, yet you recognized Rafe behind the door separating your hospital room from the hallway.

The nurse he was speaking to flushed red, stung by the reprimand.

“She signed a waiver!” “Do you know what you can do with your damn waiver?!”

You would have almost smiled if the pain hadn’t come back to tear through you as you woke. A hiccup ripped through you, forcing you to lean to the side to vomit.

“Fuck!”

The sound immediately alerted the two men, who rushed into the room.

Once again, the nausea… and the blackout.

Finding your address in the office files, without anyone asking him why, had been child’s play for Rafe.

Holy shit, you lived like thirty minutes away from him!

He had hesitated to come see you after your exchange, but he was ultimately glad he had. Rafe had expected your murderous glare, curses, a slammed door. Not the image of you, pale, weakened, teetering on the verge of fainting.

His gaze lingered on your figure, hidden under the hospital blanket.

A damn concussion… Of course, after the brutal impact of your head against the metal. Just thinking about it made him feel rage rising.

He could have crushed the nurse with his own hands for not insisting, for neglecting the necessary examinations.

Clenching his fists under his chin, he watched your peaceful face in that forced sleep. So different from the one marked by anger and resentment that you had shown him earlier.

He reassured himself, foolishly, by following the steady rise and fall of your chest, proof that you were still alive. Your facial wound had been treated again—your fall had reopened it.

He remembered your body giving way, as if all the barriers you had built against him had suddenly collapsed. Your hands had tried to grab onto the door, but your entire body had sagged at once. Fear had frozen him as he saw you lying on the floor, lifeless, an unbearable echo of his brother, who had bled out… and whom he had nearly lost that night too.

But that, you never wanted to know.

He understood your hatred, but you didn’t know how much he hated himself for that night.

How much he could also despise you for simply letting him fall.

You needed someone to blame. And Rafe was the obvious choice.

And he had accepted.

He had dozed off to the rhythm of the passing night. He hadn’t wanted to go home, wanting to make sure you were okay.

It was foolish: you were in a hospital, surrounded by people capable of taking care of you. Yet, he wanted to be there.

The pain in his neck, the result of an awkward position in the chair, woke him with a groan. You watched him as he slowly came back to himself.

He hadn’t yet noticed that you were awake, and you took the opportunity to observe him through the faint beam of moonlight filtering into the room.

His hair was a mess, his suit swapped for jeans and a loose sweatshirt, and his hands rubbed his thighs as if to warm himself.

Memories surfaced in your mind: evenings on the sand, snatching beers from them when they drank too much and begging you to try joints. John B refused to see his little sister compromise herself, guarding a virtue you had already lost without him knowing.

Rafe, though, was the worst: he used his friendship with your brother to tease you, mocking you with barely concealed amusement. That little bastard had hidden his crush on you, even if the drunken looks he threw your way betrayed his secret.

“Shit!” He jumped when he saw you awake, sitting upright against your pillow like a marble statue.

He couldn’t make out your features clearly in the dim light, but he guessed the hardness of your face and the darkness in your eyes at seeing him there.

“Are you feeling better?” “What are you doing here?”

He exhaled as he straightened in his too-hard chair, realizing you wouldn’t be easy to appease.

“I just wanted to make sure you were okay.” “I’m fine. You can leave.”

No way were you breathing the same air as him.

“Y/N…” “Just because I threw up in front of you doesn’t mean you suddenly have to take care of me, okay?" Your voice snapped, hard as stone, like your heart in his presence. "Do what you do best… and leave.” “Are you going to blame me for leaving?”

Rafe’s voice hardened too, furious at hearing you reproach him for leaving when, in his eyes, it had been best—for you, for everyone.

He leaned forward in his chair, trying to catch your gaze, which you stubbornly kept turned toward the blank wall.

“Look at me.”

You didn’t. Seeing him was unbearable: both because of the pain his mere presence inflicted and because of the feelings that were still there.

You hated yourself for it. For your heart racing at the sound of his rough voice, for your limbs going numb because he was so close… and yet so far.

“Who’s the coward now?”

You kept sending him away, yet he endured your insults. Your reproaches.

He had accepted it all.

Maybe it was time to end it? After all, seeing each other again after five years might not have been just a coincidence.

He couldn’t keep taking it forever. He could be bad too. You had already seen him at work.

You would have liked to answer him, but nausea hit suddenly. Maybe to release everything you couldn’t say. To purge the disgust you felt toward yourself, for still feeling all of this for Rafe.

After what he had done.

When you tried to get up to vomit, he had already rushed to your side, taking the basin the nurses had left.

Caught by a hiccup, you didn’t protest when he held your hair firmly as you vomited.

Yet the urge was there. You didn’t want him close, didn’t want him to break the wall you had patiently built against him.

Damn Rafe Cameron.

Falling back asleep, you let him settle you properly in the bed, the warmth of his skin against yours.

“I don’t love you,” you mumbled, already lost in the limbo of sleep. “I know, baby. Me neither.”

And yet, it came back in waves, that youthful crush never fulfilled, never gone.

He thought he saw, fleetingly, a faint smile on your lips at his words, and that illusion tugged at his heart, bittersweet, like a memory too long buried returning to the surface.

He went back to work the next day, making progress on the investigation, but his mind was elsewhere.

You were still under observation for two more days, and when the nurse asked if anyone would be staying with you that night, only silence answered.

Where were the others?

You were feeling better: you hadn’t thrown up all day, and your night had been calm. You were finally going home.

Yet, the reflection in the mirror didn’t please you: still pale, your hair now greasy, and your gashes made it look like you’d lost a boxing match, even if they were slightly faded.

“Are you ready?”

You sat up suddenly in the bathroom, surprised to hear his voice. Leaning your head out slightly to see him, you noticed Rafe showed no emotion.

“What are you doing?” “I’m taking you home.” Excuse me? “Absolutely not! You…” “Shut up, and hurry up. I’ve got better things to do.” “I didn’t ask you for anything!” “That’s exactly the problem: you’ve never known how to ask for anything.”

You hadn’t asked him what had happened.

You hadn’t asked him how he felt, having lost your brother.

You hadn’t asked how he was when he woke up.

You hadn’t expressed relief that the bullet he had taken hadn’t killed him.

You hadn’t reassured him.

You hadn’t said anything.

Nothing.

Simply forgotten.

The ride to your apartment was silent. No radio to fill the void, only the sound of rain lashing against the windshield and flashes of lightning intermittently lighting up the road.

You were tense, but didn’t show it. You didn’t want to reveal anything to him, give him anything that might let him see how much his presence still affected you, despite everything.

Yet, you forgot that he knew you well. Growing up together gave him an advantage over your silences. He knew you bit the side of your cheek fiercely to hold back the venom that wanted to escape. That venom that eventually exhausted you both.

There was no fooling yourself: he wasn’t doing much better. His driving was calm—too calm—simply because it was the only thing he could control at that moment.

Being close to you, even with all the hatred, was still complicated.

You rolled your eyes as he walked past you to enter your building, as if he were already an old regular.

The elevator welcomed your two silhouettes in a silence that wasn’t uncomfortable, but oppressive. Arms firmly crossed over your chest, you pressed against the wall, as far from him as possible.

Rafe waited patiently, hands in his pockets, in that suit that still felt suffocating.

“Fuck.”

It was cold in the apartment. You had only been away for two days, but that was enough to make the place icy.

Rafe moved toward the window you had forgotten to close, the rain having formed a small puddle on the floor.

Frowning and rubbing your arms, you tried to remember when you had opened it, convinced you had closed it before going to the library.

“Are you okay?”

The confused look on your face alerted Rafe, who immediately feared another fainting spell. He thought the hospital had discharged you too soon, his eyes scanning every movement of your body.

“You can leave.”Your voice snapped, dry. “You’ve done your good deed, that’s enough.”

He remained standing there, motionless, as if nothing could make him move, unimpressed by your curt tone and icy gaze.

“You’re staying.” It wasn’t a question, just a statement, and the weight of weariness in your voice made it almost tangible.

The fatigue of the past few days, the urge to shower and change… all of it outweighed the desire to argue with him.

Around you, the silence seemed to thicken, filled with the rustle of clothing, the soft patter of rain against the window.

If he wanted to stay there like a houseplant, let him.

You weren’t exactly good with plants anyway.

Rafe watched your apartment as you headed to the bathroom.

Few decorations, no photos on the walls, not a single plant.

Everything felt impersonal, as if you had planned to leave quickly.

No attachments.

It annoyed him to think that: that as soon as he found you again, you could already be gone.

But who could blame you? And how could he even dare to believe that you’d stay just because one evening, you had crossed paths again?

To keep himself busy, he did the dishes left in the sink, put away the cocoa powder that made him smile, and the spicy sauce that had burned his palate even back then.

He hadn’t noticed you watching him when you finished your shower.

Your hair still damp — you never dried it — and your skin burning from having stayed under the hot water for too long.

And not because of him. At your place.

“Still as obsessive as ever.”

He turned briefly, a smile on his lips, looking at you as if you were sharing a private moment.

The old tracksuit you had put on served as armor, but it didn’t stop Rafe from feeling that surge inside him, like a long streak of lava running down his spine.

The desire for you, still there.

The scent of your shampoo still lingered in the air, sweet and familiar.

Always the same.

It reminded him of home, of childhood memories, of suspended moments when everything seemed simpler.

Damn.

He flinched when you abruptly set a cup of hot milk in front of him, a bit of cocoa powder spilled across the counter. The memory faded. He was back in the apartment again, facing you. You could guess Rafe’s intrigued look, wondering what the hell you were doing offering him a hot drink when, clearly, you wanted to burn him.

“I don’t have any coffee.”

Yeah, you had always hated it, and sometimes he would have a cup with you on the porch of your house. But that was before.

You remained by the kitchen window, overlooking the street. The rain wouldn’t stop, and night had fully fallen.

Rafe stood at your side, your arms almost brushing as you both stared straight ahead.

You could see his reflection in the glass, dimly lit by the bulb you had meant to change for a while now.

The memories clenched your chest suddenly, drying your throat. Your fingers kept stirring the spoon in the hot liquid you couldn’t bring yourself to drink.

“I can’t do this.” “What?” “I don’t know how to pretend, damn it.”

Your fingers rubbed at your eyes, as if to soothe the tears threatening to rise.

“Pretend to be what?” He wanted to force the words out of you. To hear them. “As if you weren’t…” Damn, it was hard. Why couldn’t you say it? “As if I weren’t what?”

Your gazes met through the glass, the rain sliding down your face in place of your tears. You could have said everything right then, but you ran.

Rafe didn’t let it happen. He grabbed your wrist roughly, pulling you back against him. “Not what, Y/N?”

He saw your eyes mist over, but he didn’t care. Dragging your pain out seemed to be the only thing he could manage.

“As if I weren’t guilty of his death?”

The timbre of his voice grew rougher, lower, as speaking those words aloud hurt him too.

“Do you know how many times I replay that scene?” he sneered without joy. “How many times I see myself telling him no, not to take the detour and just go straight home?”

He saw again John B’s joyful smile when he announced he was going to be a father, the urge to stop at the café for the pastries Sarah loved so much, and your damn hot chocolate. As the future godfather, overwhelmed with emotion, Rafe had gone along.

His mistake had been telling John B to go right away, when he was supposed to pick you up from school.

They had both finished their shift at the police station, a weekend of celebration lying ahead for the family.

But it never happened.

“I would’ve rather died in his place! I would’ve rather not lost him too! Anything to keep from seeing the hatred in your eyes every time you look at me, or every time you think about me!”

Because damn it, he knew you thought about him just as much as he thought about you.

“Look at me!” He took your face in his hands, lowering himself to your level, he who had always towered over you. Your hearts were beating too fast, too hard.

“Do I have to die to ease your pain?” His breath brushed against your lips. “Do you want me to perish so that it seems fairer to you?”

Suppressing a sob, you closed your eyes tightly, fiercely, to shield yourself from that mesmerizing gaze.

Rafe Cameron… that boy you had never truly had, the one whose feelings had never gone away. The one who had always been part of your life because John B and he were inseparable. The one through whom everything had been ruined.

“Are you going to hate me for the rest of your life?”

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