#stalker!rafe

your knees slip on the sheets, thighs quaking, but he doesn't let up. his other hand tangles in your hair, jerks your head back until your throat arches.

"look at you," he sneers, teeth scraping the shell of your ear "moaning for me like a little slut. couldn't wait to get filled up, huh? that's what you wanted all along"

you shake your head, a choked whimper falling from your lips, but the denial only makes him laugh. vibrating against your skin.

"don't lie to me now. you spread those legs, let me fuck you raw, and you wanna play innocent?" his hips slam forward harder, forcing a broken cry out of you. "nah, sweetheart. you're mine for tonight"

the words burn through you, a mix of humiliation and sexiness. his grip shifts from your hair to your throat, not really squeezing, just holding. forcing your head up so he can hear every sound you make

"say it," he growls, grinding into you deeper "say how good i feel inside you."

your lips part, but nothing comes out except a breathless sob. he pulls almost all the way out before slamming back in, making you jolt forward with the force

"say.it." he repeats, more demanding this time.

"y-you feel -" your voice cracks, tears spilling hot over your lashes. "so good. so fucking good, rafe"

his groan is low, feral, in his chest. "that's it. knew you'd come around. you love it, don't you? love being split open by my dick"

he bends you lower, presses your chest into the sheets while his body cages yours. his thrusts turn frantic, rough, every stroke dragging slick and wet.

the sound fills the room skin slapping, obscene and raw, your cries caught between pleasure and pain.

he leans down, mouth brushing your shoulder as he murmurs against your skin, "feel that? that's me ruining you. you're not gonna want anyone else after this. they'll never fuck you like i do. and that’s exactly what i want"

you bite the pillow, muffling a sob, but he yanks it away instantly

"don't hide from me." his fingers grip your jaw, tilting your face sideways until your cheek presses into the mattress. his eyes bore into you from above, so mean but so sooo hungry. "i wanna hear every sound you make. i wanna hear how much you fucking love this."

your body betrays you;clenching around him, slick spilling down your thighs, your mouth spilling his name in broken, desperate fragments.

"fuck, yeah," he snarls, thrusts growing rougher, reckless "that's my name. scream it. let everyone know who owns you."

and ou do.you can't help it. his name rips out of you as the pleasure increases, your body snapping tight, release crashing through you so violently it almost hurts.

"that's it, baby, milk my cock. take every fucking drop of me. juuust like that” he fucks you through it, his hips stuttering as he comes deep inside you with a groan, grinding into you until you're crying from overstimulation.

when he finally slows, after he made sure you took every single fucking drop of his cum, you collapse forward, cheek pressed to the sheets, shaking. he slips out, the mess between your thighs proof of everything you swore you'd never let happen.

later, after the shower you take too fast, after the clothes you tug back on with trembling hands, you're home again. alone

your room quiet. your bed is cold. and your body still aches with the memory of his hands, his voice, his weight pinning you down. and now you're back home after you fucked kildare's biggest player, feeling more empty than ever.

you curl under your blankets, phone facedown on the nightstand. the silence in your room is suffocating. you thought maybe this would fill something, take away the gnawing ache you’ve been carrying around, but instead it’s worse—like you traded a piece of yourself and got nothing in return.

you tell yourself it was a mistake. that you’ll never do it again. that it didn’t mean anything.

but across town, in the dim glow of his bedroom, rafe is pacing like a caged animal. he hasn’t showered. hasn’t even bothered to pull on a shirt. he’s still slick with sweat, his jeans half zipped, the evidence of what he did with you dried on his skin. his hand drags over his face, then through his hair, restless

“fuck,” he mutters under his breath, voice low and jagged. “you looked so pretty. bent over like that. couldn’t get enough.”

his laugh is hollow, sharp, not amused. he’s talking to the empty room, but in his head it’s you, listening “you don’t even get it, do you? all the times you walked right past me, pretending like i wasn’t watching. like i wasn’t already yours.” he grips the edge of his dresser, knuckles white. “but tonight—” he exhales hard, eyes squeezed shut, “—tonight proved it. you’re mine. you’ll fucking see.”

he paces again, restless energy bleeding out of him in jagged waves“doesn’t matter what you tell yourself,” he continues, voice sharpening. “you’ll sit in that little bed, thinking you can hate me, thinking you can forget me—but you can’t. no one’s gonna fuck you like i do. no one’s gonna touch you again without you thinking of me.”

he smirks at the thought, a sick, satisfied curl of his mouth

“yeah. that’s it. go ahead, cry about it. feel guilty. feel empty. i want you aching. i want you needing me.” he drags his tongue over his teeth, breathing heavy “because you’ll come back. they always do. but you—” his eyes blaze in the mirror, “you’re different. i’ll make sure you never fucking leave.”

he collapses onto the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, head bowed. his hands flex like he can still feel your body clenching around him, your voice breaking on his name.

“mine,” he whispers, almost reverent “always fucking mine.”

and while you lay awake, staring at the ceiling with regret burning a hole through your chest, you don’t know that rafe is already planning the next time he’ll have you, because he doesn’t believe there’s a world where you could ever really say no.

let’s go back a lil though… it didn’t start with sex. it didn’t start with drunken flirting at a party, or his body pressing you down, or the way he looked at you like he could eat you alive.

it started with coke.

last year—your final year of college—you found him in the back hallway of a frat house with a baggie in his hand, rolling a dollar bill tight between his fingers.

everyone knew him. the name carried weight on campus, just like it did back home on the island. money, football, the cameron reputation. girls lined up for a piece of him, even though half of them ended up crying about it later. guys either wanted to be him or to buy from him.

but you—you wanted nothing. you’d only ended up at the party because your friends dragged you. the music loud, the air smelled beer and sweat, and you were already two seconds from leaving when you turned down the wrong hallway and saw him.

he looked up, sharp blue eyes locking on yours. the smirk came instantly, like it was muscle memory “you want a line?” he asked, holding the bill up

you stared at him. at the coke. at his stupid smug face.

and then you laughed. not the kind of laugh girls usually gave him—not breathless or flirty, not a way to slide closer. this one was sharp and cruel “jesus christ,” you said, shaking your head. “you’re pathetic.”

his smirk faltered, just slightly but noticeable “what?”

“you heard me.” you stepped closer, pointing to the baggie “your daddy’s money isn’t enough? you’ve gotta ruin yourself on this shit too? god, you’re a fuck up.”

the words landed like blows. no hesitation, no sweetness. nobody ever talked to him like that, no one but ward.

rafe opened his mouth, closed it again, eyes narrowing. “you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“oh, i know exactly what i’m talking about.” you crossed your arms, tilting your head with a sneer “rich boy with nothing better to do but snort himself into oblivion. you’re a bitch, cameron. the kind of guy they make rehab brochures about.”

he should’ve walked away. he should’ve told you to fuck off, gone back to his coke, forgotten you existed. but he couldn’t.

your voice cut through him, merciless, slicing right through the armor he wore. no one else had ever dared. they coddled him, wanted him, envied him. but you—you humiliated him.

and something inside him lit up.

obsession doesn’t always start with love. sometimes it starts with hate. with the sting of someone seeing you, stripping you bare, and refusing to worship you like the rest.

he should’ve hated you for it. and maybe part of him did. but more than that—he wanted you.

after that night, he couldn’t get you out of his head. he saw you everywhere. walking across campus with your books hugged to your chest. laughing too loud with your friends. snapping at guys who tried to hit on you.

you never looked at him twice. never gave him the smirk or the giggle or the fuck me eyes he was used to. when you did look his way, it was always with that same sneer, that same dismissal.

“pathetic.”

“fuck up.”

“rehab case waiting to happen. again”

the names rolled off your tongue like you enjoyed cutting him down. and god help him, it only made him want you more. because under the insults, under the disdain, he saw something else

you saw him. not the money. not the football player. not the dealer. you stripped all that away and dug into the rot beneath. and instead of walking away in fear, you laughed in his face.

he replayed it over and over. the look in your eyes. the venom in your voice. the way you didn’t give a shit who he was

and somewhere along the way, it stopped stinging. it started feeding him.

he began to follow you without meaning to. at least, that’s what he told himself. walking back from class, he’d see you ahead and slow his pace to match. at the dining hall, he’d sit where he could watch you with your friends. at parties, he’d track you through the crowd without ever making himself known.

you were everywhere. and the more he saw, the more he learned.

you liked iced coffee, even in winter. you chewed the inside of your cheek when you were annoyed. you never stayed long at parties. you hated football. you had a sharp tongue for anyone who tried to get too close.

and when you laughed—really laughed, not the cruel one you saved for him—it was the most beautiful fucking sound he’d ever heard.

you became a map he wanted to memorize. every habit, every expression, every tiny detail. and with every piece he gathered, the obsession grew.

you, on the other hand, only got meaner. the rare times he tried to talk to you, you cut him down instantly.

“what, gonna offer me coke again? should i be flattered or insulted?”

“don’t you have some sorority girl to embarrass tonight?”

“seriously, cameron, get a grip. you’re embarrassing.”

each insult landed like a brand, burning into him. and he smiled through it, even when it gutted him. because it meant you were talking to him. because it meant you were thinking about him. because it meant you saw him.

he promised himself, one night when he was too wired to sleep, staring at the ceiling of his dark room with your voice echoing in his skull—he’d do anything to have you.

anything. he’d wait. he’d watch. he’d let you get all your venom out.

and when you were ready—when the world disappointed you, when the loneliness sank in, when you needed someone who understood the ugly parts—you’d realize it was him. it had always been him. he would make sure of it.

and so it began. the watching. the waiting. the need curling tighter inside him with every passing day. all because one night, you looked him in the eye and called him a pathetic fuck up.

and he decided you would be his. and so he started taking pictures of you.

at first, it was harmless—if you could call it that. blurry shots of you at parties, red cup in your hand, face hal lit by string lights. pictures of you in class, chin propped on your hand, scrawling notes while your friends whispered beside you. snapshots in the cafeteria, your expression pinched in annoyance when someone spilled a drink too close to your tray.

he told himself it wasn’t weird. it wasn’t stalking. he just wanted to remember. to hold you in his hands when you weren’t around.

but then it wasn’t enough. the pictures became constant. hundreds, maybe more, buried in hidden folders on his phone. he knew which routes you took across campus, which library tables you preferred, where you sat in lecture halls. his camera roll became a shrine.

and then came the hallway. it was late. the party was winding down, music muffled through the walls, the floor sticky with spilled beer. you slipped away, alone, cutting through the back corridor to avoid the crowd.

and he followed.

“jesus christ,” you groaned when you realized he was behind you, turning to face him with a roll of your eyes. “do you ever quit?”

he leaned against the wall, casual, smirk sharp in the dim light. “just making sure you get home safe.”

“yeah right.” your laugh “more like making sure i don’t forget you exist. newsflash, cameron—I wish i could.”

the words stung, but he soaked them in like gasoline. you stepped closer, finger jabbing into his chest. “you’re a fucking parasite, you know that? can’t stand on your own so you feed off everyone else. pathetic”

his chest rose and fell, heat crawling up his neck.

“what are you gonna do, huh?” you tilted your head, eyes glittering with disdain.“stand here and take it? thought you were supposed to be some big bad boy . but really, you’re just a pussy. hiding behind coke and daddy’s money. fuck up little boy.”

he said nothing. just stared at you, jaw tight, eyes dark.

you scoffed, shoving past him. “don’t follow me again. next time, i won’t be nice about it.”

and you didn’t see the phone in his hand, camera trained on you the entire time.

later that night, in his room with the door locked and his sheets tangled, he replayed the video over and over. the way your voice dripped with venom. the way you shoved him. the way you called him a pussy.

and when he wrapped his fist around dick, stroking hard and desperate, it wasn’t to the thought of you moaning or begging. it was to the sound of your voice spitting poison at him.

“pathetic.”

“fuck up.”

“pussy.”

he came undone with your insults echoing in the dark, spilling over his knuckles, chest heaving.

and when the aftershocks faded, he laughed—low, sharp, almost breathless. because you thought you’d cut him down. you thought you’d humiliated him.

but really? you’d just given him another piece of you to keep.

back to where we were… while rafe was having his little joe from you moment at tannyhill—pacing in the dark, whispering your name like a prayer and a curse—you were sprawled in your bed with a smug curl to your lips.

not because you got kildare’s player to fuck you. no, girls did that all the time. he was a walking bitch, known for ruining lives and leaving bodies in his wake.

but because he begged, you could still see it if you closed your eyes: rafe cameron, the boy every girl wanted, the boy who thought he ruled every room he walked into, down on his knees in front of you

“please,” he rasped, head bowed between your thighs, voice wrecked with desperation. “just let me—fuck, let me have you.”

he’d mouthed at your skin like he was starving, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, staring up at you with those insane blue eyes as if you were the only thing he’d ever wanted.

yes, he was hung—biggest dick you’d ever taken, thick and heavy, making you split wide around him. yes, he was mean when he finally got inside, fucking you raw and messy, spitting cruel words against your ear until you cried.

but he begged first. that was the part that made your chest feel hot, made your lips twitch with pride even now.

rafe cameron, kildare’s biggest player, got on his knees for you. and even though he made you beg afterward—snarling at you to say his name, to say how good he felt—you still had that little victory lodged in your chest like a secret gem.

he begged.

across town, rafe sat at the edge of his bed, replaying it in his head too—but not the same way you were.

to him, it wasn’t begging. it wasn’t humiliation. it was devotion

“you think you won tonight,” he muttered under his breath, running a shaky hand through his hair. “think you got the upper hand ‘cause i dropped to my knees. nah. nah, that was me proving myself. showing you i’ll do anything. anything for you.”

his voice cracked as he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like he could see your silhouette burned there.

“you don’t get it yet, but you will. you’ll look back and realize you never had someone want you like this. no one else would crawl just to taste you. no one else would beg just to feel you clench around them.”

his hand flexed against his thigh, restless “and i’ll make you beg again. over and over. till you’re the one on your knees.”

you curled tighter into your sheets, smugness slowly fading into something duller, heavier. you tried to remind yourself of that little moment of power, tried to let it soothe the ache of emptiness left behind.

but the truth was still gnawing at you, unshakable. you let rafe cameron inside you.

and you weren’t sure if you hated yourself more for the fact that he begged or for the fact that you liked it.

not only that you let him in you—he came in you. you can still feel it if you let yourself think too long. the hot flood of him spilling deep, his hips grinding down like he wanted to make sure it stuck. the way your body clenched around him, helpless, as if you were made to hold it.

yes, you got a plan b right after. you didn’t even wait until morning—just pulled yourself together enough to slip out, drive across town, grab the little box and swallow it dry in the drugstore parking lot with shaking hands.

but still. some of his kids were inside you.

you laid in bed afterward, staring at the ceiling like it might peel open and crush you, stomach twisting with shame. your body knew him now, your walls still sore from the stretch, your thighs sticky no matter how many times you showered. and you hated yourself for remembering how it felt.

across town, rafe sat in the dark, grinning like he’d already won“fuck, you looked so good,” he muttered, running a hand over his face, replaying it again and again. “all mine. filled you up ‘til you couldn’t take anymore.”

he leaned back against the headboard, eyes half idded, chest rising and falling slow with satisfaction.

“doesn’t matter what you do now. pill, shower, whatever—you can’t wash me out. i’m in you.”

his fingers tapped against his thigh, restless, giddy “you don’t even get it yet, do you? that was me claiming you. that was me making sure you’ll never forget me. every time you lay down, you’re gonna feel it—you’re gonna remember i came inside you, raw, like you were already mine.”

he laughed under his breath, low and dark “yeah, sweetheart. you think you’re in control, think you’re proud ‘cause i begged. but that was strategy. that was me getting exactly what i wanted. and now?” he shook his head, smirk sharp as a blade. “now i’ve got you. doesn’t matter how much you fight me. i’m in you already. i’ll always be in you”

you’re slumped across your bed with your phone in your hand, hair sticking up in a messy halo, half of last night’s sweat still clinging to your skin. you can’t stop replaying it—the begging, the rawness, the way he came inside you—and it makes your stomach twist.

so you call your friend. because you need someone to hear you, someone to acknowledge that yes, you actually fucked rafe cameron and yes, you’re slowly hating yourself for it.

“oh my god,” you whisper as soon as she picks up, voice low and incredulous. “i… i did it. i fucked rafe cameron.”

there’s a pause on the other end. you can practically hear her blinking through the phone

“wait—what?” she finally says. “what the fuck are you talking about?”

“he’s… he’s kildare’s biggest player. he’s mean. he’s—he’s everything i said i’d never let myself do. and somehow,” you groan, face pressed into your pillow, “somehow i let him fuck me. and not just like, quickies. he… he begged, okay? on his knees. begged me. like a little fuckin’ puppy, and i…” your voice cracks a little. “he made me beg more after that to put it in. i can’t even—”

“oh my god,” she gasps. “you… you actually let him? inside?”

“yeah,” you mutter, curling tighter under the sheets. “and yes, i got plan b immediately. but still. some of him is still… there. god, i’m disgusting. i feel disgusting.”

her laugh is nervous, a little sharp. “well… okay. so. you’re alive? you didn’t die? i mean, shit, at least you’re safe. mostly.”

“safe?” you scoff. “i fucked rafe cameron. i let him come inside me. and i don’t even know why. i’m… i’m proud? no, that’s not right. maybe proud? i mean, not proud. it’s fucked up. completely fucked up.”

“girl, he begged?” her voice cracks with disbelief. “he—he begged? what the actual fuck? you made him beg?”

“yeah,” you admit, hiding your face in your pillow. “i… i don’t know why. i just… i guess it’s some tiny victory. like, he begged. he’s supposed to be untouchable. and he begged. and i made him beg. but now… now i feel like shit. my stomach is twisting. my head is spinning. i think i need another shower. maybe ten showers.”

her sigh is sympathetic but laced with amusement. “well. congratulations? you officially broke rafe cameron. or… he’s broken you. i can’t even tell anymore. you’re fucked, literally and figuratively.”

you groan, tossing your phone on the bed. “i hate myself. i love myself. i can’t stop thinking about it. and he was mean. so mean. god, the things he said. but he begged. and that’s what’s… what’s fucked up. the begging. the pleading.”

there’s a pause on the line, then she laughs. soft, incredulous. “wow. you’re-wow. but also… kinda legendary. just saying.”

you roll over, staring at the ceiling, the memory of his hands, his voice, and that desperate pleading burning into your chest

“legendary?” you whisper to yourself. “more like… completely ruined.”

and as you sink back into your sheets, phone still warm in your hand, you have no idea that somewhere across town, rafe is replaying last night in his head. the begging. the way you let him inside you. your every expression, every word, etched into him.

you groan into the pillow, rubbing your eyes like maybe you can erase the memory of last night. “ugh, i hated him. i… i always hated him. every time he opened his mouth i just wanted to smack him. he’s arrogant, obnoxious, and such a fuckin’ know it all. the way he looks at everyone like they’re beneath him? yeah, i hated that. every second.”

your friend laughs “oh, honey… you hated him? maybe in public. but come on, everyone knows it. he was a dog for you anyway. the way he’s always chasing you, looking at you, the way he likes it when you’re mean… he doesn’t give a shit about anyone else. not really.”

you sit up, hair falling over your face, frowning. “a dog? are you serious?”

“i’m dead serious,” she says, voice low but teasing. “he’s obsessed. and you… you act like you hate him. call him a fuck up, a pussy, mean as hell. and he just… takes it. soaks it in. loves it. like it proves he’s the only one for you. everybody knows it, okay? everybody. but you—you’re too busy thinking you’re in control to notice.”

you bite your lip, staring at the ceiling, trying to argue with her, but the truth stings. the way you pushed him down, laughed at him, called him names… and yet, last night, he begged. not because he was a loser or desperate—because he wanted you.

“so… what you’re saying,” you mutter slowly, voice heavy, “is that even when i treated him like shit… he liked me? or, like…waited to be mine?”

“exactly,” she says, smirking. “he’s always waiting. and you—oh, sweetheart—you don’t even realize how much power you have over him. that’s why he begged last night. begged. because even when you’re mean, you’re… irresistible. and yeah, he’s a fuckin’ dog for you. but, honestly? that’s exactly how you like it”

you bury your face in the pillow again, groaning “god. this is… fucked up. i hate him. i hate that he’s… like this. i hate myself. i hate everything.”

your friend sighs, laughing softly. “welcome to the rafe cameron effect. he’s messy. you’re messy. it’s gonna be fun. or hell. probably both. either way, i like it”

you roll over, hugging the pillow to your chest, a strange mix of dread and reluctant pride swirling in your stomach.

and meanwhile, while you were stretched across your bed, phone balanced on your ear, letting your friend ramble about campus gossip—who hooked up with who at last weekend’s party who got kicked out of the dorms for dealing weed, which professor got caught sleeping with a grad student…you were almost convincing yourself that last night didn’t matter.

almost. you laughed at the right parts, hummed along, pretending you weren’t hollow inside, pretending rafe cameron wasn’t sitting like a ghost at the back of your mind.

because as far as you were concerned, he was forgotten. shoved into the box labeled bad decisions, do not open.

but across the island, rafe wasn’t forgetting a damn thing. he was sprawled on kelce’s couch, legs stretched out, beer in hand, eyes gleaming like he’d just won the lottery.

topper was leaned forward in the armchair, jaw dropped, while kelce had his head tipped back, laughing so loud it rattled the walls.

“no fucking way,” kelce choked out between wheezes. “you’re telling me—you actually hit it? her? after she swore she’d never let you touch her? bro, that’s, fuck, that’s insane”

topper grinned wide, shaking his head “man, you’re a sick fuck. all those times she called you a pussy, a waste of space, said you were pathetic—and you still pulled it off? damn.”

rafe smirked, tongue pushing into his cheek, playing it cool even though pride thrummed through his veins “told you. she wanted it. she just didn’t know yet.”

kelce whistled low, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe it “nah, man, that’s wild. she’s like… untouchable. always acting like she’s too good for you, too good for all of us. and you—” he laughed again, sharp and gross. “you broke her down. had her begging, huh?”

rafe’s smirk deepened. “yup, begging.”

“fuckkk,” topper drawled, eyes wide. “no one’s ever gonna believe it. she hated your ass, bro. like—hated. and now? you got her? shit. you’re a legend.”

rafe just leaned back, sipping his beer, hiding the manic glint in his eyes. because for him, it wasn’t just about fucking you. it was about owning you. proving you belonged to him, no matter what you said, no matter how mean you got.

and while topper and kelce laughed and barked their gross little praises, he just kept picturing you—messy hair, ruined lips, skin burning under his hands.

they thought it was a win. a notch. a story to brag about but to rafe, it was just the beginning.

you were half listening as your friend rambled on about some frat fight that broke out at the bar last night when suddenly she dropped it casually, like it wasn’t a bomb about to go off

“you know what would be so funny?” she giggled. “if you pranked him. like—went over to his place, got him all worked up again, made him beg like last night… but you record it this time. expose him to his tough guy friends. you know they’d eat that shit up. the big bad cameron, on his knees, whining for you.”

you froze, the idea slicing through you “what?” you asked slowly, though your lips already curled into a smile

“think about it,” she pressed. “everyone sees him as kildare’s cockiest player, right? this dude who doesn’t care, who can get any girl. but you could ruin that. you could show them he’s just your little bitch. i mean… it’s perfect.”

your laugh burst out sharp, wicked. “holy shit. that is perfect”

you sat up in bed, pulling the covers tight around you as the plan blossomed in your head. the thought of rafe—knees on the floor, voice cracking, eyes desperate—while you held a phone just out of sight? exposing him to topper, kelce, the whole fucking island?

god, it made you giddy.

“imagine their faces,” you whispered, grin stretching wider. “when they see him begging. when they realize he’s nothing but a pathetic little dog for me. oh my god, i could end him”

your friend laughed along with you, egging it on. “exactly! he’d never live it down. he’d be a joke. your joke. and honestly? after everything he’s put you through, all the shit he talks? he deserves it.”

you bit your lip, already running through the details. you knew where he lived, obviously—tannyhill. you could show up unannounced, bat your lashes, let him think you were there for another round… then flip it on him.

make him beg. make him crumble. and make sure the whole world saw it

“oh, i’m gonna do it,” you whispered, breathless with the thrill. “i’m gonna fucking do it.”

you didn’t know, couldn’t know, that while you plotted revenge in the safety of your room, rafe was still sprawled on kelce’s couch, drunk on the memory of you, swearing to himself he’d never let you slip away now.

because while you thought you were about to ruin him…he was already planning how to own you completely

so that’s how you ended up here.

you weren’t even sure how the fuck you pulled it off, but you were standing inside tannyhill, the infamous cameron mansion, shoes clicking against the polished floor.

rose, rafe’s stepmom,barely looked at you twice when you mentioned sarah’s name at the door, just gave one of her distracted smiles, muttered something about “she’s probably out,” and let you in

your pulse hammered with every step deeper into the house. the plan replayed in your head on loop: get into his room, charm him when he comes home, get him on his knees again, phone hidden and recording. the moment he begged, the moment his voice cracked, you’d own him forever.

the grand staircase felt too heavy under your feet as you climbed, like the house itself knew you didn’t belong. but when you found his door, slightly cracked, dark inside… it almost felt too easy.

inside smelled like him—cologne, faint gasoline from his constant boat tinkering. your chest tightened, but you pushed it down.

focus.

you pulled your phone from your back pocket, scanning the room for the perfect angle to hide it. dresser? nightstand? maybe the bookshelf?

you moved to the dresser first, yanking the top drawer open to check if it could hold your phone.

you froze. inside, scattered in uneven stacks, were pictures.

of you. printed, glossy, some clearly zoomed in from far away, som disturbingly close. your breath caught as your hand hovered over them, flipping through the pile with trembling fingers

you at a party, red cup in hand, laughing with your friends. you walking across campus, head tipped back, sunglasses on

you asleep in the grass behind the library, earbuds still tangled around you.

you at the beach in a bikini, sand stuck to your thighs.

your stomach flipped. each photo was more invasive than the last.

“what the fuck…” you whispered, heart thundering

the phone slipped from your hand, forgotten for a moment, as your eyes darted to his desk. laptop open, screen dark. like it was waiting

your legs moved before your brain could catch up. you sat, fingers hesitant, then pressed the spacebar.

the screen lit up—no password, no barrier. just folders.

and your name was on them. you clicked.

videos. shaky at first, then steady. clips of you in hallways, in classrooms, at parties. the audio clicked on, and you heard your own voice

“you’re pathetic, cameron.”

“pussy. god, you’re such a fucking waste.”

“you’re a joke, rafe. everyone knows it.”

your laugh rang out in one, cruel and taunting, and you watched yourself shove past him in a crowded corridor, his camera catching every second.

your throat went dry as you scrolled, heart in your stomach.

he kept everything. the way you mocked him, belittled him, cut him down. he’d catalogued it, treasured it. and not just videos—notes. word files. your schedule, what you wore, the times you left your dorm, who you were with

every second of your life was documented here. you pressed a hand to your mouth, bile threatening to rise.

the prank, the plan—you weren’t in control. you never were.

because rafe cameron wasn’t just cocky, wasn’t just obsessed with proving himself.

he was watching and you had just walked right into his nest.

your throat felt raw, your palms slipping against the edge of his desk. every instinct in your body screamed get the fuck out now before he comes home.

but you didn’t move, because under the shock, under the disgust, there was a curl of something sick.

he kept all of it.

every insult, every laugh, every time you called him pathetic. like it mattered. like it was worth remembering. like you were worth remembering.

you clicked another video—hallway, sophomore wing. you remembered it instantly. he’d been standing there, back against the lockers, eyes burning holes into your skin like he couldn’t help himself. and you snapped

“what do you want now, bitch?” your voice cut sharp through the laptop speakers. “what? you just gonna stare? can’t even talk to me? pathetic.”

the screen shook when you shoved past him, but he hadn’t stopped filming.

you bit your lip, eyes glued to the image, heat crawling low in your belly in a way that made no sense

because you realized it now, sitting in his room with stacks of your pictures in one hand and a record of your cruelty glowing on his laptop: rafe cameron wasn’t above you. he wasn’t this untouchable, cocky player.

he was yours. your little bitch.

the thought pulsed in your skull, heavy and intoxicating. he’d been building shrines to you while you ripped him apart. hoarding your voice, your face, your body like it gave him life.

and some sick part of you loved it. because what did that make you?

the one in control. the one who had him by the throat without even trying.

you leaned back in his chair, smirking at the frozen frame of your sneer on his screen

“pathetic,” you whispered again, softer this time, almost fond.

the front door slammed somewhere downstairs—loud, careless, rafe’s signature. you barely flinched, still sprawled in his desk chair, your eyes on the screen where your face sneered back at you from a frozen video frame

footsteps. heavy, uneven, up the stairs. your pulse picked up, but you didn’t move. not even when his door swung open.

rafe filled the doorway, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, jaw tight from whatever bullshit he’d been doing. and then his eyes landed on you

he stopped dead. the bag slid right off his arm, hitting the hardwood with a dull thud.

for a second, he didn’t breathe. didn’t move.

his gaze darted from you in his chair… to the open drawer, photos spilled like blood… to the laptop screen, where your voice echoed faintly, calling him pathetic.

“fuck.” his voice cracked low, raw, almost panicked.

you smirked, leaning back in his chair like you owned it, twirling one of the glossy pictures between your fingers

“wow, cameron,” you drawled. “you’ve been busy.”

his chest rose and fell hard, like he’d just been sprinting. color drained from his face and then came flooding back, blotchy and red

“you” his voice broke, throat clicking. “you weren’t supposed to—”

“see this?” you finished for him, tilting your head, letting the picture dangle tauntingly. “see the little shrine you built for me?”

his hand twitched at his side, jaw flexing so tight you thought it might crack

you stood slowly, closing the space between you and the desk, your eyes never leaving his. you wanted him to squirm. to panic. to break

“tell me, rafe,” you purred, waving the photo just out of reach, “did you get off to this one? or was it the videos that really did it for you?”

he swallowed so hard you could see it in his throat, hands clenching into fists like he didn’t know whether to grab you or fall to his knees

his lips parted, desperate, but no words came out, for the first time since you’d known him, rafe cameron looked… small.

you waved another picture at him, your smirk sharp enough to cut. “come on, rafe. don’t be shy now. you’ve been jerking off to me in secret for months, right? pathetic little—”

you didn’t get to finish. he was on you in a blink, the air knocked out of your chest as your back slammed against the wall. one of his hands pinned your wrist above your head, the other wrapped around your throat—hot, big, squeezing just enough to make your pulse stutter

your eyes went wide. his were darker than you’d ever seen, blue nearly swallowed whole

“watch your fucking mouth,” he growled, voice low and wrecked, nose brushing yours. “you think you can come into my room, go through my shit, and talk to me like that?”

his grip tightened a fraction, just enough to remind you who was stronger, who had you trapped against the wall with no escape. your breath came shallow, heat rolling through your body even as your brain screamed at you to be afraid.

“you don’t get it, do you?” he hissed, leaning closer, chest pressing hard against yours. “you’ve been in my head every second. every fucking second. you think those pictures are pathetic? those videos?”

he let out a harsh laugh, teeth bared. “that’s me keeping you close when you’d rather spit on me than look at me”

you squirmed under his hold, but it only made his fingers press firmer into your throat, sending another dizzy rush through you.

“you think i’m your little bitch?” he snarled, his lips ghosting your jaw now, hot and furious. “nah, you’re mine. always were. you just didn’t wanna admit it.”

his hips pressed forward then, sudden, pinning you harder against the wall so you could feel how hard he was.

your breath caught, and he smirked “see?” his voice dropped to a whisper, rough and sinful in your ear. “your body already knows who owns you”

his fingers flexed around your throat, not enough to cut you off completely, just enough to remind you that your pulse was under his control.

his body caged you in, every line of him pressed hot and unrelenting against yours

“say it,” he murmured, his mouth dragging down the side of your face, teeth grazing your jaw. “say i’m not pathetic. say i’m not your fucking bitch.”

your chest heaved, breath shallow and ragged, your mind a mess of panic and something hotter, darker, shameful

your lips parted, the fight trembling on your tongue—until it wasn’t fight anymore.

“…fuck” you gasped, the word breaking out of you like you’d been holding it in too long.

rafe’s grip pulsed at your throat, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

you swallowed hard, voice cracking, breathy and desperate“you fucking win, rafe.”

his smirk deepened, victory gleaming in his eyes.

and before he could drag it out of you any more, your knees buckled. you sank down in front of him, palms sliding up the denim of his thighs, looking up at him with your throat still raw from his hand

his chest rose, sharp and hungry, as he stared down at you kneeling there—obedient, finally “that’s more like it,” he whispered

masterlist ✵ req rules

tags @rafesbabygirl @rafesteddy @prettytheyswag @rgrimes @whosyourmommy69 @abireichstein @silkylovey @macbaetwo @t0x1cfaerie @imliterallysocoolfr @qversazex @sydneysslove @bebebambs @loverliner @beabogsims @dsfault @rosetintmworld @daddyrafeslittleslut @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @drewsephrry @maybejj @memoirofasparklemuff1n to get tagged

cherrywriterrr’s ©️ please do not copy, repost, steal, or translate any of my writing. failure to respect this will result in an immediate trip to blocksville

it’s raining hard for an early evening in may, and rafe has been sat in his car for over an hour now. the windows have begun to steam up, so much so that he keeps having to wipe the condensation away to make sure that he can properly seen across the street to make sure you get home safe. you were supposed to arrive home an hour ago, as you do every day. he’s worried that something has happened to you. his leg bounces impatiently, rocking the car with it, as his eyes scan the parking lot. your audi still hasn’t parked in its usual spot (about ten feet from the front doors, if he remembers correctly).

a few more minutes pass, and rafe can’t handle not knowing where you are anymore. he grabs his phone and first opens instagram to see if you’ve added to your story or posted or even shared your location. nothing. next, he checks twitter. still nothing. his grip around is phone tightens, his knuckles whitening his skin and his jaw clenching as his stomach tightens uncomfortably. where the fuck are you?

he debates going inside and asking your neighbours whether or not they’ve heard anything, whether you’ve told them anything. the risk of you finding out a guy you don’t know is asking after your location puts him off, though. against his better judgement, he unlocks his car and pushes the door open, the rain falling in heavy sheets across his face. he knows he shouldn’t, but he can’t not know. just as he’s about to make a beeline for the building’s front doors, a familiar car pulls into the parking lot and into its designated spot. he feels his shoulders relax in relief, but quickly remembers himself and slides back into his car.

he watches through hooded eyes as you get out of your car and retrieve your bags from the backseat, your hair pushed up out of your face and your cheeks flushed. he wonders whether something happened at work today. there’s a bounce in your step that’s not usually there, and your mouth is pulled up into a less-than-casual smile. jealously curls low and relentless in rafe’s chest; what if you’ve met someone?

he tries not to dwell on that thought for very long in favour of staring unabashedly at your ass as you walk into the apartment building, fingers absentmindedly playing with his bottom lip. he watches through the window as you step into the elevator, his leg finally stilling once the doors shut behind you. at least now he knows that you’re safe. but what if you really have met somebody? the thought makes him feel sick.

the idea of it seems to churn around in his mind, worsening the longer he sits there not doing anything, and after a few more minutes, he can’t stand the volume of it anymore. it’s a rash decision, a stupid one, but that certainly doesn’t stop him. he gets out of his car and starts after you, his pace controlled and stiff to try and appear normal. he feels anything but right now.

he takes the stairs, not wanting to use the elevator in case he runs into someone or even bumps into you. he knows not many people use the stairs here, anyway. when he’s actually stood in front of your door, he hesitates — he’s never been in your apartment while you’re there, too. he’s always thought it to be too risky. he knows he can’t stop himself, though.

he fishes the copy of your key that he’d made from the spare one you used to leave under the doormat from his pocket. that was until your neighbour warned you of the dangers of doing something so foolish. you’d told her that you’re forgetful, and often misplace your keys, to which she’d suggested keeping one for you, just in case. rafe had heard the whole conversation whilst sat in the stairwell and had silently cursed the old pensioner for being so smart. not that it mattered anyway, he’d had his own copy for a month before that already.

slowly, he inserts the key and unlocks the door, holding his breath as he does so. as carefully as he can manage, he pushes open the door a little and peeks inside to make sure that you’re not anywhere near it. thankfully, the hallway is empty and the only sound he can hear is from the tv playing in the living room. he slips inside, still holding his breath as if that will help him stay hidden, glancing around to try and figure out where you are.

that’s when he sees it. your bedroom door is slightly ajar, the lights are dimmed and your pants lay discarded in front of it. he swears he almost looses his mind then and there. making sure to avoid the creaky wooden floorboards that he has mapped out in his mind, he steps over to your bedroom, hiding behind the wall beside it and daring to sneak a glance through the gap.

you’re lay back on your bed like some sort of goddess, your panties thrown at the foot of the bed and your fingers buried between your spread legs. your other hand is covering your mouth to muffle any sounds that you make and he can just make out the furrow of your eyebrows. you look beautiful. he stands there, entranced for a moment, simply taking in the sight of you as you pleasure yourself. he allows himself to wonder what it’d be like if that were his hand, if you let him touch you like that.

he doesn’t even realise that he is palming himself through his jeans, too focused on not missing a single thing you do to care much what he himself is doing. he burns the image into his memory, half tempted to pull out his phone and snap a picture for later. he resists in favour of gingerly unzipping his fly and wrapping his hand around his cock. he’s already leaking precum, and he uses it as a lube to spread around his tip before giving himself an experimental stroke.

the pleasure runs through him like a bolt of electricity, from the tips of his toes to his head, and he can barely suppress the sound of satisfaction that threatens to pass through his lips. your legs shake and your hips grind up against your fingers, the sounds coming from where you lay sounding like music to his ears. rafe uses his free hand to hold himself up against the wall as his knees begin to buckle, his mind full of nothing but you.

he can feel himself getting close already, the way his balls tighten and his cock twitches being sure signs, but he can tell you’re not, so he removes his hand and forces himself to wait. he wants to fall over the edge with you. the hand on your mouth drops down to rub tight circles over your clit, and he mirrors your movements against his tip, the slight bit of stimulation causing his eyes to roll back. he quickly regains his focus, though, fixing back on the way your pussy squelches lewdly with every plunge of your fingers.

when your arm shoots out beside you to grip frantically at the bedsheets, trying to ground yourself, he returns his grip on his dick and pumps along with your rhythm, feeling himself begin to tilt over the edge. and when you moan without shame or reservation, your hips bucking one last time and your back arching up off your bed, he comes right along with you, his jaw slackened and his shoulders slumped forward against the wall.

you sigh and relax into the blankets beneath you, satisfied with yourself, whilst he is trying to regain his breath as quietly as possible, his body still shaking. “shit.” he curses beneath his breath, stuffing himself back into his pants and quickly slipping back over to the front door. the thrill of having been in your apartment at the same time as you, and watching you get yourself off in the private of your bedroom, is addicting, and he feels a little disappointed that he is leaving.

he remembers to lock the door behind him, returning the key back into his pocket and walking unsteadily over to the stairwell, taking them two at a time to get to the parking lot as quickly as possible. he sucks in a breath of the cold fresh air once he’s outside, getting back into his car and starting the engine. he can’t help but smile smugly to himself as he drives out onto the main road, fingers tapping along to the music playing from the radio. you’re his, whether you know it yet or not.

🏷️ ⦂ @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @livstarzz @camerxnlove

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──---

Rafe

Rafe nursed the last inch of his drink like he wasn’t really drinking it, just holding the plastic cup in his hand so he didn’t look like the asshole standing around sober at his own party. The bass rattled through the floors, the air humid with beer breath and perfume, but all of that blurred into background noise because his eyes hadn’t left you in the last twenty minutes. You were a little too far gone tonight, he could tell, the kind of tipsy that looked foreign on you—like someone had slipped into your skin and decided to move your body differently. Normally you hugged the edges of the room, a drink in hand, dodging the spotlight with sharp remarks when people tried to pull you in. But tonight you were dancing. Actually dancing. Loose, swaying, hair sticking to the side of your cheek in the haze of it. Laughing when Taylor spun you around.

And it got under his skin in a way he wasn’t proud of. Because it wasn’t him making you laugh like that, wasn’t him spinning you, wasn’t him with his hands at your waist. He hated the idea that someone else could peel back that quiet armor of yours and coax out something so easy. That was supposed to be his. Or maybe it already was, and you just hadn’t realized it yet. His fingers tightened around the rim of his cup until the cheap plastic gave a little under the pressure.

You weren’t like yourself, and it bothered him because it made him realize he’d memorized you enough to know the difference. The way you smiled now was sloppier, the way you moved was uncalculated, and he kept thinking about how if he wanted to, he could walk right over there, lean down to your ear, and remind you of the seven minutes you swore you both weren’t going to talk about again. He could ruin the fragile little boundary you tried to build back up in the daylight with one sentence.

“Keep staring, people are gonna think you’re in love,” Kelce slurred as he passed by, already drunk off his face, but Rafe didn’t look away. His jaw ticked, eyes still glued to the way you let your head fall back, unbothered, glowing under the string lights. You looked free, and that was dangerous. Because Rafe Cameron hated the thought of you feeling free anywhere except in the cage he was already building for you in his head.

But it wasn’t just the way you managed to slip out of your own skin and become someone completely different, someone Rafe felt himself melting under even while stone-cold sober—it was the way you seemed to keep glancing in his direction, like some invisible thread tied you back to him no matter how far you drifted into the crowd. And instead of your usual tension, the tightness that lived in your shoulders whenever his gaze lingered too long, instead of the annoyed roll of your eyes you usually weaponized against him, your face carried something foreign tonight.

Just like everything else about you tonight. Your eyes kept finding his across the room, and each time they did, something in him stalled, caught off guard. Because you weren’t glaring. You weren’t guarded. You weren’t even pretending he wasn’t there. No—you looked at him like you had a secret, lips quirking up, that half-smirk twitching as if you knew something he didn’t, and for the first time in a long time Rafe Cameron didn’t feel like he was the one holding the cards.

It threw him. He was used to being the one with the advantage, used to watching people squirm under his attention, used to knowing exactly how to pull the strings and get the reaction he wanted. But you—tipsy, loose, glowing under the string lights with your hair sticking to your cheek and your body swaying out of time with the bass—made him feel like he was the one being toyed with. Like maybe you knew exactly what you were doing when you let your gaze slide over him and linger just long enough to suggest something heavier, something meant to be read between the lines. Flirty, even. That was the part that unsettled him most. Because Rafe knew the look of flirtation, of a bedroom glance, of lips curling with promise, and you had never given it to him before. Not even in that damn closet when you had practically kissed the oxygen out of his lungs. Back then, it was tension and desperation and denial all tangled up in seven minutes. But this—this was something else. This was you choosing to look at him that way. Choosing to feed the gnawing fire already eating away at his insides.

And God, it pissed him off how badly he wanted to know if you’d still look at him like that when he was close enough to feel the warmth of your breath. His grip on the cup flexed again, knuckles pale in the strobe light, and he wondered if he was imagining it, if you were just tipsy and careless, not deliberate. But then you caught his stare again, lips curving with that same maddening little smirk, and he knew you weren’t stumbling into this by accident. You were doing it on purpose. And for Rafe, that was worse than any slap across the face—you were playing him, and he was letting you.

You must have realized he was unraveling under your eyes, because after a few beats of that charged staring game across the room, you started weaving your way through the crowd toward him. Rafe didn’t even notice he was holding his breath until you were close enough for him to catch the faint trace of alcohol and perfume clinging to your skin. And then you were right there, tilting your head up at him with that same soft, foreign smile that had been tormenting him all night.

Before he could say a word, your arms slid lazily around his neck, fingers lacing at the nape like you’d done it a hundred times before, like it wasn’t the most disarming thing you could have done to him in that moment. You swayed into him, chest brushing his with every small shift, your weight leaning on him as though you had decided he was the safest anchor in the room. For a second, his hands hung stiff at his sides, useless, because this wasn’t how things worked between you. You didn’t close space like this. You didn’t get soft with him in public. You didn’t turn your pretend act into something that made his throat tighten.

“What’s this?” he muttered finally, low enough that only you could hear over the thrum of the bass, his breath grazing the shell of your ear. “You’re acting different tonight.” His words weren’t sharp, weren’t the usual teasing laced with arrogance. There was a weight to them, a kind of hesitation that almost sounded like worry, like he was afraid of the answer.

You just hummed in response, swaying against him like you hadn’t heard the crack in his voice. Your cheek brushed his jaw as you tilted your face toward him, eyes still sparkling in that way that made him feel like he was being dared to break. “We’re supposed to look convincing, aren’t we?” you said softly, your lips brushing close enough to his ear that goosebumps chased down his arms. “Boyfriend, girlfriend. Isn’t this what they expect?”

Rafe swallowed hard, jaw working, but his hands finally found your waist, sliding over your sides with a carefulness that betrayed him. “You’re drunk,” he said, more to himself than to you, though the words vibrated against your temple. “I don’t want you to…” He trailed off, frustrated, because for once he couldn’t finish the thought. Didn’t want you to what? Touch him like this? Look at him like that? Pretend in a way that was starting to feel too damn real?

"You don’t want me to have fun?" you asked again, your voice soft but edged with something teasing, almost taunting, as you swayed lazily in the cage of his arms. If Rafe was gonna be honest, he never thought this was your idea of fun. He always figured it was textbooks, thrift finds, maybe the occasional coffee run when you wanted to splurge. Not getting drunk off cheap vodka in a frat house, not grinding against him with your lips curved like you knew exactly what you were doing to him. And certainly not flirting—at least not like this, not without the usual armor of a well-timed scoff and a roll of your eyes to make it sting.

But nothing about you tonight was smooth. Nothing about you tonight was the carefully controlled version of yourself he thought he had pinned down. Your flirting was sloppy, but it was also startlingly effective, because it didn’t sound rehearsed or half-shielded—it sounded like heat, like the real you was leaking through and making him dizzy. And now you were tilting your head back, smiling like you were two minutes away from tugging him toward the stairs, toward some disgusting upstairs bathroom where you’d make him lose every scrap of restraint he’d tried to build since that night in the closet.

Rafe swallowed, his fingers tightening against your waist without even meaning to, pulling you closer so your words ghosted against his lips. “This doesn’t look like your kind of fun,” he muttered, voice low, threaded with tension that only you could hear under the music. His eyes searched yours in the dim, flickering light, looking for a tell, a crack in the performance. “You don’t even like being here. Half the time you look like you’d rather choke on your own tongue than pretend we’re a thing.”

You tilted your head slightly, lashes fluttering, giving him that same uncharacteristic little grin that knocked him clean off balance. “Maybe I’m just good at adapting,” you murmured, breath warm against his cheek. “Or maybe…” your fingers brushed against the hair at his nape, slow and deliberate, “…maybe I’ve decided it isn’t that hard to pretend with you.”

He huffed, a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh but wasn’t far from one, either, though the sharp edge of it betrayed him. “You’re drunk,” he said again, almost as if he needed to hear it aloud, as if it excused the way your body fit against his or the way his chest ached under the thought of you meaning it.

“And you’re tense,” you countered easily, swaying against him again, your lips curving into that same foreign smile that made him want to curse out loud. “Relax, boyfriend. Everyone’s watching. Don’t tell me you’re suddenly shy.”

Suddenly shy was an understatement of what was twisting and turning in Rafe’s head since the second you’d started acting different. You’d begun the night like you always did—predictable, sharp around the edges, keeping him at arm’s length while trading quiet remarks with Taylor and flashing him those faint scowls like it was your love language. Safe. Manageable. He knew how to deal with that version of you, the one who seemed allergic to the idea of even standing near him for too long.

But somewhere between your fourth drink and whatever Taylor had whispered in your ear, something shifted. Suddenly you weren’t cold or distant, you were all warmth and fire, looking at him like you’d plucked him out of a lineup and decided he was worth every ounce of your focus. It wasn’t subtle, either—the heated glances, the way your lips quirked like you had a secret, the reckless sway of your body as if you wanted him to notice how uncharacteristically alive you looked tonight.

Rafe’s brain was a storm of contradictions, his instincts split down the middle—half of him clinging to the fact that you were drunk, and the other half burning under the sheer weight of your attention. He wanted to tell you to quit, to dial it back, but then you leaned in close, brushing your lips against the shell of his ear like you were letting him in on something just for him. “Why are you looking at me like that, Cameron?” you teased, voice lower, heavier, your words slipping right under his skin. “You’re supposed to be my boyfriend, remember? Or are you too busy brooding across the room to play the part?”

He swallowed, jaw ticking, because damn it, he knew you were goading him, knew you were poking at the thin line he’d drawn between pretending and wanting. “I’m not brooding,” he muttered, though the edge in his voice betrayed the strain. “I’m making sure you don’t do something you’ll regret tomorrow.”

You laughed softly at that, the sound dangerously sweet, and tilted your head back just enough to meet his eyes. “Who says I’d regret it?” you countered, your grin curling at the edges, your gaze hot and unflinching. You let your arms drape loosely around his neck, pulling yourself against him like you were testing just how much space he’d allow between you tonight. And then, like it was nothing, you let the words fall: “We could leave, you know. Everyone already thinks we’re disgustingly in love—what’s a quick exit to your frat gonna prove? Nothing new.”

Rafe froze for half a second, your breath warm against his cheek, your body fitted against his in a way that felt less like playacting and more like a dare. His pulse kicked hard in his throat, the weight of your suggestion wrapping tight around his chest. “You’re drunk,” he said once again, but this time the words sounded thinner, less convincing, like even he didn’t believe them.

“Maybe,” you hummed, tilting your head in mock thought, lips brushing his jaw as you swayed. “Or maybe I just finally realized you’re not the worst company in the room.”

Rafe’s instincts were screaming at him, louder than the thump of bass rattling the walls of the frat house, louder than the chorus of drunken voices around them. There had to be something bigger at play here than just pretending for the benefit of a half-interested crowd who was too drunk to remember in the morning anyway.

You had to be testing him, baiting him into folding under the weight of you—your arms around his neck, your lips brushing dangerously close to his jaw, your sly little smile that kept whispering take me out of here. It was humiliating how easy it would be. Because if Rafe was gonna actually hook up with you—and that word felt clumsy and crude in relation to what this was—he knew you wouldn’t even make it out of the parking lot. That’s how badly he wanted you. That’s how thin the thread of restraint was.

Still, some part of him held fast, the part that hated the idea of watching you wake up tomorrow with regret carved into your face and his name attached to it. So he glanced around the crowded living room, noting the way Ethan was already two joints deep and Taylor was too busy laughing into her red cup to notice anything. None of them would care if he left the party with you. In fact, they’d probably cheer him on. That didn’t matter. What mattered was you, and whether this was real or some hazy blur you’d forget in the morning. So when you leaned in again, lips brushing his ear with another taunt, Rafe’s chest tightened, and he made a decision before he could overthink it.

“C’mon,” he muttered, voice low but firm as he laced his fingers through yours and tugged gently. His nod toward the front door was subtle, but there was no mistaking the intent. He wasn’t going to make a scene or give you time to question him. He just wanted you out of there, somewhere quieter, somewhere that didn’t reek of stale beer and frat boys’ sweat. You let him lead you through the mess of the house, your steps unsteady but eager, your laughter trailing faintly behind you as he cut through the crowd. When the crisp night air finally hit both your faces, Rafe felt like he could breathe again, though his chest was still tight from everything you’d stirred up inside.

He walked you across the gravel drive to his car, the glossy white Benz gleaming faintly under the yellow floodlights. It looked impossibly out of place in the dirt lot of a frat house, but it was Rafe all over—showy, expensive, sharp in a way he didn’t apologize for. And while most people either mocked him for it or acted like they expected nothing less, you stopped dead in your tracks, staring at it like you’d just stumbled onto a crime scene.

You blinked, then looked at him, then back at the car. “You drive this?” you asked, voice pitching higher in disbelief, almost comically out of character for you. The tipsy drawl didn’t soften the raw honesty behind your words. “Oh my god, Rafe. You’re actually… such a rich asshole. Like, this isn’t even fake dating material—this is straight-up ‘meet my dad’s golf buddies’ material.”

Rafe couldn’t help it—he laughed, startled and low, running a hand over his mouth to smother the grin tugging at his lips. “That’s your reaction?” he asked, opening the passenger door for you with a sweep of his arm. “Not ‘wow, what a nice car,’ or ‘thank you, Rafe, for pulling me out of that suffocating frat house.’ Nope. Just immediate character assassination.”

You squinted at him, swaying just a little as you leaned against the open door frame. “You deserve it,” you fired back, though your lips quirked in that same flirty way that had ruined him all night. “And don’t act like you didn’t want me to see it. You love showing this thing off, don’t you?”

Rafe shook his head, still chuckling under his breath as he steadied you by the elbow and guided you into the seat. “Get in the car, Cherry,” he drawled, unable to keep the rough affection out of his tone. “Before you roast me so bad I have to sell it tomorrow.”

He could feel the restless energy rolling off you from the passenger side, the kind that didn’t come from the alcohol alone but from the jittery cocktail of nerves and bravado you carried around like a second skin. The faint bite of cheap vodka clung to your breath, curling into the air between you as you shifted against the seatbelt, unable to keep still. Rafe kept his eyes locked on the road, jaw tense, but when he finally let himself flick his gaze over, he caught you dragging your fingertips along the dashboard like you were cataloging every curve of polished leather and brushed chrome. Your focus seemed fixed on the glovebox, the gears in your mind turning just enough to make it obvious you were considering whether or not to pry into whatever he kept hidden inside.

“You know…” your voice cut through the hum of the engine, that soft, slightly slurred tone pulling his eyes from the road for a beat too long, “I kinda feel like Taylor when she gets to sit in the passenger seat.”

His brows drew together, lips quirking despite himself. “Where was I supposed to sit you, then?” he asked, leaning lazily against the wheel like your awe wasn’t getting under his skin, “In the backseat?”

You turned toward him with a smile that was just a little too sharp for the warmth it carried, your words slipping out without hesitation. “We can both definitely go to the backseat.”

Rafe almost choked on his own spit, hand tightening around the wheel as he darted a look at you, but you just kept staring ahead like you hadn’t just lobbed a grenade straight into his chest. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, coughing into his fist before his mouth twisted into something halfway between disbelief and a grin, “you can’t just—say shit like that and act like it’s nothing.”

You tilted your head back against the seat, eyes half-lidded but lit with that mischievous glint that always made it impossible for him to tell where the real you ended and the alcohol began. “Why not? You were the one who dragged me out here like we were sneaking off for something scandalous.”

His laugh was dry, almost bitter, but there was no disguising the way it slipped out under his breath. “Trust me, if I was dragging you anywhere for that, we wouldn’t be sitting in the front seat.” He shifted in his chair, trying not to look at the way your smile deepened at that, or the way his pulse was hammering a little too fast for someone who was supposed to be in control.

You hummed, turning to trace the rim of the air vent with your fingertip. “Guess the front seat is safer, then.” Your eyes flicked toward him, heavy-lidded, testing. “But I still think the backseat has more potential.”

Rafe shook his head, running a hand down his face like it might clear the heat threatening to crawl up his neck. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And yet,” you said, voice dropping softer, “you didn’t put me in the back when you had the chance.”

Rafe drummed his fingers against the leather steering wheel, trying to keep his focus on the glowing stretch of road ahead instead of the way you were practically vibrating with restless energy beside him. Every shift of your body, every sly glance his way felt like a test—one he wasn’t sure he trusted himself to pass if he let the silence stretch much longer. He cleared his throat, catching himself before he risked another glance at you, and forced a note of casual ease into his voice. “How about we grab something to eat?” he said finally, like it was the most natural suggestion in the world. “Greasy food might sober you up before you start redecorating my car with cheap vodka.”

You let out a soft laugh, twisting in the seat so you could face him, eyes sparkling despite the dim glow from the dash. “You’re worried about me ruining your Benz? I thought you were gonna say me first. Kinda rude, don’t you think?”

He huffed, lips twitching despite himself. “Yeah, well—priorities. This car didn’t just crawl out of nowhere.”

You leaned your head against the window but didn’t stop watching him, that smirk tugging at your lips. “Fine, fine. Food sounds good. But you should know, I don’t usually let guys take me out for dinner before the backseat part.”

Rafe’s hand tightened around the steering wheel, knuckles paling even as he forced his tone to stay dry. “Good thing I’m not most guys, then.”

You gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to your chest like he’d wounded you. “So you’re saying you’d just skip straight to it? Wow, Cameron. Didn’t think you’d admit that so easily.”

He groaned, head falling back against the seat for a moment before he shot you a look, somewhere between exasperation and disbelief. “You’re relentless, you know that?”

“And you’re blushing,” you shot back without missing a beat, leaning forward just enough to catch the line of his jaw in the glow from the passing streetlights. “Kinda cute, honestly. Big bad drummer boy getting flustered because I suggested the backseat.”

Rafe snorted, the sound low and humorless, but it didn’t hide the fact that his ears were burning. “I’m not flustered. I’m just trying to keep you alive long enough to regret all the crap you’re saying right now.”

You grinned, turning back toward the window, your reflection smirking faintly in the glass. “Oh, I’ll regret it tomorrow. But tonight? I think you like it.”

The golden arches glowed ahead like a beacon, and Rafe figured greasy fast food at two in the morning was as close to damage control as he was going to get. You didn’t protest when he pulled into the drive-thru, didn’t even try to hide the way you were biting back a grin like this was some kind of date. He ordered for both of you, a task that felt strangely domestic for someone who had spent the last hour trying not to lose his mind over you offering to crawl into his backseat. When the paper bag was finally passed through the window, the smell of fries and charred meat filled the Benz, sinking into the leather before he’d even parked in the far corner of the lot.

You immediately reached for the fries, burning your fingertips as you shoved a handful into your mouth before fishing around for the milkshake. “You’re supposed to at least wait until we park,” Rafe muttered, tugging the bag closer to divvy out the food, but you just shrugged, eyes mischievous.

“Hungry girl privilege,” you answered around a mouthful, then promptly dipped a fry into the milkshake like it was the most natural thing in the world. You hummed in satisfaction, leaning back against the seat. “God, this is actually the best thing ever. Bet you’ve never even tried it.”

Rafe gave you a look, arching a brow as he unwrapped his burger with a deliberate calm. “Because fries are meant to taste like salt and grease, not ice cream. It’s called common sense.”

You made a show of dragging another fry through the pale brown swirl before pointing it in his direction. “Try it. Unless you’re scared.”

His jaw flexed, that familiar flicker of irritation tightening his chest—not because he was actually mad, but because you’d figured out the exact tone that made him feel like he was twelve again, being dared into doing something stupid. “I’m not scared.”

“Then open up, Cameron.” You leaned closer, holding the fry just shy of his mouth. Your grin was wicked, your perfume tangled with the smell of fries and chocolate, and for a second he seriously considered rolling the window down just to gulp cold air. Instead, he narrowed his eyes, then leaned forward and took the bite, lips brushing your fingertips in the process.

The taste hit him instantly—sweet and salty, wrong and weirdly perfect—and the smug little gasp you let out made it so much worse. “Oh my god,” you said, drawing out the words like you’d just won something. “You liked it. Didn’t you?”

Rafe chewed slowly, refusing to give you the satisfaction of an answer, but the way his silence stretched only made your smirk deepen. You kicked your foot up onto the dash in that careless, tipsy way that would normally send him into a lecture about respect and upholstery, but tonight all he could do was stare at the curve of your smile in the neon-lit reflection of the windshield.

“You’re so easy to mess with,” you said lightly, dipping another fry into the milkshake and popping it into your mouth. “No wonder people think we’re actually dating.”

Rafe finally tore his eyes away, biting his burger just to have something to focus on, though his voice betrayed him when it came out lower, rougher than intended. “Yeah. No wonder.”

The silence didn’t last long. You were too restless for that, too wound up on vodka and the sudden rush of greasy food, and Rafe knew it even before you turned back toward him with that half-smile that had been driving him crazy all night. You pulled your knees up against the seat, twisting your body until you were facing him completely, milkshake balanced lazily between your hands.

“So…” you began, dragging the word out like you were trying to bait him into giving you his attention. He didn’t look up from his burger, but you saw the twitch in his jaw, the way his eyes flickered toward you anyway. “If we’re gonna keep this whole fake-dating thing going, shouldn’t we—like—actually try the whole hooking up part?”

Rafe almost dropped his food. He coughed instead, covering it with a grunt as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Excuse me?”

You shrugged, so casual it made his blood pressure spike. “You heard me. No strings attached, no feelings or whatever. Just practice.” You emphasized the word like it was some kind of academic exercise, tilting the straw toward your lips and taking a slow sip of the shake. “I mean, you’ve clearly done this before, and I haven’t. At all. Ever. So… it makes sense, right?”

For a second he genuinely thought the air had been sucked out of the car. His mind scrambled, replaying the sentence over and over until his knuckles were tight on the steering wheel even though the car wasn’t moving. “You’re joking.”

“Do I look like I’m joking?” you countered, voice softer now, though your eyes were glittering in that dangerous way that told him you knew exactly what kind of grenade you’d just dropped between you. “I’m saying it’d be easy. We already pretend in front of everyone else, what’s the harm in pretending a little more? No one gets hurt.”

Rafe turned his head toward you fully now, the crinkle of burger paper forgotten in his lap. “You have no idea what you’re saying,” he muttered, but it wasn’t dismissive—it was warning, low and strained.

You leaned closer across the console, the faint smell of vanilla shake sweetening the charge between you. “I know exactly what I’m saying. Unless…” You grinned, biting into another fry before dragging it through the milkshake and holding it out to him again. “Unless you’re scared.”

Rafe stared at you, then at the fry, then back at you again. His laugh was humorless, more of a scoff under his breath. “You’re insane.”

“And you’re dodging the question.”

There was no question, not really—just a challenge, wrapped in sugar and salt and the worst possible timing. And it was working, because every nerve in his body was screaming at him to either shut you down completely or give in and ruin whatever thin line the two of you had been balancing on.

Technically, you and Rafe weren’t exactly balancing on the same line to begin with. When you’d agreed to his offer of fake dating, it had been out of pure convenience—something to shut your artsy ex up, a buffer against his moody stares and late-night texts. That was all it was to you. For him, it was never that clean. Sure, he told you it was about Sofia, about petty revenge, about getting under her skin. And maybe that was true for a day, maybe two, when the thrill of winning still had its shine. But if Rafe was being honest with himself, it had always been mostly about you—about how much easier it was to exist when he had an excuse to orbit closer, when the rules of your arrangement kept you tethered to him instead of wandering away.

Even if it meant following your “contract,” as you liked to call it, and keeping everything professional. No touching outside of what was necessary, no blurred lines, no “weird shit” as you so eloquently put it one afternoon when he tried to sneak his hand onto your thigh at a diner. And he had followed it, more or less—biting his tongue, playing the part, waiting for scraps. Until tonight. Until you, with your milkshake straw between your lips, your lips glossed and sticky from fries dipped in chocolate, casually dropped that you were still a virgin. And that hooking up with him could be chill. Casual. No strings.

As if Rafe could emotionally survive hooking up with you without strings. As if there weren’t already so many strings attached that he could feel them knotting tighter around his ribs every time you looked at him like you did across the dance floor tonight. He was tangled, twisted up, and it didn’t help that the longer you talked, the more he started thinking about that stupid cherry tattoo he almost got last semester, right below his ribs. The one he didn’t get because the artist asked if it had “special meaning” and he couldn’t explain that he just wanted something that reminded him of you.

“You really think that’d be chill?” he asked finally, breaking through the thick silence in the Benz. His voice was low, but sharp around the edges, like he was balancing between laughing at you and strangling himself. “You think I could just…” he gestured vaguely, a bitter little huff leaving his chest, “…take your virginity in the backseat and then go about my day like it was nothing?”

You tilted your head at him, eyes narrowing but still playful, the alcohol softening any trace of embarrassment. “Why not? You’re the one who’s always acting like you’re God’s gift to women. Shouldn’t be a big deal, right?”

Rafe’s jaw locked, his grip tightening around the crumpled burger wrapper in his hand. “You don’t get it,” he said, shaking his head before turning to look fully at you. “For me, it wouldn’t be nothing. You get that, right? It’s not just some box to tick off, not with you.”

You blinked at him, like maybe you hadn’t expected him to push back, like maybe you thought he’d just smirk and agree. Then your lips curved faintly, something sly and testing sparking in your eyes. “So what, you’re saying you’d catch feelings?”

Rafe scoffed, leaning back in his seat like the leather might cool him down. “I already told you—” he broke off, groaning quietly as he scrubbed a hand down his face, “—this isn’t funny. You don’t get to throw shit like that at me and then sit there dipping fries in milkshakes like it’s casual.”

But you just smirked around your straw, voice lilting. “You didn’t say no, though.”

Rafe let out a laugh that didn’t sound like one, low and humorless, his thumb tapping anxiously against the steering wheel. “You’re unreal,” he muttered, like maybe saying it out loud would help him keep his balance. The Benz smelled like grease and sweet milkshake syrup, and all he could think about was how your glossed lips wrapped around a fry like you’d done it on purpose just to see if he’d twitch. He couldn’t look at you for more than a second without feeling like he was unraveling, and yet he kept stealing glances anyway, as if torturing himself had become a habit.

You leaned back in the passenger seat, that smirk still tugging at the corner of your mouth, and let your leg brush against the console like you didn’t care that the smallest movements were setting him off. “You don’t have to act like it’s that deep,” you said lightly, almost singsong, even though your eyes flicked to his with something sharper. “I was just putting it out there.”

Rafe’s grip tightened on the wheel, knuckles flexing against the leather, because if you thought for one second that it wasn’t that deep, you had no idea what you were doing to him. But he swallowed it down, pressing his tongue against the inside of his cheek like the taste of restraint could numb him. “Yeah, well…” his voice cracked slightly before he forced it steady, “…maybe keep shit like that to yourself until you’re sober. You’ll thank me later.”

Your brows lifted, mock-offended, but your smile didn’t waver. “So you’re saying no?” you asked, almost like you were daring him to say it again, testing the edges of his restraint.

Rafe dragged his eyes away from you, fixing them on the empty wrappers in the cup holder instead. “I’m saying…” he exhaled sharply, shaking his head with a grin that looked more like it hurt to wear, “…if I say yes, we don’t make it out of this parking lot. And I’m not about to let you wake up tomorrow regretting me.”

That should’ve been the end of it. But you hummed, casual as anything, dipping another fry in your milkshake before biting into it slowly, eyes never leaving him. “You wouldn’t be that easy,” you teased, though your voice was softer now, edged with something more vulnerable. “Would you?”

Rafe didn’t answer, because the truth was yes. Yes, he would. And the silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was thrumming, alive, heavy enough that it felt like the car itself could snap under it. He just gripped the wheel tighter, staring out at the glow of the streetlamps, like maybe if he didn’t look at you, he could keep himself together for one more night.

So instead of answering, Rafe bit into his burger again like chewing could somehow ground him, like he wasn’t sitting here being tested by every higher power known to man. You had the nerve to tease him about being easy when you were the one casually suggesting losing your virginity in the parking lot of a dingy diner, in the Benz of your fake boyfriend. If anyone was treating the situation like it was small, light, nothing more than an afterthought, it was you. Which was almost cruel, because this—you—had been the only thing Rafe wanted since the first time he laid eyes on you.

“I just thought your answer would be…” you trailed off, swirling the fry through the milkshake like it held some sort of wisdom, your lips pursing as you tried to pin down the word you wanted, “…more enthusiastic. Given all the crude jokes you make about us hooking up.”

Rafe finally turned his head toward you, half-laughing, half-strangled. “You think those jokes were me being serious?” His voice was sharp with disbelief, but his eyes betrayed him—there was too much heat there, too much truth flickering through.

You leaned a little closer across the console, close enough that he could smell the sugar on your breath, your smirk tipping into something softer. “Weren’t they?”

Rafe exhaled through his nose, shaking his head like you’d just pulled the rug out from under him. He tossed the burger wrapper into the backseat, needing his hands free to rake through his hair, because this was spiraling fast. “Christ, you really don’t get it, do you?” he muttered, jaw tight.

You blinked at him, still half-teasing but curious now, almost gentle. “Then explain it to me.”

Rafe’s hand dropped to the gear shift, gripping it like it could anchor him. He met your eyes for a long beat, his restraint written all over the tension in his shoulders. “If I was enthusiastic about it,” he said lowly, voice pitched just for you, “we wouldn’t be talking right now. You’d already know exactly how serious those jokes were.”

The car went quiet after that, the only sound the faint hum of the heater and the squeak of your straw as you took a sip from the milkshake. And then you laughed, soft and airy, like maybe you weren’t sure what to do with the weight of what he’d just confessed.

“You’re really good at ruining milkshakes,” you teased, even though your pulse betrayed you, thrumming in your throat.

You dipped another fry into the milkshake like nothing about what he said rattled you, but your silence stretched, and Rafe wasn’t stupid enough to think it was because you didn’t have anything to say. You were stalling. Buying yourself the moment to pick your words carefully. He leaned an elbow against the driver’s side door, still watching you with that maddening patience that felt heavier than if he’d just cracked another filthy joke.

Finally, he broke it. “So what, you were just saving it?” His voice was casual enough, but the weight in his eyes betrayed him. “All that time with Mikael, and you never…?”

Your head turned toward him so fast your glasses slipped a little down your nose, and you had to nudge them back up with your knuckle. “Seriously? That’s your follow-up question? Not, like, ‘what’s your major trauma’ or ‘what’s my love language’—but ‘why didn’t you sleep with Mikael’?”

“Yeah,” he deadpanned, not budging. “Why didn’t you?”

You exhaled, a sound caught somewhere between disbelief and a laugh, slumping back against the passenger seat. “God, you’re so…” you trailed off, shaking your head, then giving in. “Fine. You want the truth? Because Mikael wasn’t it. He thought he was. He thought because we spent three months listening to The Smiths together and making out behind the art building that he earned… that part of me.” Your shoulders hitched, eyes narrowing slightly as if admitting this made you itch. “But it’s not about earning. It’s about me wanting to. And I didn’t. Not with him.”

Rafe watched you as you spoke, like he was trying to slot puzzle pieces together that didn’t quite fit. “So, what? He didn’t push?”

You snorted, almost amused. “Oh, he pushed. Subtly, in that self-proclaimed ‘sensitive guy’ way. But I knew if I gave in, I’d wake up and feel like it was just another brushstroke in his tragic artist phase. Like I was an anecdote.” Your tone softened at the edges now, eyes tracing the condensation on your milkshake cup. “And I don’t wanna be somebody’s anecdote.”

Something in Rafe’s chest tugged, sharp and unexpected. He shifted, eyes on you but softer now. “So you’d rather be what?”

You met his gaze, steady even if your voice wasn’t. “I’d rather be nothing, than be disposable. The more people you let in… the more chances they have to walk right out.”

The car filled with the hum of the engine, the faint thud of music from the diner’s parking lot speakers, and the unspoken weight of your words pressing into the air between you. For once, Rafe didn’t have a quip ready, no sharp-edged flirtation to throw back. He just looked at you, fingers tightening faintly on the steering wheel as if keeping himself grounded.

“Not everyone leaves,” he said finally, and the raw edge to his tone startled you enough that you didn’t fire back immediately.

Rafe watched your expression shift, the vodka-bright gleam in your eyes dimming just slightly as you reached for your burger, biting into it like you needed a distraction, then sliding your milkshake into the cupholder like you were buying yourself time. He could feel the shift too, like the teasing edge of the night had just dipped into something heavier, but that didn’t stop him—if anything, it pulled him in further. If Rafe knew anything, it was how to press and prod, how to push a bruise until he figured out whether it hurt or healed. And this? This was safer ground for him than circling around the fact you’d just offered him exactly what he wanted most and he was too twisted up inside to take it. So he tilted his head, voice softer but still edged in something sharp. “Mikael, wasn’t it?” he started, testing the waters. “So what—you’re saying hooking up with me, no strings attached, that wouldn’t be scary? Wouldn’t be something to regret?”

Your eyes flicked up at him from your lap, the corners of your mouth tugging into a small, almost innocent smile that felt more like a knife. It was the kind of smile that made him brace, because it usually meant you were about to say something that either stabbed him in the chest or tugged on some invisible thread that already had him tangled. You shrugged, casual in the way that only made him more tense, wiping ketchup and garlic sauce from the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand like you weren’t about to gut him with three words. “Simple,” you said, almost airy. “Because we’re just pretending.”

Rafe exhaled a laugh through his nose, but it sounded more like surrender than amusement, and he flicked his gaze away from you to the quiet neon-lit parking lot beyond the windshield. His fingers drummed awkwardly against the steering wheel, restless energy betraying him. “Right, ladies and gentlemen,” he muttered under his breath, his tone caught somewhere between sarcasm and self-defense, “count on Cherry to be honest and open, every damn time.”

“Would you rather I lied?” you asked, chewing another bite of burger like the question wasn’t meant to undo him, like you didn’t know exactly how your candor burned holes through his carefully built walls.

“That depends.” He didn’t look at you, jaw flexing as he stared at his own hands instead. “If lying means I don’t have to picture you with that artsy prick every time you say his name? Yeah, maybe.”

You tilted your head, the smirk back now, though softer, tired at the edges. “You brought him up, not me. Don’t tell me you’re jealous of Mikael.”

Rafe scoffed, shifting in his seat like he could shake the thought off. “Jealous? No. Just wondering.” His voice dropped a little, rougher now. “Wondering why him of all people wasn’t good enough for you to let go of it. Why the guy you were actually dating didn’t get that chance when you’re sitting here suggesting it with me in a damn diner parking lot like it’s a joke.”

For once, you didn’t immediately joke back. The silence sat heavy, broken only by the sound of fries rustling in the bag between you, and Rafe felt every second of it sink into him like lead.

Finally, you leaned back against the seat, eyes finding his again, and your voice came out steady, sharper than you probably meant it to. “Because it’s easier to risk something with someone who doesn’t get to keep it. With Mikael, it would’ve meant something. And that’s the problem. With you…” you gestured vaguely between you, the tension pressing in closer than the car itself, “this is pretend. Which means when it ends, it ends. No mess. No strings. No one walking away with more than they were supposed to.”

Rafe’s throat tightened, because you said it like you believed it, like you were convinced he wasn’t already tangled, already drowning in strings. He pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek, forcing another low laugh that didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah,” he said finally, voice flat. “No strings.”

But he knew better.

You must’ve felt the silence sink too deep, because your voice softened as you went on, eyes trained on the faint condensation of your milkshake cup rather than him. “With Mikael… it wasn’t just about sex. It was about everything that came with it. He wanted forever, and I didn’t even know if I wanted next week. And it felt like if I let him in that far, if I crossed that line, it’d mean giving him a piece I couldn’t take back when he left. Because people do leave. The more you let in, the more you stand to lose when they go.” You swallowed, like the truth itself tasted too raw, then forced a laugh that didn’t stick. “So I didn’t. Kept it neat, kept it clean. Easier that way.”

Rafe sat with that, the words clawing under his skin in ways he didn’t want to examine. He should’ve teased you, should’ve thrown it back in your face and told you that your logic was pathetic or hypocritical. But he couldn’t. Not when he could see the truth of it in the way your shoulders curved inward, in the way your smile had wilted into something small and unsteady. Vulnerability didn’t sit well on you—you wore sarcasm and teasing like armor, but this? This was a hairline crack, and he knew if he pushed too hard, you’d slam the door on it and him both.

So he didn’t push. Instead, he reached across the console, fingers brushing against yours like it wasn’t intentional, like he wasn’t holding his breath. You stiffened, barely, but you didn’t pull away. His chest squeezed tight at that, because it meant you were letting him in—just enough to sting.

And before you could retreat back behind your jokes, Rafe leaned in. Not fast, not heated, but slow, like he was giving you every chance to turn your head. His mouth pressed to yours in a kiss that felt quieter than the car itself, not hungry or demanding but steady and grounding. It wasn’t about taking—it was about holding. About telling you without words that you weren’t wrong, people left, but maybe not him.

You let out the smallest breath against his lips, almost a sigh, and when he pulled back you looked at him like he’d just shifted the entire board on you. His blue eyes searched your face for the recoil he was bracing for, the rejection he knew would come when you remembered what you’d said about no strings. But you didn’t snap, didn’t joke, didn’t even speak right away.

You just sat there with his warmth lingering on your mouth, eyes glossy in the dim light, before whispering almost reluctantly, “That wasn’t pretend.”

Rafe’s throat worked, his grip tightening around the steering wheel to keep himself from reaching for you again. “Yeah,” he muttered, low and rough, eyes flicking forward like the parking lot was suddenly the most fascinating view in the world. “I know.”

He didn’t give himself more than a beat to linger in that silence. If he did, he’d lose his grip, and you weren’t in the right state for him to let that happen. So he shoved the key into the ignition and let the engine purr to life, pulling out of the diner lot like it was the most natural thing in the world. You leaned back against the headrest, quiet now, fingers absentmindedly dragging through the condensation on your milkshake cup before setting it down in the holder again. When you turned your head toward him, your expression was softer than he’d ever seen on you, lips parted like you were on the verge of saying something, but nothing came. Instead, you hummed faintly, eyes slipping shut, the tipsiness in your bloodstream coaxing you toward sleep.

“You’re not crashing at your dorm like this,” he muttered, more to himself than to you, flicking a glance at your relaxed frame. The road blurred by in streetlight intervals, and all he could think about was how badly he wanted to ask you what you’d meant by letting him kiss you back. Whether it was the vodka or something more dangerous. But he kept his jaw tight, steering toward his frat house without giving you the option to argue. You were still awake, though—tipsy but alert enough to open your eyes when he pulled into the driveway, recognition flickering faintly in them.

“This isn’t my place,” you murmured, a smile tugging at your mouth. “You trying to kidnap me, Cameron?”

“Yeah,” he snorted, throwing the car in park. “Kidnap you and let you sleep it off in my bed. Real sinister plan.”

That earned him a quiet laugh, your hand brushing his arm as you pushed the door open clumsily. He was already around the car before you could fumble, tugging the handle and offering a steady hand to help you out. You didn’t let go when your heels hit the pavement, fingers laced through his like it was natural, even though it sent a sharp, unbearable ache through his chest. He didn’t call you on it, just guided you past the porch and into the house, ignoring the muffled music and half-drunk voices still lingering somewhere deeper inside.

When you reached his room, you collapsed onto the edge of his bed without waiting for an invitation, kicking your shoes off with a graceless sigh. “Comfy,” you mumbled, flopping onto your back like you’d already decided this was where you were sleeping tonight. Your hair fanned across his pillow, your eyes finding his with a dazed warmth that felt more dangerous than any sharp words you’d ever thrown at him sober.

Rafe lingered at the door, hand on the frame, because stepping inside meant something. It meant letting himself into a space he wasn’t sure he’d come back out of unscathed. “You’ll thank me tomorrow,” he said finally, pushing off the frame and walking in, tugging a blanket from the chair. He tossed it over you, tugging it gently up until it brushed your collarbone.

You smiled again, smaller this time, voice hazy but clear enough. “You’re sweet when you’re not being a pain in the ass.”

Rafe’s jaw flexed, his chest tight, because if you said things like that too often, he wasn’t going to survive this arrangement. He sat on the edge of the bed, careful, not too close, eyes fixed on the blanket rather than your face. “Go to sleep, cherry,” he muttered, softer than he meant to.

But you didn’t close your eyes right away. You kept looking at him, like you could see straight through the restraint that was barely holding him together. And it wasn’t until your lids grew heavy and your breathing evened out that he let himself move, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face with fingers he wished weren’t shaking.

“My head is spinning…” you muttered after a few moments, your voice low, almost childlike in its honesty. Rafe wanted so badly to have it in him to be annoyed at your restlessness, to make some dry comment about vodka being your downfall, but he couldn’t. Not with the way your lashes trembled against your cheeks before your eyes fluttered open again, pulling him in without effort. You shifted on the bed, blanket sliding down just enough to bare the curve of your shoulder, and your gaze found his like it was the only thing in the room worth holding onto. “Why are you sitting on the edge of the bed?”

He swallowed, his mouth parting before he caught himself, forcing his tone back into something casual even though every muscle in his body was wound tight. “Because one of us should stay upright,” he muttered, flicking his eyes toward the floor, anywhere but at the quiet pleading in yours.

But you weren’t letting him off easy tonight. You shifted again, propping yourself on your elbow though the movement looked heavier than you meant it to. “That’s dumb,” you said softly, a faint smile tugging at your lips even as exhaustion colored your face. “Just—lay down. It’s not like I’m asking you to…” You trailed off, words dissolving into the kind of silence that had become dangerous between the two of you. Your fingers found the edge of the blanket instead, tugging it lightly as though the fabric itself could substitute for reaching toward him. “Just stay here.”

Rafe let out a low exhale, shaking his head, more at himself than at you. Every single nerve in his body screamed at him not to cross this line, because lines once crossed didn’t redraw themselves neatly. But when he looked at you—half-tipsy, eyelids heavy, still somehow managing to make the simple act of asking him to lie down feel like a confession—he felt the fight bleeding out of him. He kicked his shoes off quietly and eased down beside you, careful, like his weight on the mattress might shatter something fragile.

The blanket rustled as you shifted closer instinctively, your head finding the pillow inches from his shoulder. The faint scent of your shampoo mixed with the lingering vodka, and it was enough to send Rafe into a kind of haze he hadn’t known was possible without a hit of something stronger. He stayed perfectly still, hands flat against his stomach, forcing himself to look up at the ceiling instead of the way your hair brushed the fabric of his shirt.

“You’re warm,” you murmured, almost like an afterthought.

Rafe closed his eyes, jaw tight, as if he could trap the sound of your voice in his chest and keep it there. “Go to sleep, cherry,” he said again, low, careful.

You hummed, the sound quiet and drowsy, like you were finally giving in to the pull of sleep and putting Rafe out of his misery. Misery, because lying this close to you on his bed had become its own kind of slow torture, the type that burned through every layer of restraint he’d built up since you first tossed out that casual suggestion of hooking up. You were right there, your shoulder brushing his arm, your breath ghosting warm against his forearm every time you exhaled. It was impossible not to notice, impossible not to crave more. And then he felt it—your fingers, light as static, grazing over his knuckles like you hadn’t meant to, like it was some involuntary reach in that hazy space between awake and asleep. He could tell you were fighting the exhaustion, clinging to the moment, to him, even if you didn’t realize it.

“So we’re not gonna hook up then?” you mumbled suddenly, voice hoarse with sleep, the words spilling out in genuine confusion rather than provocation. There wasn’t a trace of your usual teasing lilt. Just soft, raw honesty that hit harder than if you’d said it with a smirk.

Rafe’s jaw flexed, the muscle ticking as he stared up at the ceiling like maybe it held the answer. “Jesus, Cherry…” he muttered, voice low, equal parts exasperated and strained. “You really know how to test me, huh?”

Your eyes cracked open a sliver, the ghost of a smile tugging at your lips even in your half-asleep state. “That’s not an answer.”

He turned his head then, finally letting his gaze land on you, taking in the way your lashes rested heavy against your cheeks and your mouth curved like you knew exactly what you were doing to him. “No,” he said firmly, even though the word scraped like sandpaper in his throat. “We’re not hooking up.”

“Why not?” you pushed, not with sharpness, but with the same small curiosity that had been threading through all your questions tonight, like you weren’t aware of how dangerous it was for him every time you wanted honesty.

Rafe dragged a hand down his face, his voice rough when it came out again. “Because if we did, Cherry, I wouldn’t be able to keep it fake. Not for one second. And you’d hate me for it.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable, just thick—like the air had to rearrange itself around the words. You blinked up at him, the sleepiness in your gaze softening whatever sharp edge you might’ve given in response if you were fully awake. “Maybe I wouldn’t,” you whispered, so quiet he almost thought he imagined it.

Rafe’s heart slammed against his ribs, his pulse loud in his ears, but he forced himself to stay still, to not close the last inches of space between you. He exhaled slowly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Don’t say stuff like that unless you mean it.”

Your fingers brushed against his again, this time lingering just a second longer. “I don’t say things I don’t mean.”

And that was exactly why he couldn’t give in.

Rafe told himself to keep his hands still, to keep the inches of space between you sacred, to let you drift off before he did something stupid. But your words lingered, echoing inside his chest until they were louder than the sound of his own pulse. I don’t say things I don’t mean. He didn’t even realize he’d shifted until the mattress dipped beneath his weight, until his hand was brushing against yours again—not by accident this time, but because he let it stay there. Your skin was warm, your fingers curling ever so slightly, like even half-asleep you recognized him and didn’t mind. And that was all it took. His resolve cracked like thin glass.

He turned onto his side slowly, the way someone might approach a wild animal, cautious but unable to stop himself. Your lashes fluttered as if you could feel the change in the air, as if the small shift in his body heat woke some part of you that wasn’t fully gone yet. Rafe didn’t care anymore if you thought he was easy or reckless or whatever else you teased him with—he just knew he couldn’t spend another second wondering what it would feel like. His hand came up hesitantly, fingers brushing your jaw, knuckles grazing your cheek like he was testing whether you’d pull away. You didn’t.

His lips found yours in the softest way possible, so uncharacteristic of him it almost startled him as much as it did you. It wasn’t rushed or greedy, not the kind of kiss that belonged in a parking lot dare or a fake show for a crowd. It was tentative, slow, like he was letting you decide if it should even happen at all. He could taste the faint remnants of milkshake on your lips, feel the warmth of your breath against his mouth, and for one dizzying second he let himself imagine there were no rules, no contracts, no pretending. Just you.

You sighed against him, a sound so small yet so devastating that it dragged him deeper before he had the chance to stop. His thumb stroked absentmindedly over your cheekbone, anchoring himself in the moment even as his chest twisted painfully with the knowledge that this was a line he wasn’t supposed to cross. When he finally forced himself to pull back, his forehead hovered close to yours, breaths mingling in the narrow space between.

“See,” you whispered, your lips still brushing his in the aftermath, “that wasn’t so fake.”

Rafe let out a shaky laugh, though his voice was hoarse when he spoke. “Yeah, that’s the problem.”

author's note: hey peaches, long time no see, your girl is officially in college. i don't even know if you guys read these, but i went to a real college party and had the experience of being drunk in a dorm. i talked to a bunch of guys and made some friends. moving into the dorm took a long time so that's why this chapter took so long and it is a bit short. im sorry i promise the writing is gonna flow again, just let me get adjusted to the college life. talk to me and i'll see you in the next chapter which is glass eyed creatures.

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She kept feeling like someone was watching her; lurking in the shadowy corners of her house and following her every movement with a curious gaze glued to her form whether she was out with friends or in the process cleaning her living room. And she didn’t like it one bit—couldn’t pinpoint when it began but she wanted nothing more than for the peculiar feeling to disappear.

She’d be getting ready for bed and changing her clothes when suddenly a shiver would tingle along her spine and make her snap her head towards her window—trying to desperately catch some creep ogling her, so she’d finally have some sort of an explanation. But instead, she’d be met with nothing more than the leafy trees of her gloomy backyard glaring back at her before quickly drawing the curtains closed. 

In addition, she’s been having nightmares more often than usual; waking up in the middle of the night with labored breathing and heart in her throat. And sometimes she swears she can still feel the eyes of a stranger lingering on her sweaty skin. 

Then one night, when she’s rinsing her mouth after brushing her teeth, her phone lights up with a notification.

unknown number

why are your bedroom curtains never open anymore?

look so pretty in your underwear…

4 attachments

The device clatters against the bathroom tiles when it slips from her hold after her eyes have scanned over the multiple pictures of her half naked. They’re all taken through the glass of the large window in her room—a window she’s made sure to keep covered at all times lately.

She plucks it from the floor with trembling fingers and reads over the messages once more—distressed heart rapidly thudding in her ribcage making it hard for her to think as her fingertips glide across the screen. 

you

who is this?

im gonna call the cops

unknown number

do I scare you?

And instead of responding, she blocks the number. However, when the police arrive and search her house and her backyard, they don’t find anything. They merely tell her that it’s ’probably nothing serious, just some kid pulling a prank on you’ with an apologetic smile before leaving. 

A couple of days go by, and she’s beginning to believe that maybe it was truly someone playing tricks on her when all of a sudden, her phone vibrates with an incoming call from another unknown number while she’s boiling pasta for dinner.

And this time, she decides to ignore it, choosing to believe it’s someone simply calling the wrong number for her own peace of mind. However, that’s long forgotten when a new message illuminates the screen—making her breath get caught in her throat when she reads it over. 

unknown number

breaking my heart here princess :(

you

leave me alone

unknown number

but that’s no fun, is it?

you

what do u want from me?

unknown number

want you to keep your curtains open

you

so u can take more pictures of me?

unknown number

can just watch if that’s what you prefer?

you

leave me alone

please

She doesn’t wait for a response before turning off her phone for the rest of the night. And she thinks he’s actually listened because no unknown numbers try to contact her for some time, causing her to grow less anxious by each silent day that rolls around. However, when she begins to notice that pairs of her underwear keep mysteriously disappearing, her mind wanders over to the only person who could be behind it.

At first, she doesn’t think too much of the fact that she can’t seem to find her favorite panties anywhere, assuming she’s merely misplaced them. However, when a white lacy pair she saves for special occasions vanishes next, she grows restless. If she hasn’t worn it in months, it should be in her drawer where she left it, right?

And the air suddenly feels like sand—poking at her lungs as if it’s filled with tiny rocks when she becomes painfully aware of the fact that in order for him to steal her stuff, he’s had to break into her home. Which means that he’s been in her bedroom before, and probably her kitchen, living room and bathroom as well. And the first time could’ve easily been weeks ago.

Nausea steeped in dread grovels up her insides and sits heavy in her stomach at the realization that he could be in here right now. But if he wanted to hurt her, he would’ve done it by now—or at least that’s what she keeps telling herself in an attempt to offer some kind of solace to her troubled thoughts.

- - - - - - - - - -

The following night, she’s wiping her eyes clean of mascara when a text pops up.

psycho stalker

someone came home late

have fun on your date?

Chills erupt on her skin when she peers down at the screen. But after the all too tedious date she’s just had, she’s entirely too exhausted for his gruesome mind games right now—simply wants to bury herself under her covers and close her eyes for an eternity.

However, she’s not entirely convinced he won’t come up with another way to disturb her if she stops responding altogether, which is why she decides to entertain him for a little while.

psycho stalker

assuming not too much fun since you didn’t bring him home..

you

none of ur business 

psycho stalker

was he boring?

talked about himself the whole time and didn’t ask a single question about you?

She blinks a few times because he’s not exactly wrong. How on earth did he— 

you

what the fuck is wrong with u

ur following me now??

She tries to remember whether she saw anyone suspicious at the restaurant, but she can’t recall anything out of the ordinary catching her attention. However, she wasn’t aware she was supposed to keep her eyes open for her possible stalker, which is why her brain isn’t being very helpful at the moment.

psycho stalker

just wanted to make sure you were safe

you

yeah well i feel very safe right now thank you

psycho stalker

someone’s got an attitude

that bad?

you

please just leave me alone 

psycho stalker

okay

if you tell me the color of your panties

you

what the hell?

im not telling u that

psycho stalker

want me to come over and find out for myself then? 

you

u wouldn’t do that 

psycho stalker

wanna bet?

She tries to even out her respiration because she does not want to find out whether he’s merely toying with her or if he’s actually being serious. 

you

…

black

psycho stalker

with the lace?

you

i don’t even wanna know how u know that but yes

psycho stalker

shit

that’s one of my favorites on you

you

ur sick in the head

psycho stalker

that’s not very nice

did you wear them for him?

you

he wasn’t even worth it

don’t think he would’ve been able to make me come if he tried

psycho stalker

yeah?

need help with that?

you

not from u

creep

why are u stealing my underwear?

psycho stalker

cause you don’t give me shows anymore :(

i mean they’re a little dirty now but want me to return them?

you

ur disgusting

psycho stalker

and you’re up past your bedtime cause you like talking to me

you

i don’t

u promised to leave me alone right?

psycho stalker

you’re the one texting me right now

you

cause u won’t leave me alone

can u just keep ur promise? im gonna sleep now

psycho stalker

sweet dreams princess

And after that, she finally locks her phone—wishing she’ll actually be granted some well needed rest tonight.

- - - - - - - - - - -

Then one night, she’s walking home from the grocery store—mind occupied with the prospect of digging into the tub of strawberry ice cream in her bag while messaging a friend who’s telling her the details of a kiss she shared with a girl she’d had a crush on for ages—when completely out of the blue, she bumps into someone.

“Oh, m’so sorry,” she’s quick to apologize before she blinks up, meeting blue sapphires that twinkle even under the dim street lamps—slightly covered by the guy’s chocolate hair falling into his face before he rakes a hand through the strands. And the nearly surprised raise of his brows doesn’t really make any sense to her because she’s never seen him before.

“S’all good—wasn’t, uh, wasn’t really lookin’ either,” he rasps while his intense gaze bores into her, almost as if he’s studying her, examining her every reaction. 

“No, it was my fault, shouldn’t be texting and walking at the same time,” she forces out a laugh and attempts to step away from him to continue her journey, but then he speaks up again.   

“Shouldn’t be walkin’ alone this late either, you know? All kinds of creeps out there just waitin’ for the opportunity to attack pretty girls like you,” he reminds her with a strange tinge in his voice, causing the hairs on her arms to stand.  

She’s unable to pinpoint what it is exactly—thinks his features are otherwise quite appealing but then there’s something almost disturbing about his aura. 

“I know, but it’s really just a ten-minute walk. I’ll be fine,” she offers him a tight smile, timidly fiddling with the strap of her shopping bag.  

“Why don’t I walk you home, yeah?” his seemingly genuine offer comes off as something other than concern over her safety in the stillness of the darkened October sky, making unease litter across her skin.  

“Thank you but I think m’okay,” she politely declines before trying to tiptoe away from his intimidating presence, albeit uselessly.  

“S’past midnight already, let me walk you,” he nearly insists, seemingly not accepting no for an answer with his tone resembling more of a demand now. 

“O—okay, um…sure,” she swallows around the words and watches the corners of his mouth tug up. What has she gotten herself into? For all she knows, this man could be a serial killer and she’s just signed up her fate as his next victim. 

The murky sidewalk they tread along is quiet while she keeps glancing over to him every now and then—an attempt to reassure herself that a knife or a gun hasn’t magically appeared in his hand without her noticing.

Although, she thinks he wouldn’t need a weapon to drag her helpless form into the woods with his much stronger arms—under the obscurity provided by the trees, he could easily strangle her until her soul withers away, getting his fix from leaving her limp body on the muddy moss as death kisses her cold, tear-streaked cheeks.  

“Somethin’ on your mind?” his sudden question makes her flinch. 

“N—no, nothing. I just…have we met before?” she hesitantly asks, turning to look at him and noticing his gaze already resting on her face.  

“M’sure I’d remember if we had,” his response is calm, too calm for her liking.  

“S’just that—well, it’s a small neighborhood and I’ve never seen you around?” she flits her eyes over his features, trying to figure him out. 

“I don’t live here,” his tongue peeks out to wet his bottom lip; the vague answer not soothing her racing mind in the slightest.  

“Oh, okay...cool,” she peeps out, trying to appear as nonchalant as ever, even if her breathing has turned fragmented and her head is spinning.

A gruesome smirk morphs his mouth in response, and for some reason he appears to be enjoying this—finding crooked entertainment in her dismay. Then, he halts in front of her home before she’s even digested that they’ve already arrived to her destination.  

“How did you—how did you know this was my house?”

“Lucky guess,” he merely shrugs with a smile that’s nowhere near comforting. 

She swallows.

“Right, well, thanks for walking me...m’gonna go now,” she squeaks out before taking a tentative step towards her front yard.  

“Sweet dreams, princess.”

“What did you just say?” her entire form tenses in response to the familiarity of the nickname—something dire bubbling up in her throat at the bizarre sense of deja vu. 

“Jus’ wished you a good night…you feelin’ alright?” he furrows his brows in what should appear as concern for her wellbeing, but she hesitates upon noticing something twisted glinting in his overly worried eyes—almost like some sort of sick satisfaction.  

“I’m—m’fine. Just…tired, I guess,” she manages out, a crease forming between her brows when his mouth curls.  

“You sure?” he places a heavy hand on her arm, suddenly far too close for comfort and causing her to flinch before she’s attempting to pull away—stumbling on wobbly feet and nearly tumbling down onto the harsh grass, if not for his stronger arms holding her upright by her waist. 

“Careful now, don’t wanna hurt yourself, do you?” he scolds her with a click of his tongue while steadying her.

“Sorry,” the breathy apology escapes her lips before her eyes flicker down to where his touch is burning her skin, even through the thick material of her sweater. 

“Run along then, yeah?” he murmurs, letting her go with a small push towards the right direction.   

one night, you woke up gasping. there was a quiet but striking sound right outside your window. your heart pounded as you reached for your phone, hands shaking. peeling back the curtain just a bit, you saw him. standing beneath the streetlamp, staring at your window.

a slow grin curled across his face as he saw you hiding there, watching. you shut the curtain so fast it nearly ripped off the rod. ‘good’ he thought. the fear suited you.

the next morning, you found a fresh note tucked into your mailbox.“run, little rabbit.” your hands shook as you crumpled it, tightness building in your throat. you immediately told your friends. they said you were overreacting.

you then told the police. they told you they couldn’t do much without proof. and that was the worst part. no one believed you. no one except rafe. and he loved that. but the real fun started when he got inside..

the first time, he didn’t take anything. didn’t break anything. just stood in your room, breathing in the scent of you, that sweet, floral and innocent scent. a single red rose was placed on your pillow one evening when you came home late. your perfume bottle left half-empty even though you hadn’t used it in days.

rafe wanted you to know he’d been there. that he could reach you whenever he wanted, in the safety of your home. that no one could stop him. and that you were his.

on the night he finally decided to take you, it rained. thunder rumbled as he stood outside your apartment, watching the glow of your living room window. you were in there. safe and warm.

a click of the lock and the back door swung open with ease. you’d been good about locking it the last few nights. he wondered if you’d slipped up or if you were getting too comfortable.

either way, it didn’t matter. rafe stepped inside, his pulse steady, movements slow. he didn’t rush. didn’t make a sound. you were curled up on the couch, phone in your hand. you were texting someone, no idea he was right there.

he let the seconds stretch, savoring the moment. then, finally, he knocked. soft at first. then harder and persistent. your stomach dropped. he could picture your heartbeat picking up, that sweet little pulse hammering in your throat.

you didn’t react at first. smart girl. but it was too late. a low chuckle echoed from the dark hallway. you froze, pulling your knees to your chest. "you hide like a scared little rabbit," rafe’s voice drawled from the shadows. he was inside.

you immediately bolted. ripping the kitchen drawer open, you snatched the first knife your fingers touched, your pulse a wild beat in your ears. then his dark figure stepped forward. he was drenched from the storm, his shirt clinging to his chest, his blue eyes locked onto you like you were prey.

"y/n," he murmured, tilting his head. "you weren't supposed to run yet.” your grip on the knife tightened, “get out." you screamed. his smirk deepened, almost amused. "now, why would i do that?" then, your phone rang. the shrill sound shattered the tension, and in that split second, you lunged.

the knife sliced through the air, but rafe was faster. he caught your wrist mid-swing, twisting it until the blade clattered to the floor. you gasped in pain. you made it too easy. "you fight, too?" his breath was warm against your ear as he yanked you close, his grip rough, "i like that." you thrashed, kicking at him, but he barely flinched. the phone kept ringing while you screamed.

"you’re making this way more fun than i expected," he murmured, like this was a game. and you were his favorite new toy. your stomach lurched. you couldn't let him win. your eyes darted around the kitchen, searching and then your eyes caught it. the kettle. still full from when you’d boiled water earlier.

with one desperate motion, you threw yourself forward, stretching your free arm as far as it would go, until your fingers closed around the kettle's handle. and then you swung. rafe screamed. the sting of boiling water shot through him. and his grip loosened just enough.

you wrenched free, diving for the knife. your fingers closed around the handle, and before you could think twice, before you could even hesitate, you swung it. cold steel buried into his stomach.

the world around him tilted. his hands shot to the knife, warmth spreading beneath his fingertips, the sting sharp, alive. and then he looked at you. you were panting and wide-eyed. but not terrified, no, this was something else entirely.

anger. power. something dark, something almost hungry. rafe’s lips twitched, his vision going hazy, but he still grinned. you were finally playing the game. you took a step closer, your breath shaky but your grip on the knife solid. "tag," you whispered. and then you twisted it. "you’re it," you spat lastly.

a guttural sound escaped him, half groan, half laughter. fuck. he felt it deep, he felt it all too deep. the blade cutting through his flesh, the fire spreading through his veins, death curling around him. god, you were perfect.

his vision began to darken at the edges, but he was still grinning, teeth red with blood. his hand weakly reached for you, brushing your wrist, smearing crimson against it. "shit," he rasped, his voice slurred, "you finally get it, don’t ya’?” you yanked the knife free, and he choked, body collapsing to the floor.

everything felt distant, fading. but not before he caught one last glimpse of you standing over him. and as the world went black, the last thought that curled through his sick mind was simple. rafe had never wanted you more.