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summary rafe’s job at the country club is nothing but a paycheck, until you, his boss’s daughter, slip into his life. you’ve always lived by the rules. rafe makes it hard to keep following them.
tags pogue!rafe au. forbidden love. secret relationship. star-crossed lovers. substance use. suggestive moments, but no smut (closed door). reader is a sweetheart who struggles with standing up for herself.
> masterlist
break line (noun)
a point where deep water hits shallows; where a gentle swell breaks into a unpredictable wave; where two worlds irreversibly crash into each other.
author’s note i’ve been wanting to explore an au where rafe is from the cut, and when thinking about who he’d be without class privilege, i see him with his core traits still intact: he’s hardheaded, loyal, and protective, but growing up less fortunate among friends who really cared about him kept him from becoming cruel. he still has the rough edges that make him rafe, but he’s not elitist. i also don’t see him being close with the younger canon pogues; he’d have his own friend group of guys his age. and he never liked kooks, but when he meets a sweet, complicated girl from figure 8, things get messy 🤭 only read this if you want a spoiler: they don’t end up together. i mean star-crossed lovers for REAL. felt like i should warn y’all.
The first time Rafe saw you, he was out on one of the country club’s lawns, working under the harsh sun. You were draped across a lounge chair by the main pool, laughing with your friends, savoring the same heat that he was cursing.
You were hardly twenty feet from him, but a world away.
He never liked Kooks. When he got a job at the club a couple of months ago, it earned him a front row seat to their easy, comfortable life. Seeing it up close only dug the knife of resentment in deeper.
You were in the crowd of people returning home from college for the summer, and when he saw you, he couldn’t look away. It didn’t matter that you were from the side of the island he tried to avoid – he’d think the same thing. That you’re the prettiest girl he’s ever seen.
He overheard from some of the staff that you’re the estate owner’s daughter. He knows your type. You’re the kind of girl who never has to worry about expectations or limits or rules.
And he knows he’s right, because at this moment, you’re exactly where you’re not supposed to be.
Far past an Employees Only sign, up the paved path, he sees you leaning against the locked door of one of the club’s maintenance sheds, arms crossed as you stare down at the ground.
You could get him in trouble just by being here. Grounds crew are told to stay invisible, and talking to a member, even when you’re the one hanging out somewhere you shouldn’t be, could fall back on him.
Rafe’s chest burns with irritation. You think that you can just wander wherever you please.
He approaches the shed, heaving a bag of soil. You don’t notice him. If any other employee found you back here, they’d be polite about it. But Rafe refuses to play nice.
He doesn’t suck up to management or force a smile at members. Even if it’s the boss’s daughter, who could get him fired in a second, who’s even more beautiful up close. He has too much self-respect to be a kissass.
“You lost?” he murmurs.
You jolt, looking up into blue eyes you’ve never met before. The stranger is a few feet away, towering over you, sweat clinging to his uniform. He drops the bag he’s carrying, letting out a tired exhale, waiting for an answer.
“Hiding,” you admit, because you can’t think quickly enough to come up with a lie.
You shuffle away from the door once you clue in that he needs to get into the shed. You’re still dazed from the anxious spiral he yanked you out of. He reaches the door, punches in a code, and shoves it open.
“You can’t be here,” he says. He’s not about to risk getting chewed out all because you’re where you shouldn’t be.
His gruffness catches you off guard. People who work at the club never speak to you like this.
“I’ll go soon,” you respond.
He picks up the bag again with a grunt, hauling it into the shed. You stay outside, listening to the clatter behind you, each sound laced with his rough exhales.
Through a gap in the bushes, you see a couple carrying golf bags walking past, close enough that they could spot you. Without another thought, you slip inside the dim, dusty shed.
It’s cluttered and smells like grass and gasoline. Two golf carts sit parked side by side surrounded by stacks of equipment and tools.
The stranger is bent over the open hood of one of the golf carts, wide shoulders stretching the fabric of his shirt. His sleeves are shoved up to his forearms, muscles shifting with every move he makes.
“Can I wait in here?” you ask.
Rafe looks over his shoulder, thrown off that you’re asking for permission. That you’re asking it from him.
He has way too much work to do this morning to entertain you, to risk getting in trouble. But as much as he hates it, you intrigue him. You’re beautiful, and he’s only human.
“Fine,” he responds with a sigh.
Rafe continues working inside the engine, one hand braced on the cart and the other twisting, as you stand by the opposite wall. It’s the last thing he expected when he woke up today. That he’d be stuck in a room with you.
Hiding. The word sticks in his mind. What could a girl like you possibly need to hide from? To his annoyance, the thought needles at him. He can’t ignore it. He never had great impulse control.
“What are you hidin’ from?” he asks, his attention still fixed on the engine.
Your throat tightens. The truth feels so stupid. On your way to the club café, you’d spotted your parents talking to Vander by the terrace near the golf course, and you ran.
Vander’s a good friend. You just don’t like him the way everyone wants you to. Your parents and his parents are close, and over the years, the jokes about you two “ending up together” have started to feel too real.
You’ve spent your whole life trying not to disappoint your parents, trying to keep the peace, so you smile along, all while knowing that if Vander ever actually makes a move, you’ll gently reject him.
While you love having the club as an easy place to hang out and see your friends over the summers away from college, you hate having to put on a performance. You don’t have it in you today.
“Some people,” you answer vaguely, again too scattered to make something up.
Rafe’s brows pull together as looks at you. You nervously touch the side of your neck, and his eyes catch on the shimmer of your bracelet. He’s sure ten of his paychecks wouldn’t come close to covering the cost of it.
He hates how fast it happens, the natural pull to step in and fix whatever’s wrong. But you look like you’re barely holding it together.
“You need help or something?” he rasps, even though he doesn’t know what he could possibly offer that you don’t already have.
Your shoulders drop in relief that he doesn’t seem all that irritated with you anymore.
“I’m okay. Thanks,” you say. “I just don’t want to talk to them right now.”
He shifts his weight, still bent over the hood, a loose strand of hair falling across his forehead as he gazes at you with inquiring eyes.
“So, you came here,” he says.
The way he says it, looking as good as he does, makes your heart flutter. You’ve been trying to ignore how handsome he is. It’s impossible.
“What, do you not like being bothered while you’re trying to work?” you joke.
He huffs a near chuckle. He wasn’t expecting that from you. Kook girls flirt with him for fun all the time, but he never sees any self-awareness in them.
And now, he hates the idea of you thinking he doesn’t want you here. It was true for a moment, his bitterness towards Kooks kicking in by instinct, but the instinct was shaken away. At this point, he’s simply trying not to get into any shit with his boss.
“Listen, it’s nothing personal,” he says.
You nod.
“Sorry,” you say quietly. “I’ll leave in a minute, I swear. I just want to be sure I miss them.”
He takes you in. You look worried. This is not what he expected from a girl like you. And now, he feels like an asshole for how he treated you when he found you here.
“Stay as long as you want,” Rafe decides, trying to sound indifferent. “But if anyone asks, I’m sayin’ you wouldn’t leave.”
“Deal,” you say with a soft chuckle.
He drops his gaze back to the engine, a frown tugging at his mouth. He can’t figure this engine’s issue out. And now, he’s realizing he kind of wants to figure you out.
You notice him grimace at the mess of wires under the hood. It confuses you. A minute ago, he looked like he’d been doing lawn work, and now he’s elbow‑deep in a golf cart.
You ran away to be alone, but you’d rather talk to him. There’s something real about him that pulls you in.
“So, what do you do here?” you ask.
Rafe cocks his head. He signed on to mow lawns, but it didn’t take long before he started getting pulled into every job on the property. Once his manager realized he knew his way around a toolbox, he got handed work from every corner of the club.
And he never says no. Rafe has always been driven by a need to prove himself. He might be a lot of things, but lazy isn’t one of them.
“Started as grounds crew,” he tells you, glancing up again. “But now I just do whatever they tell me to.”
The way you’re watching him, curious instead of condescending, is the complete opposite of the looks he’s gotten from around the club. When members glance at him, it’s usually with arrogance or disgust. But in your eyes, all he sees is innocence.
“What do you do here?” he asks, feeling the impulse to flirt with you when he definitely shouldn’t.
“Whatever they tell me to,” you echo his words.
And it’s true. You might not work here, but you still have to follow orders. You have to play the put-together, respectful daughter your parents are always reminding you to be.
Rafe studies you. He licks his lips before he speaks again, a quick, unconscious motion.
“You sure?” he says, now seemingly amused by your little escape. You can’t stifle the smile that tugs at your lips.
The silence stretches as you look at each other. It’s surprisingly comfortable. But the rules, the expectations, the role you have to play all rush back to mind. You’re not supposed to be here. If anyone sees you, it’ll be a problem.
You straighten and step towards the door.
“I’ll go,” you say, afraid of what he might tell other people, and how it might get back to your father. “Please don’t tell anyone I was here.”
It’s sort of jarring to Rafe. You’re scared. It looks like you don’t get away with nearly as much as he assumed.
“I won’t.”
You meet his eyes again, and you find yourself hoping this won’t be the last time you see him.
“What’s your name?” you ask.
“Rafe.”
“I’m –” you begin, but he interrupts by saying your name, followed by a quiet, “Yeah, I know.”
And it’s relieving. He knew who you were this entire time, that your family owns this place, but he never gave you that insincerity everyone else does. You spoke for barely a minute, but it felt more genuine than any conversation you’ve had in a long time.
You slip out and Rafe looks down at the engine again, already convincing himself your curiosity was a one‑off. He doubts you’ll talk to him again.
But the way you looked at him, and the way it made him feel, lingers in his mind.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
Rafe steps into the empty house after work, internally groaning when the thick air hits him. The AC must’ve died again. The place feels like a sauna.
He steps back outside, crouches beside the AC unit, and after he nudges the fan, it whirs to life. He doesn’t know how many more times this trick will work, but it bought him another day.
They need a new AC unit. It’s somewhere on the to-do list. He’d moved into this rundown place with Mase, Pax, and Danny with the plan to fix it up and flip it for a profit.
They’d all grown up on the outskirts of wealth. It made them learn how to work, how to fix things themselves, how to survive. And doing all that with guys he’s gotten into trouble with and fought beside since they were kids formed a bond Rafe can’t live without.
Landing the job at the club was what finally pushed him into committing to this house. It’s one of the few steady gigs on the island that pays decently.
The trade‑off is dealing with the people he’d spent his whole life resenting. Kooks who never looked at guys like him unless they needed something carried or fixed. Still, it beats taking whatever odd jobs he could find.
Rafe rakes his hand through his hair and steps inside again. After a long shower, he lingers in his bedroom, hating that his thoughts keep drifting back to you. Your voice, your eyes, the way you looked at him like he wasn’t just some loser.
He tries to distract himself, but you’re still there in the back of his mind.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
It’s a Saturday afternoon as Rafe paces across the path behind the tennis courts beneath the cloudy sky, another errand in hand.
His steps slow when he sees you. You’re on the club’s restaurant patio, leaning over a table beside a friend as she says something that makes you laugh. You turn to your friend with a bright grin.
He already knew you were pretty, but damn, the way you look when you’re happy is something else. He can’t look away. It’s been almost a week since he met you. It feels like longer ago.
For a second, the familiar reckless urge rises in him, hot and stupid and tempting. But reality hits just as hard. He can’t afford to think this way.
You’re the boss’s daughter. Off‑limits. He shouldn’t be letting himself feel any sort of pull to you.
Then you turn. Your eyes find him instantly. You still, your lips parting. Heat crawls up the back of Rafe’s neck. He looks away and continues on with his job.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
That night, the sky is a beautiful dark blue, fading into gold with the sunset. Music carries across the marina, muffled by the soft laps of waves.
You’d told your friends you’d meet them here. Keely is hosting yet another party on her family’s boat. You walk down the dock, following the thump of bass.
Rafe coils a line on the deck of a boat he’s helping Pax fix, having drank just enough beer to take the edge off a long day. Pax is crouched on the other side of the boat, fiddling with a busted deck light, muttering about how the owner didn’t mention that the wiring was so fucked up.
Rafe glances up when a figure passes by on the dock.
It’s you.
Your eyes meet, just like they did earlier today, when you caught him staring.
His hands pause on the rope. You slow in your tracks. He squints and his body reacts first, heat sparking through him. You’re dressed up, your clothes tight on your body, and it makes it hard for him not to stare.
“Hey,” he says, an amused smirk growing on his face, flashing dimples you didn’t know he had. His skin is tan against the worn white t-shirt he’s wearing, the fabric thin enough that the fading sunlight outlines the shape of him.
His eyes linger, like he’s trying to memorize your features. And you want him to keep looking at you like that.
“Hey,” you reply, mirroring his smile.
“That your party?” he asks, chin lifting toward the thumping bass farther down the dock.
“A friend’s,” you say. “What are you doing?”
“Fixing this up,” he says, glancing at the boat beneath his feet.
Your Saturday nights look nothing alike, and the obvious truth of that weighs on him. After already having worked at the club all day, he’s helping his buddy with an odd job for some extra cash. Meanwhile, you’re on your way to party with people who’ve never had to worry about a paycheck.
Behind him, you see a guy stand and wipe his hands on his shorts. His mouth twitches, failing to hide a smile.
“Rafe,” he calls casually. “I… forgot something in my truck. Be right back.”
Rafe nods, relieved. Pax isn’t oblivious. He’s a good enough friend to recognize that he wants privacy.
Pax slips past you on the dock, offering a sly smile as he goes.
And it’s quiet again. Just you and Rafe and the thump of distant bass and the hush of waves.
“You want a drink?” he asks, voice low, blaming his impulsivity on his buzz.
“Yeah,” you say, because you can’t imagine telling him no. You’re not at the club, being watched, and it feels easier to do what you want to do, to talk to the boy you haven’t stopped thinking about.
Rafe holds out his hand to you. His palm is warm and rough when you take it. He pulls you up onto the deck gently, guiding you so you don’t slip.
He clears a spot for you, shifting tools, making space even though he can’t really imagine you being comfortable here no matter what he does.
You sit on the bench seat. From here, you can see the glow of Keely’s party.
Rafe sits across from you, elbows resting on his knees. He reaches into the cooler beside him and glances up at you with a half‑smile.
“All I got is beer,” he says, like he’s bracing for you to scoff.
“That works,” you say warmly. “Thanks.”
He pops off the cap and hands you the bottle, his fingers brushing yours again.
“Where’d you learn how to fix boats?” you ask. “And golf carts?”
Rafe huffs out a quiet laugh. He can fix way more than that, because he has to. Because he doesn’t have the luxury of calling someone when something breaks. But he won't say that, because he’s never been one to fish for pity.
“Why?” he replies. “You want to learn?”
His tone is playful, but there’s a thread of skepticism woven through it.
“You don’t think I could do it?” you challenge, lifting your brows.
“I never said that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
He smirks, curiosity in his eyes.
“You’d rather do that than party?” he asks, nodding toward the music down the dock.
“Most of those parties aren’t even really that fun,” you admit with a shrug. You’ve never told anyone that. But something about Rafe pushes the truth out of you before you can stop it.
“Then why go?” he asks.
You gaze out into the distance. Being part of your family means fitting a role. It’s the same with your friends. They have expectations, too. You like them, and you want them to like you. You hate how much it affects you.
It’s something you’ve never said out loud. It always felt embarrassing. But Rafe is far outside your social circle. There’s no point pretending with him.
“Because…” you begin, “I think sometimes, it’s easier to just do what people expect you to do.”
He hears the strain in your voice. He knows all about expectations. Pogues are supposed to take what they’re given and be grateful for it. They’re expected to fuck up and never make anything of themselves.
“Yeah,” Rafe replies, gazing down at his bottle with a pensive look. You study him. There’s something about him that tugs at you, that makes you want to know him.
“What do people expect from you?” you ask.
He breathes a laugh, dry and humorless.
“What they expect from everyone on the Cut,” he says.
“Which is?” you press.
He swallows hard. He’ll never hand anyone a sob story about the way he grew up, but if you want to hear the truth he’s always lived with that badly, he’ll give it to you.
“That I should know my place.”
You’ve always known the island was divided, but hearing him say it like that makes reality dig into you. You never bought into the social hierarchy, but you’ve also never had to feel it the way he clearly has.
In a second, Rafe has shown you how sheltered you are. Here you are, complaining about peer pressure and parties you don’t want to attend, while he’s looked down on simply because of what side of the island he’s from.
“Your place is wherever you want it to be,” you say, the words slipping out.
Rafe’s eyes flick up to yours. He can’t tell if it’s idealism or naivety or you just saying what anyone would say to make themselves feel better about living in a system that only benefits them. But he notices the same curiosity in your face that he saw before, and he can’t bring himself to expect the worst from you like he did when you met.
He usually assumes every Kook is an out of touch brat, but it feels wrong to do to you.
“Doesn’t work like that,” he responds.
“It should.”
He clears his throat, glancing out into the water. Pax will be back soon. They need to fix this boat before morning and they’re losing sunlight. He knows he shouldn’t even be thinking about what he wants to do, because that would mean giving in to desiring something he can’t have.
But then he looks at you again and you’re stunning in a way that feels unreal and the impulse is uncontrollable.
“If you…” Rafe murmurs, “ever want to do something else instead of going to another party you’re just gonna hate…”
Your lips curve into a smile. He still makes you a little nervous, but the way he’s watching you, unmistakably interested, makes it easier to feel confident.
“Are you asking me something?” you ask with a teasing lilt.
He looks down again, smirking, and you let yourself stare at him. His lashes cast shadows on his cheeks and you admit to yourself that he really is beautiful. There’s no better word for it, the mix of sharp and soft in his features.
“Yeah,” he says, low and rough. “I’m asking for your number.”
Warmth blooms under your skin and you hold out your hand for his phone. After entering your number, you catch sight of his friend heading back.
“Thanks for the drink,” you murmur, setting your bottle down on the deck. His eyes rake up your body when you stand and every part of you feels like you can hardly be pulled away from him. “Are you almost done here?”
Rafe helps you down to the dock, his grip steady.
“It’ll be a late night,” he admits, glancing back at the mess of gear still waiting for him.
“I hope not too late,” you say.
You offer Pax a small smile as he approaches. The second you’re out of earshot, Pax’s eyebrows shoot up.
“So…” he begins. He steps past him towards the deck light he was working on. “Who’s she?”
Rafe bends over to pick up the rope again, working through the knots.
Hearing that you seem to put up a front with your friends reminds him of how he doesn’t lie to his. He’s always running his mouth about how much Kooks piss him off, so he knows Pax is going to give him shit once he tells him, but he and his friends are honest with each other. Always have been.
“Her dad owns the club,” he says.
Pax snorts.
“You’re fucking with me. You’re messing with a Kook?”
Rafe doesn’t know what he’s doing with you. All he knows is that trouble has a way of finding him, and this is the kind he doesn’t want to run from.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
You slip through the front door, your house dim save for the warm glow spilling from the front room. The quiet feels jarring after the noise of Keely’s party. You pass to see your mom curled up on the couch.
“Hi, sweetheart,” she says kindly. “You have fun?”
You’ve never doubted her love, but even with that, you’ve always felt the need to keep up a certain front at home. And there’s no chance you can tell her the truth – that throughout the whole party, you were thinking about someone you’re not allowed to want.
You sink onto the opposite end of the couch, the cushions dipping.
“Can I ask you something?” you say quietly.
“Of course.”
You hesitate, picking at the hem of your shirt, the story already rehearsed in your head.
“One of my friends started seeing this guy,” you fib. “He’s not exactly well off. Everyone was giving her a hard time for it. Don’t you think that’s harsh?”
It doesn’t even feel like a lie. You know most people in your social circle would react badly if any of you started dating a Pogue.
“Which friend?” your mom asks. The tight-knit island runs on gossip, and she’s no exception.
“I swore I wouldn’t tell,” you say, keeping your tone light through the lie.
She sighs, disappointed but not surprised, then finally gives you her answer.
“Differences can be exciting at first, but they’ll wear on her,” she says. “Life is easier when you’re with someone on your level. Eventually, she’ll want things he can’t give her. If I were you, I’d tell her to just end it now.”
It cuts into you. You’ve always known that your mom, loving as she can be to you, thinks that people on the other side of the island should stay in their place. Just like Rafe said.
This is why you went so far away for college. You needed distance from this mentality. You didn’t want to grow into someone who believed the same things.
You wonder what people who live like you have said and done to Rafe. How many times he’s been dismissed and berated. The thought twists your stomach, anger rising hot. You don’t want to be anything like that.
“Thanks for the advice,” you tell your mom, the words tasting wrong. “I should go to bed.”
You always slip back into the young, quiet, obedient version of yourself when you’re back home. You hate how easy it is to fall into that role, even when your chest is burning with everything you want to say, but can’t.
You’ve learned what happens when you don’t play along. There have been times where you dared to push back or disagree, even a little. And the people around you never failed to make you feel ashamed and wrong and stupid for stepping outside the lines.
As you climb up the stairs to your bedroom, your phone buzzes with a text. It’s an unfamiliar number, but you quickly realize that it’s Rafe, asking you how your night has been.
You smile to yourself. Your mom just reminded you exactly how she expects you to think. Who to talk to. Who to stay away from. And yet your breath catches over a message from him.
There’s no way you won’t reply. Whatever this is, whatever it becomes, you’re not going to play by the rules this time.
(to be continued)
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so this is dads!apprentice!rafe like,, u drop off lunch to your dad every other day just to run into rafe and say 'oh i got a little something for u too' bcs he looks so good in his workwear bye.
Summary — If having a fairytale love story guaranteed a happy ending, then, uh, why are you and Rafe getting a divorce?
Content — angst, drama, marriage in crisis, hurt/comfort, brother's best friend, childhood friends to high school sweethearts to lovers to divorce.
Navigation — Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13
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sometimes i black out and the spirit of rafeblr momentarily possesses my body before i can proof read and edit the grammar horror show that is my writing.
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it's a late wednesday evening, your empty dinner plate sat at your vanity as you lay in bed, scrolling on your phone with the faint murmur of some show playing in the background from your computer.
your phone rings long enough that you almost let it go to voicemail.
then you see the name under the number, maybe: rafe cameron.
you frown. you know him, but not really. he comes into the bar some nights, always late, always alone, drinking like it’s the only thing he’s good at. half the time he pretends not to recognise you, even though you went to the same high school, his friends used to take up half the parking lot, loud and golden, while you slipped out the side door and went home to work.
you pick up anyway. “...hello?”
for a second, there’s just the static sound of someone breathing too close to the mic.
“you think you’re better than me, don’t you?”
you sit up. “rafe?”
“yeah, yeah, it’s me,” he says quickly. “don’t say my name like that. like you’re surprised or something. you know me. you know me. always standing there behind that bar, acting like you don’t see me. but you do. i can tell. i can feel it when you look.”
you rub a hand over your face. “it’s late. what are you-”
“you’re always there,” he keeps going, talking right over you. “always watching. you don’t even have to say anything. it’s that look like- you’re waiting for me to crash. like you want me to. every time i screw up, you’re just- there, pouring a drink, pretending it’s just another night.”
“that is my job...” you mutter.
he huffs a laugh, harsh and tired. “yeah, your job. sure. that’s what you tell yourself. but I see it. that look you give me. that quiet little judgment. it’s like you’re saying, ‘huh, kook can’t keep his shit together.’”
“rafe-”
“you don’t get it,” he snaps, then softens immediately, like he startled himself. “you don’t. you’re a pogue. you think that means you’re grounded or real or something. but it’s easy for you. you don’t have to be anything, you don’t have to prove shit to anyone.”
he’s rambling now, words tripping over each other. “you get to just- exist. work a shift, pour a drink, smile like it doesn’t cost you anything. meanwhile, i’m- i’m supposed to be somebody. i’m supposed to know what i’m doing. and i don’t. i don’t know anything.”
he chuckles again, but there’s nothing funny about it. “and every time i look up, there you are. always calm. pisses me off.”
you can hear him pacing somewhere, gravel crunching under his shoes, a lighter flicking open and closed.
“i keep telling myself i don’t care what you think,” he says. “you’re just some girl from the cut. but then i walk in, and you’re there- i try not to look. i swear. but you’ve got this- this face, this way of looking at people, and it’s- fuck, it’s too much.”
he exhales, slow and shaky. “you’re too pretty, you know that? you shouldn’t be allowed to be that pretty. it’s not fair. it’s like you’re doing it on purpose.”
“rafe...” you start, but he’s already somewhere else, lost in it.
“sometimes i think about what it’d be like if you actually talked to me,” he says. “like really talked. not just, ‘you want another?’ or ‘cash or card.’ just- something real. i think about that a lot, actually. more than i should.”
he laughs again, a low, unsteady sound. “you’d probably still look at me the same way, though. like i’m something you’re studying. something you already figured out.”
“rafe, i think you should sober up-”
“don’t hang up,” he blurts, sharp now. “just- don’t. not yet. i don’t wanna think anymore, alright? you’ve got this voice- makes me feel like everything’s not spinning for a second.”
he pauses, breathing uneven. then, softly, “you should come over.”
you blink, staring at the ceiling. “what?”
“i’m serious,” he says, the words slurring together. “just- come over. you don’t even have to talk. i’ll shut up, i swear. i just… i just want to see you. i want to know if you look at me the same way when i’m not across a bar.”
there’s a rustle, like he’s sitting down, the phone shifting against his shirt.
“please,” he murmurs, so quietly it almost doesn’t sound like him. “come over.”
edit: part two here.
t talks ; needy rafe >>>>> pheww, this is sort of based on a real experience i'm ngl
this song + doubt me by 21 pilots is lowkey the vibe of this fic but i may have just added the latter bc im listening to it rn 😙
ANYWAYS i really REALLY liked how this slowly builds up with his confession- like you feel his spiraling thoughts, you feel his headspace, and you even SYMPATHIZE with him. i like that despite reader not answering him that much, there’s still so much weight in that silence and the way it builds- the dialogues itself- is spectacular in a way that has me taking notes for how to build tension.
“you don’t get it,” he snaps, then softens immediately, like he startled himself.
okay my FAVORITE micro trope is whenever the mmc gets aggressive and then shocks himself and calms down because he doesn’t like speaking to the fmc like that and when i read this line i literally audibly went “damn, that’s good”
lastly, i didn’t know how you were going to end the fic - and i think for these type of stories i really focus on the ending bc it can truly make or break the overall feel - but him immediately saying “you should come over” was PERFECT because it wasn’t phrased as a question where she could say yes or no, it was almost a command, a plead, a NEED and i LOVE it
✴︎ rafe gets a little too high and calls you.ᐟ (part three)
it's been a week since the fated high phone call from your favourite bar regular, yet you haven't seen him since. not even at the aforementioned country club bar.
he ghosts around in your head while you wipe down tables and clean glasses, it hits friday when you finally hear something about the cameron boy.
"i can't believe the prince has been kicked to the curb." jj chortles before jumping up onto an unstable surfboard, squatting like he can feel a wave beneath him. your attention flicked to him a little to quickly even for your own liking, grasshoppers on the chateau's dark lawn filling the air for a beat.
your brow furrows as you subtly sit up, "who? rafe?"
jj jumps down and falls into the scrappy couch beside pope, grinning, "unless you know any other outerbanks royalty"
"please, he'll be back in the tanneyhill mansion before morning." kie scoffs from a hammock. she couldn't hide the distain in her tone despite attempting to laugh it off.
you felt the couch cushions shift as john b shrugged, "i dunno, has ward ever caught rafe with blow before? kooks might get away with everything but if you're cameron royalty, that tainted image might get him in some deeper shit with daddy."
"oh shit, how much did his dad find on him?" you finally chimed in, curiosity taking ahold of your better judgement.
jj dropped his head shaking it with a smile, "not how much, who."
"sheriff caught him off his face stumbling around the street, powder all over his nose" jb gleamed before jj started giggling.
pope started laughing along with jj, "all the privilege in the world but not a braincell to spare"
you could feel your muscles freeze where you sat. shit, was that the night he called you? or was it some time later? you hadn't heard from him for so long and hadn't stopped to genuinely consider why.
rafe cameron wouldn't avoid you at his country club. not unless he was literally forced to.
you swallowed hard and choked out a little laugh with the others before pulling your phone out to 'check the time'. "shit guys um, i've gotta get some errands done tonight before work early tomorrow morning"
john b extended a fist, "damn laters, we'll catch you in the surf tomorrow noon right?"
you almost missed the fist bump as you shot up before nodding and exchanging goodbyes with the others, then heading to your car, heart beating in your throat at this point.
you cursed as you fumbled the car into drive, should you have asked about when it happened? would your friends find your behaviour around the whole situation weird? what the fuck happened to rafe???
the road was mostly empty, sun fully gone as you head toward home with one question burning harder than all others.
do you call rafe?
t talks ; OH MY GOD HEY. so inspiration hit me like a truck, however i know this is pretty short. this is genuinely becoming a mini series atp. I WILL CONTINUE THIS STORY BUT ITS SO FUN TO BE WRITING AGAIN WTF
massive colossal shout out zya cos your comments made me pause time and reread this and realise i wanted to continue it @zyafics
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you and rafe met at the gym, maybe through mutual friends, maybe because he couldn’t stop 'accidentally' taking the bench next to yours. now you’re best friends who flirt like it’s a sport and spend more time teasing each other than actually working out. he’s always sweaty, always grinning, and somehow always shirtless by the end of every hangout.
he’s the type to send you gym selfies captioned "form check?", it’s just an excuse to show off his biceps, and the type to dramatically flex whenever you tell him to carry something heavy.
t talks ; i've come back from the dead to give you something small... writer's block! help!!!!!!
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✴︎ running into brothersbsf!rafe at a bar when you're still underage .ᐟ
"what the fuck are you doing here?" rafe barks, his hand wraps around your upper arm, dragging you into a dark corner away from your friends.
your brow furrows as you yank your arm back. "you dont have to grab me like that, god!" you exclaim, now rubbing a faint mark in the shape of rafe's hand.
his jaw ticks and he looks away nodding for a moment, "you shouldn't be here, shit, this isn't even one of the bars you go to with a fake y/n. and what if your brother sees you? he's here tonight"
you glance around before settling your gaze back on rafe's shadowed jaw, "well you're not gonna tell him, right?"
rafe runs his hand through his buzzed head, deliberation apparent over his features. you waited for his answer, praying he'd actually do you a solid for once.
he looked down and shook his head, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose, "jesus. i won't tell him, only 'cause all he'll hear is that i was at the club with his sister."
you grinned at him wide, eliciting a smirk back before he motioned that he was watching you as he walked away, back to his friends.
t talks ; when i mean underage i mean like 18 or older but not 21 lol #america
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