#text book

"A twister forms at sea." Interpreting Science: Understanding Our World. 1947.

WARNINGS: toxic relationship, daddy issues, themes of parental neglect

The first time you saw Rafe, you weren’t thinking about love.

You were thinking about your father.

It was stupid, really. The way your heart stuttered when you caught sight of him, the way something in your gut twisted like recognition. But it wasn’t recognition, not really. You didn’t know Rafe Cameron, not then. You only knew the way he stood—feet planted firm like he owned the ground beneath him, shoulders squared, eyes cool and unreadable.

Your father used to be like that.

And maybe that’s why you listened when Rafe spoke, why you nodded when he told you what to do, why you followed him without question when he held out his hand.

Because deep down, you wanted someone to lead you.

Someone to tell you where to go, what to say, what to be.

You wanted someone to make you feel small in the way that made you feel safe.

And Rafe made you feel that way.

Maybe that’s why, all these months later, you’re still here—wrapped in the passenger seat of his car, legs curled beneath you as the city lights blur past the window.

“You’ve got a Thunderbird, my daddy had one too.”

The words slip out before you can stop them, quiet and pensive.

Rafe glances at you, then back at the road, exhaling a slow breath through his nose. “That supposed to mean something?”

You shrug, watching the way his hands tighten on the wheel. “Just reminds me of him.”

He hums, unreadable. “Didn’t know you had daddy issues.”

You huff a soft laugh, but it doesn’t reach your eyes.

Did you?

You think about it—about all the times you wanted him to look at you, to see you, to love you the way a father is supposed to. You think about the nights you spent waiting for him to come home, the way your mother’s face fell when he never did. You think about the times you asked him something, anything, just to hear him say your name.

And maybe that’s why you’re here now, chasing something you lost a long time ago.

“I was looking for the father I wanted back.”

You don’t say it out loud, but the words live in your head like a quiet confession.

Rafe never asks about your father again.

—

He doesn’t love you the way you want him to.

You know that now.

It’s in the way he orders for you at restaurants without asking what you want. The way he doesn’t look up from his phone when you speak, doesn’t touch you unless it’s casual, absent-minded.

It’s in the way he disappears for days, maybe weeks, and never explains where he’s been.

But then he comes back, and his voice is smooth like whiskey, like the scrape of money against silk, and you think—maybe he does love me.

Maybe this is just how love looks on him. Maybe it’s not soft, not sweet, not kind. Maybe love isn’t supposed to be like that at all.

“It wasn’t like the movies, it wasn’t like the songs.”

But you never wanted a movie kind of love. You only ever wanted to be seen.

And Rafe sees you.

Doesn’t he?

—

It takes months before you realize what you’ve done.

That you didn’t find a replacement. That you didn’t find the love you were missing.

You found something worse.

Because at least with your father, there was hope.

Hope that he could change, hope that he could love you like a father is supposed to.

With Rafe, there is no hope.

There’s only the way he tells you what to wear, what to say, what not to say. The way he doesn’t ask what you want—just assumes, just takes.

There’s only the way he disappears when he gets bored, then comes back like nothing ever happened. And you let him, because what else do you know?

Because Rafe keeps you close, but never with him.

Because Rafe feeds you just enough love to keep you starving.

And maybe, deep down, you knew it all along.

—

One night, you ask him the question.

“Do you think if I go blonde, we could get our old love back?”

You ask it softly, hesitantly, like a prayer.

Rafe shifts beside you in bed, his fingers ghosting over your arm before they still. He doesn’t answer right away. Just sighs, long and slow, before murmuring, “What old love?”

And that’s when you know.

There was never any love to begin with.

Not from your father. Not from Rafe.

Not from anyone.

You lie awake long after he falls asleep, staring at the ceiling, remembering what it felt like to be a child, sitting by the window, waiting for headlights that never came.

You turn your head, watching the slow, steady rise and fall of Rafe’s chest, the peaceful way he sleeps beside you.

He won’t leave you.

Not like your father did.

No—he’ll keep you.

And somehow, that’s worse.

i guess you could call it text book

S-S-S-SOLID?!!!!

As seen in A History of Humankind: The Doctor’s Official Guide.

This isn't the first time he's done this, as he was caught doing this at York Central Library during his Ninth incarnation, leading the incident to be passed along to Clive Finch via his website "Who is Doctor Who?"