You’re standing by a sliding glass door, and while the crowded house is warm, the January cold still presses through the glass. It’s another house party in Figure Eight, and being back here reminds you that the island never really changes.

You lift your cup to your lips. No alcohol, since it’s better that you don’t drink right now. The pain that dug into you since the last time you saw Rafe hasn’t gone away, and getting drunk will just make it worse.

It’s been three weeks since you left his bedroom. Since the last words between you twisted everything you thought you understood about the two of you. The holidays came and went, and now it’s mere days before everyone here heads back to their colleges to start the spring semester.

You’ve spent so much time telling yourself Rafe didn’t even hurt you, that you were simply angry that he tricked you. But you’ve resigned yourself to the truth now.

At some point over the months you spent getting to know him, you did give him the power to hurt you. And he used it.

The worst part is you don’t even know how much of what he said was manipulation. Which parts were fake. If any parts were even real.

The party hums around you as your friends talk over the music. You haven’t told Ivy and Alayna about any of it. They asked about the bet and you said you gave up, that Rafe was too annoying for you to pretend to like him. They laughed it off.

Through the glass door, there’s a backyard bonfire in a stone pit, a group gathered around it. Rafe’s there, shoulders hunched slightly against the cold.

He’s been drinking a lot. Even from here, you immediately noticed the way he keeps tilting his beer back, again and again.

It’s only been minutes since you and your friends drifted toward this corner of the house, relieved when you didn’t spot him inside. But then you glanced out the door.

The glass reflects your face back at you. You can’t believe how easy it is for you to look unaffected. Like nothing he did ever got to you. But then again, you’ve gotten very good at burying things where no one can see them.

You think about the last time you spoke to him, how he stammered and cried and told you he wanted to be with you. But even if that were true, this started because he saw you as a challenge. You were just a girl to fuck so he could brag about it to his friends.

At least you could tell that you really did hurt him when you told him it was all fake for you. You broke his heart, but what you never saw coming was that he’d break yours, too.

You force yourself to stop looking outside. You turn back toward your friends. You let yourself get pulled into their conversation, and for a few minutes, it works. Then Ivy’s eyes widen, her gaze toward the backyard. You turn.

A fight has broken out near the bonfire. And Rafe is on the ground, surrounded. You wait for someone to step in, but the guys not involved just watch. You stare, hoping someone will do something, but he’s getting pummeled.

And despite everything you’re feeling, the pang of fear is the loudest.

Impulsively, you set your drink down and push through the crowd inside the house. It’s easy to spot one of Rafe’s friends, Topper, leaning against the kitchen island. You’ve known him by sight for years.

You lean in close so he can hear you over the music.

“You need to help Rafe,” you say. “He’s in the backyard.”

Topper’s smile disappears and he shakes his head like he’s irritated, used to the fact that his friend is always stirring up trouble. He grabs two other guys and they head for the backyard. You follow, zipping up your hoodie the second the chill hits you.

His friends manage to get the group to back off, shouting and shoving. The crowd around him loosens.

Rafe is still on the grass, though. He’s curled on his side. His hair’s fallen into his face, and he’s breathing hard. He doesn’t even try to get up when his friends tell him to.

He doesn’t look like the man who once made you feel protected. Now it feels like you have to be the one to save him.

Worry digs into you. You step closer, leaning down.

“Rafe,” you say sharply. “Get up.”

Hearing your voice does something to him, even though the last time he saw you, you’d proven what people say about you is true.

“Get up,” you repeat.

Rafe lifts his head and his eyes finally land on you. From where he’s lying, you’re framed against the starry sky, the bonfire’s glow catching the edge of your face. You look unbelievably beautiful.

Your voice cuts through the ringing in his ears. He hates how nice it sounds. Hates that it still gets to him. Hates you.

But even with all that, this is the first time in a long time that he feels a semblance of steadiness. He forces himself onto his knees, swaying slightly.

Your eyes scan the massive yard, searching for somewhere you can take him that isn’t in full view of the crowd. Then you spot the poolhouse tucked behind the in‑ground pool. You hope it’s unlocked. And you hope your friends don’t see you doing this.

You don’t want Ivy or Alayna to catch you worrying about him. You don’t even know how you’d explain what you’ve done so far. You’re not sure you can.

“Let’s go,” you say firmly.

He tries to stand and nearly tips, so your hand finds his arm, steadying him.

The moment your fingers close around Rafe’s bicep, traitorous warmth buzzes under your skin. You despise him. You’ve told yourself that a hundred times. He hurt you. He made you feel stupid. You should want nothing to do with him.

But your body won’t listen. It’s unfair that it brings you comfort to touch him again.

The walk across the yard is long. Rafe’s breaths are ragged and he leans some of his weight into you and the voices fade the farther you get, replaced by the distant hum of ocean waves.

When you reach the poolhouse, you try the handle and thankfully, it turns. You push the door open and guide him inside. The space is dark and chilly and smells like chlorine. You flick on the light.

Rafe sinks down onto the closest couch, elbows on his knees, staring ahead with a blank expression. And now, you can see him clearly.

His bottom lip is split. He obviously got punched in the nose, too, because it’s covered in blood. His hands are trembling, and he keeps blinking as he stares ahead.

A drop of blood falls onto his thigh, soaking into his jeans, and you unzip your hoodie, shrugging it off even though the cold immediately sinks into your arms. You can’t believe your instinct is to choose his comfort over yours.

Rafe is dazed. Then he sees a bunched‑up cloth in front of his face. You’re standing over him, offering him something to press to his nose.

Past the blood, he can smell you on the fabric. Your expression is tight and unreadable. But he could never read you all that well. Obviously.

“Take it,” you state.

You’re helping him. After everything. It’s what he always wished for, someone to look after him after he loses it and gets hurt, but it’s ruined, because all he can remember is the cruel way you told him you could never feel anything for him.

He lifts a hand, takes your sweater from you, and presses it to his nose with a wince.

You watch him shaking, standing a few feet away, arms wrapped around yourself. You can’t make yourself move any closer. And you can’t make yourself leave either. What the hell is it about him that makes you act this way?

You’re curious and worried and angry. You try to piece together what happened, why he got ganged up on like that. Obviously he couldn’t fight back for once because of how drunk he is.

You teeter between caring and refusing to care, because as much as you tell yourself you’re done with him, walking out of this room while he’s shaking and bleeding feels impossible.

“Why are you even here?” Rafe mutters, not looking at you.

He’s been hanging on by a thread. The guys by the fire were already annoying him, laughing about how wasted he was. Normally he’d just tell them to shut up, but tonight he was drinking because he’s trying to forget you.

Rafe was already close to snapping. He made a comment to one of the guys about his parents just to piss him off, some gossip he heard a while ago. To get Rafe back, the asshole said something about his dad.

That’s what broke him. He swung. The other guy swung back, harder and with his friends backing him up.

You don’t know how to answer his question, because you have no idea why you’re here. You stay silent, staring, never having felt this before.

“They said something about my dad,” he says under his breath, trying to justify himself. His words are slurred. He’s too drunk to filter anything. “Bet he’s real proud.”

You still. You remember Rafe saying that he’s not what his family wants him to be. To know he lost it over a stupid comment about his dad makes it clear that that’s really something that gets to him.

Or maybe not. You don’t know anymore. Every memory you have of him feels poisoned, warped by the fact that he was lying to you through so much of it.

Rafe hates the silence, that you’re just standing there, that you shattered his heart.

“What? You’re thinking I deserve this, right?” he rasps, bringing the bunched up hoodie to his lap, looking down at the blood sinking into the fabric. He’s simply repeating what you told him. That he deserved to be fucked with, that he’s stupid.

Anger floods you so fast it’s dizzying. He’s actually feeling sorry for himself, after he got himself in this mess, after he admitted to trying to use you. The audacity almost makes you laugh.

“Do you expect me to feel sorry for you?” you say.

Rafe lets out a breath, your cold words slicing into him. And finally, he looks up at you.

“No,” he mutters, shaking his head slightly, squinting, grimacing. “I don’t expect anything from you.”

That’s what makes you snap. You scoff and storm out, the door slamming shut behind you. You should’ve just left him on the cold ground.

Rafe doesn’t move. He keeps staring at the floor long after you’re gone, shoulders hunched, breath shaky, his nose and jaw pulsating with pain.

The silence presses in around him. All he can smell is blood now. Tears burn his eyes and he squeezes them shut.

・・・・・

You never get attached. Every fling you’ve had always stayed surface‑level. It wasn’t even a conscious effort; it was how you protected yourself from getting hurt.

But with Rafe, it’s like he broke you apart, like he lit a fire in you and doused it in fuel until you became someone you didn’t recognize.

And you had the same effect on him, because while he did lie to you when this started, there was no faking the meltdown he had. His voice cracked in a way that didn’t sound like him as he told you he regretted the bet, that you deserve better.

You hurt him, too. It doesn’t even feel satisfying, though.

It’s Sunday afternoon and you’re lying in bed in your sorority house bedroom. Your mind keeps going back to Friday night in Kildare. The way Rafe looked, bloodied and hurt. The way your instinct kicked in to help him.

You’d caught up with Ivy and Alayna at the party after leaving the poolhouse. And you lied. You told them that even though you don’t like Rafe, you just couldn’t stand there and watch him get hurt. No matter who it was, you’d help.

The guilt of lying has been eating away at you. But how can you possibly confess to making a fool of yourself for someone who disrespected you the way he did?

You got back to campus yesterday. You desperately want to pick up where you left off before Rafe. It’s like he knocked something loose in you and you can’t get it back into place.

You stare up at the ceiling, wired. You told your sorority sisters you were going to take a nap, exhausted from the trip back. But you haven’t slept. You’ve just been lying here, listening to the muffled voices drifting up from downstairs.

The loud rumble of an engine drifts in from outside and you push yourself up on your elbows to peek through the sheer curtain.

A black pickup rolls to a stop in front of the house. Rafe steps out, something bunched in his hand. You stay still, watching him.

Time drags by and then there’s a knock at your bedroom door. Your breath catches.

He can’t see you like this. You want to have the power here. Even after you helped him on Friday night, he still looked at you with so much hatred. Like you don’t give a shit about him. And it’s best that he thinks that.

You edge back toward the window to see Rafe walking away from the house, heading for his truck again. Relief finds you. It’s not him.

“Yeah?” you call, forcing your voice to sound normal.

Jada cracks the door open. “Sorry, did I wake you?”

You shake your head no.

“Rafe came by,” she says, stepping inside. “He dropped this off.”

She holds out your hoodie. The same one you’d pressed against his face in the poolhouse. The fabric is soft and clean now, scrubbed of every trace of him. You take it, thanking her.

“He looked rough,” Jada adds, watching you. You’re still, staring ahead as you hear his truck drive away. “You okay?”

A while ago, you’d told her you were done with the bet, that you’d keep seeing Rafe just for fun. Then, when things fizzled, you told her you got bored. You never said how you actually let your guard down for the first time.

You clutch the hoodie to your chest. And you don’t have it in you anymore to pretend.

“I liked him,” you say, the words thin. Your eyes well up before you can stop it.

Jada sits beside you immediately. You can see it in her face: she’s never seen you like this. You’re supposed to be the one who never cries over a boy.

“He had a bet with his friends that he could have sex with me,” you tell her. “That’s why he started this whole thing.”

“What?” Jada breathes, stunned. “Are you serious?”

“He cried when he admitted it,” you say, letting out a scoff. “And I couldn’t even feel bad for him. Like, what, you realized I was a person and now you’re sorry?”

Your breath catches. You look away.

“I told him that I was in it to break his heart. And he said I did.” You swallow hard. “I forgot about that bet with my friends a long time ago, but I said that just to hurt him back.”

“I’m so sorry,” she says softly. “What a mess.”

“I know.” You wipe your eyes, your breath shaky. “Why does it hurt so bad?”

Jada’s brows pull together, her expression warm and aching with sympathy. She reaches for your hand.

“It won’t forever,” she tells you. “I promise.”

You nod, even though you don’t believe it yet. You’d give anything to feel like yourself again. To feel like Rafe never touched a single part of you.

・・・・・

Rafe thought he wanted you to open the door. Once he got to the front step of your sorority house, though, he realized he couldn’t face you. He barely said a word when your roommate answered.

He held out the hoodie, muttered that it was yours, and went. He only returned it because he hates having something of yours lying around.

His hands are tight on the wheel. He turns off Greek Row. He doesn’t have a destination. He just needs to move to protect himself from drowning in his thoughts.

His stomach pinches in pain and he realizes he hasn’t eaten all day. He imagines you in the passenger seat, teasing him as you go to get food together, and he hates that his mind goes there.

Friday night crashes back into him, the way you grabbed his arm and led him to the poolhouse. He thought you’d never speak to him again. He doesn’t know why you did it. And he can’t read into it, because it wasn’t that long ago that you looked at him like he was nothing.

How could you do that to him? He keeps replaying it, over and over, torturing himself. The way you sat in his bed, eyes cold, telling him it was all a bet for you, too.

Admittedly, before all that, it felt good that the girl who seems to hate every guy saw something in him. But now he knows you faked it all.

He tells himself he doesn't need you. But all he can think about is how easily you said you never liked him, that you never could, and how much it hurts to know you meant it.

・・・・・

Rafe sits in the lobby of the main lodge while his friends talk around him.

He didn’t want to come. He got out of the spring day trip for the past two years, but Trey was serious that everyone needed to show up after the whole probation bullshit.

And Rafe doesn’t care for orders, but he cares enough not to let the frat president make an example out of him. He refuses to look weak, to be cut out socially, to be even more isolated than he already feels.

Rafe’s been bracing to see you since the moment he stepped out onto the college-owned retreat center. The place is huge, a cluster of buildings that face a lake. It’s big, but not big enough that he can fully avoid you.

He rubs a hand over his face. He has no idea what he’s supposed to do if you come.

・・・・・

You’ve been excited for this all year. It’s one of your favorite parts of Greek life. This day trip is a long‑standing tradition. Every spring semester, every chapter is invited out for a Saturday of team‑building and fun.

But this year, you’ve spent the entire 45-minute drive wondering if Rafe will be here. You’re in the backseat of your sorority sister’s car, music blasting as you approach the retreat center.

Your phone buzzes in your lap. It’s the guy you met at a party earlier this week. You hated how, the entire time he talked, you kept comparing him to Rafe. He didn’t catch your humor, didn’t look at you like you’re the most interesting thing in the world like Rafe used to.

Usually you can distract yourself with someone new. It won’t work this time.

・・・・・

The chapter leaders, made up of the frat and sorority presidents, welcome everyone in front of the main lodge. There are a lot of people here. With most members of all the chapters on campus, maybe a hundred students total. With so many people gathered, the air feels even hotter, sun beating down hard.

You spot him. Rafe is standing with his frat, that stupid hat sitting backwards on his head again. He’s too far away for you to see how much he’s healed since that fight he got into.

But you can tell he looks tired. He doesn’t want to be here. You’re not surprised. The last time you saw him was through your bedroom window a week ago. He looked just as tired then, like a light he once had is gone now.

And if you didn’t believe it in that moment, you do now. You really did break his heart. It’s painfully obvious.

He looks up. Your eyes meet through the crowd. For one second, it’s just you and him, standing on opposite sides of a crowd, pretending you’re strangers.

You’ll have to get used to that. You look away.

・・・・・

Fireflies drift over the grass in the warm night air. It’s the last stretch of the day, the lull after a big dinner. It’s tradition to end the day trip with a dip in the lake. You did it last year and you’re eager to do it again, to plunge into the water after a hot, tiring day.

Some cars in the lot are already gone, surely the chapter presidents. They know all about the swim, and they don’t forbid it, but they don’t encourage it. They just slip away once dinner ends, leaving the night to everyone else.

You walk with your sorority sisters to the trunk of the car to grab the towels you’d packed, then head back to the lake, hopeful you’ll be able to keep avoiding Rafe like you have been all day.

Rafe’s frat brothers talk over each other as they exit the dining hall, hyping up the lake jump, saying he skipped the last two years so he doesn’t get to bail on anything.

He didn’t even know about it until five minutes ago. He’s exhausted, though, and the idea that the day isn’t over yet annoys him.

He just wants to leave. Unfortunately, he got a ride with them, which means he’s stuck until they’re done splashing around like idiots. He tells them he’s not coming, so Mac tosses him the keys. They jog off toward the lake under the moonlight while Rafe stays behind.

He reaches the car and yanks open the door, thinking he can sit inside, but the moment he leans in, a wave of trapped heat slams into him. He ends up leaning against the side of the car instead and pulls out his phone to kill time.

From the lake, he can already hear the distant splash of someone jumping in, followed by cheers.

Minutes later, he hears footsteps on the gravel. He assumes it’s someone heading back to their car, someone else who decided not to jump. But the footsteps angle closer, weaving between the cars.

Then he glances up. It’s you. And you don’t notice him.

You’re heading for your sorority sister’s car, your phone tight in your hand. You’d forgotten to drop it off earlier, too rushed to think straight. Now you’re back to stash it in the car before heading back to the lake to finally jump in.

You reach the car, find the backseat handle, and pull. It’s locked. Your friend swore it wasn’t. You sigh and try the driver’s side next. Nothing.

Rafe is watching you, because like always, he can’t tear his eyes away. He’s angry. Embarrassed. Confused, because he still feels a pull towards you, and it’s the worst part of this whole thing.

You tug the handle again out of frustration. That’s what makes him speak.

“I think it’s locked,” he mocks you, words edged with annoyance.

The sound of Rafe’s voice hits you. You look up to see him slouched against a car parked at a diagonal, barely ten feet separating you.

And immediately, it’s effortless to be mean to him again. You’d let your guard down with him once, but before that, snapping at him was second nature. And you want to be that old version of yourself again.

“Really?” you scoff sarcastically, turning away. “Asshole.”

Rafe’s jaw firms, the sting of anger and hurt and betrayal rushing through him.

“I’m the asshole?” he replies.

You stop in your tracks, blood boiling. And you can’t let any of your heartbreak show. He lied to you, humiliated you, was so mean to you when you helped him at that party, and now he’s acting like he’s blameless.

You turn and glare at him, arms crossed, the words sitting on your tongue. You’re just close enough that you can see the tight line of his jaw in the moonlight.

“You think you’re totally innocent here?” you mutter, taking a step forward, heart pounding.

Rafe looks away and scoffs. What he did doesn’t compare. It doesn’t even come close. He came clean. And he never set out to hurt someone. You did.

“I’m better than you,” he mutters.

“Sure,” you huff. “Starting a bet with your friends that you can trick a girl into fucking you is what a really good person does.”

He grimaces. He knows how it must’ve sounded, like he was just another asshole who wanted you for only one thing. You’d told him how men make you feel that way, and while nothing you shared with him was real, he knows the anger you felt when you told him that was.

“It’s not like that,” he mutters. “I didn’t think you’d care.”

You scoff, the sound of splashing and laughter carrying from the lake. You can’t help thinking how different things would be if you’d never let him in. You could be out there in the water, light and unbothered, instead of standing here with this weight pressing on your heart.

“Is that what you tell yourself?” you reply.

Rafe adjusts his hat as if it’ll steady him. He’s thrown by how merciless you sound, how easily you can cut him down when he’s trying to explain himself.

“Come on,” he says. In the back of his mind, he hears every rumor he ever absorbed about you, about the girl who treats guys like they’re disposable. “You know what people say about you.”

“Right. They say I’m a bitch, so–”

“They say that you don’t even have feelings,” he cuts in, fast and sharp.

It stings. You thought it’s what you wanted, for people to think that you don’t get hurt. That you can’t. But hearing him say it, like it’s the truth, makes you realize how much of yourself you’ve hidden.

Silence settles between you. Rafe’s expression shifts, pain flickering through it.

He thinks about everything you’ve been through together, everything people say about you, and how not that long ago, he thought that none of it matched the girl standing in front of him.

You’d told him to stop bothering you. But if you’re letting him bother you right now, if you’re still here, still talking, still glaring at him like he’s actually getting to you, then maybe a part of you cares.

“I’ve never been a guy who can just mess around,” he admits, realizing how weak it makes him sound, but needing to get it out nonetheless. “But I thought I could with you because I didn’t think it’d mean anything to you. And I was right.”

He says it hoping you’ll refute it.

“That doesn’t make it okay,” you tersely say instead.

Then, your eyes flick down. He hates the way you go quiet, the way you slip somewhere he can’t follow. You do this. You shut down without warning.

“When were you going to tell me?” Rafe asks, voice tight. He needs to know how long you would’ve kept stringing him along.

You remember how fast everything collapsed when he told you about the bet, when you told him it was a bet for you, too. And as your gaze remains on his chest, simply to avoid eye contact, you hate that you also remember how good it felt to be pressed against him, to feel his heartbeat, to hear his breath.

“When I felt like it,” you say simply.

It’s too much. The whole conversation, the way he’s looking at you. You turn, your phone still in your hand, planning to hide it somewhere in your clothes and hope you can find it again after the cold plunge you desperately need.

Rafe’s heart picks up when you start to walk away.

This can’t be where the conversation ends. There’s a part of him that always wants clarity, always wants the truth spelled out, even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts. He can’t stand loose ends, and you’ve become the biggest one in his life.

He moves before he even thinks about it.

Rafe rounds you in a few quick strides, cutting off your path. He steps into your space, close enough that you have to tilt your chin up to meet his eyes. He’s inches from you when he speaks.

“Why’d you help me the other night?” he asks, because it hurts not knowing anymore.

Now that he’s close enough, you can see the still‑healing bruise at the bridge of his nose. It reminds you of the jolt of panic that shot through you when you saw him on the ground at that party back home. And it’s a quiet accusation of how much you care about him.

“I wish I didn’t,” you mutter. “You were such a dick.”

You step to the side, but Rafe blocks you and sternly says your name. Just like the night at the beach when this all started, when he tried to apologize for spilling his drink on you, when you told him to fuck off and you wish he’d listened.

“Move,” you say sharply. But he won’t. He can’t believe that he actually had an effect on you that night. Or ever.

And the possibility that you bluffed about your bet rattles him now. The way you said it that night was almost too perfect to be made up on the spot, but he so badly wants you to tell him you were lying.

“Was there really a bet?” he says.

You sigh. It hurts, knowing you’d once agreed to something so cruel, knowing he’s asking you if you ever saw him as more than just a game, knowing that he started this whole thing with bad intentions, too.

“Was there?” he presses.

You look down at the gravel. And you don’t know what possesses you to be honest, whether it’s the bruise on his nose, or how close he is, or how he said your name. Or maybe it’s simply because you’re tired of pretending.

“At first,” you relent.

“At first?” he echoes.

“I decided to forget about it.”

“When?” he asks.

“That day you came to my room after I got off the phone with my mom,” you tell him. You look up at him again, and the eye contact is both hard and relieving, slicing through the distance you’ve put between you. “I felt guilty about it because I thought I was wrong about you. I thought I saw good in you.”

You see the impact of your words in the way Rafe’s brows pull tight. Your instinct is to be spiteful, to hurt him the way he hurt you.

Rafe remembers that day in your room so clearly. It was a long time ago. You forgot about the bet, and you still wanted to keep him around, even though you’d been clear it wasn’t for a relationship.

You being the person who saw something in him felt better than anything else. It felt like proof that he could be someone good. Someone better. And then he showed you that he can’t be trusted.

“Got it,” he says, clipped, his voice low. He didn’t think he mattered enough to hurt you, but it’s obvious that you’re already checked out and done with him.

The defeated way Rafe says it makes it clear to you that he’s given up. You swallow hard. You know that if you tried to step away now, he’d let you.

“You think I don’t have feelings?” you scoff, the accusation still pressing on your chest. “You don’t know me at all.”

Nobody knows you. And with him this close again, the fear flares that he’ll see you for who you actually are, and he’ll realize you’re not someone worth putting time into.

“I tried to,” Rafe murmurs, his voice coming out sharper than he means it to be.

You think about how he apologized to you, cried over you, told you he wanted more than whatever the two of you had. And then you called him stupid, told him you never liked him, to dig the knife in deeper.

Loss, guilt, and betrayal crash together in your chest, a vicious pressure that won’t ease up.

You’re just two people who never expected to like each other. Something between you ran deeper than either of you meant it to, but you don’t have it in you to try with him. Not after he lied. Not after you lied, too.

“I regret it, too, okay? I… actually liked you,” you admit. Your lips press together, your body heavy with pain. “But it doesn’t matter anymore. I told you this is over and I meant it.”

Rafe gets it now. Even though you felt something, he sees that this was never going to work. Because you don’t want it to.

He purses his lips, offers a curt nod, and steps aside to let you pass. He gets a dose of you, and it sticks with him like it always does, like it always will. But he knows he can’t get any more.

You walk past him. You’re not built for wanting someone, for letting them want you back. And as you pace towards the lake under the night sky, hearing crickets chirping and people splashing, an unexpected relief settles in your heart.

Because for once, you didn’t hide or pretend you were above anything. You showed Rafe that this hurt you, too. It’s an honest kind of victory, and it’s so much lighter than the forced pride you’ve been carrying.

Laying everything out feels good. Clean. And now you can focus on trying to put it all behind you.

(to be continued) (next part is the last)

Your chest tightens the moment you spot Rafe across the frat house’s main floor.

He texted you the day after you abruptly got out of his truck two weeks ago, asking if he could see you. You never replied. You should’ve just texted him back, but it’s not fair that you’re the one feeling guilty when you clearly needed space.

But you’re over it now. And you want to be around him. You’ve never felt chemistry like you do with him, and it’s a shame that he couldn’t have just kept things uncomplicated.

His frat’s probation is done. That’s why you’re seeing him at a party for the first time in a while. This frat house is the largest on Greek Row and you’ve always joked that it’s made up of the loudest guys on campus.

Rafe is in the corner of the living room, surrounded by his friends. He looks happy. You’re glad. You never let a guy get close enough to make you think that way, but there’s more to him than what you’re used to.

He admitted to you that he knows the pain that comes from a parent walking away. And it tells you even more that he still answers his mom’s calls. He’s forgiving in a way you don’t understand. He’s softer in places you’ve hardened.

You’re on a weird middle ground now. Rafe’s absence doesn't break you, but seeing him again is nice. You’ve recentered yourself, got a grip on the feelings you thought you were developing for him, and with that out of your mind, you can admit you kind of miss him.

You want to get a moment away from the noise. It’s so loud here that you know it’s a matter of time before this frat is next on the probation list.

You tell your friends you’re going to the bathroom, then navigate through the crowded hallway, knowing there’s a chance you’ll lock eyes with Rafe as you pass him.

You wish he’d glance your way. You want things to get back to how they were with him, physical with no feelings involved. Maybe it’s a silly hope, but it’s one you have regardless.

As you squeeze past people, the music suddenly stops. Without the throb of bass, the smaller sounds of the party rush in, conversations fading into confused silence, your breath loud in your ears.

Then, a guy shouts, “Clear out!”

You’re not surprised. Of course this house is getting busted by security. You’ll need to go through the back door.

Everyone starts to scramble. You let yourself be swept up in the tide, pushed deeper into the house, figuring you can just follow the crowd.

But people are moving too slowly, so you follow a group of girls rushing through an interior door. More people shuffle in behind you into the laundry room, a mix of hushed voices, and the door swings shut.

Most are laughing through their whispers, drunk and loving the adventure, while you lean against the washing machine, not in the mood for this. You cross your arms, realizing there’s at least ten bodies crammed in here, and in the small, darkened room, you see him.

Rafe’s leaning back against the door. In the dimness, he still looks content, clearly tipsy and chuckling at something a friend just said, until his gaze sweeps the room. When he meets your eyes, his face falls just a fraction.

“Come on,” a guy snips frantically. “We gotta get out.”

You’re certain he’s an overeager freshman in this house’s frat. He scrambles onto a table, straining as he cranks open the narrow window at the top of the wall. He pushes out the screen and pulls himself onto the grass.

People follow, clearly finding a thrill in all of this, but you refuse to shove yourself through the window, especially after hearing a girl tell her friend behind her to watch out for the pointy bush.

As the room empties, Rafe remains at the end of the line. Normally, he’d vault through that window without a second thought, but he lingers, the pull you still have over him keeping him here.

He watches you from the corner of his eye. You’re just standing there, arms crossed, looking bored. He hesitates, like his sneakers are stuck to the tile, torn between the exit and the girl who rejected him.

You find Rafe’s eyes as the guy in front of him scrambles up onto the table. After a second of silence between you, you lift your shoulders in a shrug.

“I’m not drunk enough to do all that,” you explain to him, and hearing your voice again, especially with that familiar laugh behind it, keeps him from moving.

He doesn’t smirk like he usually does. Instead, his gaze is heavy, the corners of his mouth tight. He looks angry at you, and it leaves a sinking feeling in your chest.

“I think that’s a closet over there,” you say, gesturing toward the door on the other side of the room, saying it casually so he doesn’t think you’ll be offended if he doesn't take the veiled invitation.

“Rafe! Come on, man!” one of his friends calls from the other side.

His eyes stay on you as you pass by him to open the closet door and he shakes his head, looking back up to his friend.

“Just go,” he says.

Cooper hesitates for a second, but then sighs and leaves, the window open, the room quiet.

The sound of heavy footsteps and muffled radio chatter filters in from the hallway. You snag Rafe’s hand, your fingers curling around his. The adrenaline of almost being caught hits you now, and you’re sure it’s because Rafe chose to stay back with you.

“Hurry,” you whisper through a breathless laugh, pulling him into the small, dark closet and clicking the door shut.

The space is tiny, barely enough for two people to stand without touching. He stands directly across from you, and the fact that he followed you speaks louder than the silence between you. If he’s mad, he’s clearly not that mad.

You pull out your phone, the screen casting a blue glow as you reach up to tug at the light bulb string. It clicks, but the closet remains covered in darkness.

“Great,” you mutter sarcastically, letting the string drop. Your phone screen goes black and you pocket it.

Rafe doesn’t speak, unsure of what to say. It feels so damn good that you decided to touch him. It was an unexpected jolt to his system when your hand curled around his.

He stands in the darkness, his heart thudding against his ribs, breathing in the scent of your shampoo that fills the cramped space.

The silence stretches and the guilt you’ve been harboring rises up. You left him, after he’d opened up to you about his mom, and then never replied to him. It wasn’t your best moment.

“Sorry I didn’t text you back,” you say, your voice soft.

The apology undoes Rafe immediately. It’s like a weight has been taken off his shoulders, and the anger evaporates.

He spent the last two weeks bitter that you ghosted him, but the truth is, he was expecting you to force a feeling that wasn't there. You don’t want him, you’ve been clear about that, and wishing that you’d like him is the same thing as wishing that he didn’t like you.

Pointless.

At this moment, he remembers that last conversation, the way you spoke about your dad. For a girl who keeps people at arm's length, opening up meant something, and he knows he fucked up by texting you. It was overbearing. Too much.

He’s always too much.

“Nah,” he responds. “I should’ve left you alone.”

The tired honesty in Rafe’s deep voice makes you want to console him, and that impulse is proof of how he’s managed to become someone you care about.

He’s accountable, and he listens to you, even when it’s a rejection he doesn't want to hear. It makes it impossible to be cold with him like you are with every other guy.

You’ve never been this drawn to a man before. You can’t afford to trust him with your heart, but pretending the spark between you doesn’t exist feels unrealistic.

“Hey,” you say, deciding to be bold, “if you want to keep this… uncomplicated, we can.”

Rafe flexes his fingers at his sides. You’re suggesting to go back to touching each other like you used to, to do what your bodies so clearly want without feelings attached.

The prospect sparks fire through him. Agreeing to this feels reckless, self‑destructive, but it’s the only way he can have you. And he’ll take that over nothing at all.

“You miss me, huh?” he rasps, pushing away his thoughts, acting like the man he thinks he ought to be.

You smirk, relieved he’s joking with you again.

“Get over yourself,” you say with a soft chuckle.

It’s an overwhelming relief when his hands cradle your face, holding you like he used to. He ducks to kiss you, and your hands drag up his arms immediately, fingers interlacing around the back of his neck to bring him closer.

You hear the door to the laundry room open. Low voices follow. It’s security, most likely. If they decide to check the closet, they’ll find you in seconds.

But you stay where you are, holding Rafe and letting him hold you, your mouths opening together. Nothing’s more important than kissing him right now.

The voices retreat, and you’re in the clear again, and when Rafe’s tongue slips into your mouth, you accept him completely, tilting your head back so he can kiss you deeper. You feel his cock twitch against you, hardening, making your stomach curl with heat.

One of Rafe’s hands trails down your back, squeezing your ass, cupping under your thigh to bring your leg up to his hip. He shifts to press you against the door and his fingers dig into the back of your knee as he presses himself up against you just so you can see what you do to him.

You sigh into his mouth and he knows you’re getting wet for him, he remembers how good you tasted, he wants you more than anything right now.

He shifts to kiss your neck, and when you lean your head back against the door, it loosens out its frame behind you, causing you to nearly stumble back. In a fit of laughter, you catch yourself before falling into the empty laundry room. The door’s clearly not as sturdy as you both thought.

Rafe laughs with you as he holds you by the hips. You don’t need the help to stand, but that doesn’t stop him from touching you.

“So… maybe not here,” you half-whisper through your giggles.

He dips his head to kiss you again, simply because he can. His mind shuffles over the possibilities, wondering the best, quickest way he can get you in a bed will be, because if he finally gets to have you, he needs to be able to see you, to take his time.

“We have a party tomorrow,” he murmurs against your lips, knowing he’ll have his bedroom to himself then. “You should come.”

“I will,” you say with a smile, now aware of the buzzing in your pocket, sure your friends are calling to ask where you are.

・・・・・

Rafe hasn’t told his friends that the bet’s off. He realizes it when you walk into his frat’s house party the next night and Mac nudges him.

“Hey,” he grins. “Whatever happened with her? You owe me money, don’t you?”

“Maybe not,” Cooper adds. “He stayed back with her last night, remember? Maybe they fucked in that laundry room.”

Mac laughs. Rafe doesn’t.

It’s been over two months since the night on that front porch, when Rafe watched you walk away down Greek Row, irritated with how perfect and unattainable you always were, and placed that bet.

His jaw tightens. He hasn’t told his friends it stopped being a joke the second he got to know you. That the idea of reducing you to some stupid dare makes him feel sick now.

He just wants the conversation to die. And it does when you walk up to him, gently squeezing his forearm.

“Do you guys ever learn your lesson?” you tease, looking up at him through widened, pretty eyes. “This party has to be the rowdiest one you’ve ever had.”

The house is packed, as if the frat is making up for the weeks they weren’t allowed to throw a party. Before Rafe answers, two of his buddies turn away to laugh. You’re sure they didn’t hear what you said, so clearly something about you simply being here is hilarious to them.

Rafe watches your brows pull together, that small crease forming between them. He hates to see that angry, uncomfortable look on you.

“What the fuck’s so funny?” you mutter to him.

“It’s not about you,” he lies. “They’re just assholes.”

You brush it off. For a long time, you assumed Rafe cared only about what his friends thought, but his passing insult makes you reconsider that he’s not just a guy who always plays along with their bullshit.

“I like when you’re honest,” you reply. “Let’s get me a drink.”

It hits him hard. Honest. You tug him deeper into the crowd, and he follows.

This whole thing between you has been a mess of half‑truths from the start. He’d approached you with the wrong intentions, with something to prove. But then you surprised him. You were nothing like he thought you were.

He watches the back of your head as you weave through the party, your hand brushing his. Does he need to tell you? Would it change anything? Would it ruin everything?

The truth feels too big to say, but too wrong to keep. He tries to stifle it, but he can’t – he has a conscience and it eats him alive.

You both stop at the keg, the noise of the party swelling around you. You’re reaching for a cup when you glance up at Rafe, at the clear blue eyes always trained on you, at the adorable way his hair falls.

“So,” you say lightly, “you survived probation.”

“Barely,” he says with a small laugh. “You girls never get in trouble, huh?”

“We’re just great at not getting caught,” you reply.

He smirks, and as your eyes flicker down to his smile, you realize now just how much your mood has lifted since you started talking to him a minute ago. With Rafe, you don’t feel like you have to perform.

“It’s good to hang out with you again,” you add, and you don’t hide the sincerity in your voice. You mean it.

Rafe’s eyes dart away. The guilt sits in his chest, another reminder of the bet. Hearing you say that would normally make him feel amazing, but it only makes it worse.

You’re confused by his tension, following his gaze behind your shoulder. You spot a couple kissing by the stairs.

“What, does he have a girlfriend, too?” you murmur. Rafe realizes you’re referring to his frat brother blatantly cheating at the beach. You think he’s irritated by the same thing now. He’ll let you believe it.

Then, you recognize him. It’s the guy from the gym, the one Rafe snapped at for staring at you, wearing the same frat insignia on his shirt. He threatened his own frat brother for you.

Rafe’s really not desperate for his friends’ approval like you thought he was.

You turn around and look up at him again. His face is tight in contemplation. He can’t hide anything in his expression.

You fill your cup at the keg, the sound of the tap rushing loud. He still looks upset.

“It’s messed up,” you say with a sigh. “That’s why I won’t give anyone the chance to do it to me.”

The words come out easily. You’re not usually this open, but Rafe makes you feel like you don’t have to keep a front up. It’s because you’ve already agreed to keep things casual, to be friends with benefits.

You feel more relaxed around him than you have with any guy in a long time. For once, you’re not trying to win anything or protect yourself.

It’s sitting on Rafe’s tongue. But he can’t say I wouldn’t do it to you. This arrangement between you has no strings, so it’s just another thing he swallows down.

“Hey,” you say, noticing the faraway look in his eyes. “You okay?”

He could tell you right now. He could get it over with. He could ruin everything. Or he could keep it buried and pretend this is simple, the way you both agreed it would be.

“Yeah,” he lies. “Just thinking.”

“You can do that?” you tease.

Rafe chuckles and nudges your shoulder, but it’s barely a touch, so light it doesn’t even move you. It’s strange, knowing how strong he is, how easily he could shove someone twice your size, yet with you, he’s gentle.

You’re relieved things are back to normal between you. Rafe wanted something real with you at some point and he seems to have pulled that back, and that’s for the best. Because whatever he thought he liked doesn’t exist. He doesn’t know you. Not the real you.

Even though you’re being more direct with him than usual, it’s still a version of you. No one gets the full thing. It makes you feel like you’re always lying, at least a little bit.

Rafe notices you drift, your thoughts pulling you somewhere he can’t follow. You’d shared an ugly truth, admitted your dad cheated on your mom and left you both, so no wonder you hate this topic. He still feels like a dick for trying to make you talk about it the other night.

He clears his throat.

“You goin’ home for the break?” he asks. It’s nearing the middle of December, which means campus is thinning out, everyone scattering for winter break.

You nod, grateful for the shift in topic. It’s like he sensed you’re about to shut down. He definitely learned that he has to steer things around for you the hard way.

“Yeah,” you say. “I don’t really like being at home all the time, but I love seeing my friends.”

He gets it. When a family loses someone, the gap never closes. Life keeps moving, but the empty space stays. He’s sure your home feels as cold as his.

“I don’t like either,” he says.

You offer a sardonic chuckle.

“I guess that explains all the fights?” you ask.

Rafe shrugs. Here, he still has surface-level friendships with guys who occasionally piss him off, but it’s just less intense. Either way, he has to put on a persona no matter what. He’s always had to act tough and overcompensate for how soft he really is.

“I’ve heard you even scrap with the guys from the Cut,” you add, trying to avoid sounding accusatory. Admittedly, you’ve grown curious about that part of his life, the part you’ve always witnessed but know barely anything about.

Rafe looks down at his beer. Those fights weren’t about territory or reputation or any of the excuses he used to throw around. It was about the way anger controls him. About feeling bigger, when his whole life, he’s felt small. Pogues were always easy targets.

“I’m not proud of it,” he admits. “I’m trying to be better.”

His words make you realize you’re not exactly proud of yourself, either. You’ve spent years dragging guys along, dropping them the second they wanted something real. Playing with their feelings. Putting yourself first.

Rafe wants to be better. You’ve never really done that. It makes you wonder if you’d ever want to be any different, if there’s a guy out there worth that.

You love your friends, but a deeper kind of connection, something romantic, demands an open heart. It’s not safe. But maybe you could give it a try.

You shake the thought away, nearly cringing, refusing to think about it any longer. You’re with Rafe for fun. That’s it.

“Well, you didn’t start a fight at the gym the other day, so that’s progress,” you respond, shifting the mood again. “I can admit you were a good personal trainer, by the way. A little handsy, though.”

He laughs, thinking back to how he’d stood behind you, palms cupping your elbows as he led you through a free weight set, touching you as much as he possibly could.

“I’m handsy?” he replies. “You’re always touchin’ me.”

“Oh, you want me to stop?” you challenge.

He tilts his head, eyes dragging down your face, his bottom lip trapped behind white teeth. The charge between you is still burning hot, and with the way he’s looking at you, you can tell he’s just as hungry for you as you are for him.

You like this part. Lust. It’s easy.

You nod, a quiet way to tell him you want to go upstairs. He puts his drink down, you do the same, and you slip away together.

・・・・・

As soon as his bedroom door shuts behind you, Rafe pushes you up against it, lips locked on yours like he couldn’t wait another second to kiss you.

Every inch of your body loosens as he holds you, breathing him in, the mix of cologne and detergent and musk that makes him him, the taste of beer and heat on his tongue. Your fingers lace into his soft hair, tugging gently as your core heats.

His hands cradle your jaw as he pulls you closer to him, guiding you to his bed, settling onto his back so you can hover over him. He shifts to grip your hips, tugging down so you’ll put on your weight on him as you continue to taste each other, kissing in a perfect, unique rhythm that only the two of you have.

Rafe is completely here physically, but mentally, he’s halfway out. I like when you’re honest. Your words from just minutes ago won’t leave his mind, rattling around, stabbing at his conscience.

“You have something?” you breathe against his lips, figuring if he doesn’t have a condom, you can surely find one somewhere in this house.

Rafe nods, but, fuck, the heat in his muscles is fading, shame flooding into every crevice of his being. It’s embarrassing that he can’t even stay hard.

The guilt from lying to you, that he’s been lying to you since the beginning, claws into his heart so sharply that he knows he can’t do this.

Even though it’s purely physical for you, it’s not for him, and because he wants so much more with you, because this all started with a lie, he can’t go through with it. He can’t live with himself, tricking you.

Your brows furrow in confusion when you realize Rafe is slowly pushing you away. Your lips part in a quiet smack as you sit up, studying his face for an answer.

“I need to - I need to say something,” he says, his voice low.

You stiffen, shifting up off of him to sit on the corner of his bed, watching him shuffle to sit, too. You swallow hard. Maybe he’s lost his attraction for you. Maybe he doesn’t like you anymore.

Damn it. Why did your mind go there, and why did the thought hurt so bad? Your heart starts to race, the reality sinking in. You like him. More than you should. Way more than you should.

It’s good he stopped this. You should leave.

“We don’t have to do anything," you tell him, looking away.

“I want to,” he murmurs. “It’s…”

Rafe turns, his long legs swinging off the side of his bed, his broad back to you as he rakes his hand through his hair.

“What?” you ask, studying his wide shoulders, the freckles scattered across the back of his neck.

Rafe is sure this is it. He knows enough about you to be sure you won’t forgive him for this. It’s so easy for you to detach, and he barely even has you at all right now.

He’ll say this, and he’ll lose you, and it’s all because of the man he was when this started. The man he’ll always be. Weak and soft and doomed to feel too much.

“You know I like you, right?” he begins. “I want more than just… this.”

Your pulse hammers in your ears. So, he does still have feelings. It’s a relief. And it’s scary that it’s a relief. Last time he told you he had feelings for you, you felt yourself retreat. This time, you want to reach out and touch him.

But you’ve never done that before. You’ve never been given a chance to be vulnerable with a man and actually taken it.

Rafe rubs his hand over his jaw, hating that there’s a flicker of hope in his chest that that wasn’t the last time you kissed him. But once he tells you this, he’s sure it will be. Unless, maybe, you see something in him worth keeping.

“That night that I, uh… spilled my drink on you…” he says.

“Why aren’t you looking at me?” you ask in a thin voice he hasn’t heard before. He turns to meet your gaze, realizing he’d do anything you asked of him.

You’re right. He should look you in the eye when he tells you this.

“It was so fucking stupid,” he tells you. “After you left, my friends… those guys downstairs, we started a bet that I could hook up with you.”

The burning in his eyes fills him with humiliation. He’s about to cry in front of you. He didn’t think this would happen, but it’s overwhelming. The guilt. The love.

“I swear, I… I know what a dick I was to do it,” he stammers, voice starting to weaken. “I regret it. I’m sorry. I don’t - I don’t want to lie to you. I don’t care about the bet. But you deserve to know. You deserve better.”

You stare at Rafe, his eyes glossing over, his nostrils flaring as he tries to swallow down his tears.

You’re dumbfounded, your lips just barely parted. It stings. It stings so deeply. This is the kind of pain a person can only give you if you let them in. If you trusted them.

He did it. He broke through your wall, reached a hidden part of you, all to prove what you suspected of him from the start. That he’s a liar. A user. A selfish asshole who saw you as someone to have sex with, and nothing more.

That’s surely what his friends were cracking up about downstairs. You were right. They were laughing at you.

You’re furious. Shocked. And slowly losing your composure. But you’re good at smothering your feelings, wearing a mask, and you know what’ll hurt Rafe most now is if you’re completely indifferent. Unfeeling.

You never thought about telling him about the bet, simply because it was a thing of the past. Inconsequential. You started this off wanting to break his heart, and then thought you saw good in him, and you completely forgot about the plan.

But now, it’s back in your mind, and you’re going through with it.

“I knew you were like every other guy,” you reply, flat and cold and spiteful. “I just didn’t know it was a bet. I can’t even be mad at you, though. This was a bet for me, too.”

Rafe grimaces, confusion swimming in his glazed eyes.

“You can ask my friends if you don’t believe me,” you say. “Once you started following me around like a lost dog, we had the idea to fuck with you. They challenged me to break your heart. Because obviously, you deserve it.”

Rafe’s eyes frantically search your face, his face pinched.

“You’re lying,” he says with a brief shake of his head.

“Ask them,” you reply. “Or don’t. I really don’t care.”

You shift to stand up, desperate to leave, to be in private so your body can react the way it needs to.

“I’m over this,” you mutter. “Don’t bother me anymore.”

Your throat is thick, your chest heavy. And you stop at the door with your back to him, you’re determined to dig into him as painfully as you can before you cut him off completely. You’ll deal with the ache in your heart later.

“I don’t know if you believe your own bullshit about how you want to be a better person,” you murmur, “but if you do, you’re even stupider than I thought. I could never like you for real.”

Rafe hears the doorknob twist. You wanted to break his heart. You did it. It’s in a million fucking pieces right now, his pride torn up in front of him.

He can see where you get your reputation from.

“Let ‘em know you did it,” he mutters to your back.

You don’t even turn around at the confirmation, at his confession that you broke his heart. You only shut the door behind you.

(to be continued)

The sorority house is quiet. After your day at the beach, most of the girls, including your roommate, left to go to a party on the other side of campus. You were too tired to tag along.

You slip into bed after a long shower, wearing nothing but underwear and a soft, oversized t-shirt. The quiet room is dim with the glow of your desk lamp. Your body is sleepy, heavy after a day of soaking in the sun, but your mind isn’t ready to shut down.

You know Rafe isn’t out tonight on account of his frat’s probation. He’s probably bored in his room, just like you. And you want to have some fun.

Seeing him shirtless all day today, feeling his skin on yours stoked a fire in you. It made you want to slip away with him somewhere and give into the pull you both feel for each other.

You text him to come over. You’re not surprised when he quickly texts back that he will.

・・・・・

When you open the front door with a sweet, relaxed smile and an offer to hug, Rafe feels like he’s in heaven. You never text first. Maybe you’re starting to feel something for him, too.

He ducks down to wrap his arms around you, squeezing gently, reveling in the smell of soap on your neck.

He was kidding himself when he thought this would be the way to get a hold of his emotions. He’s falling off the deep end, and all he can do now is hope you are, too.

The bet is a distant, stupid memory. He doesn’t want to just hook up with you and be done with it. He wants to have something with you and he can only hope you want the same.

You land back down on your heels after getting up on your tip-toes to hug him, swinging the door closed behind him.

“You burned a little,” you say, gently poking the pink tinge at the top of his cheek.

Rafe winces dramatically as if you hurt him, earning a laugh from you. Endeared, he can’t stop himself from kissing your forehead before you turn to guide him up the stairs.

Just like the first night he was here, he watches the shape of your legs as he trails you, his gut already coiling with the anticipation of feeling them wrap around him.

Being next to you all day with no opportunity to kiss you was its own class of torture, and now, the baggy t-shirt you’ve draped over your body just barely covers your ass, making him hard before he’s even in your bedroom.

The door clicks closed behind him as you sit on your bed, leaving space for him.

“Everyone went out?” Rafe asks, the stillness in the house making him unsure whether anyone else is even here.

“Not everyone,” you reply. “But most.”

You remember what he said about hating boredom. It’s the first weekend into his frat’s probation and he’s already restless to party.

“Today was fun,” he says, taking a seat at the foot of your bed.

“You’re welcome for the invitation," you reply with a squint.

“Did I not say thank you?”

“No, but I’m used to you not having manners.”

He grins, dimples cutting deep, and it’s almost starting to irritate you how charming his smile is, your lamp’s light casting shadows over the planes of his face.

“Thank you,” he says, his voice low. And he means it. You’re prickly at times, but how could anyone call you a bitch? You invited him today to give him a loophole out of his frat’s probation, to give him fun. You have a heart, no matter how much you try to hide it.

You smirk, eyes on his. The tension sinking between you is getting heavier with every passing second. The attraction that sits deep in your stomach is hotter than you expected.

You realize it’s because he doesn’t touch you the way you thought he would. He’s firm, but never aggressive or selfish. Every taste he’s given you of his touch has left you hungry for more. It’s like he knows what you want without having to ask.

Rafe leans in, cupping your face like he doesn’t want you looking at anything but him. The tension cracks when your lips finally meet, and you can feel it, how badly you’ve both wanted each other all day.

You drag your hands up his arms, skimming over his hot skin to the cotton of his t-shirt, pulling him towards you. When you guide him to lie over top of you, you feel how hard he is, how his body is begging for yours.

Rafe doesn’t sink onto you completely, but the weight he does put on you is heavy in the best way. The sounds of your slow, wet kisses fill your ears as he gently grinds against your middle, biting your bottom lip just once, enough to make you impatiently writhe against him.

Slowly, you slip your fingers under the hem of his t-shirt, guiding it off his body, tossing it to your floor. His chest is warm and firm against you as his mouth finds yours again.

Moments later, he drags your shirt up, pulling it off over your head, exhaling sharply once he sees you’re braless. He kisses you harder, until eventually, he shifts, and his fingers press between your legs, slowly, torturously.

Your breath hitches at the touch, at how wet you are already.

And he wants it so bad. So bad that it aches. But he knows he barely scraped by with your forgiveness after he snapped at you for walking out of his room the other night, and he can’t do it again. He can’t risk losing you.

“Hey,” he rasps against your lips.

“Hmm?” your voice comes out weak.

“I’m not going to do what I did last time,” he says. “Whenever you want to stop, just… say it.”

You nod, pulling him in to kiss you again. The softness in Rafe’s voice is teetering toward romance, and you have no interest in letting it go there. Truthfully, even if he is an asshole about whatever you end up doing tonight, you’re not attached enough for it to sting.

You spread your legs wider, finding pure bliss in the pressure of his hand on you, only your thin panties keeping him from having full contact. You lose yourself in the way he’s trailing his fingers up and down, steady and firm as his tongue sinks into your mouth.

He pulls back, forehead on yours, and whispers as he gently taps his fingertips against your heat, “You want my mouth here, baby?”

Every muscle in you twists, throbbing.

“Yes,” you sigh in relief.

He shifts lower to settle between your thighs and places a languid kiss over your panties, coaxing a slow moan from you. He drags the fabric down your hips, your legs, your ankles, letting them bunch at the end of your bed, before he sinks onto his elbows with his head between your legs.

Rafe’s heart is pounding in his ears when he sees you bare, up close, glistening and so fucking perfect. His thumbs skim over your folds as he gently spreads you apart so he can see every part of you.

He’s in deep and he knows it, because all he wants to do is please you. Even though his cock is so hard that it’s aching, making you come is all that matters to him right now.

His eyes drag up to your face. You watch him stare up at you like he always does, skin tingling with desire. With anticipation. You shudder as his hot, wet mouth finally meets your core.

The taste of you makes every part of his body ache with hunger, like no matter how much he gets, he’ll always be starving for you.

He doesn’t waste any time teasing you. He gives you what you want, starts to lick and suck, the sounds of your staggered breathing and moisture filling your bedroom. His tongue trails over every bit of you, wriggling over your clit, and when you feel his tongue nudge inside, he groans and you breathe out his name, drunk off the pleasure.

Rafe’s hands dig into your thighs as you pulse around his tongue and fill him with your scent, your taste, everything that makes him so damn lost for you. And he knows now, entirely, that he was an idiot for thinking he could do anything with you without getting attached.

As he continues to lap at you, his nose brushes against your slick clit, making you thread your fingers through his hair and gently pull. No matter how much you writhe, he keeps his mouth hard on you, refusing to lose contact.

It takes almost no time. You press against him as your orgasm crashes into you, every nerve ending pinching with bliss as you come on his tongue. He sucks your clit until you breathe an overstimulated whine, placing a hand on his cheek so he’ll give you a break.

Rafe shifts up to meet your lips again, hovering over you as he lets you see how good you taste. He’s savoring this, covering your mouth with his, breathing you in and unable to believe that just a few weeks ago, you were always around, yet a complete stranger.

He can’t believe what he’s been missing out on. It’s like the world narrows in on him, on both of you in this moment. It feels right to be here with you, in your bed, his lips on yours. He could only do this, feel this with a girl he genuinely likes.

Your body is still buzzing from the rush he’s given you as you trade slow kisses. You’re not sure you’ve ever felt this type of chemistry with a guy before. You want more. Maybe you’ll even become friends with benefits if it’s as good as you think it will be.

You shift to touch him over his shorts, feeling him exhale against your mouth as you cup his thick shaft. He gently jerks against your hand, grinding over you. He’s so hard, so big, that your heart skips in anticipation of feeling him stretch you, fill you.

You move to the button of his jeans, expecting him to help you take them off, but then he pulls back, ending the kiss.

Rafe stares down at you, at the blissed out expression on your pretty face, and he can’t do it. Although every part of him, every muscle, every goddamn vein is hot with his desire for you, he can’t separate his feelings. They’re a part of his core, too permanent to untangle, and as much as he tells himself to get a grip, he can’t.

His emotions control him, not the other way around. He’s lost in you now. And if he’s going to do this, he needs to tell you the truth.

“I really like you,” he half-whispers.

And then he feels it, the way you stiffen. You lift your hand off of him, shifting up a little.

“Am I not supposed to say that?” Rafe teases, trying to pretend your reaction isn’t hurting him, that he doesn’t regret telling you. Why can’t he just keep his fucking mouth shut?

You sit up, finding your t-shirt to cover your bare chest, the mood in the room completely shifted now. You look over your shoulder at him. You were hoping to do more tonight, but you can’t. Not when he’s talking to you like this means something.

You need to tell him you aren’t looking for this. For feelings. For a boyfriend. You may have wanted to hurt him at some point, but now, you won’t. You can’t.

Rafe traps his bottom lip under his teeth for a second, eyes searching like he can find an answer in your face if he looks hard enough.

“Were you serious today?” he asks before you can reply. “When you said every guy does it?”

Your lips part, but no sound comes out. Rafe hangs onto your words. It’s obvious that the things you say stay with him, circle his mind. He almost seems worried about you thinking every guy cheats.

“It was a joke,” you reply.

He sits up, leaning against the wall, close enough that you can feel his breath on your shoulder.

“Why are we talking about this?” you say, tense from the sudden shift in atmosphere.

“I wanna know,” he replies.

It feels crazy that you once thought he was just another careless asshole. Rafe has an intensity to him that you’ve never seen in a man before. A passion that nobody can fake. But you can’t reciprocate it.

“We don’t need to get all serious," you say with an awkward laugh. While you’ve had to tell guys this before, for some reason, doing it feels really hard this time. “This thing between us is just… fun, okay?”

Rafe shakes his head just slightly, unable to understand why. He likes you, more than he ever meant to, and he doesn’t know what to do with the fact that you want to keep him at a distance.

Now that he’s actually spent time with you, he’s sure there’s a deeper reason for why you have the reputation that you cycle through guys and never stick around. It bothers him that he doesn’t know what that reason is.

He wants to understand the girl sitting in front of him. He can’t help wondering what pushed you into being like this. If some guy stepped out on you, then he was an idiot.

“Did it happen to you?” he asks.

He’s clearly still stuck on the whole cheating thing. Why can’t he just take no for an answer?

“Rafe…” you huff in frustration.

“Did it?”

“I’m not talking about this,” you snip, your tone sharp.

Questions circle Rafe’s mind. But he doesn’t ask them.

He still has his pride. It’s obvious that you’re only into him for sex, and that you’ve seen enough of him to know that you don’t consider him worth more.

It’s jarring to go from such heated lust to this cold tension within a minute. He hates this about himself. How he speaks before he thinks. How he can’t just keep doing this with you and convince himself that how he feels doesn’t matter.

“Should I go?” he finally asks, half-hurt, half-frustrated.

You look away.

“Yeah,” you say flatly.

He shifts to stand up and finds his shirt on the floor. You watch the fabric fall down his taut back, a strange mix of sympathy and rejection settling in your heart.

He checks his pockets for his things and sets out to leave. But he stops halfway, lingering in the middle of your bedroom for a second, as if he’s trying to figure out if he should say something.

But he doesn’t. You stare at him. He doesn’t look back.

The door shuts behind him, leaving you sitting up in your bed, your top pressed against your chest, your heart pounding. This time, he’s the one who stopped things from going any further, and it’s clearly because you refused to open up to him.

Rafe is not who you thought he was. You’ve witnessed his temper, his impatience, his spite, but there’s a tenderness to him that you never saw coming. All things that you’re sure some other girl would want. Not you.

This is probably the end of your fling. And it’s okay. It’s familiar and comforting and right to say goodbye before things get too messy.

・・・・・

Rafe’s heart is racing. And it won’t stop. It’s always like this after his mom calls.

It’s a rainy Sunday morning, a week since he saw you last. And he can’t stop thinking about you. Since that night, every time his phone has buzzed, his body has flooded with anticipation, hopeful that it was you, just to be let down.

He was about to leave for the on-campus gym when his phone started buzzing in his pocket and once again, he wanted it to be you. But it was his mother, and now he’s sitting on the edge of his bed, staring down at his phone.

He never knows when she’ll reach out, and every time, it gives him whiplash. It was a quick conversation, a surface-level check-in, but that’s always enough to throw him. She talks to him like he’s an old friend, not his son, not one of the kids she left behind.

Maybe it’s self-sabotage. Or an ill-fated belief that he can prove to you that he’s someone worth keeping around. All he knows for sure is that he misses you, so he texts you that he’s going to the gym if you want to come.

You respond that he can pick you up in fifteen.

・・・・・

You watch Rafe’s truck pull up from your bedroom window.

You figure he made peace with the fact that you want to keep your relationship strictly physical. Some guys can’t, acting like they’re entitled to you because they caught feelings, and you always cut them off when things get to this point.

You decided to accept Rafe’s invitation, though, because you really enjoy being around him. There’s something so effortless about it. You couldn’t have been clearer that you don’t want anything serious, so you’re optimistic he’s back in your life because he got his emotions in check.

Rafe’s eyes meet yours when you open the passenger-side door. Despite every twisted up way you’ve made him feel, his lips curl into a smile. You have that effect.

“Taking me to the gym isn’t some excuse you’re going to use to improve my form, is it?” you say, climbing into his seat. Light raindrops sink into the thin material of your gym clothes as you toss your duffel bag to the back.

Rafe smirks as you shut the door. He’s so glad you agreed to meet him. You lift his mood in seconds, clear the murkiness in his head, move past the tension from the last time you spoke like it wasn’t ever even there.

“If you’re doing things wrong, then I gotta help,” he replies.

“Bye,” you sigh jokingly, reaching to open the door again, but he drives off before you can. You playfully nudge him, and he glances over at you with another smirk, eyes flickering over your beautiful features.

You grin, then your eyes trail down his big arms, the way his t-shirt clings to his taut body. It’s ridiculous, the pull he has on you. The memory of last weekend rushes in, the feeling of his mouth between your legs, the desire to do it all again, and more.

“You go there a lot?” you tease. It’s obvious that he does.

“You can’t tell?” Rafe says, reaching for your hand to put it on his flexed bicep.

“You’re so annoying,” you say, pulling away. He laughs. He loves your sharp teasing, the way you show your humor by giving him shit.

It’s a part of you, one of the layers he doesn’t fully know, and that’s what keeps dragging his mind to the last time he saw you, to how cold and closed off you suddenly became when he tried to actually get to know you.

He told himself to stop trying to break through your wall, but here he is, with you again, silently hoping he can.

・・・・・

An hour later, you’re downing water as you pace towards the gym’s entrance, still a little breathless from the workout as music pulses from the ceiling speakers, weights clanking around you.

You and Rafe spent the whole time making jokes, playfully competing through sets, touching each other wherever you could, catching each other looking. You’re happy you came.

Your legs burn from the squats you finished off with, and as you turn to make a joke about needing him to help you stretch, you realize Rafe isn’t walking behind you anymore.

You spot him across the gym, posture rigid as he talks to some guy by the benches. His hands flex at his sides, and for a second, you think he’s about to swing.

The other guy is already backing up a step, looking intimidated. It’s just like the Rafe you always saw back in Kildare.

But then he looks up, catching your eyes, and shakes his head in frustration, like he’s snapping himself back into reality. You watch as he approaches you with long strides, his jaw slowly losing its tension.

“What was that?” you ask.

He exhales, a sheen of sweat over his face, and replies, “Nothing.”

・・・・・

After a quick body shower, you find Rafe by the front doors, already waiting with his hands shoved in his hoodie pockets.

You walk out of the gym together into the humid air. The rain has stopped now, puddles scattered across the parking lot. Your sneakers squeak across the pavement as you walk to his truck.

You can feel the tension rushing through Rafe, and it surprises you that you care. You’re not the type to want to dig into what’s going on in a guy’s head, but this isn’t the first time you’ve found yourself wanting to know with him.

“I thought you were about to break your streak,” you say once you both settle in the truck.

“What?” he asks, looking up at you.

“I don’t fight anymore,” you say, mimicking him in an effort to keep things light. His dimples deepen a little, and you like that you’ve made him smile.

You won’t ask more, although you want to know if he’s okay the same way you would with a friend, because that’s sort of what he is now.

The second Rafe saw the guy at the gym staring at you as you walked past, the way his eyes dragged over you, he snapped. The protective instinct he has for you that only burned hotter once he remembered he’s not allowed to feel it. You’re not his.

He hated seeing you get leered at, but he hated the reminder that he has no right to be mad about it even more. He had to say something, tell him to stop looking at you, threaten him just to feel some power.

“He was lookin’ at you,” he finally relents, his voice low. He exhales hard, frustrated that his filter always dissolves around you.

Your forehead creases. You shouldn’t enjoy his jealousy. But you kind of do.

“That’s why you got so pissed off?” you say with a dismissive laugh. “You look at me the same way.”

Rafe shakes his head, brief but resolute. You’re cheapening what he feels for you. And it’s a stab in the back.

“I don’t,” he replies.

Again, things have shifted between you within seconds. He means that he looks at you as more. There’s no misunderstanding that. You don’t know what to say. If you can even say anything.

You pull your seatbelt over your body, buckling it in place, frustration rising that he’s not doing the same.

You don’t want to sit here and talk about anything serious. Honestly, it’s scary. You don’t think you should see Rafe anymore because something in you is cracking and you need to keep your distance so you can seal it up again.

He obviously hasn’t reigned in his feelings for you, and you don’t want to deal with that.

“Let’s go,” you murmur.

Rafe shoves his damp hair back from his forehead. You both started this with your walls up, but along the line, he let his guard crumble while you never did. Because you clearly expect the worst from him.

“You really think every guy is the same, don’t you?” he finally mutters.

You look through the passenger window at the car parked next to you. If he wants an answer this bad, he can have it.

“Absolutely,” you reply, simply and honestly.

Rafe’s eyes flick over at you, but you’re looking away, profile silhouetted against the glass. For the first time, he feels the real distance between you.

He’s never had great self-control, and here he is again, a victim to his emotions, drowning in the silence of a girl who finally gave him the truth he asked for, only to realize he has no idea what to do now.

It doesn’t make sense. You have such a good time together. This would be so easy. Why are you so committed to keeping him at a distance?

“I don’t get it,” he says.

“You don’t have to.”

His blood boils. He hates how effortless it is for you to decide the conversation is over while he’s ready to tear himself open for you.

“You’re so…” he sighs bitingly.

You finally turn, your gaze snapping to his. Your eyes are narrowed, daring him to finish that sentence.

“So what?” you snap.

You’re expecting what you’ve heard before. That you’re cold. Impossible. A bitch.

He stares, regretting letting his temper snap, regretting letting himself care.

“What?” you repeat. “Should I walk home?”

The words cut Rafe deep.

This is a reminder of what he learned at ten years old when his mom left, that there’s something unlovable, something too much about him. And right now, with how easily you’re shutting him out, you’re proving it.

He thought seeing you would make things better. It didn’t.

“I shouldn’t have texted you today,” he says.

“Yeah, you shouldn’t have,” you reply.

You unbuckle your seatbelt, reach for the handle, and push open the door, the thick air rushing in. It’s a twenty-minute walk across campus to your sorority house. You’re tired, but you can make it.

Before you can swing your legs out, his hand is on yours, his grip firm.

“No, I mean…” Rafe exhales. He’s desperate. He needs you to stay, even if it means admitting why he’s so scattered. “I’m just on edge, alright? My mom called me this morning and it always fucks with my head.”

The anger sitting in your chest melts a little. Usually, when men share their feelings like this, it’s a manipulative way to get sympathy or a dump of emotional labor that you have to clean up. But the way Rafe said it felt different.

You relent, pulling the door shut with a thud. You turn to look at him again and the urge to protect yourself softens. Because while you’re mad and confused and admittedly kind of afraid of what you’re feeling right now, you want to know.

“Why?” you ask, still a bit of a bite to your tone.

“I never know when she’s going to call,” he admits. “And I don’t - I don’t want to answer, but I always do, and then it just pisses me off the rest of the day.”

Your brows furrow as the questions start to stack up. The curiosity is a tug in your chest.

“What’s… the deal with her?” you ask.

Rafe’s eyes drift down. He turns on the engine. The truck rumbles to life, giving him a distraction to hide behind. It’s stupid; he’s the one who started this conversation, and now he’s getting nervous.

He stares through the windshield, focuses on anything other than the girl sitting inches away from him.

“She left when I was a kid,” he admits. “And it always makes me act like an asshole after she calls because I never see it coming. My bad, alright?”

The air leaves your lungs for a moment. It’s odd to hear an apology from a man you once thought didn’t know what accountability even is, but the real shock is the familiarity of that hollowness in his voice.

It’s the hole only abandonment can leave. It’s the same one your father carved in you.

You keep your eyes fixed on the dashboard.

“Then don’t answer her calls,” you respond.

Rafe’s lips flatten together. It’s such a you thing to say. Don’t deal with the problem.

His dad didn’t care to hide the truth. He’d told Rafe that his mother wasn't going to fight for custody. She only said that she’d keep in touch, as if she was saying goodbye to an old friend instead of the family she decided she didn’t want anymore.

That rejection is a permanent part of him. He’s been angry since. He hates her for quitting, for not sticking to her responsibilities, for being immature, for not loving him and his sisters enough.

She simply didn’t want to be a mother anymore. But he answers her sporadic calls because she is. He’s trapped, hating the woman he can’t bring himself to cut out.

“That’s not me,” he replies.

You meet his eyes again. Usually, the story of your dad is something you only share with friends who have earned your trust. But looking at the hurt etched into Rafe's face, it feels wrong to let him sit there thinking he’s alone with this gut-wrenching feeling.

The words are pushing against your teeth, demanding to be shared, demanding to help him.

“My dad left, too,” you reply. “And if he tried to call me, I’d block him. People who can do something like that to their own kid never change. And they don’t deserve access to the people they hurt.”

It crashes into Rafe, cold and sudden. He’s not angry anymore. Not at all.

There’s a hard sting of sadness for you buried in him now. He finally understands it. Understands you.

And deep below, there’s also a flicker of relief. You told him. He felt like he was screaming at a wall, and now he’s not anymore.

He looks at you with a softened, searching intensity, his heart pounding.

“Really?” is all he can say, because he thinks saying he’s sorry would only offend you.

“He was a selfish cheater,” you say with a shrug. “He did whatever the fuck he wanted to do without thinking about anyone but himself.”

He grimaces. You’d once told him you like structure and it makes sense because if you felt the same pain he did, of someone who’s supposed to love you leaving, it means you never had predictability.

You expect the worst from everyone, because then you never have to watch them fuck you over.

“I know I’m guarded. I hate being treated like it’s a problem.” You sigh, shake your head. “And I think you want more from me and I can’t give it to you, okay?”

Rafe just sits there, the engine idling, his gaze fixed on you with a newfound clarity.

Regret washes over you. You’ve said too much. It’s almost laughable how this all started as a stupid bet, and now you feel like you’ve ripped open a wound for him. And his silence is making it worse.

“I’m walking home,” you say. You reach for the handle, your movements hurried. You need a clean break.

Usually, you cut contact with a guy because you can feel him falling, and you have no intention of letting things get any deeper. But as you step out into the humidity, you can tell that you aren't just running because of Rafe’s feelings. You’re running because of yours.

Somewhere between the weeks of getting to know him, of discovering the depth in him between silly jokes and easy conversations and effortless chemistry, it’s obvious now. He’s almost found a way into your heart.

And you can’t let it go any further than that.

(to be continued)

Rafe’s bedroom feels cramped. It’s about the same size as your room, but with the way he fills the space as he walks ahead of you, it feels smaller.

And yours is much more organized. One side of his room is a disaster, sheets twisted, clothes scattered on the floor. The other side is a neater. The bed is made. His Kildare Island Surfboard Co. hat is tossed on the bedframe.

You shut the door behind you, the muffled thump of the party fading. You walk past Rafe and tilt your head towards the bed that’s made.

“Please tell me this one’s yours,” you say, even though you know it is.

“Yeah, it is,” he says amusedly. Every little dose of approval he gets from you feels too damn good.

You sit on the edge of Rafe’s bed, the mattress sinking beneath you as you take in just how tidy his side of the room is.

His desk is cleared, his laundry basket tucked into the corner. You pictured him as a typical rich guy, messy and careless, the type who didn’t bother to pick up after himself, so this throws you.

But it makes sense. He clearly puts effort into how he looks, so maybe it shouldn’t shock you that he cares about the space around him, too.

He sits next to you, watching you take it in. You’re wearing that blank look on your face again, studying his room, making it impossible for him to know what you’re thinking.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

You look at him, your knee brushing his.

“Yeah,” you say. “Why?”

He hesitates. He needs to play it cool, but the longer he’s around you, the harder it is to keep up the charade.

“I never know what you’re thinking,” he confesses with a defeated chuckle.

Your knees are still touching, expensive denim on your bare skin. It’s like he’s always trying to figure you out. But you don’t want to be figured out. You want escape. You want him.

The buzz in your veins, the heat licking your stomach, the way he’s looking at you is all too tempting. So you lean in, letting the moment shift from emotional to physical, from complicated to simple.

He closes the space between you and you pick up right where you left off the other night, skipping the gentle pecks for deep kisses, carding your hands through his soft hair.

Rafe loosens at your touch, both of his hands suddenly on your cheeks, and as desire pools in your gut, reveling in his soft dominance, the way he holds you when he kisses you.

You don’t want to waste any time. You shift to turn just enough to stand and straddle him. He breathes a deep groan against your lips once he feels your weight on his lap, your legs framing his.

Rafe’s head is spinning. His hands drag up your bare legs, resting under your dress on your ass as your tongues meet. Your bodies hungrily press together and while he once felt irritation over how you act like you’re better than him, he can admit to himself that it feels true now, that he’s lucky that you want him.

He continues to gently squeeze your flesh, to dig his fingers into your skin just hard enough that it makes the ache between your legs nearly unbearable.

“Take your jeans off,” you whisper, perching up to your knees. His lips press against your collarbone as he shuffles beneath you, the hum of his zipper being pulled down coaxing you.

Once his pants are on the floor, you sit to press against his hard length, only his briefs and your panties between you. The sensation sends another rush of heat through you. You roll your hips just a little and he breathes a heavy, breathy, “Fuck.”

The way Rafe’s hand cups your face is firmer now, one arm wrapped around your waist to keep you tight against him. You feel his urgency in the way he’s holding you and kissing you.

You want to go all the way, to ask him if he has a condom, but this is meant to be a game to keep him wanting more and never getting it. Instead, you shift to sit on his thigh, slowly starting to grind as you grip his shoulders.

You feel his smirk against your lips before he tilts his head back just a bit, gaze meeting yours, his eyes drunk with pleasure.

“You want to get off like this?” he murmurs, tightening his grip around your waist so you grind harder against him. The feeling of your wet heat through your panties is mindblowing, making him tense with need.

“Yes,” you breathe, finding relief in putting pressure where you’re so desperate for it. You whisper a soft, satisfied moan at the feeling of his hard thigh against you, fabric still in the way but not too much that you’re not finding pleasure.

Your kisses grow quick and sloppy and you lose the warmth of his hand cupping your jaw, but soon find it again on your shoulder, where he’s pulling down the strap of your dress.

Rafe lowers his head, leaving your cheek pressed up against his temple, as he pulls down the front of your dress. Slowly, he brings your bra down to your waist and expels an almost inaudible moan when he sees you.

You tense with pleasure when you feel his hot mouth close over your nipple, continuing to ride his thigh, your grip on his shoulders loosening as you start to come undone.

Rafe doesn’t want this to stop. He doesn’t want anything with you to stop. He can’t be the only one feeling this, that this is more than just attraction. He wants you in every way. And he wants to be the only one who gets to have you.

He rolls and flicks his tongue over the hard peak of your nipple, gently squeezing the soft flesh of your breasts, feeling you soak his thigh. Every sense of his is filled with you and he can’t get enough.

The pressure builds up and you toss your head back when your orgasm rolls through you, tensing and relaxing, every inch of your body numb with bliss. Rafe cups your face to lead you back to him, kissing you even though you’re too spent to kiss back, rubbing his thumbs over your cheeks.

It happens like every other time. The comedown of pleasure with a guy you feel nothing for. It’s an incredible high and a deep, heavy low. Slowly, as you catch your breath, you start to readjust your clothes, pulling up your bra and fixing your dress.

Rafe’s hands rest on your hips as you remain in his lap, showing him you’re stopping this, maybe even leaving. His heart sinks. He kisses you, tries to keep you here, but you stand up, pulling down your dress.

“I’m thirsty,” you say with a tired laugh.

You meet his eyes, and you can see the disappointment. He’s not getting what he wants. You’ve seen that exact look on so many guys’ faces. When they realize you’re not giving them what they think they deserve.

“You don’t want to stay here?” he murmurs. You’re not sure if he means to continue this, or just to hang out with him, but you’re not the type to stick around.

“No,” you reply simply, adjusting the hem of your dress.

Rafe almost offers to go downstairs and get you a drink. To get you to stay. But the happiness he was feeling just seconds ago has been replaced with the sting of rejection. He can tell when he’s not wanted. When he’s been used.

His temper takes over, anger rushing over the hurt.

“Fine,” he mutters. “Go.”

It confirms everything you ever assumed about him. He’s just like all of them. Nice when he thinks he’ll get something. Cruel when he realizes he won’t.

And this is exactly why you stay unattached.

You leave Rafe’s bedroom, sure that if you never speak again, you still won the bet. Maybe you didn’t break his heart, but you definitely bruised his pride, and that’s enough for you.

・・・・・

“No fucking way,” Mac says when Rafe approaches him in the throws of the party in the living room minutes later. “I saw her coming down the stairs. You seal the deal?”

Rafe could lie. Admittedly, after you walked out of his room, he realized he has no idea what he’s doing. Whatever it is between you has gotten more complicated than he ever planned for.

He’s always hated how easily his emotions swallow him. This is his chance to prove something to himself. He’s not weak. He can stay in control. He can sleep with you and not let it mean anything.

“She’s a tease,” Rafe plays along, even though he’s not doing this because of the bet anymore. “I’ll get her.”

・・・・・

The front lawn of your sorority house is packed. Under the cloudy morning sky, you watch from your bedroom window as students from every chapter mingle at the philanthropic event your sorority is running, a pancake breakfast to raise money for a local charity.

You’re supposed to be downstairs, but when your phone buzzed in your pocket and you saw it was your mom returning the call you made to her yesterday, you slipped away just for five minutes.

It was to tell her the good news about a midterm you were anxious about. You did well. But your mom has been distracted since you started the conversation. You can tell by her one‑word answers.

“Are you busy or something?” you finally ask, a bite slipping into your tone.

“George had a stressful day yesterday,” she answers. “He got home late. I just want to make sure his breakfast is ready before he wakes up.”

You never fully bonded with your stepdad. He tried, but you didn’t. The resentment of your father’s betrayal hollowed you out, urging you to believe that a man will never stay.

It broke your mom. And she poured everything she had into the next relationship, as if loving George enough could erase the fact that your dad walked away.

With the phone pressed to your cheek, you feel anger clawing its way up your throat, tears burning behind your eyes.

You just wanted to share good news with your mom, but right now, she’s focused on someone else. And the lonely feeling that brings hurts.

・・・・・

Nobody pays attention when Rafe slips into your sorority house. The event in the front lawn is too chaotic for anyone to notice him.

Since last night, when you left him in his bedroom, you haven’t spoken. He didn’t see you outside and he needs to find you.

He knows he handled things wrong. And he can’t quit this. You’re too addictive to watch walk away.

He’s not doing this to win the bet anymore. He’s here to prove to himself that he can think like a man who doesn’t feel so much. That he can have a good time with the hottest girl he’s ever been with without getting attached.

He’s at your bedroom door, finding it easily after the night he carried your roommate over, and lifts his hand to knock.

“...can’t even listen to me for a minute?”

It’s your voice on the other side. Choked up.

“Okay. Yeah. Fine,” you eventually say, clipped and shaky.

You hang up and settle onto your bed, trying to center yourself. After you snapped at your mom that she wasn’t listening to you, she snapped right back that she was doing her best to focus on your conversation, and that’s when you began to tear up.

Then there’s a knock on your door. You assume it’s Jada or one of your sisters checking up on you. The last thing you expect is to pull the door open and find Rafe standing there.

You freeze. You’ve never cried in front of a guy you’re seeing. If that’s even what you’d call whatever this is with him. You figured after last night, the whole thing was over.

His forehead creases when he sees you, his gaze deepening.

“Are you okay?” he asks, voice low. He notices your phone in your hand, realizing you just hung up on whoever was making you cry.

There’s no point in lying. Your eyes are still wet.

“I’m great,” you mutter sarcastically, dabbing your cheeks, brushing away the last traces of your sorrow. “Why are you here?”

“For the pancakes,” he says to lighten the mood.

It’s such a stupid answer that despite yourself, your mouth twitches into a small smile.

“I’m serious. Why are you at my door?” you ask, simply confused why he hasn’t cut his losses. You don’t know why he’s sticking around after last night. Most guys would’ve bailed by now.

“To say sorry,” he says.

You put a hand on your hip. He’s here to grovel. It sends a satisfying spark through you. You always love a power trip, especially when it’s over a guy looking like he’s about to beg for another chance.

“I need to fix my makeup,” you say. “Come in if you want.”

Rafe steps inside, clicking the door shut behind him. He sits on your bed and you settle in front of your mirror and open your makeup bag. Your skin is still warm from crying, still a little tight around your eyes.

You feel the heat of his gaze. Knowing he’s seeing you vulnerable like this makes your stomach twist in discomfort. But you invited him in to show him how easily you shake things off. Then your body betrays you.

A quiet, involuntary post‑cry shudder ripples through you. A sharp pang digs itself into Rafe’s chest when he hears it.

“You don’t have to tell me what that was about,” he offers.

“I wasn’t going to,” you say, straightening your posture. “What did you hear?”

“That someone’s not listening to you.”

You let out a breathy scoff.

“Eavesdropping is rude.”

“I’m rude,” he replies with a shrug.

You have to laugh. His shoulders ease hearing it.

“I didn’t expect self‑awareness from you,” you say.

“Yeah? What’d you expect, then?”

You meet his eyes in the mirror.

“What happened last night,” you reply. “What every guy does when he realizes he’s not going to get what he wants from me.”

Rafe scratches the back of his neck, the regret sitting in his stomach.

“I’m sorry. Seriously.”

“Save it,” you respond, waving him off, truly indifferent to it anyway.

Rafe chews on the inside of his cheek. He can’t defend himself without admitting too much. He can’t tell you that last night didn’t piss him off – it hurt.

“I thought we’d hang out. And then you just… left,” he finally says. “I shouldn’t have acted like that. I…”

“Had a tantrum?” you say.

He tensely runs a hand through his hair.

“Is that why you’re always getting into fights?” you ask, thinking about what you’d seen on the island, the way he’d explode at the smallest thing.

Rafe stills for a moment. It’s good to hear that you’d noticed him back home. That he existed to you.

“Wait… you’ve been watching me?” he says amusedly.

You sigh, tipping your head back toward the ceiling with a groan.

“Your ego kills me,” you breathe.

He smirks and stares at you again as you continue to touch up your makeup, looking beautiful even with your eyes still a little puffy.

“I got mad because you’re confusing, alright?” he says. “You just ran out.”

You huff. You don’t believe him. The only thing you trust that comes out of his mouth is anything he says about his physical attraction to you.

“And I don’t get into fights anymore,” he adds.

It’s true. He hasn’t gotten into a single fight since he came to college. He still gets angry, because of course he does, but the distance from the island has done him good.

“Why’s that?” you ask, keeping your tone light, almost bored.

The more he talks, the more he opens up, the more material you’ll have later. Because you know now that you could still break his heart. You see the way he looks at you, the way he’s trying to apologize, the way he came here in the first place. His feelings are growing.

“Being here’s good for me,” he admits.

He looks out the window, jaw tight. You mull over his words. It doesn’t sound like it’s specifically here that’s good for him. It sounds like it’s anywhere that isn’t Kildare.

“You don’t like it back home?” you probe.

He breathes a humorless laugh. This pain is all too familiar. Life on the island was nothing but trying to outrun the truth that he was never wanted.

And the only way he ever learned to cope was by letting the anger take over, letting the chaos distract him from the feeling that he wasn’t enough.

“It’s because of shit with my family,” he finally replies. “I’m not what they want me to be.”

And like a wave, embarrassment that he just spilled so much to you crashes into him. This is what he hates about himself, the way everything sits right at the brim, always threatening to overflow. Somehow you’ve cracked him open.

Rafe’s defeated tone almost, almost makes you feel for him. You can relate more than he’ll ever know. Because on that phone call, your mom expected you to be fine with the fact that her husband comes first, and you don’t.

You turn around in your seat to finally look at him without the mirror between you. Rafe’s eyes are fixed on your floor now. You need to even the playing field. Make him think you’re opening up too, when you’re not.

“It was my mom on the phone,” you say. “She has a very particular idea of how I should act. It’s annoying. I get it.”

It’s a half‑truth, close enough to what he said to feel like you’re meeting him in the middle.

And he buys it. The way he looks at you, like he thinks this is some moment of shared understanding, confirms that he’s trusting you. He’s giving you pieces of himself without realizing it. And you can use every single one.

But right now, you realize you don’t want to.

What you once thought would feel satisfying suddenly doesn’t anymore. Every time you’ve hurt a guy in the past, it wasn’t intentional. You never set out to break anyone. But this time, you did, and it doesn’t feel good like you thought it would.

You don’t exactly like Rafe, but you don’t mind him. And if you go through with this, deliberately pulling him in just to tear him down, then what does that make you?

Whatever your reason, you’re still putting energy into a man. It’s not the same as your mother pouring herself into her husband, but it’s still a direction you don’t want to go into.

This started off as a little game of revenge to put Rafe in his place, maybe even to get payback on all the pain one particular man left in your heart. But you don’t see the point anymore.

“What does she want?” he asks, oblivious to the decision you’ve just made.

You lift a shoulder in a small shrug.

“For me to keep the peace,” you reply. “Don’t know if you noticed, but I don’t like to shut up when I’m mad.”

Rafe chuckles, relieved. He was convinced he blew it with you, but you’re not shutting him out.

“I like that about you,” he murmurs.

It’s the first thing Rafe has ever complimented you on that wasn’t about your appearance. And it’s about something you’ve always assumed people saw as a flaw. He talks about your short fuse like it’s good.

In the few minutes he’s been alone in here with him, you’ve seen a side of him you never have. And while you’ll never trust him, you can admit this is the most honest you’ve ever seen him be.

Your mind flickers back to the charter Olympics, to the way he made those guys who were bothering you leave you alone. You still don’t think that he did it out of sincerity, but the memory of him protecting you lingers right now.

And the way he’s looking at you now, with that same intensity he had then, only makes it harder to ignore the part of you that wonders what his intentions really are. That maybe you were wrong.

Not that it matters.

“We should go downstairs,” you say, pushing back your chair.

・・・・・

Later that day, Rafe pushes open the door to his bedroom, gym bag slung over his shoulder. He’s barely stepped inside when Cooper looks up from his laptop.

“Did you see the email?” he asks. Rafe drops his bag onto the floor with a thud.

“What email?”

His roommate turns the screen toward him. Rafe’s stomach sinks when he sees the subject line. Notice of Disciplinary Action.

“We’re on probation,” Cooper says. “We’re actually banned from partying. We could get suspended.”

“This is a joke,” he mutters with a chuckle.

“No, dude, it’s real,” Cooper confirms. “We’re off probation after four weeks if we follow the rules. Trey called a house meeting tonight.”

Rafe exhales, frustrated and confused.

・・・・・

The meeting starts with Trey, the frat president, standing at the front of the living room. He doesn’t bother hiding how pissed he is.

“We shouldn’t even be having this conversation,” he says, glaring around the room. “We just got warned and you geniuses still thought throwing that Halloween party was a good idea.”

He exhales sharply and reads off the email from the disciplinary committee.

“They’re serious,” he says afterwards. “They’ll be checking. Campus security will do random drive‑bys. If they see cars lined up or people outside or literally anything that looks like a party, we’re done. No one here can even risk being seen at other parties. I mean it.”

As the guys break into complaints, Rafe just sits there, growing more pissed off as the reality settles in. No parties means no distractions.

Eventually, he realizes that the conversations are going nowhere, and he stands and walks out into the night air without a destination in mind. He gets into his truck and sits there for a minute, hands on the wheel, jaw tight.

Then he pulls out his phone and taps on your name. Because right now, you’re the only person who makes him forget everything better than anything else ever has.

He doesn’t even know what he’s going to say when you pick up. He just needs to get out of his own head.

“Hello?” you answer.

“Hey,” he says. “You around?”

“I’m home,” you say. “And I’m in my pajamas, so the farthest I’m going is the porch.”

He smirks despite himself.

“I’ll be there in a minute.”

・・・・・

When Rafe parks under the streetlamp in front of your sorority house, he sees you already sitting on the steps, arms wrapped around your knees. You look unbothered. Beautiful. Like usual.

He sits beside you on the porch, leaving just enough space to pretend he’s not desperate to touch you. For a few seconds, neither of you talk. Crickets sing. Cars pass.

“As peaceful as this is,” you say, picking up on his tension, “what the fuck happened?”

Rafe huffs a quiet, defeated laugh.

“We’re on probation,” he admits. “No parties or anything for a month. Everyone in the house is losing their minds.”

“Oh, wow,” you say. “No fun for a month?”

Rafe shrugs, eyes fixed on the street.

“Sitting around doing nothing drives me insane,” he admits.

“You could finally do those discussion boards you’ve been missing out on,” you say, nudging him with your shoulder. He breathes a laugh again. “You’re telling me you can’t survive thirty days?”

Rafe finally looks at you. And he realizes that just by being with you, his chest isn’t as tight anymore. He feels better around you.

“I’m not good with being bored,” he says.

You stare at him for a moment. Maybe he’s not as shallow as you expected. Maybe he likes noise because it keeps him from thinking. Maybe there’s something he’s outrunning.

This is exactly the kind of conversation you stay far away from with a guy. This is stuff a girlfriend would deal with. And you’re not his girlfriend. You’re not here to fix him or soothe him or get pulled into whatever’s going on in his head.

You need to shift the mood and offer him some sort of comfort, without the vulnerability. Because while you don’t have any real feelings for Rafe, you can admit you don’t like seeing him tense.

You’ll let this fling play out. One of you will eventually get bored once it’s obvious this isn’t going anywhere. But you’re no longer trying to hurt him. You can’t bring yourself to be cruel to someone who isn’t the asshole you thought he was.

“Well,” you say lightly, leaning back on your hands. “The girls keep talking about a beach day.”

He glances over, curious.

“And if you guys come to that,” you continue, “is it really that bad? It’s not a party. And it’s off campus.”

Rafe nods, his mouth curling into a smile, the rigidity in his posture easing.

“I’ll text you the details,” you say. “Come with drinks. And don’t bring everyone, okay?”

You push yourself to your feet, brushing off your hands.

“Wait,” Rafe says. He stands too, and because he’s a step lower on the porch, you end up almost eye‑level with him. Even from here, he’s still taller than you.

He looks at you with that intense focus you’ve seen so many times. And then, like always, he cups your face with both firmness and restraint when he kisses you.

For a second, the world goes quiet around him. The more he gets of you, the more he wants. Your lips are warm and soft and perfect and it hurts that you want to go back inside so soon after he arrived.

You pull back from the kiss first, like always. He stays where he is, stuck between hope and frustration, wishing you’d change your mind and just to sit here with him.

But you only offer a heartbreaking smile before you turn and leave him unable to stop wanting the one thing he can’t get enough of.

・・・・・

You’ve been at the beach for about an hour now, soaking in the early afternoon sun.

Everyone is sprawled out, a mix of your sorority sisters, girls from other houses, and a few guys they invited. Music hums from a speaker over the crashes of waves against the shore.

You’re sitting cross‑legged on your towel, gazing out at the lake. It’s beautiful, light blue contrasted against a wide stretch of beige sand, but it doesn’t compare to the ocean you grew up admiring. Even so, you can’t help enjoying the novelty of sitting on a beach in November.

A faraway voice makes you look toward the parking lot. You see a group of six guys, all in swim trunks and sunglasses, talking loudly and hauling a cooler.

Rafe is easy to pick out. He’s taller than the rest, wearing a white t-shirt over his swim shorts, looking better than everyone on this beach.

You’d sent him a location pin so he could find you. He drops the cooler into the sand and greets the guys already there with his usual confidence.

Rafe hates to see that there isn’t an open spot beside you, that you’re wedged between two of your friends. He chooses a place just across from you, sitting on the corner of a beach blanket.

He’s supposed to be keeping his feelings in check. But how can he when you look like that, sitting there wearing a bikini and an amused smirk that tightens his chest?

You pull at two sides of him, the part that craves to be wrapped up in you, to be deep inside of you, and another part that he tries to ignore. A part that wants to be needed.

“Hey,” he says to you over the surrounding conversations.

“Hey,” you reply. “You staying out of trouble?”

He gives a half‑smile and says, “Trying.”

It’s been a couple of days since you spoke on the porch, since he kissed you and you walked away. Since then, you’ve taken up his every thought, and it sucks having to pretend like you haven’t.

The group’s conversation shifts to the probation. As some of Rafe’s frat brothers whine about the punishment, you stretch out your legs, playfully nudging his knee with your toes. He looks at you, mirroring your smile.

A few weeks ago, you had to make yourself flirt with him. You had to think about the bet and tell yourself to play the part. Now you want to do it. The version of him you thought you hated has been erased, and he’s just another guy you’re having a fling with. Something fun that’ll burn out.

That’s always been the rush. Getting close enough to feel the spark, but never close enough to get burned.

You’ve known for a while now that Rafe really likes you. You can see it in the way he looks at you, in the way his attention keeps drifting back to you, no matter what’s happening around him. You know when a guy is in deep.

But he’s only enamored with a version of you. Guys fall for the cool, detached girl all the time. You never let them see the real you.

Rafe is no different. He probably thinks he’s getting close, but he’s not. You’re enjoying the temporary thrill, and if he stopped talking to you tomorrow, you’d shrug and move on.

Besides, you’re still pretty sure he’s putting up a front, too. Acting nicer than he really is. You know the routine that every guy does when he wants you.

Eventually, Rafe gently cups your ankle. You meet his eyes.

“Swim with me,” he says quietly. You nod.

He tugs his shirt off and you slip your hand into his, letting him pull you up. Jada smiles at you over the rim of her drink. You told her yesterday that you’re over the bet, that it feels wrong to keep playing this game.

She didn’t look surprised. She’s seen you go through enough flings to know exactly how this will go.

・・・・・

The sand shifts under your feet as the two of you approach the shore. When the water reaches your ankles, it’s cool enough to make you wince.

Rafe steps in ahead of you, the surface rippling around his calves as he looks ahead, giving you an opportunity to look at his bare, muscled back.

“It’s nothin’ like ours, huh?” he says.

You smirk to yourself, finding it funny that he’s thinking the same thing you did. And that he’s calling the island ours like it’s something you share, when all you did there was avoid each other.

He keeps his eyes on the horizon. While he seems to appreciate the beaches at home, he admitted to you that it’s better he’s not there. You always assumed he coasted through life with no concerns, but you know now that’s not entirely true.

You wade deeper into the water. It curls around your thighs and you let out another sharp exhale as you adjust to the temperature.

“Come on,” Rafe teases. “It’s not gonna bite you.”

You roll your eyes, familiar easy tension settling between you. When this whole thing started, he had to watch every word, rein in the way he normally teases because he wasn’t sure how to handle you. But now, he doesn’t have to do any of that. He can just be himself.

“This is a shock to my system, okay? I’ve been in the sun for a long time,” you flirt. “See how warm I am?”

You wrap your hand around his bicep. The warmth of your skin sinks into him, and you feel the subtle flex of hard muscle under your palm.

His eyes drop to where you’re holding him, then lift back to yours with an amused look. He likes the way you touch him. And that you chose to.

“Not really,” he replies. He dips his chin toward you. “Probably should feel more of you.”

He uses the excuse to tug you closer by the wrist. You laugh as your bodies meet, the water now at your hips, your shoulders nearly level with his chest. You stare up at him, and in the sun, the freckles on his face stand out, soft, scattered spots.

“Oh, yeah, you’re hot,” he rasps with a smirk as you press up against him. He thinks back to the other night, to the feeling of you grinding on his thigh, his mouth on you, your breathy moans.

“You’re not as smooth as you think you are,” you tease. Rafe’s grin widens.

“What? I’m just talking.”

The water sways around you both. You take a deep breath before finally sinking in to your shoulders, the cold rushing up your spine.

And, like always, your conversation drifts effortlessly. It’s nothing heavy or deep, but you get to know each other a little more, trading jokes in between.

・・・・・

Eventually, the quiet you and Rafe found in the water breaks as more of the group joins to swim. The sun keeps sinking, and by the time everyone wanders back to shore, it’s just about to touch the horizon.

Your section of the beach is a sprawl of towels, drinks, and snacks. Everyone’s stretched out in the sand, talking over each other as all your sorority sisters brag about winning silver in the charter Olympics.

Rafe sits beside you, a beer bottle dangling from his fingers while conversations blur around you.

He’s pissed off. He’s never claimed to be a good person. He knows exactly what he is. But loyalty means something, and if someone loved him, he’d never fuck them over, so when he spots his frat brother with some random girl that’s definitely not his girlfriend perched on his lap, frustration coils tightly in his gut.

Rafe’s seen the way his girlfriend dotes on him. And he can admit it made him jealous. Not because he likes her, but because he wants someone to care that much about him.

Seeing his frat brother throw that away makes his blood run hot. Why do some people get handed the kind of love Rafe would kill for, and treat it like it’s nothing?

You take a deep breath as you gaze out at the water. At first, Rafe looks like he’s just zoning out, but then you notice he’s been quiet for uncharacteristically long.

“What are you pouting about?” you tease.

He flicks his eyes toward the group, then lifts his chin in the direction of one of his frat brothers. The guy is laughing, a girl on his lap, her arms around his neck.

Rafe’s voice drops low.

“He’s got a girl,” he mutters with a shake of his head. He takes a slow sip of his drink, still watching the scene with a judgmental look.

You study his profile, trying to figure out if he’s genuinely bothered by his friend seemingly cheating or just saying what he thinks sounds good. But he actually seems angry. The guys you’ve known wouldn’t flinch at something like this.

“Why does it annoy you?” you ask.

“If you got someone, you don’t do that shit,” he mutters.

“Doesn’t every guy do that shit?” you chuckle.

The words slipped out before you could stop them, pulled from the memory of your dad leaving, emptying the house of his belongings, teaching you that men will always choose themselves.

Rafe looks at you, eyebrows pulling together like he can’t believe you’re excusing it.

“No,” he says. The conviction in his tone is hard and unexpected.

“I’m not saying it’s okay,” you reply with a laugh, trying to keep things light. “I’ve just seen it a million times.”

“Yeah, well, some guys actually give a shit about loyalty,” he responds.

The noise of the group swells around you again and you don’t say anything, letting the conversation slip away. It feels too deep.

You trail off into other topics, joking around, pretending you’re not preoccupied. But Rafe’s reaction lingers in your mind, even after you say your goodbyes later that afternoon.

(to be continued)

Rafe absentmindedly scrolls on his phone as his truck idles in front of your sorority house, the windows cracked to let the breeze in.

It’s been a couple of days since your kiss. He texted asking when he could see you, and earlier today, you told him to pick you up after ten p.m.

You step onto the front porch to see Rafe waiting in a black pickup truck. You’re sure it’s the same one you’ve seen him drive around the island. It’s loud and way too big. He probably chose it because he thinks it makes him look tough. Like the dirt bike you’ve seen him on.

Late nights are nothing new for you. You prefer to see guys after dark. It keeps things casual because then, they won’t try to impress you with expensive dates or big gestures. They get the wrong idea when they treat you like a girlfriend. They think that you owe them. And that’s the last thing you’d ever agree to.

When you slide into the passenger seat, Rafe looks you up and down, warmth creeping up the back of his neck.

“So,” you say, shutting the door and buckling in, “where do you want to take me so bad?”

He stares at you first, the words forming only after he’s had his fill. He wants to kiss you right now. He would if this wasn’t a game. He can’t look too eager.

“You said to surprise you,” he answers. He pulls away from the curb with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the console, inches away from your thigh.

・・・・・

Rafe drives off campus and toward the south end of town, the road curling upward into the hills. His truck’s headlights sweep over gravel as he turns into a pull‑off overlooking the city. Below, the lights glow in pockets of white.

He turns the truck to face the trail he drove in on and shuts it off, allowing the humming of crickets and ticking of the cooling engine to fill your ears.

A lookout point. How cliché. You’re not impressed, but you do appreciate the quiet up here. You won’t admit it out loud that it’s pretty. And that it’s definitely better than some restaurant or a random parking lot.

Without a word, Rafe drops out of the truck, the door thudding shut behind him. You exhale before climbing out after him. Of course he’d just walk off without saying anything. This man has no manners.

You meet him outside at the back of the truck, where he’s unlatching the tailgate. You step out, drifting a few paces toward the edge to study the view.

After throwing a blanket over the truck bed, Rafe follows you. When he looks at you gazing out below, he sees softness crossing your face. For a second, you almost look happy.

This whole thing might work. He came here to get the one thing he wants with you. Privacy.

“Nice, right?” he says. “We can sit in the back. I brought a blanket.”

“Just one?” you reply. “I’m shocked.”

He breathes out a low chuckle. You think about how many other girls he’s brought here. How many times he’s used this view to impress them. Rafe seems like the type who’d want to prove how much he can afford, yet he took you somewhere so lowkey.

You figure it’s because he wants to pick up where you left off the other night. But it’s not like you don’t want to be in private with him. This may all be a scheme to break his heart, but kissing him was nice. And you want to do more of it.

The manners he seemed to have forgotten come back as he cups your hand to help you up to the back of the pickup. You lean against the rear window, sinking into the comforter he spread out, pulling a corner of it over your lap.

Rafe lets out a soft grunt as he settles beside you, the side of his thigh pressed against yours as you take in the view together. Lights sparkle across the streets below, the night air smelling faintly of damp earth.

“What’d you do today?” he asks.

“I helped with prepping for that Olympics event,” you respond. “A bunch of us are volunteering.”

Rafe already knows the gist. The charter Olympics is some lame spirit thing for frats and sororities to compete in games. It’s a dry event. That was enough for him to decide he was skipping it, even with the talks he’s been hearing about his frat being at risk for probation.

“And that’s fun for you?” he asks.

You glance over at him, catching the teasing curve of his lips.

“Let me guess,” you retort. “You joined Greek life just for the parties?”

“Why else?”

You scoff, shaking your head. The more you learn about Rafe, the more you know that once this is over, you won’t miss it. He’s such a typical shallow guy.

“Why’d you join?” Rafe asks.

His eyes are softer, like he’s curious. He either actually wants to know or is doing a good job pretending to.

There’s no chance you’re admitting the real reason. Being in a sorority gives you the stability you never had growing up. Your friends are your chosen family, and joining gave you a place to belong.

But vulnerability, even faked, will pull him in faster. It’ll make him think he can earn deeper access to you. You’ll give him a very light version of the truth.

“I obviously like the parties,” you reply. “But I like the events, too. I can appreciate when things are structured. And predictable.”

Rafe just stares. Hearing the girl who’ll snap at anyone over nothing saying she wants structure doesn’t really register. It’s intriguing.

“What?” you laugh, tilting your head at him when he doesn’t look away.

“You don’t seem like you like predictable,” he admits.

“Well, I do,” you reply with a shrug, looking back out at the view again.

His jaw tenses. He wants you to care what he thinks, but you don’t. It’s like your attention is already full with everything else in your life and he’s trying to find space where there isn’t any.

“I’ll probably come to that, too,” he decides. “Some guys were saying we could be put on probation, so we gotta get more involved in things.”

“Seriously?” you say with a disbelieving laugh.

“Security showed up a few times ‘cause of noise complaints,” he says. “Apparently, you get enough warnings and the school steps in.”

You wince, but Rafe shrugs. He’s used to getting in trouble. When his world crumbled around him as a kid, he lost all control, and he’s been fighting to gain it back since. It turned him into a man who never had patience for being told what to do, who never cared for authority.

“I can tell you’re really torn up about it,” you say, sarcasm thick in your tone.

“It’s just annoying,” he admits. “Their rules don’t make sense. They just like having something to hold over us.”

Of course. The entitlement you always suspected in Rafe is alive and well. He believes that rules are optional for him, that consequences are something that should only happen to other people.

“You realize probation means none of those parties you care so much about, right?” you tease. “Seems like it’s all you care about, actually.”

Maybe it should piss him off that you think that’s all there is to him, but it’s a compliment. You’re wrong. He cares too much, feels too much, but if you think he’s this apathetic, that means he’s selling it.

“They’re just trying to scare us,” Rafe murmurs. “If we come to that Olympics thing and act like we care, we’ll be good.”

He readjusts his backwards hat, licking his lips before speaking again.

“Too bad we can’t be on the same team again, yeah?” he says, thinking back to your game of beer pong the other night.

You meet his eyes. You’re more aware of yourself now. The way you toyed with men used to be instinct, but now, with this bet on your mind, you can feel yourself doing it in real time.

It’s an art. Giving warmth in small doses. You realize that while you hate unpredictability, you love being the unpredictable one.

“It is too bad,” you play along. “I can’t believe we never talked before. We should’ve.”

Heat blossoms in Rafe’s chest, spreading to his limbs. It feels so good to hear you say that, and he’s not sure if it’s because of this bet he’s trying to win or if he really is looking for validation from you.

His eyes sweep over your features in the moonlight. It’s dizzying, watching you lean towards him, showing him that you want him.

You tilt your head just a little, taking your time with closing the distance, teasing him in a silent promise that he’ll get you for now, but if he messes up, he’ll lose you again.

He can’t remember the last time he was this nervous around a girl.

Rafe’s lips press on yours, as warm and soft as you remember them. Your eyes flutter shut as the tip of your nose brushes against his, and his hand cups your cheek just like it did the other night, guiding but gentle, as if he needs to ground himself.

When you part your lips, allowing his tongue to touch yours, he tastes impossibly good, better than you thought he would. He’s not forceful or rough like so many guys are. There’s no need to back away or tell him to slow down. He’s firm, but careful, almost gentle in a way you didn’t expect.

Rafe pulls you in closer. Your lips are so soft, your mouth hot as you breathe each other in. He realizes he revels in the way you taste, wanting more and more of it.

The deeper and longer your kisses grow, the more Rafe’s stomach tightens with need. He’s already so hard. His grip tightens on your cheek as he leads you to tilt your head back just slightly.

The cool air presses against your wet lips as he leaves languid kisses along your jaw, moving down the column of your throat. He presses his hot, open mouth on the most sensitive parts of your neck.

You bite your bottom lip as tingles cover every inch of your skin, your craving for him flooding your senses. His hand drags down to your thigh, and when you let out a breathy moan, his grip tightens. He skims higher, testing.

“You’re so fucking hot,” Rafe huskily murmurs against your skin as his palm lands over the curve of your ass. You respond by kissing him again, deeper this time. He squeezes your flesh over your jeans, and now, his kiss is even hotter.

Your pulse is loud in your ears as time bends in itself, the sounds of your tangled breaths and wet kisses consuming you. Eventually, slowly, his hand trails to your hip, the pad of his thumb brushing under your top.

You want him to move his hand higher. You want to crawl into his truck and let him peel your clothes off and touch you. And you would, if you were here for any other reason.

You pull back, taking in a soft breath, your foreheads brushing together.

“Can you take me home now?” you half-whisper.

Rafe straightens, his heavy lidded gaze trailing down your face.

You move first, scooting forward to get out of the bed of his truck. After you slip into the passenger seat, he sits behind the steering wheel. He shuffles awkwardly in his seat, undoubtedly trying to hide his arousal after making out with you.

His keys jingle, and his engine roars to life. But before he drives off, he looks at you.

“Everything good?” Rafe murmurs.

You nod, wanting to keep him invested without giving him much clarity at all.

“Yeah,” you say with a soft smile. “I just need to slow down.”

It’s a promise that’s more to come, a way to keep him on the hook without blowing him off. He looks ahead and you take in his profile, watch his Adam’s apple bob with a slow swallow as he puts his truck into drive.

You wanted to keep going, but you want to hurt him more.

・・・・・

The sun is already scorching, even though it’s only the first event of the chapter Olympics, music blasting from a portable speaker.

You’re standing in your chapter’s lane, waiting for the water‑balloon toss to start. Jada is a few feet away, rolling her shoulders to warm up. The rules are simple: toss the balloon, take a step back, last chapter standing wins.

Rafe ends up right beside the guy next to you. When he looks over and sees you, he grins, his dimples dipping into his cheeks. You return the smile.

Insecurity isn’t new for him. He hasn’t stopped replaying the other night in his head. The heated makeout session, the way you pulled away, the quiet car ride home.

It was almost a week ago, and you haven’t talked since, and it’s made him restless. He’d normally just text a girl in this situation, but he keeps needing to remind himself to play this carefully.

Now here you are, beautiful, smirking at him like you know you’ve been driving him insane.

The game starts. The guy between you and Rafe eventually misjudges his toss, the balloon slipping through his hands and exploding at his feet. He groans and steps back, and suddenly Rafe is closer. He leans in slightly.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice barely threading through the noise from the speaker and people shouting and laughing all around you. “Did I totally fuck up the other night?”

He’s asking because he wants to win the bet. Mostly.

There’s another reason, one he hates admitting even to himself. He wants you to think good things about him. He wants your approval. And that feels really fucking embarrassing.

He’s not sure how to manipulate this anymore. The whole be forward but not desperate thing gets harder every time he sees you. His instincts keep pulling him in toward you, and it’s getting harder to pretend he’s above it.

He’s not the type to play coy when he wants a girl. He’s usually direct. And he wishes you’d want him just as bad as he wants you.

“No. I had fun,” you reply with a small smile, squinting in the sunlight.

You can see worry in the way his eyes dart away. And it feels like victory. Worry means he cares, and caring means he’s slipping. He’s starting to have feelings. You’re sure of it.

The next toss comes. Jada’s balloon slips right through her fingers and soaks her shoes when it pops. She screams out an angry groan so loud that it scares her neighbors. You burst into laughter.

Rafe finds himself smirking. Your laugh does something to him.

You step out of the lane, brushing past him. Your hand finds his bicep, warm and solid under your fingers, and he meets your eyes.

“Good luck,” you say.

You feel it, the charged pull between you, heavy and unignorable. Even with all the noise around you, the air between you feels louder than all of it.

Rafe’s gaze lingers when you let go.

・・・・・

You report for your volunteer shift at the snack table, ready for half an hour of collecting tickets and handing out whatever people want.

From under the tent, you catch sight of Rafe across the field, digging his heels into the dirt during a game of tug‑of‑war. He’s all muscle and it sends your mind straight back to the night in his truck.

The losing team is supposed to fall backward into a kiddie pool filled with cold water, and you find yourself hoping that Rafe’s side slips. You want to see the way his shirt would cling to him afterward, plastered to every line of him.

Your sexual chemistry is undeniable. He knows exactly how to touch you. But you’re here to give him what he deserves. And you know now that you’re at the point where you can toy with him.

Three guys wander towards the snack table together, interrupting your daydreams.

“What do you have?” a guy with sunglasses says.

You can tell by the way his eyes are trailing down your body that he’s checking you out. You don’t bother answering. You just tap the laminated sign hanging from the front of the table, showing that you’re offering popsicles, granola bars, and chips.

“If I get a popsicle,” he begins, “can I watch you eat it?”

His friends snort, elbowing each other like they’ve never heard anything funnier. You scowl and step to the side.

“Next,” you say to the girl who just approached behind them. You help her quickly, but the guys linger, still expecting service.

One of his friends steps forward and tries to hand you his ticket.

“Sorry,” he says. “It was a stupid joke. Can I just get some chips?”

You scoff and wave curtly to dismiss them.

“Wait for the next volunteer,” you tell them flatly.

“I was just having fun,” the one who made the comment to you says.

“By being a disgusting pig?” you mutter, your voice sharp.

They don't move. You cross your arms, staring daggers at them, furious that you’re stuck behind this table and that they refuse to leave.

Then, someone approaches. You look up.

After his team won tug‑of‑war, Rafe spotted you, noticed your hand lifted in an irritated gesture. Even from a distance, he recognized that pissed off look on your face.

He realizes a group of guys are hovering around your table, annoying you. He’s seen them before. They’re members of the rival frat his house is always competing with.

“You guys botherin’ her?” Rafe says, light but edged.

“Immensely,” you answer before they can speak. “They won’t leave.”

Normally, you hate when a man acts like you need rescuing. But right now you’re trapped. You can’t walk away from the table. And these guys won’t go away.

Rafe feels a flare of protectiveness burn in him when he sees just how angry you are, and how these assholes are trying to intimidate you. The rivalry between their houses makes his temper snap tighter.

“Go,” Rafe tells them, the sharpness in his voice unmistakable now.

“I want some food,” one of the guys mutters.

“You lost your chance,” you snap.

He scoffs, rolling his eyes like you’re the unreasonable one.

“You heard her,” Rafe says, daring him to push it. You don’t want to expect any good from him, but he’s standing with his broad shoulders squared, making it very clear whose side he’s on.

The guys finally leave, muttering as they stalk off. It’s just you and Rafe at the table now. You don’t want to believe he stepped in because he’s sincerely looking out for you. You can’t. But you’re still grateful because you had no escape and he just gave it to you.

“I’ll give you all the snacks you want,” you say in a show of appreciation.

Rafe huffs a small laugh, but his eyes stay on you.

“What’d they do?” he asks.

“They were gross,” you mutter. Admittedly, you’re tired of pretending the way men objectify you doesn’t get to you. “Like all guys, treating me like I’m only good for one thing. It’s so fucking degrading.”

Rafe is thrown by your honesty. You can tell. But when you’re this angry, you don’t care about putting up a front. Just like the night he spilled his drink on you, when you snapped at him with no inhibitions.

And that memory hits you now. Rafe asked if you were always so sensitive and it reminded you exactly why you don’t let yourself trust guys like him. Whatever he’s doing right now is a game. You have to keep your guard up where it always is.

“Want anything?” you ask, attempting to brush the thought away with humor, to continue to charm him. “Or I could keep ranting if you’re into it.”

“I’ll take one of those,” Rafe says with a small smile, pointing at the granola bars. Your eyes dip to his lips, reminded of how they felt on yours, before you hand him a bar. Your fingers brush his for half a second.

He steps back as he realizes someone is in line behind him. But he’s still staring at you like he’s trying to figure you out. You break eye contact first. And he steps aside to let the next person through.

・・・・・

Later that night, you read Rafe’s text while standing in front of your mirror in your bedroom. Jada is in the bathroom, blasting music as she does her hair.

You coming tonight?

You check your reflection, smoothing your hands down the sides of your deep red mini‑dress. You’re dressed up for an ‘angels and demons’ theme party, your dress soft and skimpy, paired with a plastic headband of two red horns.

His frat shouldn’t be throwing their annual Halloween party tonight. They’re almost on probation, and everyone knows it by now. But that’s not your problem. If they want to risk getting shut down, that’s on them.

Probably, you type back, even though you’re fully planning to head over there.

Rafe has never been afraid to come on too strong with a girl. He either cares or he doesn’t. But tonight, sitting on the couch in the frat house living room, surrounded by his brothers, he feels different.

He keeps checking his phone, rereading your text.

Probably.

His friends are shouting over the music. Normally, he escapes into this loud chaos. He loves not having to think about anything. But you might be coming, and your attention feels different than anything else.

Rafe leans back, letting the music wash over him, pretending he’s relaxed even though he’s anything but.

・・・・・

The second you step into the frat house, the air is thick, too many bodies packed into one place. Music thumps through the floorboards, vibrating up your legs. Your friends pull you deeper inside, weaving through clusters of people.

Rafe stands near the kitchen doorway with his friends. His hair is pushed back instead of hidden under a hat, a little tousled. He didn’t bother with a real costume. Just a red polo and jeans, the bare minimum effort to dress on theme.

You look away before he can catch you staring and go further into the house, pretending you’re not aware of where he is in the room.

Eventually, while you’re dancing with your friends, you feel a hand graze the small of your back. You turn to see Rafe towering over you, close enough that you can smell his cologne under the haze of sweat. His eyes are on you like you’re the only person in the room.

“Who cares about probation, huh?” you say, motioning to the chaos around you. This party absolutely should not be happening.

“Aw, you worried about me?” Rafe replies, leaning in just enough that you feel his breath on your cheek.

“I’m losing sleep over it,” you deadpan.

He laughs under his breath and wraps an arm around you, pulling you into his side like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He doesn’t want to second guess himself with you, even though it’s all he does.

Suddenly, he’s aware of every guy in the room who’s staring at you in that tiny dress. The twist of possessiveness burns in him.

Rafe has no claim over you. But it feels like he does. Like he should.

You gaze up at him, at the way his hair falls slightly over his forehead.

“I like your hair like that,” you flirt.

His grin widens. It’s a full, toothy smile he tries to hide by ducking his head for a second.

“Could barely shower,” he says. “My arms are killing me from today.”

“Weak,” you tease.

“Hey,” he says, laughing. “I carried my team.”

“Whatever you need to tell yourself,” you reply with a nod. He chuckles and shakes his head.

“You have a good time?”

“It’s fun to get competitive,” you say. “You?”

“Yeah,” he says, rolling his shoulders. “Just need a massage now.”

“Nice try,” you laugh.

He pauses for a moment to take in your bright smile, the sweet sound of your laugh.

“Who do you think won?” he asks.

“Us. Definitely.”

“You’re so sure,” he says with a squint.

“We can put money on it if you want to bet,” you say.

Rafe’s smile falters.

The goal was just to hook up with you. It was supposed to be a game. Now he’s standing in front of you, and you’re joking with him, and he’s having so much fun with you that he already misses you before you’re gone.

You’re not just some stuck-up princess. There’s more to you. He’s seen it. How funny you are. How sweet you can be. And today, when he saw that anger in you flare yet again, he realized it’s rooted in how much you have to protect yourself.

He knows what that’s like.

He wonders what’ll happen if he wants more than what he promised his friends. He’s definitely attracted to you. That part was never in question. But there’s something else now that makes the bet feel cheap.

It pisses him off that he’s doing what you vented to him about. He tried to convince himself that he could see you as just a girl to fuck around with. And he was an idiot to do that.

You study him, curious about what his sudden silence means. He’s looking at you like he always does, like he’s trying to read your mind.

But you don’t make it a habit to read between a guy’s lines. All you can feel is the heat of your need for him. The way he’s looking at you only makes it harder to ignore.

You’ll stick to the plan. You won’t go all the way. But you’ll do more.

“You want to show me your room?” you ask, already knowing the answer.

Rafe licks his lips, nodding gently.

“Yeah,” he says, voice low. “Come on.”

He leads you through the crowd, up the stairs, the noise fading behind you with every step. His palm covers yours, sending a hot current straight through you.

He opens the door to his bedroom. And you follow him inside.

(to be continued)

Your Saturday morning starts slow. Sunlight spills through the curtains of your room as you rest under your comforter. You can hear girls laughing in the hallway of the sorority house.

Your roommate is on the other side of the room in her bed, and you’ve been drifting in and out of conversation with her, scrolling on your phones and lazing together.

“So… you gonna tell me what happened with that guy last night?” Jada asks.

You didn’t say much when you reunited with your friends at the party after disappearing with Rafe. Jada recognized him as the jerk who spilled his drink on you, but you brushed it off, saying he apologized.

You take a deep breath.

“You can’t judge me for what I’m about to tell you,” you say, your voice low.

Jada perks up immediately, pushing herself upright. She grins, dropping her phone on her lap.

“I love it when a story starts that way,” she says. You chuckle and roll onto your side, resting your head on your hand as you look at her from across the room.

“His name is Rafe. I know him from back home,” you say. “He’s a total dick. And since he’s started trying to get with me, my friends… bet me that I couldn’t break his heart.”

“You’re kidding,” Jada says in amusement. “Why would I judge you for that? It’s never a bad thing for a guy like that to get put in his place.”

Her words are vindicating. He does deserve it. You think back to the way Rafe talked to you and touched you last night, smug like he can take whatever he wants from you.

“It did seem weird to me that you went off with him after he was so rude the other night,” she says, pointing at you. “I know you’re not one to forgive. Wow, it’s all coming together now.”

You laugh. You’ve been called many things, all by guys who felt slighted by you, and Jada affectionately implying that you’re unforgiving is nothing compared to it. You’ve built a reputation. It’s better to be the girl no one fucks with than the girl who gets hurt.

“How are you going to do it?” she asks.

Your eyes drift to the ceiling.

“I’ll make him think I like him, then act like I can’t stand him, which, honestly, I can’t, so at least that part will be easy,” you say. “I swear, the second a guy realizes you’re not dying for his attention, he tries way too hard to make you care. I’ve never wanted to make a guy fall for me, though, so that’s new territory.”

“He’s done for,” Jada says.

You chuckle again. You’ve strung along guys many times before, but this is the first time you’re doing it on purpose. You’ve never tried to hurt anyone’s feelings; keeping your distance is just how you’ve always kept yourself safe.

You feel bad for those you’ve burned, but it’s not like you promised them love or loyalty. Because you learned as a kid what happens when you give a man trust. Your father walked out like it was nothing. If your own dad didn’t stay for you, why would anyone else?

Rafe will make this easy. He’s simple, like most men. He gets a little attention and thinks a girl is powerless to him. He’s sure that you’ll let your guard down. But you don’t do that. You never have.

・・・・・

“How’s it going with her?” Mac asks.

Rafe drags his gaze away from his beer to glance at his friend. The two of them stand near the back doors of the sorority house, the air smelling like perfume.

He realizes Mac is looking at you. You’re laughing at something one of your friends said, beaming a pretty smile. For a second, it’s like he’s back in Kildare, seeing you from a distance at a party, another stranger he never bothered to know.

“Slow,” Rafe answers honestly. It was just last night that he asked for your number and you passively declined. He’s still annoyed.

“If you can’t do it, man…”

Rafe smirks and nudges his friend. He refuses to lose.

“I can, asshole,” he chuckles.

Tonight, Rafe will make you wait. By the time he finally decides to approach you, he’s sure you’ll be relieved.

・・・・・

You should’ve seen it coming. Jada mentioned she skipped dinner. She’s only had a couple drinks, but her empty stomach clearly made them hit her hard. It’s barely an hour into the party and she’s already wobbling.

Her knees are giving out every few steps, and you’re not confident you’ll be able to catch her if she goes down. In the couple of years you’ve known your roommate, you’ve never seen her so wasted.

“You should sit,” you shout over the music, hands on Jada’s shoulders.

“But I’ll fall asleep,” she slurs.

You breathe a defeated laugh.

“Let’s go home,” you decide. “You can sober up. In your bed.”

“I love my bed,” Jada sighs with a grin.

You should get her out of here and with how much she’s stumbling, you’ll need a second body to make sure she doesn’t fall over. You’ll ask one of your sorority sisters to help.

But that’s when you spot Rafe.

You weren’t planning to even look at him tonight. But you’ve learned that if you give a guy you’ve been stringing along a chance to do you a favor, he’ll always take it.

You leave Jada with your friends and weave through the crowd toward him. He’s leaning against the wall, talking to a couple guys, wearing that backwards hat he always wears. You spot Kildare Island Surfboard Co. stitched on the front.

“Do me a favor?” you ask once you close the distance.

Rafe’s head flicks toward you. A self-satisfied smirk grows on his face.

“What’s up?” he says, his voice low, eyes drifting to your lips.

“I need help getting my roommate home. You seem strong enough.”

Rafe sets his drink down on the nearest table without breaking eye contact. Then he tilts his head toward the door, a silent come on.

・・・・・

Warm night air wraps around you as the three of you step out onto Greek Row. The bass from different houses overlaps out of rhythm and the sidewalks are crowded with clusters of students.

You’ve only made a couple of steps together when Jada stumbles. She apologizes through a giggle, then leans on you so hard that you nearly lose your footing.

You grip her forearm, and Rafe’s hand is suddenly on yours, steadying Jada. His other hand settles on the small of your back.

“You can’t walk,” he snips at Jada.

You huff, feeling protective over your friend, and say, “You don’t have to be so rude.”

Rafe scoffs to himself. That’s rich coming from you.

He shifts to slide an arm under Jada’s knees and another behind her back. In one smooth motion, he lifts her off the ground and settles her over his shoulder, earning her drunken laugh.

His biceps bulge under his t-shirt sleeves, and heat rises to your cheeks as you realize how effortless this is for him.

“Which house is it again?” he asks, glancing over at you as he continues to walk forward.

“At the end of the block,” you reply. You point to the red-brick Victorian style home, having to pick up your pace to catch up to his wide strides.

Jada begins to quietly sing, laughing at herself as she stumbles over the lyrics.

“Pretty early in the night to be so wasted,” Rafe murmurs, looking over at you.

“At least she didn’t dunk her drink on anybody,” you respond, still pissed off at how he spoke to Jada. But you’re not surprised. As much as he’s trying to pretend like he’s a nice guy, you know better.

“Are you ever letting that go?” he says with a smile that you don’t return.

“Not until we’re even,” you reply.

You unlock the front door of the empty house and turn to Rafe as he shifts Jada higher on his shoulder.

“I got it from here,” you tell him.

“You kidding? She almost took you down,” Rafe says, his voice raised just enough to cut through the distant music. “Just go.”

You sigh, but as much as you don’t want to admit it, you’re relieved you won’t be the one dragging Jada up the stairs tonight.

Rafe’s eyes are fixed on your legs as he trails you up the stairs, the dim light catching the perfect shape of them with every step.

The place smells like fresh laundry, unlike the staleness settled into the frat house he lives in. And the floor doesn’t creak at all here.

“Your house is way nicer than ours,” he says.

“Probably ‘cause we actually take care of it,” you respond. He rolls his eyes to himself. Is every response of yours some kind of cut?

You reach the second floor and flick on the light in your shared bedroom. You point to Jada’s bed so he knows where to set her down.

Rafe lowers her slowly, and as you lean in to brush her curls from her face, he takes a chance to look around, quietly absorbing the details of your room.

“How do you feel?” you ask Jada.

“Dizzy,” she murmurs, eyelids half-shut.

“I’m getting you water,” you say, “and you have to drink it all.”

“I don’t want water,” she mumbles.

“Does it look like I care what you want?” you reply, but your voice is soft in a way Rafe hasn’t heard from you. He's kind of thrown by how sweet you are when you want to be.

“Do you think you’re gonna be sick?” you ask her.

“No,” she murmurs. “I’m dizzy.”

“I know that,” you say with a gentle chuckle. “Stay on your side. I’ll be back.”

You stand up to face Rafe, and just like that, the warmth disappears and the tone he’s used to returns.

“I’ll walk you out,” you say.

You brush past him on your way into the hallway, and he catches a faint whiff of something sweet; he’s not sure if it’s your perfume or your shampoo or just you, but he doesn’t like when it fades.

He follows you back into the hallway, watching the confident sway of your walk.

“You’re way nicer to her being drunk than me,” Rafe says as you start down the stairs.

“She’s my friend.”

“What am I?”

You don’t answer right away. The light catches the side of your face as you glance back at him.

“You’re… a lot of things,” you finally say.

Rafe huffs a scoff as he trails you down the last few steps. He just hauled your drunk roommate over here for you and you didn’t even thank him. You went right back to being a brat.

Fuck this. He thought he’d enjoy this chase, but you seem to have a talent for making people feel like they’re below you. He hates the thought of failing this stupid bet, but you seem impossible to win over. Why torture himself?

You reach the bottom of the stairs first, hand curling around the banister.

“I’ll stay with Jada,” you confirm in case he’s expecting you to go back to the party with him.

You take a step back toward the kitchen. And then you remind yourself you need to sweeten Rafe up. This is the perfect moment to give him just enough warmth to keep him hooked. You soften your voice, tilt your head slightly.

“Thank you for your help,” you add. “I couldn’t have done that alone.”

You offer a smile. It does something to him. Not that he’d ever be weak for you. But he gets it now, why other guys embarrass themselves for you.

“So, we’re even now,” Rafe flirts back, even though a second ago, he was planning on storming out.

You’re both standing closer to each other than either of you probably meant to be. His features are all hard, strong edges, and it’s kind of irritating because you know he knows how handsome he is.

“Until the next time you spill a drink on me,” you tease.

Rafe’s eyes flick down to your lips again, curved with that soft smile. Instantaneously, he’s been thrown back into his attraction to you, letting it consume him.

“I want to say something, but I think it’ll piss you off,” he murmurs, his voice low.

“I’m sure it will,” you say.

“Then I won’t say it.”

“Just do it, Rafe,” you sigh, resigned. He realizes he really likes hearing you say his name.

“You should smile more,” he says.

“God,” you groan, throwing your head back. “Yeah, you should’ve kept it to yourself.”

He winces a little.

“I know girls hate hearing that shit, but I’m just sayin’ you’re cute.”

“Don’t try to defend yourself,” you respond, realizing he’s even flirtier than you expected. “Just give me your phone, okay?”

His brows lift. You hold out your hand. Your number is a reward and the trick is making him feel like he earned it.

Rafe wants to make a joke about you saying please, but he keeps it in. He hands you his phone without a word. His thoughts of giving up are a distant memory now. He’s going to get you where he wants you. He’s sure of it.

You type in your number, save it, and pass it back.

“If you text me too much, I’ll block you,” you tease.

“What’s too much?” he asks, his gaze heavier than before.

You give a tiny, pitying shake of your head. It’d be adorable to him if he didn’t know your reputation.

“If you have to ask…” you breathe with a giggle.

His smile deepens. You mirror it and turn away, heading down the hallway to leave him hanging.

A moment later, you hear the front door open behind you, followed by the quiet thud of it closing. The sound echoes faintly through the hallway as you enter the kitchen.

You were right. This will be easy.

・・・・・

Rafe texts you the next afternoon asking if you’re free later.

You’re halfway through getting ready to go to the main campus library when you see his name light up your phone. Strategically, you change into something a little more revealing just to tempt him if he shows up.

You text him back that you’re about to go do schoolwork at the library and that he can join if he wants. You don’t wait for his reply.

A while later, your phone buzzes.

Rafe: You still there?

You see it. And you don’t respond.

・・・・・

The library is pretty full for a Sunday afternoon. Rafe circles the first floor twice before he finds you. Each step makes him feel more and more like an idiot, wandering around looking for a girl who didn’t even bother to text him back.

He wants to leave, but then he sees you tucked at a four‑seater table by yourself, typing on your laptop. And the work to find you stupidly feels worth it.

You don’t notice him when he comes up behind the chair opposite you. Or maybe you do and pretend not to.

But he gets a full look at you before you glance up. And fuck, you look good. Your lips are pouted in concentration in a way that makes it impossible for him not to stare, and your top dips just enough that he has to drag his eyes back up before you catch him.

Your phone is right next to your laptop. You obviously saw his text. Still, he plays it cool. The worst thing he can do right now is make you think he cares. He needs to look like he put effort in, but not too much.

He slides into the chair across from you. You look up at the movement, pulled out of your focus.

“You’re actually here,” Rafe says quietly, a hint of surprise in his tone.

“Did you think I was lying?” you ask, cocking your head. You knew he’d come. You knew he wouldn’t be able to help himself.

You lean back in your chair and it gives you a second to take him in. He’s not wearing a hat for once, his hair falling over his forehead. He looks good.

“Maybe,” he jokes, dropping his backpack on the chair beside him. “I barely know you.”

“But you’ve known of me for a long time,” you reply.

It’s a reminder of how he agreed with Mac’s insult the other night. How he later told you he’d always wanted to talk to you. You both know how small the island is and how fast gossip travels.

The word he’s heard people use to describe you rings through his head. Bitch.

But Rafe’s instinct tells him that the word feels wrong after he saw you in your bedroom last night. He can’t get it out of his head, how caring you were with your roommate.

It fucked with him. He hates how badly he wants someone to be gentle with him. And how seeing that made him realize it.

He’s been blackout drunk more times than he can count, and no one’s ever looked out for him. His friends tell him to chill when he starts swinging at parties, but nobody’s there when he’s actually losing it.

All he’s ever been told is to man up. He’s never had someone care enough to try to steady him. And seeing you do it for someone only made the constant ache in his chest deepen.

Rafe looks at you now and leans back, pretending he’s unfazed, laying on his charm.

“It’s true what they say,” he answers. “That you don’t take shit from anyone.”

You wish it didn’t flatter you. You’re not naïve enough to fall for his obviously sugarcoated words. But still, it feels good to be seen as someone who stands her ground.

“What are you working on?” he asks, leaning over to pull out his laptop.

“Discussion boards,” you sigh. Forcing thoughts about readings and replying to classmates has eaten up your last half hour. “You?”

“Fuck, I should do those, too,” he says. You blink at him. It’s already midterm season, and as far as you know, discussion boards make up a huge chunk of most course grades.

“Have you done any?” you say in half-amusement.

“One.”

You nod, not surprised he expects to coast through everything.

“I don’t know what to say,” he murmurs. “All I can type is true.”

Your laugh spills out before you can stop it. You put your hand over your mouth, looking around the quiet library, hoping you didn’t disturb anyone.

Rafe breathes a quiet chuckle, eyes focused on you. It’s the first time he’s heard you laugh like that. He’s caught off guard by how much he enjoys it because for a moment, it feels like you actually like each other.

You fall into an easy rhythm after that. You work, talk in between, occasionally catch each other looking.

And Rafe enjoys it. You’re fun. You always have a retort, challenging his sarcasm with yours, making him feel like he has the potential to be interesting to you if he tries just a little harder.

The sun dips lower outside the windows as time passes, and eventually, Rafe leans back in his chair before he says what’s on his mind.

He’s supposed to be charming enough to pull you in, but not so much that you start thinking you have any real power over him. That’s how he wins the bet. Make you feel wanted, but not too wanted.

“This isn’t what I was thinking when I asked to see you,” he says.

You look up. Technically, he asked you if you were free, but you don’t want him to think you’re hanging on his words.

“What were you thinking?” you ask.

His blue eyes are steady as he stares at you from across the table.

“I want to take you somewhere.”

“Keep it a surprise,” you respond, and Rafe smirks, because he knows that’s your way of agreeing to a date.

He starts to pack up and asks if you want him to walk you home. You agree for two reasons: because it’s dark and because you don’t want to say goodbye just yet.

・・・・・

You set out together, the campus hushed in the late evening. As you begin to walk side-by-side, your hands brush a few times. Neither of you move away. But eventually, just like last night, his strides start to outmatch yours.

“Do you always walk so fast?” you ask.

Rafe glances over, a slow grin tugging at his mouth.

“You want to take your time with me?” he says, but he still eases his pace.

You roll your eyes, but he catches your smile. His hand brushes yours again.

The two of you drift into conversation again, the quiet campus enveloping you. The lampposts cast pools of light across the pathways, and every time you step through one, you catch a different angle of Rafe. The curve of his grin, the way his eyes flick toward you, the way is hair a little messy from the wind.

But you don’t forget the years of half-knowing each other. The stories you heard long before you ever spoke to him. The things you saw back home. The moments that cemented your opinion of him.

And yet here you are, walking beside him like it’s the most normal thing in the world. You don’t like Rafe. Not a chance. He’s being somewhat tolerable today and you don’t know what his endgame is, but you’re not stupid. He definitely has one.

You refuse to believe that he’s behaving out of sincerity. But this is unexpected. You thought you’d go through this bet hating every minute with him. He’s kind of fun. Nonetheless, it’s effortless to keep your guard exactly where it’s always been.

You stop at the front door of your sorority house. Rafe stands close enough that you feel the warmth of him.

He studies you, drawn in despite himself. Even with your posture loose and your expression calm, there’s still a blankness in your face.

“You know,” he says, “you’re hard to read.”

“I get that a lot,” you reply. You’ve heard it from every guy you’ve ever been with. You’re direct when you want to be, but it’s like your inadvertent aloofness makes you some kind of mystery.

He cracks a smile. The porch light hums above you as he tilts his head, towering over you. He feels that pull in his chest again, that desire to close the space between you.

“Guess I have to ask if you’ll let me kiss you instead of just going for it, then,” he murmurs.

You blink up at him, feigning innocence, while the anticipation of his lips pressing on yours sends a rush of heat through you.

“You’re kind of desperate, huh?” you tease.

He huffs a laugh, shaking his head.

“I mean… look at you,” he responds.

The air thickens. His gaze drops to your lips for what feels like the millionth time, and it’s ridiculous how good it makes you feel. Rafe is looking at you like he’s starving for you. It’s pure lust. You feel it too, deep in your stomach.

You reach out, fingers curling into the front of his shirt just enough to tug him closer, to make it clear that if this is happening, it’s happening on your terms.

His breath stops for just a second when you kiss him. His lips are soft and hot, and his hand comes up instinctively, cupping your face with a warmth that spreads across your skin.

He leans in, trying to draw you closer, to deepen the kiss and taste more of you, but you pull back before he can to leave him wanting more.

Rafe’s eyes open slowly, darker now, fixed on you. His lips are still parted and glossed from the kiss.

You knew it would feel good, but it doesn’t mean anything beyond the physical. It’s a temporary pleasure. No spark of anything deeper.

But while you don’t like him in any real way, the mutual attraction is strong enough that you’re already intrigued by what more you can do with him.

You offer a smile and reach for the doorknob, leaving him just like you did last night, suspended in the heat of the moment, wanting more.

(to be continued)

The front door is only steps away.

Your shoes stick to the stuffy frat house’s floor, temples throbbing in response to the earsplitting music and overlapping conversations. You cup your sorority sister’s elbow as she walks ahead of you to not get separated within the tight crowd.

You enjoy parties. Until they get to this point. It’s way past midnight, when most people are so wasted that they can hardly speak, when your fatigue catches up with you and demands that you lie down.

Jada swings open the door and the night breeze presses against your cheeks, offering you a hint of relief. But it’s ruined once you feel a nudge against your shoulder, followed by a frigid wave of moisture down your back.

You stiffen, anger flooding through you, realizing someone just spilled their drink on you. And then you hear it. He’s laughing.

“Shit,” a man chuckles behind you.

“How’d that even happen?” another guy shouts over him through a drunken laugh.

You turn to see the person responsible for dunking you in what smells like beer. He towers over you, throwing his head back in defeated amusement, a sloppy grin on his face and a half-empty solo cup in his hand.

It’s the same guy you grew up around back home on the island. The same guy you spent so much of your life avoiding. A grade ahead of you, close enough to always be around, but just far enough that your worlds never really intersected.

You were thankful for the distance. Because, clearly, Rafe Cameron’s reputation for being an immature asshole precedes him; instead of apologizing like a decent person, he finds this funny.

It’s infuriating. That and the fact that of all the colleges he could’ve chosen, he picked yours. You’re a sophomore now, but you still remember the first time you spotted him back in Kildare wearing a shirt stamped with the emblem of your top‑choice school.

At least it’s a massive campus. And even though he’s in a frat and you’re in a sorority and your social circles overlap a lot, you’ve managed to avoid crossing paths with him. Until now.

“You’re not even going to say sorry?” you snap loudly, glaring up at him.

His brows raise a little, the laughter of his friends lifting over the noise. Frustration trickles into his features, but it’s quickly replaced with amusement again.

“Are you always so sensitive?” he chides. His attempt to make his friends laugh, to get them on his side again, works. He grins as he looks back at them, just another fratboy eager to please his social circle. What a loser.

You refuse to let it slide. Before you can think twice, you tip the cup towards Rafe, watching what’s left of his drink stain the front of his white t-shirt.

His jaw tightens. You smirk and make your way outside, muttering to Jada about what a waste of breath he is.

・・・・・

“What a bitch,” Mac hollers the last word loudly as they step out onto the front porch.

Rafe’s eyes land on your back as you pace away from the frat house and reach the sidewalk. His damp shirt sticks to his abdomen and when you look over your shoulder to give him and his friends a death stare, he’s sure it’s in response to Mac’s insult.

And he’s glad you heard.

He tripped. It wasn’t on purpose. You didn’t have to spill the rest of his drink on him, but he should have expected as much from you.

“Yeah, everyone says that about her,” Rafe replies, purposely just as loud.

He and his friends have finally made it outside after talking about going out to smoke for the last ten minutes. What luck to trip into you on the way out.

Even though you’re constantly orbiting each other here just like you did back home, you’ve never spoken.

You’re both on a campus hundreds of miles south from the island, somewhere hotter and brighter, but that’s the only thing that’s different. The way you dodge each other is exactly the same.

“Oh, yeah,” Cooper recalls, his eyes following you. Rafe had mentioned that he knew you a while ago when Cooper pointed you out at a party with the plan to approach you. Rafe huffed a laugh and told him all about your reputation. “You know her.”

“Were you guys together or something?” Mac asks.

“Fuck no,” Rafe mutters with a laugh.

He’d be a liar if he said he never thought about it. All the Kooks back home know you for being a stuck-up princess, but he can admit that you’re insanely hot and your attitude wouldn’t keep him from having some fun with you if you let him.

“So, what happened?” Mac presses. He lights a joint, taking a deep inhale before passing it over to him.

“Nothin’,” Rafe responds with a shrug. “She’s always been like that. She has a stick up her ass and she makes it everyone’s problem.”

“She’s bad, though,” Cooper murmurs, taking the joint from Rafe when he offers it.

“The crazy ones always are,” Mac adds.

Rafe looks back out towards the avenue lit up by streetlights again, watching your silhouette as you continue down Greek Row with your friend.

He’s still pissed off at your stupid little rebuttal, but the liquor blurring the edges of his senses and the lingering effect of you talking to him, of looking at him so with such intensity for the first time, is numbing it.

You’re untouchable. Always have been. You hardly ever gave any of the guys back home any attention, and if you did, you strung them along just to drop them. Everyone knows you as the girl who either wastes a guy’s time or snaps at him for even saying hi.

Rafe always kept his distance. It wasn’t worth the trouble when he can basically get any girl. The way they light up when he gives them even half a second of attention tells him everything. He’s used to getting what he wants without having to work for it.

But when Cooper pointed you out at that party a while back, Rafe let his familiar desire pull to the surface. He always thought you were a perfect ten. And you’re ungettable. And a deep part of him has always wanted what he can’t have.

“She just needs some fun,” Rafe says with a smirk, indulging in the fantasy.

“What, with you?” Cooper asks.

He looks over at his friends, both staring at him with cocked brows. A competitive fire burns in him suddenly, not liking the apprehension in their faces. Rafe’s never handled doubt well.

“You don’t think I could get her?” Rafe says.

“Bro, were you not there?” Mac says, pointing to the front door behind them where you had your tantrum. “She hates you.”

Rafe smirks, the promise of a challenge burning through him. He’s always loved a chase, a thrill. It’s what keeps him going in every way.

“Wanna bet?” Rafe asks.

Mac chuckles again, squinting in thought as he takes another pull from the joint.

“Fifty bucks says you can’t hook up with her,” he says.

Rafe snorts in amusement. He doesn’t need money. But he’ll take every chance he gets to prove himself.

“Deal.”

“I mean all the way,” Mac clarifies.

Rafe breathes a chuckle, imagining it. Imagining his hands on you. Imagining your pretty face softening into pleasure. He wants it so bad that his pulse picks up.

“Easy,” he agrees.

“Good luck,” Cooper says.

Rafe is sure he doesn’t need it.

・・・・・

It’s the Friday night before fall break and you’re back in Kildare. The air is cool, but not cold enough to keep anyone home. People are everywhere, scattered across the sand, most of them back from their mainland colleges.

The mid-October breeze coming off the water has a bite to it, but it’s comforting. The sea wind drifts over your face, reminding you of how you’d grown up on these beaches, of how much you loved being close to the ocean.

You came closer to the shoreline to fill up your drink at the keg, but now, you’re taking a second to gaze out at the setting sun and the funneling waves before you head back to your friends.

“Hey.”

You look up at whoever just interrupted your moment of peace. Rafe is gazing down at you, blue eyes lingering. Your chest twists with frustration, thrown right back to last weekend, when he laughed and jeered at you.

“What?” you say sharply.

The corner of his mouth curls into a small smirk. He adjusts the dark blue baseball hat sitting backwards on his head, the brim brushing the edge of the hoodie he’s wearing. He looks out at the water for just a second, then back down at you, noticing the full cup at your hand.

“Can we talk?” he says. “Without spilling any drinks this time?”

You scoff and shift to return to your friends, but he steps in front of you, tall and broad and annoying.

“Listen, I’m sorry about the other night,” he says. He’s flashing a cocky smirk, as if he can soften you to forgive him.

“It’s not going to work on me,” you respond.

“What?” he says, still wearing that stupid grin.

“Your sad attempt at charming me.”

Rafe tilts his head.

“You think I’m charmin’ you?”

“That’s exactly my point. I don’t.”

He breathes a soft laugh, and you hate that you notice how nice of a smile he has.

“I was wasted, alright?” he says. “I tripped. I should’ve said sorry.”

“Next time, don’t trip,” you reply. “That way, you won’t have to say anything to me.”

You step to the side, but he does the same, blocking you again and rasping your name.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he says.

“Don’t bullshit me. I heard your friend call me a bitch, and I heard you agree,” you reply. “If you really want to make it up to me, fuck off.”

You don’t look at his reaction as you brush past him and find your way back to Ivy and Alayna.

“What did he want?” Ivy asks as you approach, clearly having seen your unexpected encounter with Rafe by the shoreline.

“He spilled a drink on me at a party a while ago and laughed about it,” you explain. “He just gave me a half-assed apology and said that he wants to make it up to me.”

“And?”

“And I told him to fuck off.”

“Really?” Alayna says, gazing past your shoulder. “But he’s hot.”

“He’s psychotic,” you reply. “And he’s not that hot.”

“Me when I lie,” Alayna says.

You shake your head. Fine. You won’t admit to it out loud, but Rafe is easily one of the best looking guys you’ve ever seen. He always has been. But he ruins it with his personality.

“I’m not interested,” you mutter. As you take a sip of your beer, Ivy squints in thought as she stares at you.

“But he is,” she says. “He obviously likes you if he forced out an apology.”

“Lucky me,” you scoff.

“What if you went along with it?” Ivy says. “Like, if you dated him as a joke?”

You grimace in confusion.

“Oh, my God,” Alayna laughs. “I love this idea.”

You’re speechless, your gaze darting between them.

“You’re always talking about how much guys like him never get what’s coming to them,” Ivy says with a shrug. “You could humble him.”

“You make me sound so spiteful,” you respond amusedly.

“I’m the same way.”

You nod in agreement. Ivy has had her fair share of heartbreak. Watching one of your best friends go through so much pain over the years made it feel like your own at times. You’re convinced men do nothing but lie.

And she’s right; you’ve complained a lot about how most guys, specifically the wealthy ones on this island, are assholes who never face any consequences.

“Wouldn’t it feel good to mess with him?” she continues.

“I can tell you’re trying to manipulate me,” you say with a playful scowl.

“Is it working?” Alayna asks.

You chuckle as you roll your eyes.

“You guys know me,” you remind them. You’ve had meaningless flings and noncommittal hookups, but relationships have always been off the table for you. “I don’t date. Especially not assholes like Rafe.”

“That’s why he’ll never see it coming,” Ivy says. “It’d be so satisfying to watch you break his heart.”

“I doubt he even has one,” you huff, but admittedly, the idea is intriguing.

“Well, it’s not like he could break yours,” Ivy continues. “If anyone can do it, it’s you. Whatever happens, you’d walk away without a scratch.”

You finally look over your shoulder. In the distance, Rafe is in the crowd with his buddies now, in a different social circle like he’s always been. You don’t know them that well, but enough to be certain they’re all jerks.

You always stayed close to your girlfriends. Especially Ivy and Alayna. They were around when you found out your dad cheated on your mom. When he left.

Even though they were with you through it all, you never talk about how deep the wound it left in you is.

It’s why Ivy’s right. You’d walk away unharmed if you started something with Rafe. Because you learned at a young age not to trust men. Not to let anyone into your heart. You’ve always kept your distance, having your fun and leaving guys before they can leave you.

But isn’t going along with this letting Rafe think he did charm you? You could tell with the way he approached you just now that he thought that an apology and an offer to make it up to you would have you swooning.

“This is a guy who thinks he can get everything he wants,” you murmur to your friends. “Giving into him just validates that.”

You tilt your head, considering it. Teasing him would be easy. Entertaining. You bet he’s so used to girls folding that the idea of not giving him exactly what he expects ignites something in you.

“Unless I don’t give him everything,” you add.

Ivy laughs, clearly agreeing.

You continue to watch Rafe, chuckling at something one of his friends said. He’s attractive, but he’s a total asshole.

You’ve seen his outbursts. You’ve noticed how he carries himself like he’s entitled to whatever he wants. You’ve even heard about how he starts fights with guys from the Cut, simply because they weren’t born into wealth. He genuinely thinks he’s better than them.

You quietly stare at him, letting yourself dip into the thought of how satisfying it would be to hurt him.

And how getting close to him with no strings attached would be hot as hell. You hate everything about Rafe, but you could look past it for the physical pleasure that you’re sure he’d be happy to give you.

This would be easy. Emotional detachment comes naturally. Your friends joke about wanting lessons from you on how to not care about guys. There’s nothing to lose here. Like every other fling, your heart wouldn’t be in it at all.

“She’s considering it,” Alayna sing-songs.

You can’t help but chuckle at the way she’s narrating, looking back at your friends again.

“You know what?” you say. “Fine. Whatever. I bet I can do it.”

“I’m not betting against you,” Ivy says. “But, sure. Let’s just say I am.”

“Only if he keeps annoying me, though,” you clarify. “I’m not chasing after him.”

“Of course,” Ivy agrees. “He’s chasing after you.”

“Yeah,” Alayna says in amusement. “Waste his time.”

“This is so stupid,” you laugh, but the excitement curling in your stomach keeps building.

・・・・・

This is Rafe’s favorite part of being in a frat. There’s always a party to go to, always noise to block his thoughts out. And when he’s back on campus and notices you from across the packed living room, he’s glad to have another opportunity to approach you.

You’re with a couple of girls, probably from the same sorority as you, talking and looking so good that it’s kind of driving him crazy.

He’s going to have to play the long game. You glared up at him with so much anger the other night at the beach that he could tell it won’t be easy to get you to like him.

Admittedly, it bruised his ego. But he’s not one to take a loss and simper away to lick his wounds. He’ll just have to play this carefully. You want all the power. He’ll let you think that you have it, but at the same time, he can’t let you walk all over him.

It’s going to be a game of manipulation, but Rafe’s a good liar. It’s how he hides the truth from his friends.

He pretends to be the type to like shallow hook-ups with random girls, that this bet is the kind of shit he does all the time, but truthfully, the rush he gets from meaningless sex has always been short-lived.

He prefers to feel something real. Sex is different when the way a girl touches him means something. And he hates it about himself. How goddamned soft he is.

He just wants to be treated like he matters and that’s what makes him such a pussy. His dad has always told him to toughen up. The advice will stick some day. It has to. If he keeps acting like he doesn’t care about anything, it’ll become the truth.

He shakes away the thought and downs the rest of his drink. He tells his friends he’ll be right back, spotting a game of beer pong before he reaches you.

Rafe gently brushes his fingers against your forearm, then pulls away, knowing by now that he can’t be too forward with you. Your smile fades when you turn to realize it’s him.

“Hey,” he says, just loud enough to be heard over the music. “You still mad at me?”

You stare up at Rafe. Your instinct is to dismiss him like you did last time. But the bet you have with your friends back home spins in your memory. You can’t blow him off. You need to give him a hint of an opening.

“Depends,” you respond. “Do you always drink so much that you can’t even stand?”

He flashes that confident smile of his, framed by deep dimples. It’s irritating how it makes your stomach twist. You can keep your emotions locked up easily, but the pull of lust has always been hard to ignore.

Rafe licks his lips, reminding himself that his usual way of flirting won’t work with you. He likes to tease, but right now, he needs to be agreeable.

“Not always,” he responds. “How good are you at beer pong?”

Your brows furrow as you ask, “Why?”

“I need a teammate.”

You huff, his arrogance irritating you once again. He’s so sure you’ll do what he wants.

“Ask one of your loser friends,” you reply.

“Come on,” Rafe says, the gentle whine to his tone making your core curl with heat again. You did always find a little bit of desperation hot. It means a guy will be easy to toy with.

You cross your arms and it takes everything in him not to stare at your chest, where your shirt has dipped over the swell over your breasts. Now that he’s this close to you again, you’re even hotter than he realized. The way you carry yourself is something else entirely.

“Is that supposed to convince me?” you ask.

Rafe chuckles, stepping an inch closer, towering over you.

“Please?” he says, his deep, low voice just a little sweetened.

If it weren’t for the bet, you’d laugh in his face. But you sigh and agree, holding up your forefinger to your friends to tell them you won’t be gone long.

・・・・・

Your arms are crossed again as Rafe sets up the solo cups on your end of the table. If he’s going to drag you into this game, he can do all the work.

“Was it hard to pick?” he asks over the noise, briefly looking over his shoulder.

“Pick what?” you ask as you gaze at the way his shirt stretches over his back.

“Your sorority.”

It’s strange to hear him asking a genuine question. You know how to play this; you always give enough information to intrigue a guy, but never enough for him to learn anything too personal.

“It’s more like… they picked me,” you reply. “You know what I mean?”

“Nah,” he replies with a chuckle.

His rush week was over two years ago now, but he still gets irritated thinking about it. A lot of frats care way too much about academics and event planning. He hated pretending like those things matter to him.

And he figures if he’s going to get you to put your guard down, he’s going to have to be sincere when he can.

“It was a bitch to get recruited,” he says.

“You love that word, huh?” you respond.

He straightens and turns to face you all the way. You’re thinking about Mac’s comment the other night.

“I should’ve told him to shut up,” Rafe replies, shaking his head.

“Sure,” you say, not bothering to pretend you believe he would. Guys like him only care about what their stupid friends think.

You’re expressionless as you brush past him to pick up a ping pong ball. The couple on the other side of the table has finished setting up.

The game begins, and it’s even for the most part. With every point the other team scores, you get Rafe to drink instead of you. He obeys.

Once there’s only a couple of cups left on both sides of the table, your team and theirs miss a few times. Until you don’t, sinking a ball into one of their cups and earning their defeated groans.

Your skin pricks when you feel big, warm hands on your waist. Sharp cologne wafts over you as he grips gently, leaning closer from behind you to murmur, “I knew you’d be good at this.”

While the guy on the other team downs his drink, you turn to look up at Rafe. He immediately lifts his hands off you, as if he’s worried about how you might react.

“How does bullshit come so easy for you?” you murmur, cocking your head.

“What do you think I’m bullshitting?”

“I think you talk to every girl the same way you’re talking to me,” you respond.

You said it to challenge him. To give him a sense that he needs to prove himself to you. But he doesn’t take the bait. Instead, Rafe says something that strikes a nerve.

“What, you think I don’t like you?”

“That’s not what I said,” you respond with a laugh, playing it off and looking ahead.

The deeply buried truth is that he’s right. You’ve always quietly feared that nobody would like the real you. Men like the persona you put on, they like the way you look, but they don’t see you. You never give them the chance to.

“Hey,” Rafe says. You tilt your chin up towards him and meet his heavy gaze again. His eyes soften, his smirk teasing. “I like you. Even though you’re mean.”

There’s truth there. He’d take brutal honesty over fakeness every day. But while his attraction to you is undeniable, he’s lying about liking you.

He’d never like a girl who acts like she’s doing him a favor by talking to him. Feeling inferior is something he runs from, not chases. The way to win this bet is to get you in his bed, though, so he’ll say what he needs to.

You chuckle and roll your eyes in response. Mean. It’s a compliment. If a man thinks you’re mean, he knows that you don’t care about his opinion of you.

“I know we never really talked before,” he adds, “but I always wanted us to.”

“That makes one of us,” you say, but a small smile tugs on your lips to show you’re messing with him.

Warmth rises through Rafe, desire stirring in him. You’re undoubtedly flirting, and even with all the assumptions he’s made about you, it feels really damn good to be getting your attention like this.

You linger in the moment together, the charge between you palpable, until a ping pong ball falls at your feet. The couple on the other side missed. With only one of their cups left, Rafe throws the ball. And he wins the game.

He shouts in celebration and it reminds you of all the things you’ve seen back home. This is boisterous, cruel Rafe. He’s just trying to sweeten you up now. And the best thing you can do is to leave him wanting more.

“Alright,” you sigh with a shrug, turning on your heels. “I’ll see you around.”

Rafe’s brows furrow. He trails you as you push through the crowd towards the staircase where you left your friends.

“I don’t have your number,” he says, catching up to you.

You stop to look up at him, his face partly shadowed by the frat house’s dim lights, your ears ringing from the music and the noise of the party surrounding you.

“Maybe you can get it another time,” you reply. “I’m going back to my friends now.”

A faint sting of being dismissed settles in Rafe’s chest as you walk away. He’s left alone, wondering how the fuck he’s supposed to get past your attitude. Because clearly, you’re not going to make it easy for him.

(to be continued)

Cold air pricks your cheeks as soon as you step out of the car. You shut the passenger door behind you, its slam echoing through the quiet neighborhood, blanketed in dusk.

Your breaths spill into small puffs of fog as you take cautious steps over the icy driveway behind Jordan, your pulse thundering.

You’ve been here so many times before. Zach’s house was the default. Always the place your group of friends met to hang out.

You got to know him over senior year, when your twin brother’s friends and yours began to blend, the eight of you inseparable. With college looming and the thought of parting ways, you and Jordan clung to the time you still had together.

You were never the type of siblings to outright say you loved each other. Your bond showed up in the way you joked and poked fun at each other. Beneath it was always a deep friendship.

Every weekend of your last year of high school passed by with the same people, and every time you saw Zach, every time you learned more about your brother’s best friend and teammate, every time you shared a laugh, you fell harder.

And it’s been hell getting over someone you were never even with. You haven’t seen him in months, since summer faded into a memory. Yet the heaviness in your stomach betrays you, proof that every attempt to erase your feelings has failed.

You want to see him. But you don’t, at the same time.

You reach the front door, and after Jordan rings the doorbell, he jerks forward, slipping and clinging onto the handle.

“Shit!” he chokes.

You crack a laugh, watching your brother scramble over the ice before regaining his footing.

“Be careful,” you chortle.

“Helpful,” he chides.

You wish you’d forgotten, but you remember everything about Zach. You realize it when he swings open the door.

It comes rushing back, the way his hair is always a little messy, the way the clothes he throws over his broad frame look so soft, the way he has a permanent smirk playing on his lips. You even notice the shallow scar on his chin, the one that he’d told you he got from his little sister when they were younger, a mishap on a playground.

And most deeply, when Zach’s eyes meet yours, you relive the pain inside you that won’t fade, the pain that reminds you that you’re still hopelessly enamored with him.

“I almost just died,” Jordan says to him.

“You slipped,” you tease, looking down as you step into the house.

You trade greetings, then follow Zach downstairs, the rumble of your friends’ conversations growing louder. And you wonder if he’s thinking about the last time you spoke. If texting even counts as speaking.

It was a week into freshman year and he texted you: settled in? You responded, purposely without a question: yes :) Hope you are, too.

He texted a few days after, saying to let him know how your Tuesday goes. Over the summer, you’d told him about how you had back-to-back classes on opposite sides of campus on Tuesdays, and you’d joked together how you’d have to sprint to make it on time.

That Tuesday came and went. You didn’t text him back. He was just being kind by checking in on you and you didn’t want to go through it anymore. The nerves in your stomach whenever you wrote him a message. The leap in your chest every time his name flashed on your phone. The aching hope that he saw you as more than a friend. And the pang in your heart when you realized if he felt something, he would have told you.

Because that’s who Zach is. He doesn’t hold back. He wears his heart on his sleeve. You’ve watched him flirt with girls, watched him date them, watched him get his heart broken and bounce back, ready to risk it again. It was masochistic to hope that one day he’d look at you the same way.

The rest of your friends are already here, sprawled across the rec room downstairs, the coffee table littered with drinks and snacks. It’s typical. Zach likes to host. He possesses such warmth, finding joy in making people feel welcome.

And you wish you could stop thinking of him like this. As more than a friend.

You greet everyone with hugs and then settle on the plush couch, conversation flowing seamlessly, as if no time has passed at all. Zach sits on the ottoman, long legs stretched out in front of him, making him look far too big for the seat.

You catch up with the group, mentioning how much you like your classes and how much you dislike your roommate. The attention eventually shifts to Zach, and you learn that his parents are away on a trip and his sister is at a sleepover, explaining the dark quiet enveloping the rest of the house.

Soon after, Jordan asks him what it’s like to play at the college level, and you’re glad he does, because you’ve been dying to know despite your efforts to forget him.

Everyone knew Zach was the best on your high school’s soccer team. That he was destined to keep playing post-grad. You’ve sat on the bleachers many times, meant to be there for your brother but staring at Zach instead, watching him command the field and carry the team.

But you really saw him through the private conversations you’d held at the end of parties when everyone else, but you two, was wasted. You wished those stolen moments held as much importance to him as they did to you.

But he has every right not to care as deeply as you do. That doesn’t make it hurt any less. It’s left you with a feeling of not being good enough, like there’s something about you that doesn’t get Zach’s heart twisted up like he does to you. Remembering that stings.

——

“You’re so bored you’re watching commercials?”

You glance away from the tv screen, focusing on Zach as he settles in the space next to you. The couch slightly sinks with his weight.

You offer him a small smile and he can tell it doesn’t reach your eyes. You’ve been zoned out tonight, and after nearly an hour of watching you drift your attention between your phone and the tv, he had to come over and ask.

You look down and it brings a pang to Zach’s chest, how you don’t care to really look at him. You’re indifferent to seeing him. You did the same thing when you arrived.

He wasn’t even sure you were coming. He sent a text to the group inviting everyone and when your brother responded with See you then, a part of him was worried you weren’t included.

“I’m a little out of it,” you reply. A small part of you buzzes knowing he caught on to your efforts to keep him at a distance, while the rest of you freezes with guilt at the idea of making him feel bad in any way. And then, worry tugs at you, whispering that you won’t be able to play it off.

“You okay?” he asks.

You look at him again. This attention he’s giving you, the way his eyes soften, sends a rush of endearment through you. You hadn’t expected him to care this much.

“Just tired,” you respond half-truthfully.

“Did you eat?” he asks. “You want me to get you something?”

You shake your head, your stomach coiling with a familiar ache. His kindness, his attentiveness, is what took your heart captive. That, and how much he cares about others. He’s slipped out of the room a couple times tonight to call his sister and make sure she’s doing okay.

“I’m good,” you lie. “We should head out soon, though.”

You look at your brother, who’s sprawled out on the couch, slurring as he jokes with your friends.

“You gonna be able to drive?” you call to him from across the loud room. He realizes you’re talking to him and waves passively.

“You can do it,” Jordan replies.

Zach sees the worry knit in your brows, the way your lips twist in displeasure.

“It’s really icy out there,” you say.

“Relax,” Jordan says dismissively.

Zach’s chest tightens. He wouldn’t ever say anything against your brother, not when he already understands the way you two speak to each other sometimes, but he gets protective over you. He doesn’t like when Jordan is even the slightest bit curt with you; it’s like his loyalties lie with his best friend’s sister, instead of his best friend.

“Jordan,” you whine.

“If you’re so scared, we’ll just crash here,” he offers.

“Did you ask Zach if that’s okay?” you reply.

The sound of you saying his name warms Zach’s chest.

“Is that okay?” Jordan shouts to Zach mockingly.

“No,” Zach replies with a joke, breaking the tension.

You sigh and meet his blue eyes, frustrated that you’ll have to be around Zach longer than you mentally prepared yourself for, guilty that he’ll have to host you two overnight.

“I’m sorry,” you say.

It’s not what Zach wants an apology for. It’s weird being upset with you. But he is. How could you just write him off after parting ways for college? It’s been needling at him for months, but now, being with you, it’s a frigid wave of sorrowful confusion consuming him.

“Don’t be,” is all he offers, swallowing down the bitterness.

You’re back to where you were before, with everyone else drunk or close to it, leaving you two to be the only sober, level-headed people in the room.

Zach gazes at you. He desperately wants to know what the hell he did to make you push him away. But more than that, he wants to know why you look so damned sad. He wants to fix it.

“You want to play something?” he offers.

You breathe a chuckle.

“You really feel like fighting right now?” you ask, your voice carrying a lighthearted lilt.

It’s a glimpse of who you once were together. You used to match each other in your competitiveness, taking every silly game and pointless bet much too seriously. Your energies once wove together so naturally. You’re trying not to go back to the past, but you crave that fun, that comfort again.

He shrugs, saying why not? with his heartbreaking grin. So much for staying away from him. He makes it impossible.

You look around the large rec room, which brims with games of every kind.

“Darts,” you decide.

“You’re going down,” he taunts, standing up.

You can’t stifle your smile as you follow him.

——

You’re quiet the first few rounds, tucked away on the far side of the room while your friends’ laughter and chatter spill around the tv. It’s always a tight match when you and Zach play anything, both of you treating it like the stakes are real.

“You’re standing way closer to it than I was,” Zach mumbles as you aim your last shot of the round. You narrow your eyes at him. A few feet away, he looms at your side, arms folded across his broad chest, smirking as he keeps his eyes on you.

“I’m shorter than you,” you say.

“That makes no sense,” he says with a boyish laugh. “Height has nothing to do with it.”

“Yes, it does,” you retort defiantly, the playful gleam in your eyes enough to flush heat over his cheeks. It’s alleviating, having you talking to him like this again. Like you used to.

“You’re breaking the rules,” he says.

“Are you like this on the field, too?” you reply with a shake of your head. “Such a rule-follower.”

He runs a hand through his honey-colored hair. You tear your eyes off of him to finally throw your last dart. As you step forward to pull them out of the cork, he says something behind you, almost inaudible.

“I’m barely even on it,” Zach admits, his voice quieter than you’re used to.

Your brows furrow as you grip the darts tighter, turning to face him. Barely on the field? The thought feels wrong.

“Really?” you ask, slowly stepping forward.

His jaw tightens, yet it’s so unmistakably Zach, the crooked smile curling his lips. It’s like he can’t handle any other emotion but happiness for long, like something rises up in him to push everything else away.

“I’ve played like, three minutes this semester,” he says lightheartedly, dimples caving into his cheeks. “My coach called me Matt the other day.”

The way your eyes deepen with concern is what he misses the most about you. You always did it when he told you things he tried to laugh off. He hasn’t confided in anyone about how chaotic college has been. How invisible and inadequate he feels. You were the only person he could talk to about that stuff.

He was always the easygoing, happy guy, always felt like he had to be, except with you. You used to give him this perfect mix of easy banter and sincere empathy. You’d tease him out of his frustration, and listen when he felt okay enough to tell the truth.

Then, you left him behind.

“That sucks,” you say. You know the man standing in front of you well enough to know he thrives on approval. He must hate feeling so unseen. “Is it like… you have to prove yourself?”

“All the new guys do. It’s cool. I’m bein’ a baby,” Zach says with a shrug. “So, your roommate sucks?”

You frown. He does this. He offers a peek into the painful things, then brushes it away.

“You’re not a baby,” you say. “I mean, you are, but not because of this.”

He smirks. It’s ridiculous, but imagining you calling him that with endearment sends his pulse racing.

“Why, then?” he asks.

“Because you were just whining about where I’m standing.”

“I take darts very seriously.”

You giggle. He missed that sound.

“Once your coach sees what you have to offer, he won’t let you off the field,” you tell him. “But don’t let it get to your head when that happens. Your ego’s big enough.”

Your consolation, playful yet empathetic, settles in him like warmth.

“You talk to your RA?” he asks.

He’s clearly still stuck on the roommate issue you mentioned back when you first got here. But that’s Zach: always trying to fix problems for other people.

“It hasn’t been so bad that I’ve had to,” you say.

He nods. He doesn’t like thinking you’re unhappy. You’re on his mind all the time, even during practice, which he spends hoping to get back to the locker room to see a text from you. But all he’s gotten since school started was a short reply and then nothing, and the ache in his chest just won’t go away.

As Zach aims his dart, you catch yourself studying the handsome balance of his face, gentle, but sharp.

“Don’t forget they’re there to help,” he says, eyes focused ahead.

You nod, noticing his concern, wishing he wouldn’t stress over you.

“I think I’m just homesick,” you admit. “I don’t know how everyone around me adjusted so fast.”

“Me, neither,” he says. He throws the dart, then throws a second in quick succession.

“You’re just trying to make me feel better,” you chuckle. “You could make friends in your sleep.”

“Wait. Was that a compliment?” He looks down at you and puts a big hand over his chest. “My ego… It’s growing…”

“Shut up,” you laugh.

“No, go back to being nice to me.”

“Never.”

“Never?” he says in a soft, joking whine. He throws his third dart quickly, landing sixty points.

“Oh, come on,” you sigh in defeat. He looks down at you again with a proud smirk, stepping forward.

“You gotta stay sharp,” he says, holding up his dart once he plucks it out of the board. “Get it?”

“I hate how I never see your dad jokes coming,” you say. Truthfully, you hate nothing about him. His playful, goofy nature is what makes him so fun to be around.

“I think you love it, actually,” he teases.

You playfully roll your eyes, but you feel utterly exposed. He’s right. You love everything about him, no matter how much you try to convince yourself not to.

——

After the game, you rejoin the group. Eventually, your friends begin to trickle out, each one escorted to the front door by Zach, reminding them to drive safely. By the time the last person leaves, Jordan is passed out on the couch in the rec room, snoring loudly.

“Ten bucks he says he’s never drinking again tomorrow,” you murmur, watching from the other couch as Zach comes down the stairs.

“I can’t take that bet,” he says. “You know he says it every time.”

Standing up, you let out a laugh, though the quiet between you now feels strangely awkward.

“You want to take my sister’s room?” he offers.

“Sure.”

“Come on. I’ll get you something to sleep in.”

You follow him up the staircase, then another leading to the third floor. As you pass the living room, you gaze at the Christmas tree, lights glowing among the crisp scent of pine.

You trail Zach to a part of the house you’ve never been to. His bedroom. You pause in the hallway as he flicks on the light and steps inside.

The faint aroma of laundry detergent lingers in the air. There are textbooks stacked on his desk. His backpack slumps against the bed frame and his jersey is draped over the back of his chair. It’s a glimpse into his life. And it’s so him. Scattered, but hardworking.

He collects a t-shirt and sweatpants from a drawer, tossing it to you. The cotton of the shirt is worn, the letters of your high school’s name faded but familiar. Embarrassment prickles your chest at the memory of the fantasies you once held, slipping into his clothes like a girlfriend would.

“This is soft,” you offer, just to say something. “Thanks.”

“Sure,” Zach says kindly. He steps past you, opening a door to the bathroom on the other side of the hallway. “There should be some extra toothbrushes in here.”

Of course. You’ve met his family a few times, and they’re warm people, surely the type to have everything a person they’re hosting might need.

Again, the fantasies of being his girlfriend return. You’ve imagined yourself as someone who matters to him so many times. You pictured evenings spent in this house, growing closer to his parents, laughing with his sister, discovering hidden pieces of him that only they know.

“Thanks,” you say again, taking the packaged toothbrush from his hand. “Which room is it?”

He silently guides you to the door beside his bedroom.

“Good night,” you say quietly.

You step past, careful not to brush against him, as if even the smallest touch would be too much. The door shuts behind you.

Of all the things hurting Zach, he can only focus on how much he hated hearing you’re homesick, especially this far into the year. That you’re sad, alone, and unwilling to let him help.

When he lies back in his bed, he stares at the ceiling, and all he sees is you.

He can’t stop thinking about your coldness. Downstairs, things had felt almost normal, your conversation falling into familiarity. But now, you’re distant again, acting like you can’t wait to get away from him.

What did he say? What did he do to make you so upset with him?

It’s killing him. Over the summer, he started caring about you more than he should have, even though he told himself not to because you’re his best friend’s sister. He tried to draw a line, tried to keep his feelings under control, but they grew anyway.

And the hole in his chest that’s formed due to the distance between you made it clear. You own a piece of him. But you don’t want him. If you did, you wouldn’t have written him off so easily.

Minutes pass. Zach exhales, steadying himself. He needs to talk to you.

He leaves his room and knocks on your door a few times. No answer. Maybe you’re already asleep. Maybe you’ve wandered to another room in the house.

This is his only chance. He can’t imagine returning to campus with this hanging over him. He needs to know what he did wrong.

——

Zach finds you in the sun room.

For a moment, he simply looks at you curled up on the couch, the night pressing against the glass panes stretching around you. Only the back of you is visible, the curve of your shoulders outlined by the faint light quietly buzzing from the overhead lamp.

He taps his knuckles on the wall to get your attention. Your gaze goes from the backyard, blanketed in shiny, untouched snow, to Zach. He’s standing in the doorway, having the same effect on you as always, making your heart skip.

His presence eases something in you, but it sharpens the hurt you’ve tried to bury, too. You came down here searching for a shred of peace, the knowledge that he was only a wall away from you too much to take, but your thoughts of him have refused to slow down.

He’s in his pajamas now, and it throws you off balance. The intimacy of seeing him this way.

“Hey,” his voice is low.

“Hi,” you reply.

He lingers, nerves coiling, the same kind of pressure he feels before a match. And the fear of what you might say is almost crushing. His eyes drift over his shirt on you as the words sit in his throat.

“What’d I do?” he finally says.

“What?”

“Did I do something?” he rephrases. “You’ve been acting different.”

Anxiety rings through you. You haven’t hidden it well enough.

“I’m good,” you say quickly. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not,” he says, a hint of irritation in his tone. He looks mad, and it’s odd, because Zach never looks mad at you.

You’ve only seen him angry once. At a championship game, when your brother was roughly taken down by the other team’s midfielder. He was livid at the guy. A glimpse of that intensity flickers now.

“Are you mad at me?” you ask.

The sadness in your eyes undoes him. It doesn’t feel right to be towering above you, creating a power dynamic. He settles on the couch beside you, the fabric of the cushions creaking under him.

Zach elbows are planted firmly on his thighs, shoulders tense as he looks out the window, instead of at you. His hands hang loosely, lacing and unlacing his fingers.

He is mad. But he’s hurt, too. And so confused.

“You just… stopped talking to me,” he says. You notice the rise and fall of his Adam’s apple, bobbing at his pause. “You said you’d keep in touch.”

It was a passive promise you made, because you thought he didn’t really care all that much. Zach is simply a friendly person, and it was better to accept that than to pine after him any longer.

Pushing him away was an act of self-preservation. It hurt too much to love him and not have him love you back.

“I didn’t think you cared,” you murmur.

His gaze flicks to you, the corners of his mouth twitching, betrayal etched into his features. It breaks your heart. You wounded him. You implied that his kindness was insincere. That your friendship was hollow.

And again, it’s unlike anything you’ve seen before with Zach – he’s not cracking a smile or making a joke to ease the tension.

“I’m sorry,” you say. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

Your mind spins with everything you haven’t said. Your unspoken confession claws at your heart, but fear keeps your lips sealed shut. You can’t possibly tell him the truth.

Your longing, your buried feelings, how long you’ve pretended you didn’t want more than friendship, all weigh on you.

“Then, why?” he presses.

“I… I figured you were just being nice.”

He breathes a scoff. You’re only hurting him again. It was the wrong thing to say.

“This isn’t coming out right,” you sigh. “I told you downstairs. You’re good at making friends. You get along with everyone. You care about everyone. I thought I was just… I don’t know.”

He grimaces. How could you not know how important you are? How did he mess up so badly that he led you to believe you don’t mean anything to him? He came down here angry with you, but now he’s angry with himself.

Zach’s stiff. He looks so upset. And you can’t take seeing him like this. Despite your better judgement, you put your hand on him, cupping the inside of his elbow.

Touching him, even so innocently, makes your stomach tighten. You’re close enough to smell toothpaste and soap, to feel the warmth radiating off his skin. He needs comfort right now. A friend. And you took that away from him.

Zach’s jaw tenses, eyes fixed ahead. Your touch makes his body buzz, mixing with the shame sitting deep in his gut. He needs to prove how much you matter to him.

“I tell you things nobody else knows,” he says.

A jolt of surprise surges through you. You mean more to him than you imagined. You didn’t know you carried his secrets.

“Is it something I did? Or is something else bothering you?” he murmurs, finally glancing at you again. “It sucks to just… not talk.”

“It sucks for me, too.” You swallow hard. He misses you. His blue eyes are fixed on you, swimming with hurt and a hint of disbelief. “Honestly. It does.”

You clear your throat. It feels wrong to lie, to make up that you’ve been busy. But it feels just as hard to tell him you pushed him away because he was unknowingly hurting you.

“I was wrong,” you say. “I’m really sorry.”

You don’t know if you can continue to be friends with him. But right now, it feels like you have no choice. How can you possibly abandon him?

Zach chews on his lip. Regret laces through him. He made you feel insignificant. And it gives him a sense of anxiety he’s never felt with you.

“I’m sorry, too,” he says. “I don’t want you thinking I don’t care about you.”

You should let go of him. You don’t want to. But you do. You clasp your hands in your lap, heart racing as you consider that baring it all to him.

He deserves to know the truth. You can’t let him think he’s responsible for any of this. It’s not his fault you fell for him.

You flatten your lips together, wondering how to start. Wondering if you even can.

You can see the hurt and confusion in his frown. He just wants to figure it out, how a girl could go from acting like a best friend to a stranger.

You inhale slowly and push past the discomfort, because he deserves a real answer.

“Zach, I distanced myself because staying friends was hard for me,” you say, keeping your eyes on your lap. “I know you don’t feel the same way I do and I was trying to protect myself from getting hurt. But I hurt you instead and I’m sorry. I should’ve been honest about my feelings for you.”

He straightens. It feels unreal, like a dream he doesn’t want to wake up from. Apprehensive hope burns in his chest and he’s almost afraid he isn’t hearing you right.

He says your name softly. You look up at him. It hurts more than you could’ve imagined, confessing your feelings to someone when you know he doesn’t return them.

“You don’t have to try to let me down easy,” you tell him, looking away again, shuffling to stand up. “I already know.”

“Wait,” he half-whispers, but you need to leave. Your throat tightens with the threat of tears, with the burn of rejection and embarrassment.

“Hey, hey, wait,” Zach says. He stands and strides forward, closing the distance in a heartbeat, and suddenly he’s there, between you and the open door.

“It’s okay,” you respond, shaking your head, still not looking at him.

“You’re way off,” he says.

Your gaze meets his, holding you in suspension. He tilts his head gently, blue eyes soft as they linger on you. And then, for the first time since he entered the room, his lips curve into a smile.

“What?” you ask, because your aching heart refuses to let you believe it.

Zach breathes a sigh. It sounds like relief. And finally, he touches you like he’s always wanted to, slow and hesitant.

When his hand cradles your face, thumb grazing your cheekbone, you lean into his touch. The faint roughness of his fingertips sends a shiver through you, equal parts comfort and surprise.

You can only hear your breathing, the howling wind outside, the ticking clock in the hallway. The warmth from his palm on your cheek comforts you in ways you didn’t know possible.

“You’re wrong,” Zach says, voice low and soft. “I’m crazy about you. Have been for a long time.”

He studies your pretty features, unable to believe this is happening, that it’s real, that the ache he’s held for you goes both ways, that you want him, too. And he craves you so much that it hurts.

“I need to kiss you,” he confesses, his deep voice hushed. “Can I?”

Every piece of you numbs in pleasure, in joy, and you only nod, because you’re not sure you’ll be able to speak.

He dips low and the feeling of his lips against yours is even better than what you dreamed. Zach is warm, insistent, sweet. The heat of him pressing closer makes your head swim.

A faint bang from downstairs shatters the moment. You flinch, pulling away as though the contact burned you. The silence that follows is heavy.

Zach blinks, as if waking from a dream, the shadow of your brother’s presence hanging over him. He momentarily forgot the reason he’s held back all this time. But now, with his lips still tingling, he can’t seem to remember why it ever mattered.

His hand lingers at your wrist, and his voice is low, thickened by desire.

“Do you want to go to my room?” he asks. Heat floods through you, his words promising a world where only the two of you exist.

——

You’re in a fit of giggles by the time you make it to Zach’s bedroom, your hand in his.

“You ran up here,” you whisper through a laugh. “I could barely keep up.”

He smirks, shutting the door behind you, cradling your face like he might lose you.

“Can you blame me?” he murmurs.

His mouth captures yours again and your eyes squeeze shut in pleasure. Slowly, he licks into your mouth, the taste of his tongue prompting a soft moan to spill from your throat.

The sound makes Zach’s body tighten with desire. He deepens the kiss, hands sliding down to yours to guide you to his bed.

You sink into the soft sheets, your head on his pillow, as he hovers over you and continues kissing you, slow and careful, still subdued because he doesn’t want to move too quickly.

“You okay here?” he whispers, hand gripping your hip, lips pressed against your neck.

“Yes,” you breathe. You’re in disbelief that you’re tasting him, feeling his heartbeat against your chest.

Time blends and weaves into itself, your hands threading in his soft hair as you share deep, slow kisses, savoring each other.

His lips are swollen when he eventually pulls back, eyes half-lidded as his gaze sweeps over your face.

“I didn’t think you liked me back,” he whispers with a shake of his head and a shy smile.

You breathe a soft laugh, tilting your head back in his pillow.

“It’s pretty obvious now, isn’t it?” you reply as you brush your fingers over his jaw.

“I would’ve told you a long time ago if…” Zach’s voice trails off, worry flickering in his gaze.

“Is it because of my brother?” you ask gently.

He flattens his lips together and nods. In that moment, the past feels rewritten. He did feel something for you; he just held himself back.

“Do I tell him?” you say, a bit concerned that he doesn’t actually want this to go anywhere.

“Tell him,” he says without hesitation. “If he wants to kick my ass, I can take it.”

You laugh, the sound soft and uncertain, but it feels good to let it out. Zach’s arms tighten around you and though you’re not sure how your brother will take this, you know he’ll adjust.

Because there isn’t a single reason strong enough to keep you away from the man holding you.

——

Footsteps thunder toward you as you sit in the corridor by the college bus stop. You look up just in time to see Zach, lips parted as he pants, clinging to the strap of his backpack on his shoulder. He’s clearly sprinted straight from practice to find you.

“Breathe,” you say with a giggle, your voice light but full of affection. You’ve only been here ten minutes, after a long bus ride you took just to visit him.

“I hate…” He sighs, dropping to one knee in front of you so he can meet your eyes despite the chaos of students shuffling past. “I hate making you wait. I’m sorry.”

“I knew you had practice,” you chuckle, squeezing his shoulder. “It’s okay, baby. Sit down before you pass out.”

He chuckles, collapsing onto the bench beside you, still catching his breath. It’s something else, hearing you call him baby, spending his practice knowing he’ll be seeing you and holding you and touching you afterwards.

“Coach kept me back to talk,” he explains, excitement flickering in his tired eyes. “He’s putting me on the field for the start of the next game.”

“That’s amazing,” you muse, leaning closer. “Can I say it now?”

“Go ahead, baby,” he sighs, with a smirk.

“Told you.”

Your righteous grin makes him laugh. He takes your hand, lifting it gently to his lips, pressing a kiss to the back of it.

You’ve been together just over a month. Your brother was shocked at first, but when he shrugged and told you to just not be gross around him, you knew he’d accepted it. And now, sitting here with Zach, you realize you’ve accepted it, too. This is real. He’s yours.

Zach stares at you, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. Right now, in one word, he feels lucky. Lucky that he knows you. Lucky that you want him, too. Lucky that you came all this way just to be with him. Lucky that he fell in love with you.

As the corridor hums with footsteps and voices, Zach leans in to kiss you. For him, all the noise stops here. When he’s with you.

You can’t have heard your father right. Ice creeps through your ribs, wrapping around your heart, locking you in place.

“What are you talking about?” Rafe’s terse tone runs through you. It’s like he’s in a different room, instead of right beside you. You can’t grasp what’s happening.

“We made it clear that the public needs to believe you’ve matured,” Kal says, his gaze fixed on you. “Everything you do reflects on this family. The attention you’ve drawn in the last six months hasn’t been favorable. The contract spelled out that anything that damages our reputation has consequences.”

“Mom won.” You look at Celeste, her face pinched in something you’ve never seen in her before. She averts her eyes. “We got married. People bought it. Tell him. I did what you told me to do.”

“There’s proof of every single time you didn’t,” your father says, motioning to the lawyer. Your stomach twists when you spot the printout of paparazzi shots capturing the mistakes you’ve made, all the moments that looked worse than they were in the last six months.

“They’re always going to find things to twist and criticize,” you say. “You can’t use that against me.”

“Let’s just end this the way we planned to, Kal,” Rafe says tightly.

It’s all so clear how he orchestrated this, every move calculated to make it seem like he tried. But he didn’t. He wanted you to teach you a lesson in the cruelest way.

“I don’t blame you,” he responds to Rafe, voice calm but cutting. “You held up your side of the deal. You kept me informed on her like I instructed you to. You can walk away now. This doesn’t preclude the possibility of working with you and your father down the line. It’s my daughter who ruined this. Not you.”

His words are another attempt to isolate you. To hurt you. He included Rafe in this conversation to give him an out, and to make you watch him take it.

“You meant for this to fail,” you say. You shoot a glance at Celeste, confirming to her that what you suspected was the truth. “You didn’t expect me to make it this far, did you? And now you’re grasping at straws so you don’t have to follow through. Because you never were going to.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he huffs.

“Follow through, then,” Rafe says.

“You think you can give me orders?” Kal smirks. “I already told you, you’re not liable here. I’ll leave a good word with Ward. I insist you leave now. Your job is done.”

You look over at Rafe, meeting his eyes. He doesn’t budge. It’s a silent show of loyalty, proof that you’re more important to him. It’s undeniable that you’re the one he’s choosing. Your stomach turns, your throat tightening.

“What could’ve I done differently?” you say quietly, brokenhearted, looking at your father.

Rafe feels it burning inside him, the protectiveness, the rage, the disgust at the way the woman he loves is being treated. Your life is on the line, and this man is still committed to punishing you.

“I have it right here,” he scoffs, finger pressed on the stack of proof. Hot tears start to build in your eyes, and you’ve lost all your pride now. You don’t care who sees. In fact, you’re glad they do. You’re glad they’re witnessing the damage they’ve done.

“No,” you say, voice breaking. “What could’ve I done for you to love me?”

Kal shakes his head and huffs like you just told a joke.

You know the answer. You shouldn't have complicated their lives. You should’ve been healthy. You should’ve shut up and obeyed like your brothers did. You should’ve taken the abuse and never questioned or challenged it. Or really, if he got what he wanted, you should’ve never been born.

“It’s not all negative press,” Celeste chimes in, voice tight, clearly unused to challenging her boss. “That interview went very well. And the public likes them together. Perhaps we should extend the contract? Leverage the positive press?”

You meet her eyes, touched by her small act of defiance.

“Don’t let her tears fool you,” Kal says with a passive wave, and finally, Rafe snaps. He stands and slams a fist on his desk with a sharp crack, sending a few of Kal’s items to spill over in a chaotic scatter.

“You’re done fucking with her,” Rafe says, leaning over the desk. “She did every damned thing you told her to. You’re not scamming her out of her money.”

“Her money?” he laughs. “I earned every dollar in that account. She’s not entitled to it.”

“Yes, she is,” Rafe states. He looks down at you, at how small and scared you look, and his love for you burns through him, consuming him. “This isn’t over.”

“Did you forget who I am?” Kal mutters. “I’ll ruin you.”

“It’s nothing compared to what I’ll do to you.”

“You’re threatening me?” he says.

Rafe cocks his head to you in a soft gesture towards the door, to leave with him. Your legs barely hold you as you stand. Being defended and protected like this is still a shock to your system, like your body doesn’t know how to process it.

“I am,” he replies clearly. “And I don’t give a fuck that you’re blackmailing us. Whatever you did for my dad, it’s not worth this.”

“Blackmailing?” Kal says, confusion etched into his tone. Shock floods through Rafe. He glances at you, then at Kal again. The certainty in him falters. He’s unwilling to accept it, sure that this is another manipulation tactic.

“I don’t have anything against your father,” Kal says. “Whatever she convinced you of was a lie. This was meant to be a clean and mutually beneficial agreement.”

Rafe doesn’t correct him, doesn’t say that the claim came from his own father, not you. He’s too shaken up.

You’re in a trance, the news that Ward lied to his own son adding to the shock. Kal rises slowly, deliberately.

“Listen very clearly,” he says to Rafe. “Cameron Development will be blacklisted. I will make it my personal mission to destroy you and your family, unless you leave this alone. This is your last warning.”

This is the moment that could define everything. His future, his family, his integrity. And Rafe doesn’t even have to think twice. He inches forward, eyes locked on Kal.

“I’ll see you again,” he says firmly. “Soon.”

You don’t look back as you walk out. Rafe stays solid beside you, his steady presence enough to keep your legs moving. The door shuts behind you.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

You sit in the passenger seat and hold your purse against your stomach, your trembling fingers at the opening just in case you need your inhaler, just in case your lungs give out.

“Fucking asshole,” Rafe mutters under his breath, his grip on the steering wheel tight, knuckles pale. “What a piece of shit. He’s not going to get his way, alright?”

You stare at him, his eyes narrowed as he eases the car down the winding driveway. There was a time you judged him for how deeply he cared about his father’s approval, his career. But then you understood why it’s everything to him, and he just gave it up. And you can’t accept that. You don’t know how to be worth that.

“Pull over,” you half-whisper. His gaze snaps to you, confusion tied with anxiety, and he slows the car to a stop, tires crunching against gravel just past the gate.

“It’s not too late to go back,” you say. “I’ll find a way to cover my treatment. You can… even help me if you want to until then and I’ll pay you back.”

The last part catches in your throat. You’ve never been good at asking for help, but this isn’t about you anymore. You’re desperate to give him something, anything, that feels like a way out.

And you realize that instead of looking out for your survival, just like you always have, you’re looking out for his.

“I always knew there was a chance he wouldn’t give me my inheritance,” you say. “I’ll be fine.”

He knows you’re lying. If it were really that simple, you wouldn’t be clawing so desperately for your trust fund. You wouldn’t be fighting like your life depends on it. You need to get your money and you need to escape these people.

And he’s convinced, terrified, that if you don’t get the help you need, if you’re denied even a fraction of it, your condition will get worse, just like it did when you were a child, when they ignored you.

“Don’t lie to me,” he says.

“Just tell him you take it all back, okay?” you say, tears building again. Rafe’s expression fractures with something that looks like betrayal. You can’t just surrender like this. This isn’t the woman he knows.

“No.”

“Rafe, you heard him,” you say. “He’ll ruin you.”

You’re thinking about him. Your world just collapsed, a promise shattered, but you’re thinking about him. It cracks his heart open. He inches closer, his hand settling gently over yours.

“Baby, you’re shaking,” he realizes. “Are you breathing okay?"

Your face crumples, his care, his loyalty, his sacrifice heavy on you. It’s too much. You look down, ashamed, unsure how you could ever deserve this kind of devotion.

“You can’t do this,” you repeat.

His hands rise to cup your cheeks, warm and firm. He guides you to meet his gaze again. His lips part, his eyes search yours.

“Look at me,” he says, low and steady. “I love you. You can’t make me take any of it back.”

Despite the pain wringing you out, softness breaks through after hearing him say those words, like sunlight warming your skin after a night that you thought was your last. You’ve imagined a moment like this a thousand times, but none of those daydreams came close to the reality of being chosen like this.

You nod slightly. Your vision is blurry with tears of sorrow and pain, of happiness and shock, and you know in your heart that no matter how hard you try, Rafe won’t take back his choice. The depth in those blue eyes, the sincerity in his deep voice, are proof. He means every word.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

Rafe gets you home first. He helps you into bed, brushes your hair back gently, and assures you he’s got everything handled. Then he slips out, confident he’ll catch his father at work after the lunch hour, having already told him he had a meeting with Kal this morning.

His head aches as he approaches his dad’s office, thoughts colliding. There’s so much he wants to say. He doesn’t knock. He walks straight in. Ward looks up, eyes blazing with fury.

“Kal just called me,” he says. “What the hell are you thinking?”

Rafe shuts the door and sinks into the chair across from the desk. Anger burns in him. His father lied to him and he still can’t wrap his head around it.

“He said he’s not holding anything over you,” Rafe says evenly. “That true?”

Ward’s somber expression says it all. Rafe feels the last thread of hope snap. He’d wanted to believe his father respected him enough to be honest. He’d wished Kal was playing some twisted trick.

“You were spiraling,” Ward explains. “You wouldn’t have done it. But now I know I should’ve never trusted you. You threatened him, Rafe?”

He scoffs in bitter disbelief. Of course his dad is twisting it, justifying it, like he always does. Beneath the anger, fear creeps in. Kal is powerful. Who knows what he could do to them? Still, going back on his word isn’t an option. He can’t leave you to the wolves. He won’t.

Because through the noise, all he can hear is your voice, reminding him he doesn’t deserve the pain his father puts him through. That he never did.

“You lied to my face,” Rafe says. “You spewed bullshit about how you don’t trust me, and you lied.”

“I had to,” he says. “We need this partnership. He just called me to tell me he’d make us regret this. How could you do this?”

“He’s backing out and screwing her out of her money,” he says evenly.

“It is not your place to intervene,” he says. “You do this. You get emotional and you make a mess of things because you can’t get a handle on yourself.”

The sting of dismissal is familiar. It’s an ache of being brushed aside, like his feelings are inconvenient.

“I told him I’ll get this settled,” his father tells him. “You need to apologize, cut ties with that girl, and be done with it.”

Rafe shakes his head and mutters, “I’m not doing that.”

“For God’s sake,” he mutters. “Who are you? I thought you said she was impossible.”

“I was wrong.”

Ward leans back in his chair, the leather creaking beneath him as he shifts his weight. The room is still, save for the faint hum of the overhead lights and the distant ticking of the clock.

“You know what this sounds like?” he says. “It sounds like you care more about some spoiled princess than you do about our family.”

Rafe’s fists clench as his nails dig into his palms. Heat floods his chest, a slow burn of rage and pain.

“Do you care about our family?” he says. “I’m your son. You won’t even listen to me or - or hear me out. You took his side over mine before you even let me explain. You pushed me into this. You lied to me. You got us involved with that asshole, and now that I’m fighting for something important, you want me to back down.”

“Do you hear yourself?” he says. “Our business is important. How did you lose sight of this?”

He didn’t lose sight. He just found something worth more. You.

“You made me sign that contract,” he says, voice low but firm, eyes burning as he stands up, “and I’m seeing it through.”

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

Your body eases when you hear the front door open. You shift the cutting tray from the edge of the kitchen counter and turn to find Rafe standing there. His shoulders are drawn up, tense.

“What happened?” you ask, voice soft but urgent, closing the distance.

“He lied,” Rafe says, eyes dark and distant. “I wanted out, so he lied to convince me to go through with it.”

“That’s so messed up,” you say. “I’m sorry.”

You see it in his face, the betrayal, the disbelief, the ache.

“I’m going to find a lawyer,” he says. “And I’m getting you out of this.”

“Rafe, you don’t have to,” you say, stepping even closer. “I’ve been thinking about it. You can walk away. I’ll fight him on this. I can do it. There’s no reason for you to lose everything for me.”

His eyes soften, like he’s remembering where he is. Who he’s with now. He loves you and he doesn’t have to say it again, and he doesn’t have to hear you say it back. It’s just a fact. A fact he sees no point in hiding.

“I’m not leaving you to do this alone,” he says. “Do you trust me?”

You want to argue, but you know him. You know that look in his eyes. He’s already decided. Even if it breaks him, he’s going to do this. Resigned but also relieved, you nod, settling the disagreement.

“Are you cooking?” he asks, trying to soften the tension between you, having caught the sound of chopping when he walked in.

“You did it for me,” you say, offering a small smile, “so I’m doing it for you.”

You stare at each other for a long moment. There’s no future in this, not with your illness hanging between you like a shadow neither of you can outrun. But for now, there’s enough keeping you together.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

Rafe goes into the meeting with one thing in mind: your father will either make this clean, or Rafe will make it public.

He found the best lawyer money could buy, had him tear through the contract line by line, paid extra to have him prepped and ready for today. Every detail accounted for. Every loophole closed.

When he walks into Kal’s office, his breath is steady. There’s no hesitation. This is what he was meant to do. To protect you. To stand between you and the man who’s done nothing but hurt you.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

It’s nearing 11 pm. You’re sitting up in bed, legs trembling with anxiety. You’ve been like this since Rafe left earlier this evening. He got your father to agree to meet. Knowing his ego, he probably thinks Rafe is coming to beg for forgiveness. To fall back in line.

He’s doing the opposite. He told you that he loves you, and you believe him. And now, he quite literally has your future in his hands, and you trust him to carry it. He’s right. You’re too weak for this fight. The stress is carving through you, slow and merciless. Your breathing keeps catching, shallow and uneven, your lungs struggling.

And then, your phone rings. It’s him. You scramble for it, hands shaking, heart thudding against your ribs.

“Hey,” Rafe says when you pick up. His voice is tired, worn thin after the long meeting. “It’s done. You’re getting your money. There are some clauses to it, but… it was the best we could do. You’re getting all of it, okay?”

The weight on your chest vanishes, not sure you can believe it.

“You’re coming home now?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

You hear a tired chuckle on the other end, so soft and so him.

“Yeah.”

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

Rafe finds you sitting up in your bed, eyes wide, fear etched into every line of your face. And like always, it hits him. Aching, relentless love. That instinct to protect you from everything.

He crosses the room, sits across from you on your bed, his hand finding yours, the other holding a clipped document.

“He had to set up a trust fund for you,” Rafe says, seeing in your expression that you’re desperate for answers. “Your great-grandfather wrote in his will that every heir in the family gets one. Your dad had no choice.”

You blink, trying to process. Your great-grandfather, a man you never met, who built this empire you were born into, made that rule, and your father had no choice but to honor it.

It’s disorienting, considering how much you thought you hated your family. You never spent much time wondering about the ones who came before your dad. You assumed they were all the same.

“Kal didn’t want you to have it,” Rafe says. “He came up with this stunt to fuck it up for you. He didn’t expect you to actually do it.”

“And he didn’t expect you to be on my side,” you say in awestruck realization. You weren’t entirely wrong; your father did want to punish you, but if it weren't for this rule, he would have just written you out completely, with no need for this scheme.

You look down at the crisp, official stack of papers in Rafe’s hand, Trust Distribution Authorization stamped across the top.

“What are the clauses?” you ask.

“I fought him on them,” Rafe says, flipping through pages. “But my threats only got so far. He was saying some insane shit, like he gets to decide what you do with the money and that you have to send reports of your spending. We got him to back down on that, but not everything.”

He stops on a page, with Conditions of Release in bold. You lean closer, eyes travelling over the words. To preserve public standing, the Beneficiary shall adhere to the following behavioral conditions. You read on.

Mandatory attendance. You need to show up when you’re told to attend family events, public appearances, and anything your father deems important, to a limit of one event a month.

Speech restrictions. You can’t air out family drama. You’re not allowed to speak negatively about your father or the family in public, on the internet, anywhere.

“Their argument was that your family’s value is tied to their reputation, and you play a part in that,” he mutters bitterly. “We couldn’t negotiate out of it.”

You read that if you breach this contract, you face a mandatory repayment, and that the conditions will remain in effect for a fixed period.

“Five years?” you read aloud.

“And then you’re out,” he says. “The old contract didn’t hold up because the conditions were too vague. But he can’t play any games with this one.”

Your eyes land on the bolded line at the bottom: Total amount released. The number is surreal. It’s enough commas to make your stomach turn with relief and excitement. Finally, this money is yours.

You know your father will try to sabotage you. He doesn’t believe you can do this. You can’t wait to prove him wrong.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t do better,” he murmurs. “I wanted to make it a clean break for you.”

“Are you kidding?” you say. “I wouldn’t have anything without you. I can handle five years.”

You rest your hand on his chest, where his heart drums against your skin, bottom lip caught between your teeth.

“What happens to you?” you ask softly.

“I take you to the bank tomorrow,” he replies.

You let out a quiet, bittersweet laugh, eyes tender as they settle on him.

“You know what I mean.”

“I’ll deal with it later,” he says.

You give a small nod. If he’s not willing to go there right now, you won’t make him. The fight is over. He went into battle when you didn’t ask him to. Made choices that cost him. You still don’t know how to carry the burden of what he gave up. You can only hope that he finds the happiness he deserves.

“Thank you, baby,” you say in a whisper, pulling him into a tight hug. “Thank you so much.”

You pull back, and you don’t want to say it, because the vulnerability aches too much.

“Can you sleep here tonight?” you decide to say instead.

His lips tug into a smile, his eyes tired, his nod gentle. After you get ready for bed, you settle in under the duvet and Rafe folds around you, protective and warm. You shut your eyes, wrapped in calmness.

That feeling comes back, the one where you feel like you fit, like your edges align with his. But everything around you pushes back. Reality won’t bend. It won’t make room. This can’t work. But nonetheless, he deserves to know how you feel.

“I love you, too,” you say into the dark. He presses his lips on the back of your shoulder, caught between gratitude and sadness. He can’t believe he was lucky enough to meet you, to be loved by you, and so fucking unlucky to lose you. You were never supposed to stay. And he has no right to ask you to.

You fall asleep in his arms, to his tender kisses, in a melancholy peace that you’ve never known before.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

Rafe is sure that Kal is still going to do whatever he can to follow through on his threats. He only hopes that after telling him that his father forced him out of the company, that he doesn’t support anything Rafe is doing, it’d leave an impact.

Despite everything, he still feels loyalty to the man who raised him. He hasn’t officially pushed him out of the company yet, but he knows he will.

He slowly leaves your bed the next morning, walks down the hall to his room, closes the door behind him, and dials his father. He recounts the conversation with Kal and the lawyers from the night before. Then he finishes quietly, “I told him you’re against this and that you already fired me. So you don’t have to do it, alright? I know I’m out.”

The other end is silent. Rafe is glad he doesn’t have to see the disappointment in his father’s face. He knows his father banked on his undying loyalty. That he was sure even with the lie coming out, he would still choose him. But things changed.

“You do this over the phone?” Ward says. “You don’t even face me like a man?”

“For what?” Rafe scoffs. “You’d fire me anyway, wouldn’t you?”

Another pause. Longer this time.

“I’m sorry, dad,” he says, voice softening. “I still want to work for you. I still want to make you proud and take over the business one day. But I…”

He paces the room, words catching in his throat. He can try to force the type of relationship he always wanted, but it’s no use. Telling him the truth, that he loves you in a way he didn’t even know he could love a person, would just be used against him.

“You never cared about the business,” Ward replies. “I hope she’s worth everything we’re about to lose.”

The line goes dead.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

You wake up alone. The sheets are still warm where he lay, but the space beside you is empty. You stare at the ceiling for a moment, letting the quiet settle in. This something you’ll have to get used to. Waking up without him close by.

Rafe keeps his word. He drives you to the lawyers’ office, then to the bank that morning, eyes flicking toward you every so often like he’s checking to make sure you’re still okay. When you pull into the bank parking lot, he asks if you want him to wait in the car.

You hesitate, then tell him to come with you. Having him beside you makes the whole thing feel less daunting.

Inside, you meet with an advisor. The process is clinical and efficient. You sign a few forms, answer a few questions, and just like that, the trust fund is yours. But before you leave, you pause and ask about opening a separate account.

The advisor nods and leaves the office to retrieve the paperwork. When you’re alone again, Rafe turns to you, brow furrowed. He doesn’t say anything, but the question is written all over his face.

“I’m putting some money aside for my nurse,” you say quietly. “She has a son and I want her to be able to give him whatever he wants without working herself so hard.”

Rafe’s chest twists. Underneath it all, underneath the defensiveness and anger and harshness he’s seen, you’re a sweetheart at your core. After a moment, he clears his throat.

“You want to get lunch after this?” he asks.

You laugh. It bubbles up unexpectedly, light and warm.

“Voluntarily? Not because a publicist scheduled it?”

“For once,” he says with a smile.

“Yeah,” you agree.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

You can hardly wait to walk into a public space and not feel like you’re on display, to not have eyes tracking your every move. You and Rafe settle at a table in the corner of a small restaurant, feeling gazes on you.

You worry for him. He’s gotten used to being in the public eye now, but you hate to think about him being followed once you leave, hounded with questions about your break-up.

“You okay?” he asks, eyes softened. You realize he noticed the concern written in your face.

“They’ll be even more annoying than usual after they hear we split up,” you say, your voice low. “They’ll probably be trailing you everywhere.”

“I can handle them,” he says with a smirk, touched by your worry for him.

You mirror his smile. Gratitude swells inside you, overwhelming, filled with guilt and awe. You still don’t know how to accept all that he’s done for you.

“I’ll start the process,” he says. “I can get whatever you need to sign mailed to you.”

The annulment will be a clean break, a necessary one, and yet it’s bittersweet. Somewhere along the way, Rafe became someone you love. You wanted it to end, but not like this. Not with the sadness of losing someone.

“You don’t have to,” you offer. “I can handle it.”

“I know you can,” he says. “You won’t, though.”

You roll your eyes playfully, and his dimples deepen with that familiar smile. For a moment, you let yourself study him, as if memorizing every detail in his handsome face might help you hold onto this. Then the question slips out, quiet but sincere, “Are you going to be okay?”

His brows draw together, like no one’s ever asked him that before.

“Yeah,” he answers.

“Did he let you go?”

Rafe exhales through his nose. The laugh he doesn’t bother to make is thin, edged with something like relief.

“I quit before he could,” he tells you.

Sharp guilt digs into you again. He gave his future up. What he was working towards for years. For you.

“Did you find a place yet?” he asks.

“I found a few promising apartments this morning,” you say. “Nothing too far. I don’t want to be somewhere I have to get on a plane for since I’m going to be coming back here.”

Rafe nods slowly. You admire him, every piece of him. His steady competence. His strong resolve. His care.

“How can I pay you back for everything?” you ask softly.

He takes you in, and sees that under the confident person he’s come to know is a woman who isn’t sure she’s worth another person caring this much about her.

“I was an asshole to you when we met. I went along with your dad’s plan. This is me making up for it, okay?” he says. He flashes a hint of a sad smile. “We even? You gonna stop moping now?”

You breathe a soft laugh, nudging him playfully. You’re nowhere near even, but there’s no convincing him that you weren’t worth it.

You’re glad that if it had to be anyone to be pushed into this with, it was him. You can’t imagine any other man deciding to pull this stunt, just to end up saving you from everything.

He’s not the opportunistic man you once thought, or maybe he was, but he changed. It heals something in you; that someone got to know you, and became better for it.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

Two days later, you exhale a deep breath as you pull out the suitcases from your closet. You stand in the middle of your bedroom, taking mental inventory of everything you have left to do, the room cast in the setting sun’s glow.

Your new apartment, a two and a half hour drive away, is just a listing on your screen, a few photos and a vague floor plan. You haven’t seen it in person, haven’t walked its floors, but it’s booked and rented. It’s waiting for you.

You called the nearest clinic this morning. Your treatment is scheduled, your information already sent over. It’s official now. You’re planting roots in a town where no one knows your name. It’s what you’ve always wanted. Except you never expected to have a reason to miss this place.

You start to pack, then a box topples, textbooks spilling across the floor with a heavy clatter. Rafe hears from the living room, and he rushes over, his footsteps quick and purposeful as he slips through your half-open door.

“You okay?” he asks, crouching beside the mess, eyes scanning for anything that might’ve hurt you.

“Yeah,” you say softly, collecting your things. “Thanks.”

He nods, helps you collect the books, hands skimming over glossy covers. He thinks of all the times you were locked up in your room, studying, never once expecting praise, because you never got it.

“Keep me company?” you say to him.

Rafe shifts the box across the floor once it’s full, then settles on the edge of your bed, his eyes traveling over your room like he’s keeping track of what’s left.

“When are you leaving?” he asks.

“Friday.”

He nods. Two days. You must feel it, too. The pain of knowing that you’ll miss each other. Now, with time slipping through your fingers, you both realize how hard it will be to let go.

“When are you moving out?” you ask, opening a drawer and pulling clothes out.

“Don’t know yet,” he says. His father hasn’t been answering his calls. It’s like he’s in limbo, suddenly on a different life path with no map. “I could stay here. It might be a decent place without your music blasting all the time.”

You laugh and flip him off, but your chest aches, knowing you won’t be able to joke around like this with him anymore. Then, your eyes catch on something, the flimsy top you wore on your first date. You pick it up, smoothing it out with a cocky smile.

“Remember this?” you ask, holding it up. “You wouldn’t stop staring.”

He leans back, smirking. He remembers that night too well, how you walked into the restaurant, all attitude. He’d been drawn to you instantly, and just as quickly repelled. You were chaotic and beautiful, and you still are, but not in the way he once thought.

“You were always so obvious,” you tease, folding the top.

Rafe stares at you. How can you say you love each other, and not try to make this work? The thought gnaws at him. It loops in his mind, louder than the silence between you. You’re folding clothes, teasing him like always, and he’s watching you with a desperation he doesn’t know how to voice.

He remembers every fight, every laugh, every moment that made this more than it was supposed to be. And now, with the end looming, he’s drowning in the need to know.

“What do you want?” he says, voice low.

The air thickens. Your pulse picks up. It’s a question only he’s asked. Nobody else in your life has truly cared what you want.

You know you don’t want to stay here, among your family’s toxicity. You need to escape the tabloids, with their twisted narratives. You’ve been living under a microscope and you need to get away.

You drop your clothes, legs weak as you step closer to sit next to him on your bed. He stiffens, leans forwards, interlaces his fingers.

“Being around me is hard for you, isn’t it?” you ask. You put your hand over your chest, over the part of you that will never work the way it should.

You think of the night you lost control of your breathing and the way he held you. He was what you needed, but it’s because he didn’t know what was happening. He didn’t know how frequently your body gives out. Now, he’ll always be looking out for it. Always worrying. With how protective he is over you, you’re sure of it.

Rafe looks down, jaw tensing, not agreeing with you, but not disagreeing either.

“It’s a big part of my life,” you say. “My treatment is intense. Sometimes my symptoms spike. I shouldn’t have to hide it and you shouldn’t have to see it. This just… it wouldn’t work, right?”

You always wished you weren’t sick. It was a silent wish, tucked into the corners of your mind, but now, it’s the loudest it’s ever been.

Rafe swallows hard. Now that you’re asking him if you can handle this, he knows he’s too damn broken. He can’t be who you need him to be, can’t be steady, can’t be a man who doesn’t lose his mind when shit gets hard.

He’d like to think he’s stronger than the anxiety, but he’ll always be afraid of losing you the way he lost his mom. And that what happened to her could repeat itself in him.

“It’s not just you, okay?” he says, voice strained, almost cracking. “What if - what if what happened to my mom happens to me?”

You feel his words settle in your chest like stones. You thought you were the only wrench in the plan. The only one who’d bring uncertainty into the relationship. But now you see it: he’s been holding onto another type of fear, not only that he’d watch you slip away, but that you’d watch it happen to him.

“I’m used to not knowing what’s going to happen next,” you admit. “I’m okay with it. Are you?”

You watch him, your fragile words settled between you, as you wait for his answer.

“No,” he says, under his breath. It crushes your heart. You had a shred of hope that he’d prove you wrong, that his love for you would be bigger than the fear his trauma left in him. But still, you can’t blame him.

Rafe stands. It cuts to know for certain now. You always felt like a problem, and in some way, you are to him now. Someone that would be right for him, but can’t be because of the way she was born.

“Take care of yourself,” he says, keeping his eyes off of you.

“You, too,” you say to his back.

He stops at the doorway. Shakes his head to himself in self-loathing, in how badly he wishes he could just be complete. He’s always had this fear in him, and like everything else, you made him face a part of himself he’s been running away from.

“Can you let me know when you’re in town?” he asks, a quiet plea buried in the question.

Before, the idea of staying tethered to him scared you. Now, you’d take scraps if that’s all you can have. A fraction of Rafe is better than nothing at all. You almost want to ask him what for. If you can’t be together, why torture yourselves? But not having him in your life at all would be worse.

He’s still turned away. Your breath hitches with a sniffle, and you reply, “I will.”

And he leaves.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

You’re contractually obligated to be here, but you’d want to come anyway. Eira and Sam have welcomed a beautiful baby girl into the world. You stand stiff in the nursery, the camera flash catching your hollow expression in the family photo, a curated moment for the public, a performance of unity.

Later, they let you hold her. She’s warm, impossibly small, and the protectiveness you felt over her only intensifies. You make a silent wish to anyone who’ll listen that your niece grows up healthy, safe from the curse that followed you.

It’s been over a month since you’ve seen Rafe. You didn’t know how much it could hurt to miss every piece of a person. He called to make sure you made it to your new place okay. It was a short, emotionless call. Then, a week ago, you received the paperwork in the mail. Your fingers traced over his inked signature, his part of the marriage signed away, before you signed, too.

Your throat is tight once you finally leave your family home. You pace towards your car and pull out your phone to see a text from Iris. You handed her a sealed envelope at your last appointment, telling her that you’d be moving away, but that you wanted to get her something to say thank you.

You left your number in case she had any trouble accessing the bank account. She called you soon after to say she couldn’t accept this, the tears thick in her tone. You told her that nothing could change your mind.

After responding to her text asking how you’ve been, you open Rafe’s contact and text him: Hi. I’m in town.

He responds minutes later: Can I see you?

You ask him if he’s still at the condo you shared. He replies he is, and to come over.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

Rafe was stupid to stay here after you left. Every corner of this place reminds him of you. The walls still echo with your voice, your laughter. He has to leave soon. He’s going to settle on a job, then move the hell out.

He walks through the condo like he’s haunted. He replays the way you silently hugged him goodbye when you walked out the door for the last time. He misses you so much it aches in places he didn’t know could hurt. When he first moved in here, he thought he’d feel relieved once the contract ended, but he feels nothing but loss.

And then, he hears a knock, and it’s like the air leaves the room.

Rafe opens the door, and you meet the face you haven’t stopped thinking about since you left. His blue eyes are tired, his sharp jaw going from tight to relaxed.

“Hi,” you say.

“Hey.” He steps aside. It feels wrong to let you in like you’re only a guest. The door clicks shut behind you, and suddenly it’s just the two of you, standing in the same room again. “How are you?”

“Good,” you say. His eyes travel over you, his heart thumping, finally reunited with the woman who owns it. “I just met my niece. She’s tiny.”

He sees the endearment in your eyes. You’ve spent years building walls around you, but he’s fortunate to see this version of you, the one who still believes in love.

“Did your parents try anything?” he says, voice sharp at the edges. That protectiveness of his is still alive and burning.

“I didn’t even look at them,” you reply. “At least they can’t bother me for another month.”

“I keep thinkin’ about how I should’ve fought him harder on that.”

“Well, stop,” you order.

He puts his palms up in defense. The corner of your mouth lifts, the first smile since you arrived. His eyes flicker with relief. The air is tense, but you’re still you, acting how you used to together.

“You want something to drink?” he offers.

It’s a quiet check-in. He waits, hoping you’ll notice the care tucked into the question. He wants to ask about your health, how you’ve been, if you’re off those meds, but the words knot in his throat.

“Make it strong,” you say, and it settles him. If you can drink, you’re off those meds. You’re doing better.

Soon after, you’re on the balcony together. Far down below, the beach stretches out in golds and silvers, the tide curling in slow breaths. It’s nearing 6 pm, and the sun hangs low, casting long shadows.

The air smells like salt. The breeze is cool but not cold. Every so often, a cloud slips in front of the sun, dimming the world in gray before the light returns.

“This is so pretty,” you say, legs stretched out on the wicker recliner. “I didn’t appreciate this as much as I should’ve.”

He glances at you and takes a slow pull of his scotch before he answers. You seem so much lighter now and it brings him ease.

“You were too busy fighting with me,” he replies, lips wet from his drink.

“You started it,” you say with a laugh. He looks down, unable to laugh, too.

“I did,” he says. He did start all of it. You asked him, nearly begged him to back out of this deal, and he refused. It set off a painful chain of events, and even though he was once glad to have met you, right now, sitting next to you, feeling the warmth of your arm from mere inches away and knowing he can’t touch you, is the first time he regrets it.

It’s a bitter, tangled thing in his chest. Maybe if he didn’t go through with the publicity stunt, your father would’ve found another way to screw you out of your money, and you wouldn’t have had the help you needed to get it.

Or maybe everything would’ve been better if Rafe stepped away, and you’d have the strength to fight for your trust fund without needing to go along with a stupid scheme, and you both wouldn’t have found love in a person you can’t give it to.

You stare at his profile. His grimace is subtle, but unmistakable, regret etched into the lines of his face. You can feel it radiating off him. He’s hurting.

“What’s new with you?” you ask, gently, carefully.

Blue eyes find yours, and he almost looks caught off guard, like he didn’t expect you to be watching him. He takes a moment, then decides to tell you.

“I got an interview tomorrow,” he says. “Third one out of four at this place.”

You nod, letting the silence stretch just long enough. He’s looking for a new job. He’s not working for his dad anymore. You wonder how it ended. How badly his father cut into him after choosing your future over his.

“Four is intense,” you say. “Must be a good position.”

“It is.”

He doesn’t offer more. The sun dips behind another cloud, casting everything in soft gray. You just want to make him feel better.

“I don’t know how things are with your dad…” You look out at the distance, your lips flattening. “But I saw how hard you worked and I don’t think you ever got the recognition you deserved. I hope you can find that.”

Your words land softly, but not deeply. The ache Rafe is feeling is too worn-in. It’s a voice that’s lived in him for years, telling him that he’s not enough. Not for his father, who only ever saw the flaws. Not for you, who asked for something he couldn’t give. And not even for himself, when he looks in the mirror and sees all the ways he’s fallen short.

Whatever you think he deserves, he doesn’t know how he’d accept it without being afraid he’ll lose it.

Rafe only nods. He’s a vault, and you don’t blame him. He already bared himself to you so much, just for you to part ways. It makes your heart pinch in pain. If this is how it’s going to be, seeing him casually, keeping things surface-level, you’re not sure you can do it.

“My lawyer called me this morning,” you say, in an attempt to change the subject. “It’s official. What are you going to say to the reporters when they find out we broke up? Are you going to talk bad about me?”

You’re attempting to joke, to lighten the air that’s grown too heavy between you. And even though he’s hurting, even though the pang in his chest feels like it might never let go, he humors you.

“I’m telling them you were only in it for my last name,” he murmurs.

You chuckle, trying to keep it light, trying to pull him out of whatever dark place he’s sunk into. But his smile isn’t genuine.

You know what his real smile looks like, the way it crinkles the corners of his eyes, the way his dimples dip into his cheeks. This is him pretending for your sake. And you can’t stomach knowing all you’re doing here is hurting him.

“I should go,” you say, sitting up, the corners of your eyes burning with a sudden threat of tears.

“What?” Rafe’s voice is soft, surprised, and you’re shocked yourself that he thinks this is worth dragging out.

“It’s a long drive,” you say, avoiding eye contact. “Thanks for the drink.”

You cross into the condo, putting your glass away in the sink, unable to walk fast enough to get out of here. You rush to the front door, throat dry, but when you reach for the doorknob, his hand wraps around your wrist.

“Wait,” Rafe whispers, his thumb brushing slightly against your pulse, agony laced in the word.

You glance up at him, lips parting. His eyes meet yours, and for a moment, everything is stripped bare. The pain in his gaze is unmistakable and you know he sees the same in you. Neither of you says a word, but it’s all there, suspended. The hurt, the history, the longing.

He shifts his weight, turning to face you more fully, towering over you. That familiar mix of his cologne and warm skin hits you instantly and floods your senses with memories.

“I miss you so much,” he rasps, a subtle shake of his head betraying the heaviness behind the words. He’s been carrying it for too long, and saying it aloud is both a release and a wound.

“I miss you, too,” you admit.

Your eyes drop to the floor. The silence stretches, thick and aching, until you feel his gaze on you again.

“Be with me,” he says, voice low.

Your eyes finally gloss over when you look up at him, the emotion rising before you can stop it. It’s the sting of something old tearing open again. The wound splits wide and you feel it bleed into the space between you.

“I’m sick,” you say, the simple words landing like a blow.

His sad eyes search yours.

“I could be, too,” he says.

“But you...” you say, your voice trembling. “You wouldn’t be a burden to me.”

“You think you’d be one to me?” he murmurs.

It unearths a painful fear in you that you’re a chore. Maybe you’d feel like this with any man who’d want to be with you. Or maybe it’s just because it’s Rafe, someone who carries enough pain already.

“Yes,” you admit.

“You’re wrong,” he tells you. You sigh, a wall slowly coming up as you gently twist out of his grip.

“What if it’s too much for you?” you challenge quietly, crossing your arms.

“It’s not.”

“What if you’re saying that now, but-”

“You’re not going to talk me out of loving you,” he says. “I was an idiot to walk away. I’m sorry and I’m - I’m in this if you are.”

His pulse pounds in his ears as he looks down at the woman who changed everything for him, who changed what he wanted out of life and who he wanted to be. He can’t fathom watching you walk out that door again without trying this, for real.

You’re still, staring at him, parts of you screaming that he’ll leave you. That he’ll see who you really are and decide you’re not good enough. But that’s just it. He’s already witnessed every little piece of you, good and bad, and he’s still looking at you like you’re the only thing worth looking at.

“What are you thinking?” Rafe half-whispers.

You don’t have words, so you let your body take the lead, like it always has with him. And you kiss him.

Every movement is slow but hungry. You drift into his room, lie down together in his bed, your lips locking, wet smacks and soft sighs between you. He hovers over you, cupping your face, kissing you so deeply and tenderly that your skin tingles.

Eventually, his hands move lower as he peels your clothes off, yours trembling in excitement as you undo his shirt buttons. He strips you to your bra and panties, dipping to kiss your neck and your collarbones and your chest. He kisses your sternum, kisses your rising and falling chest, kisses over the part of you that you always thought was unloveable.

You rub your hands over his firm, bare chest and tug off his shirt. You push him to his back, and he lets you. You straddle him, moaning when he guides you down to sit on his thigh. He pulls your hips forward, silently encouraging you to grind against him. You moan louder this time, the friction, with only your panties and his jeans between you, good but not enough.

“I missed those sounds you make,” he mumbles, his breath hot against your mouth.

“I missed the way you touch me,” you say.

“Yeah?” he whispers. “Like this?”

His hands trail up your back as you continue to grind on him, unhooking your bra and throwing it to the floor. He grips your breasts, kneading them as you writhe, wrapping his lips around your perked nipple. You whine in pleasure, his hot tongue flicking as he flexes his leg to give you a firmer surface to get yourself off on.

You slowly sit up off of him, desperate to make him feel good. You tug his jeans down, eyes widening when you see his attraction for you tented beneath his briefs. You lustfully gaze at him through low lids as you pull down the band, his cock springing out.

Everything in him burns as he watches the way you pump him slowly, moving to hold him to your mouth. You part your lips and take the head in, swirling your tongue over him.

“Fuck,” Rafe groans. You lower, sucking harder, and he can’t take his eyes off of you. “Fuck, that’s good.”

Your core aches with need, tasting him, pleasuring him, showing him how much you love him. Your hands cover where your mouth can’t reach, stroking as you bob up and down.

He laces his fingers in the roots of your hair, gazing at you with pure love. His body tightens with the promise of an orgasm, and he realizes it’s always going to be like this; he’s always going to want to make sure that you come first, and that he can come inside you.

“Get up here,” he orders. You obey, shifting to kiss his lips, on your knees so he can peel off your panties. His hands firmly grip beneath your thighs, pulling you even higher. You realize he wants you to sit on his face, and you whimper when you lower to feel his hot mouth on you.

Your knees sink into the bed as he laps at you, gripping your ass and exploring every inch of you with his tongue. His moan against you sends a vibration through you, making you quiver. You gently writhe, panting as he laps at you, moaning when he sucks your clit. You’re so hungry for the pressure of him inside you that it hurts.

“I need you inside,” you beg. “Please.”

You shift, lips on his as he guides you onto your back, moving so your head is on his pillow. It smells like him.

Rafe guides himself inside you without wasting a second, and it feels like coming home. You wrap your legs around him, hooking your ankles, holding him tight. This is the most wanted that he’s ever felt.

Your kisses are deep as he starts to rock in and out of you, filling you perfectly. The sounds of your moans and your breaths and your wet skin smacking fills the room, clinging on to each other, sure to never let go again.

You come undone together, breaths catching as you tremble against each other. He continues to leave slow, lazy kisses on your cheek as you tighten together where your bodies meet.

He doesn’t feel any rush to pull out, and you don’t feel any rush to separate, either. He props himself up on his elbows, a hand brushing your hair back as he stares down at you.

“I love you,” you whisper.

“I love you, too.”

“Yeah?” you mumble, a tremble in your tone. Even after everything, it’s scary to be this vulnerable. To give him the power to break you.

“What is it?” he whispers, catching the way your brows furrow.

“I still don’t know why you gave up so much for me,” you say, your eyes pricking with tears. He frowns, lips swollen from how much he’s kissed you.

You have a lifetime of being broken down behind you, just like he does. You’re expecting him to hurt you, to not love you all the way, and he realizes it’s not because you think low of him, but because you think low of yourself. Because all you’ve ever been told is that you’re a problem.

“I didn’t have anything before you,” Rafe says, and he means it. “You’re everything. You’re everything I want.”

It breaks your heart, then puts it back together again. And you let go, you let him own you completely, and you stay tangled up in each other with your promise heavy between you.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

It’s been three months since you and Rafe began a real relationship. It’s been fun and passionate and fulfilling. There’ve been tough times as you’ve continued to learn to adjust to each other’s quick tempers and strong personalities, but you feel like you already have your worst fights behind you.

You open your front door to see him leaning against the frame with a coy smile in a crisp, dark blue suit. He drove over to your place straight after work, at a new firm that offered him a much more senior position than he ever had at his dad’s business. They still haven’t spoken, and you can tell it bothers Rafe, so you never bring it up, just like he never talks about your family unless you do.

“Hey, baby,” Rafe says, stepping in and kissing your forehead. Your lips twist in frustration. “What’s that look for?”

“Why don’t you ever let me visit you?” you say. He wouldn’t give into your requests to make the drive this time. He comes to see you much more frequently and it feels unfair that you hardly ever go see him.

You think he stays in town in the hopes that he’ll repair things with his dad one day. For now, you won’t push the subject. He’s still fragile, and so are you. You make appearances when you need to, and Rafe offers to come every time, but you’d rather handle your family on your own. You’d rather keep him out of the mess.

“Damn, you’re already fighting with me?” Rafe mumbles with a chuckle, wrapping his arms around your waist. The door shuts behind him.

“Don’t be so bossy and we won’t fight,” you reply.

“I’m bossy?”

You narrow your eyes adorably.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you mutter.

He chuckles, and you crack a smile, perching on the tips of your toes to kiss him.

“I like giving you a break from the drive,” you tell him.

“I like knowing you’re here, safe, waiting for me,” Rafe says. “And I don’t want those reporters botherin’ you.”

Every time you’re spotted back in the city, you’re hounded by the press. The last time you met with Rafe there, an image of you two hugging in his car made headlines, with comments like I thought they were broken up? flooding the posts.

He’s right. It’s better for you here. But that doesn’t mean you’re okay with him having to make the trip more often.

“Fine,” you give in. “Dinner will be here in five.”

“I was going to pay for it.”

“Guess you can’t always get your way, can you?” you respond with a shrug, earning a defeated laugh from him. You give him one last kiss before you part.

Rafe goes into your bedroom, changing into sweats and a t-shirt that he keeps in his drawer. Eventually, your takeout arrives, and you place it on the coffee table in front of the tv. You’re about to sit down next to him, but he leans forward to cup your hand and pull you forward. You laugh as you settle on his lap.

“Did you have a good day?” you ask, arm draped over his shoulders.

You gaze into his kind eyes, unable to believe that you once thought there was nothing but bad in this man. There’s so much good, and you know it’ll take a while to convince him of it, but it’s work you’re willing to do.

“Just got way better,” he says.

You roll your eyes and breathe a laugh, and every time he earns that pretty smile on your face, it fills him with joy. It’s all he ever wants. Making you happy is the most important thing he can do in this world.

You take a moment to sit like this together, to appreciate that there’s endless, enduring love between you now, and nothing else.

You’ve both felt homesick all your lives, and you thought that you always would, until you found comfort and love and belonging in each other. Until you found home.

Rafe walks down the marble corridor, his shoulders stiff. The wedding venue is extravagant and performative, which he expected. That’s what your relationship was meant to be, after all.

Fatigue is buried into his bones. He hardly slept last night, consumed by the fact that you were so close, just on the opposite side of the condo, hating him. He’d left in the middle of the night to go for a drive, just to burn off the restless energy stirred by your fight.

It’s fucked up how it all happened. There’s something about you that makes him want to be good, and the contempt in your eyes when he told you that he knew was proof he failed.

He reaches the door. Waits for the lump in his throat to go away. Stares at his hand, knowing he’s minutes away from wearing a ring that won’t mean what it should.

You already have a headache from how tight your hair is pinned. The veil is itchy against the backs of your arms, your heels uncomfortable even though you’re seated, last night echoing in your head. You’ve been keeping your tears in today. But you couldn’t control them last night. Your pillow was drenched by the time you finally dozed off.

The warmth you thought you had with Rafe vanished. You thought you didn’t trust him, but this feeling of betrayal can only come from someone you gave a piece of yourself to.

The sound of the front door opening had partly pulled you out of your sleep. Before leaving this morning, you realized he must have stepped out at some point, so you peeked into his room just before sunrise, a stone settling in your stomach at the thought that he might’ve abandoned you. But there he was, asleep in his bed. His bare back cast in shadow, his face turned away.

You’re meant to walk down the aisle in fifteen minutes. The glass of champagne on the vanity in front of you sits untouched. In an odd way, you’re glad you can’t mix alcohol with your meds, because you wouldn’t be able to stop yourself.

Your mother, sisters-in-law, and the two college friends Celeste had suggested for your bridal party, Bea and Mara, are all gathered in the bridal suite with you.

Sam’s wife, Eira, is heavily pregnant now, and again, you think of how the baby could inherit the same illness, and possibly the same neglect that you did. The cycle could repeat and it makes the ache sitting inside you even sharper.

They’re making polite conversation, trying to include you, but you’re zoned out. You’re just nervous, is what you told them. The truth is so much heavier. And only two people in this room know that this marriage is a sham - you and your mother.

You barely register the knock at the door. It blends into the noise of a chaotic morning. Just another person working to put on this show, you figure, without giving it a second thought.

Bea opens the door, and someone lingers out of your view, concealed and tucked behind the frame. She looks at you, brows furrowed, then back at whoever is standing there.

“Are you supposed to be here?” she says with an awkward chuckle.

“I need to talk to her.”

His voice is low, familiar, buried deep in your heart. Heads turn towards you. You feel like you need to brace for impact, yet a part of you yearns to see him, even after everything he’s done to you.

“You’ll see each other soon,” your mother interjects with a forced laugh, clearly worried about what this means, about what it’ll look like.

“Let him in,” you state.

“But it’s bad luck for him to see you in your dress,” Eira chimes in.

“I don’t believe in that,” you reply impatiently.

Bea looks at you for approval, you nod, and then she swings the door open all the way. Rafe steps in, eyes landing on you. His grimace falls, a mixture of awe and disbelief, like he didn’t expect you to really be here, dressed like that, waiting to do this.

He falters. You’re stunning, but the thought is cheapened because he knows none of this is what you want. This isn’t the life you asked for, and admiring you in it feels like a messed up thing to do.

If this were a real wedding, you’d be in a different dress, one that’s more you, wearing a smile, and not glaring at him like you feel cursed that he’s the man you’re marrying.

You look miserable. The people around you don’t know about the war inside you. He didn’t either, for so long.

“Give us a minute,” you say to the room, your stare on him. You’re looking at him like you did when you met all those months ago, ambushed in your father’s office, enraged when you learned why he was there.

Everyone starts to slip out, shuffling quietly, whispering between each other, the door clicking closed. The air is heavy with everything you’ve been through together and with what you’re expected to do today.

Like always, Rafe looks devastatingly handsome. He crosses the room, the sharp lines of his charcoal black suit catching the light. He grabs the closest chair and spins it with one hand to face you, the scrape of its legs slicing through the silence, just like the day he barged into your life.

“What are you doing here?” you say, your voice thin.

He sits, and when he sees the pain in your eyes, the instinct to keep you safe burns strong. It’s why he came. To make sure you can handle all this today.

“You still okay to do this?” he murmurs. Fear coils in your chest, convincing you that he'll leave you stranded and take away your only chance to get your trust fund.

“Are you?” you accuse. “Is that why you left last night? You should’ve just backed out then instead of doing it now.”

Rafe’s brows furrow. Your words are a slap to the face. He didn’t know you heard him step out. Didn’t know you assumed the worst.

“I went for a drive,” he says, incredulity in his tone. He wants to reach for you, but can’t bear it if you do what you did last night, when you pulled away from his touch like he repulsed you. “I’m still in. I’m asking if you can handle all this today.”

You scoff, knocked off balance that he thinks he can act like he’s worried about you after you laid yourself bare and he still chose to lie.

“Why are you pretending like you care?” you ask, betrayal wringing your heart out.

After everything you’ve shared, every secret, every night tangled in each other, he didn’t expect this. He came here thinking you’d find a way back to each other, find common ground before you stand up in front of everyone. He came here for you, but you’d rather insult him.

Rafe sighs your name, laced with disbelief. It makes your blood boil. It’s like he’s trying to discipline you.

“What?” you snap.

“That’s bullshit,” he mutters. “You know it is.”

“Do I?”

He huffs and his temper flares above the pain, hot and unavoidable.

“Jesus,” he says. “Can you grow up? I came here to fix this.”

Your throat is tight, threatening tears, loathing the implication that you’re some sort of petulant child. And just like last night, spitefulness grabs a hold of you, tells you to hurt him like he hurt you.

“What’s there to fix?” you argue.

Blue eyes search yours, stunned and wounded. He traps his bottom lip behind his teeth, like he doesn’t want to say what he’s about to say, but knows he has to.

“Nothing, right?” Rafe responds, silently praying you’ll prove him wrong. The pain is a bruise on his heart, aching because again, he’s being rejected. He can read it in your eyes, the way you still hold onto resentment. It’s more important to you than he is.

“Nothing,” you echo in confirmation.

He stands up. The door swings open. Celeste looks at the two of you in shock.

“What are you doing?” she chides Rafe. “You can’t be here. You need to get to the altar.”

He storms past her, knowing he needs to go back to who he was when this started, when he only wanted to square away a business deal and do right by his father.

He wishes he knew nothing about you. He wishes you stayed what he thought you were: a spoiled brat, easy to dismiss and easier to forget.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

The music begins, soft and far too beautiful for what this moment really means. Each note echoes through the enormous chapel as your father nudges you with his elbow to hold his arm. Your hand feels numb, like it’s not yours anymore.

The feeling of hundreds of eyes on you, the feeling you know too well, only brings you more ache. The ivory aisle stretches ahead of you, lined with faces you don’t know. The scent of the bouquet is too strong. Your dress is suffocating. And you step forward.

Your chest burns. The anger is familiar, all you’ve ever had. It hurts, until you look up to see Rafe waiting at the end. The man you never meant to fall for, who made you feel safe, just to break you. Your heart stirs, and you hate that beneath the pain, you feel relief seeing him in a crowded room.

You think of how he said your father seemed happy to be the one to tell him about your illness. The man walking with you wants you to suffer, and he’s getting what he came for, because this is the most heartbroken you’ve ever been.

You reach Rafe, keep your gaze low, and he takes your hand, desperate to take you from your father as soon as he can. It’s not for the crowd, not for the cameras. It’s for you, despite how badly you hurt him. You squeeze the way you always do when you’re angry, and his pain doubles knowing that he’s the reason.

The music ends, shuffles echo through the hall as guests settle in their seats, and the officiant begins to speak. You’re watching the way Rafe’s thumb brushes lightly against your hand, and finally, you gaze up at him.

And you want to hate him, but in this moment, framed by soft light, you see him for everything he is. The good and the bad.

A part of you still wants to sympathize with him, even when your heart begs it not to. He’s only standing here because he’s starved of approval. Of love. You still don’t know what exactly happened to his mother, but you know he watched her fade away, and you can’t fathom the hole it left in his heart.

There’s still so much pain buried deep in you, hurt that he had to see you suffer to realize you didn’t deserve it, hurt that he knew you were sick and kept it from you. But in this fragile moment, with so many eyes on you, you can only be anchored by him.

Despite yourself, he’s who you love. Yet, no matter how much it consumes you, you can’t force yourself to forgive him for every way he’s hurt you since you met.

When you’re repeating the vows after the officiant, your voice shakes when you have to say that you’ll trust you’ll choose each other every day, in sickness and in health.

Rafe eventually slides the ring onto your finger. He tells himself to pull back from this moment on. You only see the worst in him, and maybe that’s all that’s left to see.

Every effort of his doesn’t matter to you. What a masochist he’s been, letting himself fall for you. You just told him there’s nothing to fix, and he needs to accept that whatever you two shared means nothing to you.

You’ve lived moments like these together so many times before. You’re angry. He’s angry. But you both know how to bury it just deep enough to make it through the spectacle.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

Following the ceremony, you, Rafe, and your wedding party are directed outside the venue for photos. As you pose under the cloudless sky, you think of how much money is being wasted on this. How a month from now, you’ll quietly separate, and it will all dissolve into silence.

What you hate most about taking these photos is having to stand anywhere near his father. Just being close to the man who hurt Rafe, who laid hands on him, makes your skin crawl.

At the end of the session, the photographer asks for final shots: close-ups of the rings. As you and Rafe stiffly hold hands, your mother crosses her arms and sighs to herself.

“Why didn’t you get your nails done?” she mumbles to you, then looks to Celeste. “How did that get missed?”

“She was supposed to,” Celeste says stiffly, shooting you a death glare.

You recall that morning, when you smiled politely at the woman in the salon, mentioning you were getting your nails done later. Plans had changed, you said. She seemed confused, but didn’t question it.

“We ran out of time,” you lie, biting the inside of your cheek, guilty that you didn’t follow Celeste’s instructions when you said you would. “Sorry.”

“Ridiculous,” your mother sighs, as if it even matters.

Rafe is surprised to see you actually seem hurt. There’s pain in your expression, not anger. It unsettles him. Even now, he still wants to fix it, to soften your pain. He doesn’t understand why. Maybe he never will.

When you’re done, you make your way to the banquet hall, the weight of your gown tugging at your hips with every step. Rafe stays at your pace as the fabric swishes around your legs, brushing against the cobblestones. You lift the hem, fingers curled into the lace.

“Don’t let her get to you,” Rafe says under his breath.

You follow his gaze downward, puzzled until your eyes land on your bare nails. He must have seen it, the sadness that passed over your face at your mother’s comment.

Of course he saw it. He sees more in you than anyone has ever seen. You make sure nobody is in earshot before you respond.

“It’s not that I…” You sigh. “I can’t wear nail polish right now. It messes with the sensor that measures my oxygen levels. What she said bothered me because she doesn’t know anything about my treatment and she never cared to know.”

It’s an unfamiliar relief to say out loud. You’ve never had this, someone to openly talk about the considerations you’ve kept private all your life.

It cuts into him, how many things you have to worry about, and how you’ve always had to worry about them alone.

“You doing okay?” he asks.

“Managing,” you reply. “I’ll tell you if…”

If I need you. You don’t say it out loud. You don’t have to. Despite the tension between you two, you still might need his help. And he’s willing to give it.

“I’m fine,” you say. “I’m just glad I don’t have to smile next to your dad anymore.”

His brows knit, stuffing his hands in his pockets, visibly confused.

“After hearing what he did,” you explain, “I can’t stand being anywhere near that man.”

Rafe’s eyes flick to you, then away. His sense of loyalty to his father rings through him, but the feeling of unexpected relief is louder.

He’s never had someone stand between him and his dad. Right now, your anger is for him. A small part of you cares. And it makes the gnawing sense of inadequacy that he always feels a little quieter.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

The banquet hall glitters, cameras flashing as chatter roars. It looks like a wedding reception, but only a few people in the room know the truth. You’re just a prop for your mother’s campaign, a symbol of unity and tradition your parents can parade around.

You settle into the chair at the head table, the train of your dress spilling around you. Soon after, you notice Celeste cutting through the crowd towards you with a tight scowl.

Rafe notices, too, and sees worry dimming your eyes. Seeing you scared messes with him. Without a word, he places his hand at the small of your back, subtle and steady. The publicist reaches you and leans in, voice low but sharp, a reprimand disguised as a whisper.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but have some champagne, will you?” she says. “Unless you’re holding back for some reason.”

Her gaze drops, lingering just a moment too long on your stomach. The implication that you’re pregnant hangs in the air.

“What?” you snap. “No. I’m just… I stopped.”

“People will notice,” she says. “They’ll talk. We don’t want them thinking all this was rushed because of that.”

You remember what your doctor said, how alcohol and your new medication don’t mix, potentially causing strain on your body, even risking heart complications. It’s a line you can’t cross.

“I know I said I’d do whatever you tell me to,” you say to Celeste quietly, an inch from pleading, “but please don’t make me drink.”

“Just do it,” Rafe says, already rising. “I’ll get you a glass.”

His words sting. He’s siding with her, willing to play his part, even if it means pushing past your boundaries. But something about it doesn’t sit right.

Minutes later, he’s back, handing you a glass filled with something golden and fizzing, sitting down next to you again.

“Rafe, I can’t,” you whisper. “I can’t drink on these meds.”

He leans in, breath warm against your ear, sharp cologne and aftershave floating over you.

“I asked the guy to give me something that looks like champagne,” he says. “No booze. You’re good.”

The sense of safety, the one you thought he’d stolen from you, comes rushing back. He cares about you. You were cruel to suggest he didn’t. What he kept from you still hurts, but the pain refuses to rewrite him entirely. It won’t let you forget the man beneath the mistake.

He wants to protect you, and maybe it’s because he’s lived through the pain that comes when someone who should’ve kept him safe, didn’t.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

Plates are being collected as the last toast fades into applause and the lights dim. It’s time for the first dance.

You step onto the dance floor, your hand in Rafe’s. Every eye is on you. The slow, delicate music begins and he pulls you close, one hand firm at your waist, the other still cupping yours.

Your bodies move in sync as you slow-dance beneath the spotlight, and you wonder how many people can tell that you really do love this man, and that you wish you didn’t.

He dips his head, his jaw against your temple, breathing you in, finding a shred of comfort in all the chaos. Last night plays in his mind again. You looked so worried when you told him you might need to get away from the crowd today.

“Tell me if you need to sit down,” he murmurs, voice low and careful. His words are so kind that it almost hurts.

You shift closer, pressing your cheek against his chest, letting the rhythm of his heartbeat lull you. He’s vowing to keep you safe, even after everything you’ve done and said to him, and guilt swirls through you. The words rise in your throat and you crane your neck, eyes meeting his.

“I don’t hate you,” you say. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

Rafe’s lips flatten. Your words are soft, but they’re not what he wants. It’s not what he’s been aching for. It’s not I love you.

You wait for him to say something, to at least smile in that coy way he does sometimes, but all you see in his expression is pain. Maybe even regret. It hurts you too much to look at. You press your cheek against his chest again, continuing to sway.

There’s a hole in Rafe’s heart. It’s ridiculous, but he lets himself imagine that this is real. That he met you normally, not through a contract. That he took you to places he chose, not ones already planned out. That he got to know you slowly, the way people are supposed to.

He can’t think about it too long. He swallows the ache, blinks hard.

“How long is this song?” he complains after a minute.

You wish his words didn’t burn you. You were enjoying the dance. The closeness.

“I know,” you say, meeting his eyes again. “Maybe the next time I get married, I’ll get to pick the music.”

It’s only a soft offer of humor, but he doesn’t play along. His expression stays firm and the gap between you feels wider than it did before. Your lips twitch into a small frown.

He almost wants to say that next time, you’ll get to pick the guy, too. He hates what the thought of you with another man does to him. Hates how clear you’re making it that you’d never really want him.

He holds you while the reminder that this isn’t real, that you’ll be out of his life within weeks, tugs at him.

At his core, all Rafe has ever longed for was to be chosen. To be first. Without hesitation or contingency or the need to prove himself. So he’s not going to beg you to want him. He has enough dignity to let you go.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

You step out of the taxi, the heat wrapping around you, the ocean humming in the distance. The villa rises ahead, big and luxurious. The flight was short and your breathing only got tight a few times. You counted the seconds between inhales, glad Rafe couldn’t see you from where he sat.

Celeste had reminded you multiple times that there would be eyes on you on your honeymoon, no matter how private it seemed. And it does seem private. The bungalow is on a white-sand beach, wrapped in glass that frames the deep blue ocean.

Beneath the beauty, there’s tension. The silence between you and Rafe is loud. He’s been cold since your dance at the wedding. You’d hoped after you tried to bridge things, he’d warm up again. But you’re just mirroring how you were at the beginning of this arrangement – curt and ignoring each other.

Your muscles ache from how taxing the wedding was yesterday, from the journey this morning. You head to the bedroom, dropping on one side of the bed, both happy and sad that you’ll be sharing it with him. And then you drift off, letting exhaustion consume you.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

You haven’t spoken. It’s been three days in supposed paradise and you haven’t shared a single moment with the man who’s legally your husband.

He’s even been sleeping on the couch instead of in bed with you. And he hasn’t checked in on you. He did his duty of taking care of you at the wedding, and now he’s done.

You feel like a task he’s eager to cross off. A new suspicion creeps in, that he was performing, counting down until the wedding was over so he could drop the act that you mean something to him. After all, the wedding was what all of this was leading up to. You have just shy of a month left before the contract is up. Maybe he sees no reason to try anymore.

It’s your last night before you head back home. Branches have been rattling against the windows for the last hour, threatening a storm. Dinner was delivered to you, and after a quiet meal, Rafe went out to the terrace, looking out at the sun setting over the sea, leaving you to sit at the dining table with your thoughts.

This ended up hurting you so much more than you could have ever anticipated. Rafe has somehow been your healing and your undoing. You told yourself not to fall for him, that you were leaving anyway, but your heart did what it wanted to.

You consider how to spend the final night, deciding that a bubble bath might be what you need. You try to find comfort in the idea, but you’re so angry, so lonely, that your patience wears out.

It used to be him who broke tension, who reached out first, but this time, he’s stayed quiet. And it makes you realize just how often he was the one who tried.

You step onto the terrace, heart thudding to the point of pain. You settle next to him and rest your forearms on the railing. Rafe keeps his gaze fixed on the darkening horizon, his shirt clinging to his frame in the breeze, collar slightly undone like he got dressed in a hurry.

This is unbearable. He’s been telling himself that he can get over you, that the way his chest tightens whenever he thinks of your smile and how much he enjoys being the reason for it will fade. But your mere presence fucks with him. You’re not doing anything. Just standing there. Breathing. Existing. And it’s enough to make him feel like he’s going crazy.

“You just wanted to make sure I went through with the wedding, didn’t you?” you say bitterly. “You never gave a shit.”

He looks down at you, thrown off. His jaw is set, hurt and angry that you still anticipate cruelty from him. After everything.

“Don’t give me that,” he says tensely.

“You’ve been ignoring me since. You don’t have an act to put on anymore, is that it?”

Rafe looks down and shakes his head as he mutters, “No. Quit twisting things.”

His accusatory words remind you of every time you’ve been called dramatic, sensitive, too much. Years of being told that your pain was exaggerated. You turn away to go back inside, regretful that you came out here, but he speaks.

“Stop,” he says. Your eyes are still off of him. “You said there’s nothing here. You said that.”

That’s why he’s been distant. He took your impulsive insult to heart. Nobody has ever held onto your words the way he does. You can’t look him in the eyes when you admit that what you said the morning of the wedding wasn’t true.

“I didn’t mean it,” you reply. You find the will to look at him again. His gaze has softened, his arms crossed now.

“Then why’d you say it?” he says.

You take him in, upset that you got it all wrong again, that your fear convinced you he was some sort of conman. He looks sincerely hurt. He wasn’t ignoring you; he was avoiding you after you practically told him to, after you said that what you shared was meaningless.

“I can’t control myself sometimes,” you confess. “I was mad. And when I get like that, I’m paranoid and mean. I don’t want to be this way.”

It’s like you’re reading his own thoughts out to him. He understands you, like your minds are wired into the same pattern. He has no hold over himself most of the time, either, and it turns him into someone he doesn’t like.

“I was pissed off that you lied to me,” you continue. “I still am. You should’ve told me. You have no idea how shitty it is that the one time I decided to tell someone, they already knew.”

He’s frozen as the realization that he was the only one you confided in sinks in. He lowers himself slightly, trying to hold your gaze.

"No one else knows?” he says.

“Just my family.” You look down. “I told you I don’t trust easily.”

Rafe breathes a little slower. You’ve always been so closed off, but you trusted him with the one thing you’ve kept hidden from everyone else. You see him as safe. Or you did.

“I fucked up,” he murmurs in a low, wounded tone. “I didn’t want to hurt you. Tell me you get that.”

You glance up again, instinctively trying to find deception in his gentle gaze. You consider that he meant well, but it tastes bitter. Trust isn’t natural for you. But it feels worse not to believe him. His actions were misguided, but compassionate.

“I’m not…” You sigh. “I’m not used to someone paying attention to me like you do, okay? And then I felt like even after… everything, you still lied to me and my temper just took over.”

He nods, relief rushing through him.

“Mine does that, too,” he replies.

“No kidding,” you huff, lips pulling into a small, apprehensive smile. “I don’t think anyone has ever made me as mad as you do.”

“Yeah.” He mirrors your smile, his dimples breaking your heart. “Same here.”

You share a fragile moment of quiet. Of peace.

“I’m sorry,” you say, because you regret making him think that you see no value in your complicated relationship. In him.

Rafe wanted things to be good between you again, but it feels wrong to hear you apologize to him. He’s not worthy of it after how badly he’s hurt you.

“Don’t,” he says. “I had it coming.”

Your face pinches in pain, shaking your head in disagreement.

“Don’t say that,” you murmur quietly. You let your body react to him like it always does; the physical part of your relationship always came so easy. No matter what either of you think or feel, you always have this.

You step between him and the railing, bodies brushing. You feel the sudden tension in him, then the relief, his Adam’s apple bobbing with a slow swallow. You tilt your head, perching up on your toes, and finally give into impulse with a slow kiss.

It’s an overwhelming relief when he kisses back, the railing digging into your back as he frames you between his arms. Your hands find his jaw, soft scruff rubbing against your fingers, his skin hot, his tongue hotter. You’ve missed him, his touch, his weight on you.

His body floods with urgent hunger, his craving for you swallowing him whole. He’s been telling himself to get over you, to erase you, but it’s like you’re carved into him. He’ll always fold for you.

He releases the railing, arms wrapping around you firmly. He’s holding you so tightly, kissing you so deeply, that your head starts to buzz. His hand lowers to grab your ass, and you gasp in pleasure through a kiss, feeling him start to harden against you.

He’d do this right here if he could. But he can’t.

“Baby,” he mumbles against your lips. It slipped out before he could help it. You told him not to call you that. He can’t bear to have you remind him.

“Yeah?” you say. His heart stirs with warmth hearing you answer to the name.

“They might be watching. Let’s go inside.”

You pull back a little, gazing up at him in awe.

“You’re right,” you say quietly. “I’ll be in the bath if you need me.”

You step away, the lost contact making him ache. If he needs you. He does, more than you could imagine.

Once you get to the bathroom, you fling the bathtub faucet to full blast, water roaring from the spout. You watch yourself in the mirrors that surround the tub on three sides, reflecting every ripple of water, every rise and fall of your chest as you peel your clothes off.

You fill the tub with the bottles set out for you. You pour them in, watching bubbles grow and swirl as the water rises. Then, you shut off the faucet and settle into the massive tub, heat enveloping you. The anticipation tingles all over you. Your heart thrums, your body submerged in soapy heat. It almost hurts how badly you want him.

The door, left ajar, is pushed open. You meet Rafe’s gaze. Your eyes rake down his body. It’s only been a week since you last had each other, but it feels like ages.

“You took too long,” you say. Desire burns in him, seeing you like this, knowing you’re naked, waiting for him.

He smirks, his eyes fixed on yours as he tugs his shirt off over his head, revealing his sculpted body. You’re not sure you’ve ever had a chance to watch him undress from a distance, to experience him baring himself to you.

“You ever stop complaining?” he teases.

Your pulse thunders even louder as his shorts drop to the floor, leaving him in briefs, the outline of his length a ridge beneath the fabric. He steps towards you, eyes darkened.

“You want to make me?” you challenge.

He strips off his briefs, revealing his thick arousal, making your core hot with need. The water gently sloshes as he settles into the tub, facing you. You shift to perch your legs around his hips and the moment your bodies brush together in the hot water, you sigh in pleasure.

He quietly groans when he feels your core press against him, cupping your face to kiss him. If the angle was right, he’d push into you right now. Your kisses are rushed and deep, and he feels you slowly starting to writhe, your inner thighs pressing against his ribs. He wants to see it for himself, how bad you want to be stimulated, how bad you want him.

“Turn around,” Rafe tells you. You let him guide you to lean on him as he sits against the wall of the tub. You shudder when he brings his hands up to squeeze your breasts, his heart pounding against your back.

He rubs your sensitive buds as he leaves a slow, open-mouthed kiss on your shoulder. Your moans are soft and so damn rewarding to him, echoing off the tiles, digging into his soul. He lowers a hand to find yours and guides it to press against your needy pussy.

“Show me how you want to be touched,” he rasps.

You breathe a soft huff, dipping your head back as you whisper, “You already know.”

The words coax him to press his hand against your middle. Two fingers trail up your folds and when he lands on your clit, he starts rubbing in tight, slow circles. You moan, your head still tilted back, the back of your neck resting on his shoulder, your cheek against his jaw.

He pinches and fondles your nipple, plays with your clit, and the sensation of this pleasure combined with the hot water enswathing you is utter intoxication.

“Look how pretty you are,” Rafe tells you. You find the strength to prop your head up. The mirrors have fogged just a little, but you see your reflection and his, your expressions showing boundless bliss and lust and relief.

And you look like you belong together. It’s nothing like the photo ops and the staged appearances; right now, you look like you’re meant to be here, bare and vulnerable and desperate for each other.

No matter how good his fingers feel, you need him fully. Without a word, you move forward, water splashing as you turn around. His eyes are half-lidded, cheeks flushed, and he’s looking at you like he’s been craving a high and you’re the only thing that can give it to him.

You’re slow as you perch your knees on the porcelain, your hand dipping into the bubbly water to feel for him. You hold his cock at the base, keeping eye contact as you shift to line yourself up against him, slowly sitting down.

The moan you expel when you sink onto him, wrap him in your silky heat, makes his gut curl. He grips your hips, tight and hungry as you roll against him and press your forehead on his.

“You missed this, yeah?” Rafe whispers, wishing he could ask if you missed him, unwilling to deal with the consequence of you telling him you didn’t.

“Of course,” you breathe. Your truthful answer, devoid of your usual teasing, reassures him that you want him as bad as he wants you, that you feel the same transcendental pull.

He kisses you as you ride him, then shifts to hold your breast up to his mouth and wrap his lips around your nipple, flicking and sucking, earning elated hums from you. You hold his shoulders, breathe in the smell of him, the smell of the soap woven into the water. You don’t last much longer, coming with a stuttered, breathy moan, trembling against him.

He holds your hips again, guiding you through faster thrusts, your tightness working his cock perfectly as the water sloshes around you. He kisses you through his orgasm, and you’re sure the way his fingers are digging into your hips will leave soreness, but you don’t care. You want him to feel as good as you do. It’s your only focus, your only goal, and everything else is blurred.

Rafe twitches beneath you as the last of his pleasure fills you, panting against your lips. How can this be so perfect, how can you be so perfect, and how the fuck can he accept that you won’t be around anymore?

Every piece of you fills parts of him that were empty, but he’s falling into a fantasy again, ruining his own pleasure by ruminating over how this is all fleeting.

“Sleep in the bed tonight,” you say, still panting, your nose nudging his. Your fingers stroke the back of his neck, fingernails dragging over his damp buzzed hair. You can’t fathom him sleeping a wall away from you again. Not after tonight.

He cups your face and nods, still catching his breath. The fact that you want him next to you silences his self-inflicted anguish. He’d do anything you ask of him.

You wash and towel off together and settle into bed as the tropical storm finally breaks, thundering over the bungalow, rain hammering on the roof. And you talk about the wedding like a normal couple would - joking, venting, gossiping, while ignoring the truth of what you really are.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

The plane taxies towards the runway the next morning, its cabin quiet with just you, Rafe, the pilot, and the attendant.

Rafe is next to you, instead of across the aisle, behind a divider like before. His hand is on your knee. He’s been like this since last night. Touching you, holding contact as much as he can.

You bend to pick up your bag of medical supplies, reaching for your oxygen concentrator, making sure it’s ready if you need it.

Rafe didn’t say anything when you got out of bed last night to plug it in. You kept your back to him, but you know he heard the beeping, saw a glimpse of the truth of your illness, of how much you have to think ahead.

“I need to set this up,” you say quietly, not looking up at him, motioning towards the other seat. “You can sit over there if you want.”

The offer is mostly for him. You’re painfully aware that this kind of stuff reminds him of a time in his life he’d rather forget. He wouldn’t have reacted to seeing you with a nurse if it didn’t trigger something in him. But the suggestion is for you, too. You’re worried that him witnessing you having to do this will make you look weak. That he’ll see you differently.

“I’m good here,” Rafe replies.

You go through the motions, attaching tubing, making sure things are operating correctly. Then, you put everything away and push it under your seat, clasping your hands together and looking out the window.

Rafe stares at you. It was hard for him to see that. It’s obvious that this is such a big part of your life that you keep to yourself. He’s seen the proof of your family’s neglect too many times. You were always alone.

The jet throttles forward and you take a deep breath. Rafe squeezes your knee and you look at him. He’s staring at you with a softness you’ve seen only a few times before.

“They have no idea what you gotta deal with, do they?” he murmurs. Your eyes deepen with sadness.

It’s impossible to hide anything from him, but it’s a new comfort that you can speak like this now. You can share that he’s right, that your family is oblivious to how much your illness bleeds into your everyday life. They don’t know. They don’t care.

“It always bothered them hearing about it,” you say. “I was in and out of the hospital as a kid and… I remember my parents talking about how hard it was on them.”

You look down as he gently rubs just above your knee, uncertain of how someone who was once so cruel, so cold, has this warm curiosity in him.

“Sometimes I wonder if it would’ve gotten this severe if they didn’t ignore me when I told them it hurt to breathe,” you say. “They thought it was just anxiety. That I was whining for attention. But I had infections that left permanent damage. It was really bad by the time I finally saw a doctor.”

Rafe’s skin prickles, his throat tight like he’s swallowing glass. The neglect, the cruelty you suffered... His vision blurs as his stomach twists in knots of disbelief. You were so young and yet, you remember it, the trauma settled so deep into your psyche.

“The older I got, the more I realized it’d be another thing the tabloids could use to hurt me,” you say. “That’s why I keep it private. My parents still think I’m faking how bad it is, but some days, I… I can barely get out of bed. Why would I fake that?”

You stare at each other, your eyes glossing with tears once you realize Rafe’s are, too. The jet levels above the clouds and the attendant appears behind him. You force a polite smile as she asks if there’s anything she can get you. You tell her that you’ll call. She walks away and you look down, placing your hand over Rafe’s.

“How did he tell you?” you ask. Rafe’s jaw tightens as he recalls standing in Kal’s office, listening to his passive words about how you have bad lungs. How you’re dramatic.

“It doesn’t matter,” he responds. You would normally push, but this time, you won’t. He’s hurting because you are. Nobody has ever cared this much. You never let them.

You nod. He chews on his lip.

“Why are you on new meds?” he asks the question that’s been needling him.

“My blood pressure’s high. They think it’s stress. They help, but they have a bunch of side effects. It’s why my appetite’s been so bad,” you say. “I’m seeing my nurse tomorrow for another check-up. Are you going to be home? I can go to my family’s house if it-”

“No,” he interrupts. “Don’t go over there.”

It guts him that you feel like you have to hide just because he can’t handle his own shit. And he’s sure the stress you’ve been under is because of him. Because he signed that contract and agreed to do this to you.

“This is going to be one of the last times I see her before I leave,” you explain, “and I can’t exactly tell her that yet, but… she’s been with me for a long time. I’ll miss her.”

Rafe recalls snapping at your nurse, guilt sinking into him as he realizes just how fond you are of her. He tries to ignore the pang in his heart at the reminder that you’re leaving.

“I shouldn’t have lost my shit like that.”

“I understand why you did,” you console him, aware now that the brutal coincidence of him walking into your check-up cracked open wounds he never closed. You wish it never happened.

“How old were you?” you ask, quiet and hesitant. His gaze is fixed on your hand on top of his.

“Ten when it started.”

A chill brushes over your skin as you picture him as a little boy. Worried. Scared. Way too young to lose a parent.

“That must’ve been so painful,” you offer, barely above a whisper.

“It was outta nowhere,” he says. “She started forgetting things, and one day, I heard her ask my dad where a room in our own house was. He told me they did tests. It was her brain. I didn’t believe it at first, because that shit happens when people are way older, you know?”

He doesn’t have to spell it out for you. It had to be something like dementia, early and unexpected. Your stomach sinks, the helpless thought of it dragging you down.

“How long did you have with her after that?” you ask, trying to keep your voice steady.

“Two years,” he says. “She hung on as long as she could. There were always doctors and nurses and specialists around the house, but then she… she started asking my name and where my mom was. I knew that was it.”

His words hit you like strikes. You don’t want him to live in that time. You want him to find peace in what life was like before. It’s not as extreme, but your illness can turn you into somebody else at times, and you don’t want people to think of you that way. To remember you as what you aren’t.

“What was she like before?” you ask.

He scratches his jaw, a nervous tick, a way to buy time. He thinks of his mother before she began to wither away, turning into a confused and lost version of herself.

“She was full of energy,” he answers. “And steady. She held us together. She treated us all the same.”

It hits you all over again, how he implied his sisters never had to fight for their father’s love, not like he does. It breaks something in you.

“I couldn’t keep my anger in check as a kid,” he says, his gaze low and distant. “I’m still not great at it.”

You squeeze his hand. You would’ve never expected to relate to Rafe at all, especially not this deeply, when you first met. But he’s always carried anger like you have.

“When I started to lose it, she’d sit down with me and make me tell her what was happening and she fixed it and it wasn’t so hard anymore. Nobody else knew how to do that.”

It feels like your chest is caving in. He was left with an abusive father, left to figure out how to survive without warmth. You’re certain he had it worse than you, because you’d rather never have love, then get it and watch it slip away. Loss is harder than outright absence.

“I’m so sorry,” you whisper. “I’m so sorry you lost her and I’m so sorry you didn’t get the space to grieve.”

Rafe reflects on what happened after her death, when he didn’t have anyone through his outbursts, when his father would strike him to straighten him out. Then, he reached his teenage years, and he coped by getting drunk and high until he pleaded to his father to accept him as part of the family again, as a son who could do things right.

“My dad lost his wife,” he says, just loud enough to be heard over the jet’s whirr. “He did his best.”

Your protectiveness kicks in, frustrated that his father has manipulated him so deeply that he’s convinced he treated him in an acceptable way.

“I don’t think anyone’s best is...” You inhale slowly, deciding not to tell him that his dad’s best couldn’t have possibly been violence. It’s not what he needs to hear right now. “You deserved better than he gave you. You deserve better now.”

You wipe your eye with your sleeve. The action is almost childlike, and he sees you as a little girl for a moment, alone and scared. This conversation is hurting both of you. He can’t do it anymore. He looks away and takes in a breath.

“You should try to eat,” he murmurs. You cock your head, but he won’t look at you, too eager to move on. But you need to make sure he knows.

“Rafe.”

He meets your eyes again. There’s so much pain in this man, so much you missed.

“I wish I could take back every mean thing I’ve said to you,” you tell him.

He searches your face, taking in every feature.

“Me, too,” he says. “I had you all wrong.”

Silence settles between you. His stare digs deep, looking like he’s reminiscing, remembering every argument. You’re sure he feels it, too, this raw and honest connection you share. It’s nowhere near perfect, but it’s real.

You can’t entertain the idea that this could work. It’s like you fit, but the world around you doesn’t. Your illness has never made you feel ashamed, but with Rafe, it does. It takes him back to pain he hasn’t healed from. It’s a cruel irony that the one person you’ve told is someone who can’t handle it.

And his roots run deep here. He still wants to walk the path his father laid, to inherit that legacy. That’s something he’d never abandon.

You rest your head on his shoulder. Rafe interlaces your fingers, bringing your hand to sit on his thigh. Your hands look like they’re made to fit together. But your silence tells him everything he needs to know; this is something worth fighting for, but you’re too wounded to do it.

Your engagement ring gleams beneath your wedding band. He imagines you slipping the rings off and putting them down and never picking them up again.

“Where are you going to go?” he asks.

“I’m not sure,” you say. “I was looking at an apartment in a small town up the coast, but I don’t know if it’s far away enough.”

He nods as if it doesn’t kill him to let go of something he never got to hold the way he wanted to. But loving you means letting you leave. He can’t ask you to stay, can’t complicate things for you, can’t promise to be who you need him to be.

You trace the lines of Rafe’s palm with your thumb, memorizing the feel of him. As the jet takes you back to a city that’s only ever made you feel trapped, you understand that you have no choice but to let him become a memory. And to wait until that memory doesn’t hurt anymore.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

There’s a pit in your stomach as you walk Iris to the door the next day. The appointment went well. Your blood pressure’s improving, maybe enough to take you off your meds. You hate that you can’t tell her this is one of the last times you’ll see her.

You decided long ago that the moment your trust fund clears, you’re giving your nurse enough to stop working herself to the bone, enough to give her son anything he wants. You won’t tell her yet, but it’s there in your heart, a token of appreciation for all her kindness.

You turn the corner to see Rafe by the front door, hands buried in his pockets. He’s watching you with quiet intensity.

“Hey,” he says, voice tight around the edges. His eyes flick to Iris. “I, uh, wanted to say sorry for how I acted before.”

“Oh, it’s okay. I deal with grumpy people all the time,” she says, her tone light but a little uncertain. Then she glances at you, a quick smile on her lips. “Not you.”

You laugh softly as she turns back to look at Rafe.

“Don’t worry about it. And congratulations," she tells him. “I would tell you to treat her right, but she wouldn’t be with someone who doesn’t.”

Rafe gives a knowing grin. He can’t imagine you with someone who wouldn’t know what to do with your fire, who’d try to tame you. She leaves, and he doesn’t move from the doorway, and you don’t move from where you’re standing.

“Thank you,” you say, touched that he was waiting here to say that, that he said it at all. He nods, then steps away, pulling his hands out of his pockets.

You notice how his fists clench and relax as he walks away. You wonder if he’s trying to release tension, or if something prompted a thought he didn’t want to share.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

The next morning, you scroll through your mentions on your phone, still nestled in bed. The stories about the wedding are mostly positive, with a fair amount of responses about how ridiculously lavish it was.

You don’t know how you’ll get through today. Celeste planned a photo op, a round of golf with you and Rafe and your fathers at a country club today, meant to look like newly joined families happy to spend time together. You’ve been scrolling on your phone to distract yourself until you inevitably have to get ready.

Then you pause. One image isn’t from the wedding. It’s from that art show you and Rafe attended for your second date. You realize the post is a slideshow, a timeline of your relationship.

The photo is slightly blurred. You’re staring at that painting you were captivated by, the camera capturing your concentrated expression. But Rafe is watching you.

You’re used to peering eyes and judgemental stares, but his is different. It’s curious. You thought that soft expression of his only surfaced after you’d gotten close, but now you wonder if it was always there.

You continue to swipe until you get to the last image from the honeymoon. Rafe was right; cameras were pointed at you, stealing the moment of you kissing on the terrace. You open the comments.

she’s so cute omg the hate is so forced

It won’t last

Some of you are acting like people can’t get married when they want. There are couples who wait years and still break up.

Why is this newsworthy

god i see what you’ve done for others…

That was fast lol

Raw and at the same time tbh

You chuckle in shock at that one. You take a screenshot of it and send it to Rafe, then continue reading.

How is she a whole WIFE now? The growth

You’ve developed a thick skin over the years, accustomed to the public dialogue about your dating history. It’s no surprise that people are stunned to see you settle down, and it’s reassuring that the narrative of your maturity is landing.

she finally found someone who doesn’t want to be the center of attention and i think that’s why this works so well. they seem good for each other.

This one, you read over a few times, until subtle thumps rattle your door, pulling you out of your thoughts.

“Yeah?” you call.

Rafe comes in, lingers in the doorway. With a soft smile playing on his lips, he looks impossibly handsome, and you appreciate that it’s a Saturday, that he’s not rushing away to work.

“I’m just down the hall,” he says, holding out his phone, “and you’re texting me.”

“If you want me to come to your bed, just say that.”

“Come to my bed,” he says.

You laugh and say, “Come to mine. You’re here already.”

He crosses the room, settling on his stomach on your bed, his heavy forearm resting on your lap as he looks down at his phone.

“I don’t know what half this shit means,” he says, scrolling through the same mentions you are.

“Are you sure you only have six years on me?” you tease with a soft giggle. “You sound so old sometimes.”

He smirks, staring, because this might be the most beautiful he’s ever seen you. Comfortable, unguarded, joking around like lazy mornings together are a common thing for you two.

“Since you’re having trouble,” you explain, lightheartedly mocking, “that comment I sent was calling us attractive in a very vulgar way.”

“I got that,” he says.

“They’re saying they want us. At the same time,” you continue to tease. “Do you understand?”

“I do,” he says, “and I wouldn’t share you.”

His words send a rush of heat through you.

“I wouldn’t share you, either,” you reply honestly.

You can tell he thought his boldness would catch you off guard, but you came back just as strong. A flush creeps across his cheeks as he smirks again and glances down at his phone, and there's a thrill in watching a man so imposing, so big and strong and sure of himself, blush.

Then, your phone buzzes with a text from Celeste, bursting the bubble.

The car will be there at 10:30 a.m.

You groan and toss your head back in frustration, dreading the day.

“Hey,” Rafe murmurs. “We can both keep our cool, right?”

He’s a hypocrite, because he doesn’t know how he’ll keep his cool around your father. When he reminds himself he needs to do it for your sake, it’s not as daunting.

“Right,” you say.

You stare up at the ceiling. Two weeks from now, you’ll leave all this behind. You’ll never see the inside of this condo again. It’s unsettling, though, that because of him, the thought no longer brings you the comfort it once did.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

As you touch up your lip gloss in your mirror, that comment swirls through your mind again, about how Rafe doesn’t want to be the center of attention. He’s so unknown, was once completely out of the public eye, but now, he’s all over the tabloids, and your split will be, too.

You’re sure girls will be after him. If they aren’t already. You hate the thought of him with another woman, but he deserves someone who doesn’t remind him of his pain. Someone healthy.

The thought makes your throat tighten. You dismiss it when you hear him shuffling to put his shoes on by the front door, and you let your curiosity take hold.

“Are you planning to get married for real one day?” you call, your voice travelling down the hallway.

Rafe’s brows furrow as he laces his shoes. He always dreamed about spending his life with a woman who loves him without hesitation. But here he is, thirty, wearing a wedding band that only represents a business deal.

“Yeah,” he answers simply. You take one final look in the mirror, smoothing down your pleated skirt.

“Would you make your wife play golf?” you ask.

“I wouldn’t make my wife do anything,” he says with a chuckle. He almost wants to ask why you’re asking, but he won’t risk stifling your curiosity. He likes when you want to know more about him. “You don’t like it?”

“I think I would if I didn’t associate it with my dad,” you reply as you step out of your bedroom. “I can see myself enjoying it. It’s slow. Kind of peaceful, I guess. And I wouldn’t have to worry about getting out of breath.”

He stands up, grimacing at the floor as he thinks about the battle you fight in silence, all the things you need to consider. You don’t deserve it.

“We could go one day, just us two,” he offers. “It’s not that…”

He trails off when you come into view. His eyes catch on where your skirt ends, remembering the feel of your thighs, where he’s grabbed and squeezed and kissed.

“It’s not that what?” you ask, amused by his blatant awe.

You watch the way his eyes trail up your body.

“Hard,” he finishes his sentence.

You quietly laugh at the coincidence of the word, stepping towards him, getting the same thrill you always do when you tease him.

“So, you think you can help me with my swing today?” you say, your hand resting on his shoulder.

His glare darkens.

“You know I can’t,” he says.

“Wow,” you say in mock offense, your face scrunched up. “Why not?”

He steps around you, making your stomach tighten as he presses his body against yours, firm against your back.

“What do you think happens to me,” he rasps, “when I have you like this?”

Your skin buzzes as he frames you, all warmth and hardness, his breath on the shell of your ear.

“Not a good idea to do this in public, then?” you half-whisper.

Rafe almost wants to tell you to change for his own good, but he knows you well enough by now not to give you orders.

“Do you really want help or were you messing with me?”

“Both,” you reply with a smirk.

“Feet wider apart,” he instructs. You widen your stance, revelling in the feeling of him against you.

“Stay loose,” he says, framing your arms with his, guiding you in a swing position, then placing his hands on your hips. “Turn here. And don’t hit with your arms. Hit with your whole body, you got it?”

“Yeah,” you say quietly, entranced.

“When you swing,” he says, “it’s one smooth move.”

You nod, your pulse picking up when you feel his growing hardness against you. Involuntarily, you slightly arch your back to press up against him. You want to skip out on today and push him straight back into your bed.

“What if I beat you?” you tease competitively.

His chuckle is soft in your ear.

“Then you cheated.”

You laugh.

“You’re a good teacher. I’ll try to remember your advice,” you say, “and you should probably try not to stare.”

“Sure,” he says, voice thick with sarcasm, making it clear that he considers it impossible to take his eyes off you.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

You’re glad you’re wearing sunglasses. They hide the anger you know is burning in your eyes, the kind that would ruin this photo op. The scent of freshly mown grass rises with the breeze. The cameras click from somewhere beyond. And every time your father speaks, it boils your blood.

You grip your club while Rafe stands beside you as you wait for his father to swing. This is only the first hole, but you’re already seething after trying to tune Kal and Ward out droning on with their business jargon and talk of partnerships.

Rafe glances at you. He doesn’t say anything, but his arm curls around your hips to remind you that you can endure this. You nod like you believe you can.

Ward swings his club with ease, and the sharp thwack of the metal meeting the ball cuts through the air. Then it’s Rafe’s turn. He steps up to the tee, rolling his shoulders before settling into position.

His short sleeves dig into his biceps when he flexes and you watch the way his fingers tighten around the grip. He looks good, his jaw set in focus, a faint crease between his brows.

“Aim left,” his father says. “You always veer to the right.”

Rafe nods.

“And try loosening your grip.”

You notice Rafe’s jaw tighten.

“You’re too in your head,” Ward says. “It’s throwing you off.”

“Maybe all your talking is what’s throwing him off,” you snap.

Your father says your name sternly. Rafe looks up at you.

“She’s always had an attitude problem,” your father says to his with a condescending laugh.

“No kidding,” he replies with a chuckle. “It’s fine. Rafe warned me.”

You scowl and look away. Rafe swings and you can tell by his force that it’s driven by anger. He’s furious. The ball disappears into the distance. If the stakes weren’t so high, if so much wasn’t on the line, you’re sure both of you would have lost it by now.

When it’s your turn, you try to remember his pointers, and the things you picked up on the few times you’ve golfed before. Your swing is weak, but you manage to hit the ball, and that’s good enough for you.

You settle in the two-seater cart with Rafe behind the wheel to follow your fathers as they drive ahead to the next hole. But he doesn’t put his foot on the gas.

“I said that shit when we started this,” he murmurs. “You know I don’t think that anymore, right?”

He’s still turning over his father’s words in his mind. And you realize you didn’t even expect the worst because while the comment stung, deep down, you knew Rafe doesn’t see you that way.

You’re used to passing jabs and offhand remarks at your expense, but he’s the first to give a shit about the effect they have on you. It feels like balm on old wounds.

“Baby,” he says softly, a touch urgently, worried that your silence means you’re mad at him.

“It’s okay,” you reply lightheartedly. “I do have an attitude.”

“Well…” he says with a smile and a shrug of agreement.

You playfully push him, a smile pulling on your lips. His grin widens and he cups your face to kiss your forehead.

“I know I shouldn’t snap at them,” you say, knowing full well your father’s looking for a reason to pull the plug. He’s likely surprised you’ve lasted this long. “But can’t your dad give it a rest?”

Rafe stares, eyes locked on you. You stood up for him. He’s spent his life watching people, watching himself, shrink in his father’s presence, intimidated by power and reputation.

But not you. You never back down. You’ve always fought your own battles, and now you’re fighting his, too.

“Hello?” you tease, laughter bubbling up as you catch the wonder lingering in his eyes.

He smiles, then drives ahead, as if he can outrun the way you’ve taken hold of him.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

At the next hole, as Kal lines up his shot, you stand a few paces back between Rafe and his father, your arms crossed. The soft hum of a cart breaks the silence.

“Gentlemen,” the cart girl says, her voice high and peppy. “Need anything to cool off?”

You bite back the irritation at how easily she pretends you’re not here. Your father barely glances up, waving her off with a rude, muttered “no.” Ward declines, too. Her eyes land on Rafe and stay there.

“You?” She leans slightly over the steering wheel, a flirtatious glimmer in her eyes. “Need something refreshing?”

You’ve never been one to be rude to service staff. Years of watching your father belittle them taught you better. This is the closest you’ve come. Rafe turns to you, brows lifted. You can tell he’s not amused.

“You thirsty?” he asks you.

“I’m not,” you say pointedly. You refuse to look at her as she drives off, frustration still twisting in you.

Despite your anger, despite how tangled things have become, despite the blurred lines and unanswered questions, Rafe’s loyalty to you remains steady. And that, at least, keeps you above water.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰

“That was even worse than I thought it’d be,” you mutter as you sink into the backseat, the car idling outside the country club.

Rafe slides in beside you, the quiet thud of the car door closing behind him. The partition is already shut, but you press the button again, just to be sure, as the driver pulls out of the lot.

“And that girl, the way she flirted with you?” Your voice is sharp, disbelief laced with anger. “I’m sure she knows I’m your wife. Everyone does. That was so fucked up.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Watching you claim him, hearing you call yourself his wife, makes something inside him ache in the best way. With a slow smile and a low rasp, he asks, “Is my wife jealous?”

You glare at him. He already knows the answer and is savoring every second of this. A pang of embarrassment tightens in your stomach. Jealousy over a man who isn’t even really yours is irrational and messy.

“Your wife is pissed off,” you respond, voice low, refusing to admit it.

He licks his lips, shifting a little closer to you, his body buzzing. It’s never felt this good to be wanted by a woman. There’s something about it being you that makes it feel so fucking good.

“You’re hot when you’re pissed off,” he murmurs.

You scoff, amused and a little stunned, warmth blooming in your chest.

“I must be hot all the time then.”

“You are.” Rafe leans even closer, and when his fingertips land on your bare inner thigh, goosebumps spread over you. “I’m pulling this skirt up when we get home.”

Your anger dissolves instantly. The way his eyes settle on you like you’re the only thing that matters, the way he brushed off that girl’s flirting, the way his hand drifts up your leg, like you’re sacred. He makes you feel so chosen. It’s still so disarming.

Desire coils deep inside you as his warm fingers trace over your skin, and you ask in a hushed voice, “You want me to keep it on?”

He nods, pressing his lips to your neck. His scent drifts over you softly, an intoxicating fusion of musk and cologne.

“And then what?” you say.

“I’ll bend you over,” he promises against your skin.

Your legs slowly spread apart on their own. Like always, your body reacts how it wants to him, and right now, you just want him as close to you as possible.

“You going to be rough with me?” you ask.

He smirks, his breath hot on your skin, teeth gently grazing over your neck before he plants another open-mouthed kiss.

“If you can take it,” he murmurs.

You exhale a soft chuckle, revelling in the challenge.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰

You move with each other like you’re running out of time. Technically, you are. You can only allow yourselves this pleasure until you can’t anymore, until you’re left to be memories of people who were pushed into this ridiculous arrangement.

Rafe pulls off your shirt and you tug off his, panting as you slowly cross into your bedroom together, lips locking in hungry kisses. He unhooks your bra and guides you by your hips, turning you to settle on the mattress on your knees. You look back at him as he stands and palms himself over his pants.

Your eyes are hazy with lust, perched up for him, left in just panties and that damn skirt. And that confidence of yours radiates through him, because you know you own him.

Desire tightens in you as he strips to his briefs, already fully hard, stepping closer to put his hands on your ass.

“Fuck,” he rasps, massaging your flesh. You adjust onto your elbows, feeling the throbbing between your legs. He’s no longer a want. He stopped being that long ago. He’s a need.

He pulls your panties down, letting them settle above your knees, too impatient to tug them off all the way. He spreads you apart, heart thumping, gut twisting, cock so hard that it hurts as he takes in how pretty you are, how ready you are.

You push back against him as he buries himself inside you, filling you with the best pressure. He hits so deep that you can hardly keep your eyes open. You rest your head on the bed, and when he pulls back to thrust into you, your moan is muffled and thick and heady.

“You good, baby?” he half-whispers, big hands rubbing over your back.

“Yes,” you whisper in a strangled moan. “Harder.”

He clenches his jaw, desire pounding through him, as he starts to fuck you the way that he’s been dreaming about all day. You clutch the bedsheets as he slams into you, pace quickening.

Watching your body react to his, the way the fabric of your skirt bounces on your ass with every thrust, promises his rushed climax. And he realizes this isn’t how he wants it to happen, without you reaching your pleasure first, without being able to hold you how he wants.

He pulls out and gets on the bed, knee sinking into the mattress as he presses up behind you and guides you to rest on your side.

You’re trembling as he grips under your knee, propping your leg up so he can push into you again as he draws you into his hold, lying behind you. You breathe his name in pure ecstasy when he enters, one arm under you and gripping your breast, the other trailing down your inner thigh and landing on your clit.

His body is hard and hot, cocooning you as he drives in and out of you slower than before, but making you feel just as good. He drags his fingers over your clit, pressing in circles, lightly pinching. You whimper in pleasure, sighing with every thrust, feeling his kisses on your shoulder.

“Admit you were jealous,” he rasps.

You hike your leg higher so he can reach even deeper, your skirt bunched at your waist now.

“I was,” you admit, because you see no point in lying, not when he’s making you feel this good.

“Listen to me,” Rafe murmurs, voice heavy and broken by shallow breaths. “You got nothin’ to be jealous about.”

You nod, but you don’t agree. You have the woman he ends up with to be jealous of. You squeeze your eyes shut, force yourself to only think of this moment, of how good he feels inside you, his hands playing with you so perfectly.

“Fuck, I’m gonna come,” he groans as your hot core squeezes him tighter.

It takes seconds for the pleasure to swallow you whole, spasming through your orgasm as you melt into the strength of his arms against you. His unraveling happens at the same time, hips stuttering with uneven jerks, pushing all the way in as he grunts in ecstasy.

You’re panting and sweaty, exhausted as he keeps his arms around you, stays inside you. His fingers lazily trace over your clit as you come down together. He peppers kisses on your shoulders, in a drunken haze, because that’s what you do to him. That’s what you’ve done to him since you met.

You possessed him. Even when all you did was argue, you had a hold on him that he doesn’t want to let go of. And in mere days, you’ll be gone.

He’ll lose the way you look at him when your guard is down, the way your voice softens when you’re worried about him, the way your eyes brighten when you make a joke or laugh at one of his. You’re going to leave. And you’re going to take a piece of him with you.

You get into your shower together. You don’t say a word to each other. You don’t need to. The water drums over you as you tend to the curves and ridges of each other’s bodies with soft, gentle movements.

It’s a heavy contrast to how you used to be with each other, when you were only interested in the satisfaction you’d find in tangling together, parting afterwards.

Moments later, you’re back in your bed, both in nothing but towels. He sits up against your headrest and you nestle next to him, on your side and stretching your legs out over his. He grips your thigh, thumb rubbing over your skin the same way he did at the altar. His wedding band presses against your skin as your head rests on his shoulder.

“So, that’s what happens when I wear a skirt,” you say softly, a smile tugging on your lips. His bare chest gently bounces with his laugh.

“It’s so fucking good with you,” he says.

You mumble, “Yeah.” You wonder if by it, he just means sex, or if he means everything.

You drift into pillowtalk, tender and light and nothing too serious, eventually deciding you should both get something to eat. When Rafe stands to get some clothes on, you shift to pick up your phone out of habit.

The image of him kissing your forehead earlier today is everywhere across social media. Newlyweds in a sweet moment. It’s the first time in your life that you’re glad you’re in the public eye. This moment, captured for eternity, is one you’ll carry with you always. And you’re happy to have the proof that it happened.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

You enter the condo a couple of nights later, sure that you look just as dazed as you feel. You just saw Eira. She accepted your invitation to meet at a café outside the city, secluded enough to avoid being recognized, yet still under discreet security watch.

Rafe sits at the dining table, brows knit in concentration over his laptop. As you drift through the kitchen, his eyes lift to meet yours. You settle into the chair across from him.

“Hey,” he says, his voice tinged with surprise. Even with how close you’ve grown, the simple act of you wanting to sit with him feels unexpected. “How was it?”

“Decent,” you respond, still surprised your sister-in-law was actually civil towards you.

Rafe shuts his laptop, his unfinished report still looming over tomorrow’s deadline. You’d vaguely mentioned that you were meeting Sam’s wife before you left. It surprised him, but he didn’t press.

“You okay?” he asks.

“They’re having a girl,” you say. “I asked if there was a chance I could be in her life. We talked for a long time and she said yes at the end, if my brother’s okay with it.”

Your words catch him off guard. You were so certain about leaving this place behind. A fragile hope tugs at his chest, telling him that maybe you’ll stay, at least in part. But with it, dread sinks in. Keeping your family in your life will mean they’ll still have the power to hurt you.

You must be able to read the confusion in his gaze, because you take a deep breath and begin to explain.

“I feel like I need to look out for my niece,” you tell him. “Maybe because nobody…”

You look down. He knows. Because nobody looked out for you.

“I wanted to cut all ties, but I don’t know if I can do that. What if she has this, too?” You place your hand over your chest, over your lungs. “It’s scary to think that my brother could be just like my dad was.”

Rafe gaze softens. His protectiveness over you rings through him, like a reflex, like the rhythm of his own heartbeat, and he feels that familiar urge to be better, respecting your strength and sense of responsibility so much that it ignites ambition in him.

It makes him want to be the kind of man you’d be proud to be with. He used to think you brought out the worst of him, but it’s the opposite.

You still haven’t answered his question.

“Are you okay?” he repeats.

You nod and say, “Yeah. I think this was the first time she and I really talked. She even said she shouldn’t have believed everything my brother said about me. I didn’t expect that.”

You kept quiet about your illness to spare Eira the fear that her child might carry the same burden. Still, it lingers in the back of your mind.

“I don’t think she would be like my mom was, but I can’t risk it,” you explain. “My niece might need me, and I should be there even if that means having to be around my parents and my brothers.”

Rafe’s eyes are warm with admiration, moved by how fiercely you care. He hates his selfishness, the way he instantly wishes your love might reach him, too. It would thaw the pieces of his heart that have never known warmth.

He used to think you lacked loyalty and respect, but you’ve been around people who never earned it. Now he sees it clearly, that you give everything when you want to.

“If they piss you off…” he murmurs, lifting his hand slightly off the table, palm angled toward you.

You let out a soft laugh, the weight on your shoulders easing. It’s strange, remembering the first time you squeezed his hand out of frustration. Now, even that memory carries tenderness. It’s proof of how far you’ve come.

You picture it, staying in touch with Rafe, meeting up when you visit here to see your niece. But the thought of having him only in a fraction feels wrong, as something between an old friend and an ex. You’re not sure you could endure only having a piece of him.

“You’d choose to be around them?” you joke, cocking your head adorably. “Why would you want to do that to yourself?”

Because he’d do anything for you. Maybe he’d even ask to be with you for real, despite the fear of losing you. He believed it meant risking the same kind of pain that once destroyed him, but maybe he could be bigger than his anxiety. There’s a deep strength in you, and it shows him just how scared, how weak, he really is.

“Just let me know,” he says quietly.

You look at him, unreadable. The words hang between you, a vague invitation to stay in each other’s lives at some capacity. Thinking about it feels impossible. It’s too tangled to unravel right now.

“Are you working?” you ask, glancing down at his laptop.

He’s not sure if there was judgment in your voice, but would you be so wrong if there was? Here he is again, working late, chasing approval from a man who never gives it. Loyalty doesn’t feel like virtue lately. It’s more like desperation.

He nods in response, and you stand, murmuring, “I’ll stop distracting you.”

“You’re not,” he says.

“I am,” you say softly.

You leave the room, and for the first time, Rafe lets himself imagine it. Being by your side for everything, for the good days and the bad days. Something in his guard softens as he considers it.

He would do it. He would fight for you with everything he has. If only you were willing to fight, too.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

Election night was a nightmare, a storm of cameras, speeches, and forced smiles. But you did your part. You stood where you were told, said what you were coached to say. And your mother won. The campaign is finally over.

The next morning, with just over a week left before the contract expires, you step into your father’s office after he’d called a meeting with you and Rafe. Celeste is already seated beside him. The family lawyer is here too, flipping through a folder.

A bad feeling claws into your gut. Your instinct tells you that this is ending the way you always feared it would. You sit in the same chair you sat in almost half a year ago, when you were told what you were being forced to do.

“What is it?” you ask, willing your voice not to shake.

Your father looks at you with the same cold indifference that’s always cut you deep, and firmly says, “You’ve broken the contract.”

to be continued

You can’t wallow. You can’t ruminate. You have less than two months before you can move away, and you need to focus on your next step. You need somewhere to go when all this is over.

You’re standing in your bathroom, slowly waking up as you brush your teeth and scroll through apartments for rent on your phone. You find a two-bedroom by the coast in a city a three-hour flight away. It’s nice. You can imagine living in it.

You’re not sure what your parents would do if they found out you’re planning on skipping town when all of this is over. Maybe they already assume it and can’t wait for you to stop being their problem. Or maybe they would punish you for it.

Like so many other parts of your life, it’s a secret. And for some reason, you willingly told Rafe that secret last night.

You’re scared. Beneath every frustratingly wonderful feeling he’s given you, you’re afraid of how much power you’ve given him, that you’ve told him more than you needed to.

When you stood facing each other at the beach last night, he held you like he meant what he said, that everyone who’s written you off is missing out on you. But your survival instinct won’t let you believe him.

As you stare at your reflection, you see the little girl who was born into a loveless existence, the one who held onto anger because it was her only way to survive, the one who vowed to herself that she’d escape as soon as she could.

You hear shuffles from the kitchen. Rafe’s home, surely getting ready to go to work for the man who helped orchestrate all of this.

You wish he could snap out of his need for his father’s approval. Not for you. For himself. Whatever he feels he owes to the man, at this point, he has to have paid for.

Then, your phone buzzes with a text.

Rafe leans against the counter, a cup of coffee in his hand, his mind racing with all he’d learned about you last night.

Why hadn’t he just cut his losses when you asked him to back out? Why did he stubbornly commit to his first impression of you? Why did he assume that everything he’d heard about you was true?

It would have been so different. All of it. He could have been a good man, refusing to trap you into this scheme. But the worst of him came out and he stayed, putting you through this after you’ve already suffered so much.

No wonder you want to leave. There’s nothing for you here.

His phone vibrates in his pocket. He ignores it. But it vibrates again and again, and he pulls it out. Celeste is calling. He declines. He doesn’t have the patience to deal with her right now.

But then she calls again, and with an angry sigh, he answers.

“What?” he snaps.

“What were you thinking?”

His brows furrow.

“What are you talking about?" he says.

“You didn’t see it?”

He holds his phone out to read the message she sent minutes ago. So many things are coursing through him, but when his eyes land on the photo, what he feels the strongest is rage.

Again, a moment between you was stolen. Again, you’re being publicly shamed.

You walk into the kitchen. Your pulse skyrocketed when you saw the article link in the group chat, leading to a hazy shot of you and Rafe kissing in the water last night, paired with a headline that you two were baring it all.

Your phone is in your hand. He can tell you saw it, too. And you don’t speak.

Rafe hangs up, leaving his phone on the counter, closing the distance. It’s an unignorable instinct, the urge to protect you. No matter what you do, after everything he’s seen and heard, he can’t not try to fight for you in some way. It’d be like telling himself to stop breathing.

“I’ll fix this,” he says in a rush, his hands finding your forearms, squeezing.

Your throat is dry. It’s all too much. This ruse, the pressure, your declining health. The clean, well-mannered persona you’ve worked for has been erased with a single photo.

“How did I not think they’d be watching?” you half-whisper bitterly, eyes downcast, following the buttons down the front of his shirt. “This isn’t fair.”

Rafe’s face pinches in concern. It’s surely another reason you can’t wait to leave. You’re stripped of your privacy living here, constantly picked apart by the tabloids. And it’s still so fucking stupid to him. These people are obsessed with making you a spectacle.

He’s still reeling over the fact that the story said you two were skinny-dipping, when it was nothing like that. It was the first kiss you’d shared that wasn’t catalyzed by an argument or an impulse to satisfy a lustful ache. It meant something.

His phone’s loud vibrations on the countertop make him sigh in frustration.

“Celeste?” you ask quietly.

“I’ll meet with her,” Rafe says. “I’ll call out of work. I won’t let it end like this. I’ll offer her money if I have to.”

“I’m coming, too.”

He nods, the stitch in his chest tightening. That right there is the fight he saw in you the moment you met.

You refuse to lose. He once thought it was immaturity, just one of the things that irritated him, but it isn’t anymore. He loves it about you and that fact is just another reminder that he’s getting attached to someone who’s going to leave.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

The blinds on Celeste’s office’s windows are fully drawn. She shuts the door behind you when you step inside. There’s no time for niceties. No point in them, either.

“It’s bullshit,” Rafe starts the conversation, sitting down. You settle beside him, and despite the unrest you’re feeling, it’s comforting to know you’re not facing your family’s publicist and all she stands for alone right now.

“So, that photo is fake?” she says with a glare pointed at you, settling behind her desk. “The second your father sees this, it’s over.”

“We were just swimming,” you say. “Not skinny-dipping.”

“You expect me to believe that? You’re meant to look like you’ve grown up, but I suppose it’s typical of you to do something stupid without thinking about-”

“Stop talking to her like that,” Rafe says, his voice sharp.

Your heart hammers as you stare at him, his jaw clenched and his frame broad and rigid. He’s threatening when he wants to be, even when he’s seated, and you feel a safety you’ve never known before.

His eyes flit to you, his stomach twisting when he looks past your anger and sees the worry. He hates knowing that this is the way you’ve been spoken to all your life. Like you’re a burden. A mistake.

Celeste wears an incredulous look on her face. If everything that’s led up to this moment didn’t already make it obvious to her, it is now. There’s something between you. And she doesn’t like it.

“When did this start?” she says with a huff, gesturing between you. Then, she looks at Rafe. “How’d she get you on her side?”

You huff, refusing to explain anything, burning with rage at her implication that you tricked him into siding with you.

“We weren’t naked,” you say, tense and embarrassed. “We were just swimming. Can’t you make a statement?”

“I shouldn’t have to. You were supposed to have dinner and go home,” Celeste replies. “I thought you couldn’t get more unpredictable, but now both of you are attracting bad attention.”

It throws you. You’d thought that she hated you two getting along because she was in on your father’s plan to sabotage this. But it’s clear now.

A bond between you and Rafe takes away her control. He used to go along with this, but now, like she said, she has to deal with both of you disobeying.

“You don’t want this stunt to fail,” you realize.

Celeste leans back in surprise, looking at you like you’re speaking a different language.

“This is one of the biggest projects of my career,” she says. Her eyes flutter to Rafe, obviously holding back from insulting you after his outburst. “Of course I don’t want it to fail.”

You take a beat. It’s risky to say, but you believe that she isn’t banking on this ending in flames. If you want to make it to the end, she’s going to have to be an ally.

“My dad does,” you tell her.

“Excuse me?” she says.

“When you were planning this behind my back,” you begin, “was any of it your idea? Or did he just tell you to go along with it?”

Celeste interlaces her fingers and looks down before she answers.

“I suggested we keep you quiet during your mother’s campaign,” she admits. “Send you away for a while. But he was insistent on this. Why?”

“He knew it wouldn’t work,” you say. “He made this look like it was a desperate move, but it was a test that I was always supposed to fail.”

She cocks her head, and for the first time, she seems to actually be listening to you.

“You know my dad,” you continue. “You really think he wouldn’t play a game like this?”

Celeste is quiet, lips twisted in thought. You’re sure she’s considering letting it fail, telling your father you’re too unmanageable. It’s what her boss wants anyway. But you can’t have her on his side.

“He would’ve told me if he meant for this to end differently,” she says.

“He didn’t want you to know because if this got out, imagine how bad he’d look, forcing his daughter into a marriage he set out to sabotage,” you say. “It’s barbaric. And he’s capable of it. You know that.”

Rafe sees the pain in your face, his chest aching, desperate to fix this for you.

“Make this go away and I’ll double what you make in a year,” he tells Celeste.

She straightens, her brows lifting. She considers it, eyeing you. You swallow hard, pushing forward.

“If my dad tells you to back off, fine,” you add. “But if you find a way out of this, I’ll do whatever you tell me to from now on. I swear. I need my trust fund.”

“He could easily write you out if he didn’t want you getting any of your family’s money,” she says flatly. “Why would we do all this?”

Your throat tightens. Your stomach aches. In a way, you’ve been asking yourself this all your life: why your father wants to hurt you.

“To punish me,” you answer. “To prove I can’t do anything right.”

You wait. The woman across the desk, once seemingly devoid of empathy, has unexpectedly become your last hope.

“We’ll need to bury this with a bigger story,” she finally complies, bringing you a breath of relief. “And whatever I plan, I don’t want any resistance from either of you.”

You nod earnestly. She crosses her arms, looking like she’s still not entirely sure you’re being honest.

“Don’t back out of the promises you made today,” she says to both of you. “I’ll meet with Kal. It’s better if neither of you are there.”

“Yeah,” Rafe huffs, his hatred for your father still burning through him after all you’d told him last night. “It is.”

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

Anxiety chills you as you sit in the passenger seat, the engine starting with a softened roar as Rafe turns the key in the ignition. There’s a good chance that every word of that conversation will go back to your father.

Your temples ache as you think about all that’s happened since this arrangement’s cruel beginning. Every staged appearance, every time you disobeyed, every time Rafe hurt you and you hurt him back.

And even though you’ve never cared what your family’s publicist has thought of you, it stung when she asked Rafe what you did to get him on your side.

Because that’s what everyone thinks: if you have a friend, someone who likes you, it can’t be real. You’ve tricked them into it. And it’s only a matter of time until they see the real you.

“You haven’t told anyone I’m planning to leave, right?” you murmur.

It stings that you still suspect he’s on their side. He answers, “No.”

He recognizes the fear in your expression, your eyes glazed over like you’re somewhere else.

“What is it?” he asks, his hand on the gearshift, the car still in park. You take in a shaky breath.

“She could tell him everything.”

“She won’t,” Rafe says confidently. “You knew how to play her.”

The ache sitting deep in your chest thickens.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you say, meeting his eyes.

The look of confusion on his face is both painful and infuriating. It’s like he underestimated you, like he didn’t expect you could negotiate, like he didn’t know you could be so calculating, when really, you were just honest. Desperate.

“Play her,” you echo. “That’s what you think that was? I was tricking her?”

Rafe thought he was used to how easily your temper can flare, how defensive you can be, but he was giving you a compliment. He loathes being misunderstood, and he didn’t expect you to make him feel this way, not after last night. Not after everything.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he says tensely.

“You bribing her was the play,” you mutter. “I was being honest, but if you think I was manipulating her-”

“Stop,” he interrupts. “You’re twisting what I said.”

“You were pretty clear.”

“Are you serious?” he says angrily, in utter disbelief.

You stare at each other and it almost feels right, being so angry at each other, arguing like you’re nothing but obstacles in the other’s way. It’s how this started and it might be how it’ll end.

“Just drive,” you say. He clicks his tongue in frustration and pulls out of the parking lot.

You stare out the window. What you felt last night has been stained. No matter how the bond between you shifts, if one of you lights a match, the other drops it into fuel, and it’s how it’s always going to be.

You can’t shake your first impression of Rafe. He’s shown you gentler sides, he’s apologized for putting you in this position, but you’re afraid that his cruelty is a deep, permanent part of who he is. That it will always appear and find a way to hurt you.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

Celeste calls you that evening to tell you that she’s booked an interview with a big media brand. She originally hadn’t dared to put you in a spotlight like this, one where a single outburst could unravel everything, but things have changed. Now, you’re totally obedient.

All you can do is thank her, because while the idea of sitting in front of a journalist and getting picked apart on camera terrifies you, it means she did what she said she’d do: she’s working to get past the last scandal.

The next afternoon, you have strangers staging your living room and touching up your makeup. Celeste walked you and Rafe through the questions you’ll be asked and how to answer them, feeding you stories about his proposal and how you can’t wait for the honeymoon and that the skinny-dipping story from the other day was an exaggeration.

It goes by in a blur. You might as well have been one of the other people crowding your living room, watching yourself speak and squeeze Rafe’s hand and smile. Once the last member of the crew leaves, you make your way towards your bedroom, but Celeste calls your name, then Rafe’s, as she stands by the front door.

“I don’t think that Kal is sabotaging this, but I didn’t tell him that you do,” she says. “That interview went well. Tonight, go straight home after your date. No detours.”

You have to bite your tongue, resisting the urge to say that you wouldn’t make a stupid mistake like that after what happened the other night. You only nod, and she leaves.

The penthouse is empty again, just you and your fiance, his stare hard from the other side of the corridor, his handsome face chiseled in bitterness.

Your hand is still warm from being in his grip during that ridiculous interview, your body aching with need, because all you want to do is run away from the pain permeating through you.

You have to think clearly. You can’t give into impulse, even though all you want to do is wrap yourself around him and let the physical pleasure numb the emotional pain. He has become an addiction, and the comedown just gets worse every time.

“What?” you ask, a bite to your tone.

Rafe exhales sharply. Damn, you get under his skin. Even though your first real word to him in over 24 hours is laced with anger, he’s relieved, because at least you spoke to him.

But he doesn’t know what to say after you expected the worst of him, twisted his compliment into an insult, then shut him out.

“Nothing,” he replies.

You scoff and head towards your room. Defeated, he murmurs your name, but you don’t turn back around.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

You’re out in the open. Like always.

You sit at a table under the stars, your date at the rooftop restaurant meant to look private, when in reality, it’s at the perfect angle for the cameras.

The waiter takes your menus after you order. You cross your arms, fingers digging into your skin as the night’s cold air cuts into you, making your shiver. And it doesn’t matter how much you piss him off. Rafe can’t watch you suffer.

He pushes his chair back, starts to shrug out of the sleeves of his suit jacket, and states, “You’re cold.”

“I’m fine,” you say, but when he stands to put his heavy jacket over your shoulders, the fabric warm and smelling of his cologne, you don’t resist.

He settles back in his seat, and you mumble a quiet thank you.

The ache in his chest deepens as he gazes at you. Seeing you like this, vulnerable and trying not to look like it, reminds him of the night of the fundraiser, when he draped his jacket over you just as he did now, when your lungs gave out, and you looked so scared that everything in him screamed to never let this happen to you again.

You’re still angry. He can’t hold a grudge against you, while you seem to savor being pissed off at him. And he’s grown to hate the way it feels.

“Yesterday,” he begins, “I was trying to say you’re smart.”

Your blink, apprehension drawn into your features.

“You sounded surprised,” you reply, your voice coming out much weaker than he expected.

It throws him off. For someone who seems to have so much confidence, you sound like you need to be convinced that he thinks highly of you.

“I wasn’t,” he says evenly.

Your lashes flutter as you look down, tugging the lapels of his jacket to tighten it around you. Your defensiveness is a knee-jerk reaction. An act of survival. A part of who you are.

“Nobody’s ever called me that,” you tell him. “Unless they’re trying to say I’m manipulative.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he says.

You nod slightly, still not looking up at him. It’s harrowing. You’ve spent your life trying to prove you’re worth something, and now that somebody sees good in you, all you can feel is worry that you’re a fraud.

But Rafe does see you. You’ve fought hard to keep your sense of self untouched by anyone else’s opinion, especially his, but he’s seen you at your worst, and somehow, he still treats you with softness.

It brings back the quiet, painful question you’ve always asked yourself. Who would’ve you become if you were granted that same softness by your family? And now, another question pricks at you. Who would Rafe be if life was gentler to him? If he never lost his mother, if he was never left with a parent whose love has to be earned?

It hurts, as if you’re grieving the version of you and of him that never got the chance to exist. You finally look up at him, giving a voice to your curiosity.

“When this is over, are you still going to feel like you owe him?” you ask.

Rafe wants the sense of debt he feels to his father to go away so badly that it hurts. The thought of this being over is disorienting; it used to be a moment he was chasing, but now, it’s a goodbye he doesn’t want to say.

“I don’t know.” He takes a swig of his drink, rattled. “I work my ass off and he acts like I’m not even there. My sisters don’t have to do shit and he still…”

He breathes a frustrated sigh, his grimace hard. You didn’t know he had sisters.

“He still what?” you ask.

“He – he likes them without them having to try.”

There’s a tick in his jaw, a moment where his face pinches with an emotion that looks like embarrassment. He said like, but he means love. His sisters don’t have to work for love. He does. And you know that feeling well.

“My dad never considered me for the family business,” you offer. “Not that I’d want to work there. But my brothers were hired straight out of school, and I wasn’t even an afterthought. I get wondering what your siblings have that you don’t. It hurts.”

You’re uncomfortable with being so raw, but just as relieved. You feel a pull to tell him these things because you know he’ll understand.

You stare at each other as artificial, golden candlelight burns between you, casting flickering shadows on your faces. It’s so clear now. You both grew up feeling inadequate and unseen by the people meant to love you. It’s a shared ache, a quiet understanding, one that doesn’t need to be spoken out loud.

“You know when I looked at your project?” Rafe says.

You think back to waking up under your blanket, to the note he left on your schoolwork, telling you not to change a thing.

“Did it kill you to not have any notes?” you ask in an effort to break the tension.

It works. His dimples dip into cheeks when he smirks, and it’s another piece of him that makes him so addictive. His default expression is the farthest thing from warm or friendly, frown hard and jaw set, but then he looks at you like this, softened eyes paired with a charming smile.

You realize you feel lucky to be looked at like that. He’s somehow turned from something that caused you pain, to a way to escape it.

“You’re smart,” he reiterates. “Saw it for myself.”

You nod, eyes darting away again, a mix of confusion and sadness flooding you all at once.

“You don’t believe me?” he says.

When he says it out loud, you realize he’s right. You don’t believe him. And you’re not sure if it’s because he said it, or because you really are afraid of failing. Of proving to yourself that they were right, that there’s something about you that will never measure up.

“It’s hard for me to believe anything anyone says,” you confess. “I don’t trust easily.”

Rafe stiffens. He knows he can’t demand your trust. He is keeping two big things from you. And he feels like shit for it.

But protecting his dad’s motives for putting him in this arrangement, vying for his approval, is all he’s had. It's all he’ll ever have. And telling you that he knows you’re sick is what he needs to do, but how in the hell can he do it when you so obviously want to hide it?

It eats at him. Forcing you to talk about anything would only make you retreat further. So he’ll wait. Earn your trust. And if he never does, then you won’t have to go through the pain of telling him.

Speechless, he reaches across the small table, his hand finding yours, and lifts your hand to his mouth. He presses his lips against your palm. The tenderness of it, the gentle and pure demonstration of affection, sends your heart racing.

“That’ll make for a good photo,” you joke, but there’s no levity in your voice this time.

Rafe knows he’s not doing all this for himself anymore. That became secondary long ago. He breathes against your skin and says, “That’s not why I did it.”

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

Rafe is settled on the couch, flipping through channels, when you walk through the front door the next afternoon, back from your dress fitting.

“I thought the engagement ring was tacky,” you mutter. “Wait until you see this dress. I don’t know how I’ll carry it around all day.”

His lips pull into a smile. He revels in these rare moments, when you speak to him like you’re friends. Or a real couple. It’s a daydream that he shouldn’t indulge, but he’s never been good at keeping his feelings in check.

“It’s that heavy?” he calls.

“I almost fell over.”

He chuckles, glancing towards the door, hoping he gets to see you, even if it’s just for a glimpse.

“I had to pretend like I adored it,” you add.

“How’d you do that?”

“I acted like I was speechless,” you reply, leaning against the wall, peering into the room. You meet his eyes, your body warming the way it always does when he looks at you.

“How?” he says playfully. “You always got something to say.”

“Coming from you?” you say with a half-amused smile. “You never shut up.”

You shift and disappear back into the hallway. He straightens, calling out, “What are you doin’ now?”

“Waiting until that appointment,” you reply, on your way to your bedroom. You’re expected at the city clerk’s office in an hour to apply for your marriage license. You have no choice but to do it in person, together.

Rafe taps his fingers against the couch, letting his craving for you speak before reason can catch up.

“Wait here,” he offers, his deep voice carrying towards you.

Your steps slow. At some point, the old pattern, the one where you kept your distance unless you had contractual obligations or a desire for intimacy, has vanished. Now there’s a depth to what you have. A genuine urgency to be together that you both feel.

Warm relief fills Rafe’s chest when you walk into the living room and settle on the couch next to him, inches away from touching, that sweet, familiar aroma of yours washing over him.

“So, did she pick your suit out for you?” you ask, meeting his stare again.

His eyes travel over your face, lips just slightly parted.

“Yeah.”

“What’s it look like?”

“Black.” He shrugs. “Nobody’s going to be looking at me.”

You don’t correct him. You’ll be looking at him. It’s ironic, but the man you thought you hated will be the only thing keeping you steady that day.

“Don’t hog it,” you say, holding out your hand and motioning to the remote control.

He huffs a chuckle and gives it to you. You click through channels and stop on a cooking show, a delicious looking meal taking up the screen. Your stomach turns, and you realize it’s been too long since you last ate, but your new medication has completely taken away your appetite.

Worry digs into you as you think about your next appointment two days from now, nervous about what your doctor will say.

“Hungry?” Rafe asks with slight amusement. His eyes dart between you and the screen, remembering how you’d lied to your friend at that party, saying Rafe made you dinner for your birthday.

You snap out of it.

“No,” you reply. “But it looks good.”

“Is that what I made on your birthday?”

You breathe a quiet laugh, surprised he remembers your story.

“You came up with that quick,” he observes.

“It’s a nice gesture,” you say passively. “A guy can buy you any gift in the world, but putting the work into actually making something… I don’t know. It’s different.”

He studies you, eyes travelling over your profile, jealously flaring at the thought of another man getting to take care of you like that.

“Anyone ever do that for you?” he rasps.

You look at him, noticing he’s leaning a little closer, faint stubble lining his jaw, the depth of his eyes striking you like always.

“No,” you reply, and press your lips together. He wants so badly to reach forward, press his thumb on your chin so you’ll pout again, so he can capture your lips in his.

“But it’s what you want?”

You nod, apprehensive, a little shy.

“What else do you want?” Rafe murmurs.

His heart thrums. He would be anything you’d ask him to be if you gave him a chance. He waits for you to answer. Waits for you to let him kiss you.

You gaze at him. With every time he asks what you want, you grow more sure that he’s the answer. He wasn’t at first. He was opportunistic and cold and selfish. You loathed him.

But along the way, that impression crumbled. He’s nowhere near perfect, but he’s a kind of imperfect you think might just be beautiful. Nobody has ever made you feel the way he does. So seen, in the best possible way.

He doesn’t hold your temper against you. He looks past your defenses and tells you how he feels. He doesn’t have too much pride to apologize. He respects your mind, and he’s protective, but not controlling, making you almost feel safe enough to put your guard down.

Alarm bells blare in your head. You care about him and it gives him all the power to break you. You can’t handle being broken any more than you already are. Not by a man you’re not sure you can ever really trust.

“It doesn’t matter what I want,” you reply quietly. “Not while I’m here.”

You turn your attention back to the tv, ending the conversation.

Rafe’s eyes linger on you. You’re guarded, shutting him out like always. It hurts, but it’s a needed reminder that you’re someone he shouldn’t love.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

You stare ahead at the traffic as Rafe drives back to the condo. It’s hitting you that this is not just a publicity stunt. Not just a silly, cruel ploy. This marriage will be real and legally binding in less than three weeks.

It’ll be annulled and forgotten soon after, but the heaviness of it is palpable, just like what you said when the man at the city clerk’s office asked if you’ll be changing your surname.

“Will it bother you if I keep it?” you ask, your voice thin.

Rafe glances at you from the driver’s seat. It hasn’t left his mind, how you said yes to taking his last name without hesitation. He knows you don’t want it because it means anything to you. You want it for the distance it’ll create from a family that has hurt you all your life.

“It helps you get away from them, yeah?” he says.

It’s strange not having to explain yourself. He immediately understands, having seen enough to know that you want to cut all ties from this place, even if it’s just with your name.

“Yeah,” you respond. Rafe scratches his jaw. Truthfully, he can’t imagine anything would bother him if it were for you.

“Keep it,” he says. You nod, twisting your hands together in your lap, silent and thoughtful. You normally hate asking for something, burdened by the fear that it will come back to hurt you, but you don’t feel it this time.

His lips part, hesitating before he finally responds to what you said to him earlier today.

“It does matter what you want, alright?” he murmurs, quietly but resolutely.

You nod again, wishing your heart would stop fluttering. Even though it’s fleeting, the sense of safety enveloping you is warm and comforting and hard to let go.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

Two nights later, you’re thinking about the appointment you had that afternoon as you prepare your dinner. The meds are working. Your blood pressure is better.

You asked your doctor if it’d still be safe for you to fly. The jet to your honeymoon will be waiting for you the morning after the wedding, ready to whisk you and Rafe away to a nearby tropical destination that’s, like always, meant to look private, but orchestrated for paparazzi to have eyes on you.

You’d try to find a way out of it, but you gave your word that you’d follow the rules from now on.

Your doctor told you that as long as you travel with your medical supplies and have access to care if you need it, you’ll be okay. It only adds to your stress when you realize you’ll need to find a way to hide all this from Rafe.

It’s almost 8 pm. You’re starving and you’re cooking something you hope is bland enough to stomach.

The front door creaks open. Rafe comes by, seemingly just to look at you. Your eyes lock, and it’s so different now. The tension that always lies between you is still there, but it’s softer now. He almost looks grateful, like seeing you steadies him. You wonder if your face gives it away, that seeing him is a relief.

He’s wearing his fatigue on his face, his suit crumpled. You don’t need to see it yourself to know he drives himself into the ground at work.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” you reply.

He heads to his bedroom and you think about how nice it’d be to follow. To lie down with him in his bed, rest your head on his chest, and talk about your days.

You’re nearly done cooking when he strolls back in the kitchen, swinging open the fridge and looking into it. He doesn’t move, just stares into the near-empty space.

“I’m not going to finish all this,” you offer. “If you want some.”

He looks up, watching you spoon your dinner from the pan onto a plate.

“Nah, I’m not taking your food,” Rafe says with a half-chuckle. “You barely eat.”

You sigh, a little tense. You’re still not used to the level of attention he gives you. Nobody has ever cared this much. Nobody else would have noticed how suddenly you’ve lost your appetite.

“Just take some,” you tell him. “I'll even let you sit with me.”

“You’ll let me?”

“I’m feeling charitable today.”

A smirk pulls on Rafe’s lips as he stands straight again, towering over you. He steps past you, opening a drawer, pulling out a plate for himself, and it all feels so domestic. You’ve lived together for five months, but this is the first time it feels like you share a home.

“You a good cook?” he asks with a playful lilt.

“You’re in no position to be picky right now,” you reply.

Soon, you’re seated across from each other at the dining table. You’ve never shared a meal like this. Because you want to. In comfortable clothing. Alone, for real this time.

The cracked open balcony door invites a smooth breeze into the condo, faint car horns and crashing waves threading the air.

“Saw us on a magazine yesterday,” Rafe says, recalling the glossy cover he saw at the check-out line when he had to make a stop at a store. “It was weird.”

You smile before you sip your water.

“What was it like living a normal life?” you ask. “Like, not being followed by the press all the time?”

“Pretty good,” he responds simply. You chuckle. You like that he doesn’t sugarcoat things.

“You’ll get your life back,” you reply. “They’ll lose interest after we split up. All you do is work and go to the gym anyway.”

“Shit, am I that boring?”

You look down when you laugh. He can’t take his eyes off of you. It’s such a damn tragedy that you don’t smile much, that he could count the amount of times he’s seen real joy on your face.

“I mean that you’re normal,” you reply. “Unlike me. Partying all the time.”

Rafe huffs. He’s the farthest thing from normal. He’s felt it all his life, like he’s barely hanging on.

“I didn’t have cameras on me when I was doing all that,” he admits.

You cock your head, curiosity tugging at you. He’d only vaguely mentioned it, that he had a rough patch.

“Was it really bad?” you ask.

Rafe scratches the scruff on his jaw, taking a bite as he considers admitting to all of it. He owes it to you. He knows more than he should about you. It’s only fair he divulges.

“I was…” He notices you pushing your food around with your fork again, uncertain if you’ve even taken a bite. “What’s wrong?”

“My appetite’s been weird. It’s just anxiety,” you answer. You bring the fork up to your mouth, chewing because you have to. “I’m good. Keep talking.”

Rafe looks down and takes a breath before he begins to speak.

“I was pissed off all the time,” he admits. “After my mom… Everything was different.”

Your eyes soften, sadness ripping into you.

“I got older and got my hands on anything that would make it easier,” he admits. “Couldn’t stop.”

You nod, lips twisting in sorrow. You realize that, like you, numbing himself is how he copes.

“How did you?” you ask. “Stop, I mean.”

“My dad found out I dropped out of college,” he says. “He lost it on me.”

Your body goes cold.

“Lost it how?”

“He roughed me up,” he replies. Your lips part in shock, and he rushes to clarify. “I needed it.”

“What?” you half-whisper. “You think you needed it?”

Rafe’s instinct is to defend his father. It always has been. He knows the man just wants the best for him, just wants him to succeed. But you’re looking at him like he told you something devastating.

“Did he hit you?” you press.

“I embarrassed him,” he tells you, confirming it.

“I embarrass my family all the time,” you say. “My dad cares just as much about his reputation. Does that justify him hitting me?”

His eyes darken as he stares at you.

“Has he?” he mutters, rage burning through him.

“No,” you tell him. “He prefers other methods of abuse.”

Rafe shakes his head. What his father did wasn’t abuse. It couldn’t be.

“You didn’t deserve that,” you say.

He looks at you like he’s seeing something he isn’t allowed to believe in.

It would’ve been nice to be held instead of scolded, for his father to sit with his tears instead of telling him to swallow them. But that kind of softness died with his mother. Then, the only love he could have came with rules.

Silence settles between you, tense and fragile.

“So, you went back to school?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he says. “Then I started working for him so I can take over one day.”

It doesn’t look like you’re really listening. You’re clearly reeling over what he just told you. It’s written all over you.

“I needed to get set straight,” he reiterates.

You grimace. He believes he deserved punishment for the way he grieved. And he still wants to take over his father’s company, stay tied to his family forever.

“What you needed was help,” you say. There’s something bitter in your eyes, like you can’t stomach the way he accepts that his pain was necessary.

“I don’t need you feelin’ bad for me,” he snaps, his pride burning.

Admittedly, even though his reaction stings, you understand. You don’t want anyone feeling bad for you, either. You don’t want to feel like a victim, and neither does he.

“It’s not pity,” you say quietly.

His jaw tenses, pissed off at himself for losing his temper. You didn’t yell back like you usually do. Somehow, your soft reaction was worse.

A lump grows in his throat and he can’t think of anything to do but leave. So, he does, storming out of the room with a hole digging into his chest, unable to look at you.

Since the day you met, you’ve held up a mirror he couldn’t avoid. Just being near you made him see himself more clearly than he ever wanted to. He always knew there were cracks in the man he was, but he didn’t know they ran this deep and still affected him this badly so many years later.

He doesn’t want it to be like this. He wants to love you. He wants you to love him back. But it’s impossible. You’ve changed him at his core, but all he is to you is a tool your father used to control you.

And he’s unraveling inside, his heart aching, holding back pieces of the truth. There’s no point in telling you he knows you’re sick. It’d tear you open. It feels like the only choice he can make.

He needs to shield you, to protect you from everything. Including himself.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

The wedding is in five days. Rafe has been swamped at work. When he finally leaves his desk, the sun already set long ago, he crosses by his father’s office, unsurprised to see him still there.

“See you tomorrow,” he murmurs in passing.

“You were quiet today,” Ward says.

Rafe stops in his tracks. He knows he wasn’t at his best in the investors’ meeting this morning. He’s been struggling to stay focused, unable to give it everything he’s got. The exhaustion runs deep. He’s worn thin, weighed down by a quiet misery he can’t shake.

And your words have been ringing in his head. What you needed was help.

“I’m tired,” he answers.

“Listen, I know this whole thing has been…” His father sighs. “But you’ve handled this well, son.”

Rafe nods. Steps away. As he walks down the carpeted corridor, he realizes that his dad’s words should mean something to him. But the praise didn’t have any weight to it. He doesn’t want compliments for his work. He wants to be noticed for who he is.

He never really saw it before, but in the almost half a year he’s known you, you’ve made him realize what should have been glaringly obvious: his entire life has been built on earning the attention of someone who punishes him for not being enough.

And he’s been lying to the only person who looked at him, really looked, and told him he doesn’t deserve that.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

You’re resting in bed, scrolling on your phone, when gentle taps rattle your door. It’s late. Finally, he’s home.

“Yeah?” you call out.

“Can we talk?” Rafe’s voice is low and ragged.

You open the door. You’re not sure you’ve ever seen him look so tired. His tie hangs carelessly, and the deep shadows beneath his eyes speak louder than words.

“What happened?” you ask, soft and concerned.

“Your dad - he helped my dad out. He hid the proof that some money was moved. I don’t know the details.” He takes a shallow breath, his words rushed. “I said I wanted out before we signed anything. But Kal blackmailed us.”

Shock chills you from the inside. Every thought you’ve ever had about Rafe is being rewritten all at once, scrambling through your mind.

He was coerced into this. When he said he had no choice, you didn’t realize it was because he really was backed into a corner, trapped by not just loyalty to his father, but by a threat.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you ask.

“I thought you’d use it against us,” he admits, searching your face for any indication of what you’re thinking. “But I know you won’t.”

You see it in the way that he’s looking at you, miserable and desperate; he understands just how wrong he was about you. He said it before, but the fact that he’s telling you this proves it. You could destroy him and his family with this. Blackmail him. Make it public. But you can’t fathom wanting to hurt the man standing in front of you.

“Why say this now?" you ask, wide-eyed.

“So you don’t hate me,” he answers quietly. You’re floored that your words to him from all those months ago stuck. That he’s been carrying them, turning them over.

You’re still. Wordless. Rafe hangs his head, chest rapidly rising and falling, fearing you see him as spineless, as someone who folded under pressure. He steps back to leave you alone again.

“Hold on,” you say, cutting the silence. You take a couple steps and cup his hand.

Rafe stops, half-turning, waiting for your words. But you don’t speak. You only close what distance remains, and to his surprise, you embrace him, arms tight atop his shoulders, torsos pressed together.

He buries his face into the side of your neck and it hits you, the pressure that must have been weighing on him this entire time. He grew up with a father who weaponized loyalty, twisting it into obligation and guilt, manipulating his own son into cleaning up a mess he didn’t even make.

The man hurt him, made him feel like he earned his pain, pushed him into this. He knew he’d do anything for him. He used him. You thought you were the only pawn here. You aren’t.

“I should’ve said no,” he says, his voice muffled, breath hot on your skin.

“You couldn’t,” you murmur, fully understanding his powerlessness now. Your hands rest on the back of his head, gently stroking his coarse hair.

Rafe squeezes his eyes shut, angry at himself for ever thinking anything bad about you. Here he is, giving you proof that he’s lied to you for months, and you’re not shouting and scheming against him like he used to think you would. You’re holding him. Listening to his pain. Understanding it.

He nuzzles closer, holds you tighter, like you’re giving him breath by holding him. It shatters you, how hurt he’s been, how his only worry is what you think of him. The first time you lay together, you told him that the fact that you hate him would never change. But you lied. To yourself and to him.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“It’s okay,” you whisper. “I don’t hate you.”

Your breath is shaky as you tighten your arms around him. It rips through you, vicious and unforgiving; it’s so much more than that. You might love him.

You don’t want to. It makes you vulnerable, and he’s already shown you how sharp he can be when he’s angry. Loving him means giving him the power to hurt you in ways no one else can.

And worse, you know your illness would unsettle him. You saw it in his eyes when he caught you in an appointment. He admitted it reminded him of his mother, shook something deep inside him that he hasn’t dealt with since she died.

Being with you means facing the reality of your body, your limits, your struggles. He doesn’t deserve to be reminded of his trauma every day. You don’t deserve to feel like you have to hide such a big part of your life.

This can’t work. You understand that. But understanding doesn’t make it easier.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

With only two days remaining until the wedding, the rehearsal dinner is in full swing. It’s extravagant, crowded, long banquet tables draped in white linen, flickering candles nestled among arrangements of roses.

You’ve avoided your father at every turn. You have no faith that he won't try to ruin things and blame you for it.

You have a bond with Rafe that you were never meant to form and your father’s angry about it. He never believed you’d make it this far, thought you’d push away the man also forced into this. Because in his eyes, that’s all you’ve ever been: a reckless, defiant child. A problem.

Rafe stands beside you, his hand brushing yours just enough to steady you. Every time you glance at him, you can see the anger beneath his calm exterior. You’re both mad, and it’s not aimed at each other anymore, but at those that forced you together.

At one point, you drift apart during the evening, and he finds himself cornered in a conversation with your father. His patience frays with every word. He’s still feeding Kal the updates he promised to keep up the illusion that the contract still matters to him. But it doesn’t. Not anymore. The only thing he’s invested in now is you.

He’s only half-listening, his mind elsewhere, until Kal utters a few harsh, careless words about you. That’s all it takes to make Rafe’s blood boil.

“Someone wants to meet you.” Your voice pulls Rafe out of his anger, his gaze dropping to look down at you. Your hand is at his elbow, clinging.

You slip away, leading him towards an empty pocket in the crowd by the wall. Without a word, you step into his space, close enough that he can feel your warmth.

Your eyes meet his, soft and searching. For a moment, the noise fades, and it’s just the two of you, held together by everything you’ve shared in moments that were never meant to happen.

“You had that look on your face,” you say. “The one you had with my brother. Like you were about to punch someone. What is it?”

He realizes you made up an excuse to pull him away. Guilt consumes him. He’d just been thinking that he was only in this arrangement for you, and he could have jeopardized everything by losing his temper on your father in front of all these people.

“He pissed me off,” he answers.

“He’s good at that,” you reply. “What did he say?”

He doesn’t want to repeat it. It was dismissive and so far from the truth that it made him see red. Telling you means hurting you. And right now, the last thing he wants is to be another man who makes you feel small.

“It doesn’t matter,” he replies. “Let’s just get through this.”

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

Your step into the quiet of your condo, the door clicking shut behind you once the night comes to an end. You kick off your heels, Rafe shrugs off his jacket, and for a moment, you simply exist, standing in the silence of a space that actually feels like it's yours.

You stare at him. It’s unmistakable and terrifying, the feeling he gives you. You’re afraid of what it means to want someone who was never supposed to matter to you.

“Good night,” you say, turning away.

“Night,” he murmurs, watching you leave, figuring he should get used to the feeling.

You step into your room, hand halfway to the light switch, but you don’t flick it on. You just stand there, swallowed by the dark, because something in you can’t bear the brightness right now.

“Rafe?” you call.

You hear the movement behind you, steady and familiar. When you turn, his sharp features are half-lost in shadow, handsome and breathtaking.

“What’d he say?” you ask. He watches you, your silhouette barely visible in the soft spill of moonlight through the window.

“It’s not important,” he says.

“Tell me.”

“He was baiting me.”

“How?”

He shakes his head, like the memory disgusts him.

“He asked me how I did it. How I… made you behave,” he admits. “He wanted to set me off. It’s bullshit. Nothing he says about you is true.”

Your heart is pounding, lips barely parting, as if your body doesn’t want you to speak. But you can’t help it. Rafe makes it too hard to shut down impulse.

“What’s true, then?” you ask.

His eyes are adjusting to the dark, but not quickly enough. He wants to see you clearly, because with those words, and the way you said them, you’ve revealed that his opinion means something to you.

You wait to hear what his version of the truth is, hating that you care, that there’s still a piece of you angry at him for putting you through this.

“Anyone who knows you…” he answers, low and thick. “They’re lucky.”

Rafe’s hand is warm and steady as he cups your face. You soften under his touch, believing him, feeling like a blessing instead of a burden. It’s unfamiliar, but comforting. You dip your head, but his hand firms, guiding you to look up at him in the dimness.

“I’d do anything for you, you know that?” he rasps.

Your heart pounds against your ribs. It’s overwhelming, the pull to hear more, tangled with the dread of what each word might do. Every time he speaks, it chips away at something inside you, leaving you more exposed, more fragile than before.

The impulse to give into desire tells you to pull him in. You obey.

Your lips meet heatedily, just like the first time, except so much has changed since then. Every part of him aches with gratitude, like he’s finally getting a drop of water after being parched, and he licks into your mouth, your kisses hot and hungry.

When he shifts to press his open mouth on your neck, you shiver. The air thickens, and all of him throbs for you, his tongue gliding over your skin. He just wants to taste you, all of you.

“Lie down,” Rafe instructs.

You let him take the lead, shuffling back as he moves against you, holding you as you lower onto your bed, his lips on your neck again. His hands are rough as he shifts your dress up to your hips and impatiently, you thrust your fingers into the band of your panties, squirming to pull them off under his weight.

His lips tug into a satisfied smirk as his nose nudges against yours, hand lowering to feel your naked core, breath shaky when he feels the heat he’s been dying to taste.

“Shit,” he whispers. “That’s my girl.”

The words pull you over the edge. You kiss him again, nibbling at his bottom lip, gasping into his mouth as his fingers wander over your folds. He’s already so hard against your thigh, and he shifts, but instead of taking his pants off like you expect, he licks his lips and lowers.

Your eyes are trained on his as he settles between your legs and slowly, agonizingly, leans forward to kiss your core.

Your breath hitches, rolling your hips against him, spreading your thighs as heat pools through you. His kisses slowly grow shorter, opening his mouth more and more, until he finally locks his lips around your clit. You groan as he sucks, then pulls back to flick his tongue, and buries his face into you once more.

Rafe’s body burns with desire as he tastes you, glories in the moans he’s earning from you. He’s sure he could never get enough of you. It’s impossible. Everything about you is impossible in the best way, because things with you feel too perfect, giving him a purpose he never had before.

His tongue slides over your silky heat, ravishing you, your whimpers making the tightness in his boxers nearly unbearable. He can’t control his moan when he moves to press his tongue into you, feeling you pulse around him, his mouth full of your ecstasy.

His thumb finds your clit, holding you down so he can wriggle his tongue and lap at you the way you deserve. The electric ecstasy swallows you, your back arching and your body writhing as you meet your peak with a breathy, broken moan.

He keeps sucking until you grip his shoulders, the overstimulation becoming too much. Your chest rises and falls with shallow breaths as he sits up to hover over you and gazes down at you in the dim light. His lips are wet, his stare lustful.

The deep look of desperation swims in your eyes, stroking his length over his pants. It’s so fucking perfect, seeing how much you want him, your lips parted and your eyes glazed over. It’s not enough to just see it; he wants to hear it.

“You need it?” he rasps, gently rocking against your hand. “How bad?”

You don’t think your competitive, teasing dynamic could ever change, and you revel in it. You bite your lip, palming his twitching cock, still trembling from the comedown.

“You said you’d do anything for me, right?” you whisper. “Tell me how bad you need it.”

Rafe breathes a quiet, sexy laugh, shifting to lie over you again, his cheek against yours, his lips at your ear.

“So fucking bad that it’s all I think about,” he says. “You’re all I think about.”

He kisses you again as you feel for the button of his pants, undoing it, moving to the zipper. He doesn’t hesitate, doing the rest of the work, holding himself at his base and pressing against your wet, hot entrance within seconds.

He teases first, nudging the head against you. His groan is deep when he finally buries himself into you, cupping your face as he presses his forehead on yours.

He fills you so perfectly, a pleasurable pain as you adjust to his girth. He rocks back, then thrusts into you harder this time, the bed starting to squeak under his rhythmic force.

Your bodies slap together, sweat sheening your chests, feeling your arousal drip down your skin. He buries himself so deep every time, pounding passionately and frantically, hitting the perfect spot every time.

“Fuck,” you whisper. “Right there, baby.”

Your words rouse him, push him to shift back just enough to meet your eyes and witness the proof that he’s the one making you feel so good, wanting to cement in his memory how beautiful you are.

His cheeks are pink, his eyes half-lidded, his lips swollen as he stares at you. You don’t want this moment to end. You don’t want anything with him to end.

Being looked at like this, being talked to the way he talks to you, it’s like he’s in your veins, your body and heart and soul choosing him no matter how many times you tell him it shouldn’t.

You hold his face in his hands, and for just a moment, you let yourself believe that there’s a world where this could work, where he could be yours and you could be his, but it’s fleeting. Dangerous.

His gaze deepens, sure you feel it, too. Loving you isn’t a decision; it’s instinct. Somewhere along the way, you became the center of everything.

He leans in, kissing you again. You’re so hot and tight and wet and sweet that he shudders through his orgasm, whimpering as the shockwaves rush through him, loving the feeling of your hands on his back, pulling him in, as if you want to feel every inch of the pleasure you’ve given him.

You’re left reeling, limp and sweaty. The room is filled with a musky warmth as you both pant in pleasure. It’s somehow better every time.

You don’t ask him to leave. He doesn’t ask to stay. You remain together, peeling off the clothes that remain, both giving into the delusion that this isn’t fated to end in a goodbye.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

You spend the entire next day running around at Celeste’s request, caught up in the chaos of pre-wedding prep. It’s nearing nine when you get home, unsure of why Rafe was texting to ask when you’d get home, as if he’s still trying to keep tabs on you.

You pace past the kitchen, stopping when you see him drying his hands with a tea towel, looking down at the pot on the stove. He doesn’t notice you at first, too focused, too careful. There’s something tender in the way he moves, something that catches you off guard.

Then, he sees you, and then looks away again, glancing down at his hands, still rubbing even though they’re already dry.

“Hey,” Rafe says. “Figured you didn’t eat.”

It hits you. He made you dinner. You’d told him you wanted someone to put that effort in for you, and he did. And you wish it didn’t worry you that he cares enough to try.

You want to stay guarded, to keep the walls up where it’s safe, but tonight, you’ll let them crack just a little. Just this once, you choose to believe he might be good, all the way through.

“Why did you do this?” you ask, slowly stepping forward.

His smile is both happy and sad as he mumbles, “Just sit down.”

It’s almost too much, too sweet, and your instinct is to deflect before the feeling takes you away. You reach for humor to avoid really looking at how much this means to you. How much he means to you.

“You a good cook?” you tease, echoing his words from the other night. He laughs.

“You tell me,” he answers.

A gentle chuckle escapes you as you nod, more touched than amused.

After getting into comfortable clothes, you settle at the table and take a bite. You catch a glimpse of him watching you, eyes wide, hopeful, almost childlike in their curiosity. You don’t think you’ve ever seen that kind of unguarded expression on his face before.

It’s good. A little overcooked, but what matters is that he made it for you.

“I like it,” you tell him. Your smile is a reward. Proof that he’s done something right.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Thank you.”

For the first time, as you eat together, conversation feels entirely easy. The tension that usually hangs between you dissolves.

Tonight, you’re not two people weighed down by obligation. You’re more. You’re yourselves. It’s unfamiliar territory, but it feels good. Like you belong here.

You finish your meals, but stay seated, talking about all the little things you never got to know about each other. Eventually, you glance up at the clock. It’s nearing 10:30.

You’re need to wake up early tomorrow for the day you’ve been dreading. But right now, you’re not dreading it completely, not when you look at the man you’ll be sharing it with.

Still, the anxiety you carry alone has been gnawing at you. Your illness has been unpredictable lately. The fatigue, the pain, the moments where your body betrays you, they’ve been creeping in more often as a result of all the stress, and you’re scared they’ll show up when you need strength the most.

“We should sleep,” you say, rising to clean up the dishes. He stands, noticing the slowness in your movements, cluing in to your exhaustion.

“I got this,” he says, taking your plate from your hand.

“I can do it,” you say, a little sharply, defensive that he thinks you can’t handle it on your own.

He gazes at you in mild shock and you cross your arms, looking down.

“Sorry. I’m just stressed.”

“All good,” he replies, leaning to leave a chaste kiss on your forehead, numbing your stomach with the sweet gesture. He moves past you, putting your plates in the sink with a clatter.

You’re not confident you can get through tomorrow if Rafe isn’t ready to help if you may need it. You could just use the same excuse, say you’re worried about panic attacks.

But it rushes though your mind, every time he protected you from someone else, every time he admitted he had you all wrong, every time he opened up about his own pain, every time he held you and looked at you like he wants to give you the world.

“Rafe,” you say to his back, your body cold with anxiety.

“Yeah?” he asks, turning to face you. You close the distance, standing across from him, brows furrowed as you gaze up at him.

“Tomorrow, I might need to get away from the crowd,” you tell him. “Can you help me if I do?”

“Yeah,” he whispers.

Your heart pounds against your ribs like it’s trying to escape. Your hands tremble. You swallow hard, trying to steady yourself, but the fear coils tighter. Still, he’s looking at you with that quiet patience, that softness that makes you want to believe it’s okay to be vulnerable.

“I…” you half-whisper. “I have to tell you something.”

He sees it in your eyes. And suddenly, he’s in his own head, scrambling. What’s the right thing to say? What if he makes you feel worse? He finds himself afraid that one misstep could shatter the fragile trust between you.

Rafe steps closer, placing his hands on your shoulders, trying to quiet the storm inside long enough to be what you need.

“There’s something called pulmonary proteinosis," you say, your voice thin. “It’s a lung disorder. There’s no cure. I was seven when they found it.”

Regret courses through him. He should’ve told you he knows. Watching you struggle to speak, watching the fear flicker behind your eyes - he realizes he ruined everything.

“What happened the night I used my inhaler, it could happen tomorrow,” you say. “And these new meds I’m on make me dizzy. If I lose control of my breathing or I stumble and I don’t get away in time, I… I don’t want anyone to see me like that. Like I’m weak. Because I’m not.”

He remembers the moment with a jolt, the way the word slipped out when he took you to his gym. He jokingly called you weak. You were furious. Now, he understands. Weak is the last thing you ever want to be.

“Baby, I’m so sorry,” he whispers. His apology carries so many layers, for every time he got it wrong. For believing the headlines, for echoing your family’s doubts, for not seeing the strength you live with every day, for not telling you he knew.

“Don’t let anyone see me like that,” you say quietly. “Please.”

“I won’t.”

You figure since you’re saying this, you should say it all. No more half-truths. No more hiding. Your voice trembles, but you push forward, because if you stop now, you might never find the courage again.

“When we get on that plane, I’ll have supplies with me just in case,” you say. “The altitude can mess with my breathing. My point is… my disease isn’t terminal, but I need a lot to keep me safe. And I need to be able to pay for it. Do you understand?”

It hits him like a punch. You need money for medical care, you need it to survive, and your father, who should be protecting you, is the one holding it back. Threatening that you won’t get it.

He feels like an idiot for never cluing in before. This is a kind of cruelty that goes beyond what he thought. That man is playing with your life.

“That’s why you need your trust fund,” Rafe realizes, fury building in his chest.

There’s no shock in your nod, just the resignation of a woman who’s already accepted that she’s not loved. You’ve carried this alone for so long.

“I know it’s hard for you to be around,” you say, remembering the way he trembled when he vaguely told you about his mother’s illness taking her life. “But there’s no way I can hide it from you anymore.”

His throat is dry. You’re not wrong. He didn’t expect you to notice it. He thought he’d buried it deep enough. But of course you see his unresolved grief.

It all rushes back, the memories of watching someone he loved fade. Being with you, watching you fight, is like living in the echo of that grief.

Your illness won’t kill you, but still, he doesn’t know if loving you is enough to erase the fear that one day, it could. You deserve someone stronger. Better. All he can do now is admit to his mistake.

“The day I went to talk to your dad about that night…” he begins. He sighs, looking down, grimacing like he’s been slapped.

You feel the sting behind your eyes before you can stop it. You pull back just enough that his hands fall away, the connection broken.

“You knew?” you whisper. It can’t be true. He let you believe you were alone in it. All those times you thought you were fooling him, holding yourself together, he saw through it.

You feel exposed. Angry. Embarrassed. Betrayed.

“I was waiting for a good time,” he says, “but then I thought - it would be like I was forcing you to tell me something and I - I fucked up, okay?”

It feels like the ground shifts beneath you. You weren’t worth the truth. That hurts more than anything. You finally showed someone this piece of you and they stabbed you in the back.

“You knew,” you say as a statement this time, your eyes welling up.

“Baby, I didn’t mean to-”

“Don’t call me that,” you say. He reaches for you again, but you push his hand away. “You lied to me.”

“He didn’t say a lot, but it was enough for him to look - to look happy he was the one telling me. I thought you should tell me. If you wanted to.”

You look at the floor, your heart wringing in pain. You never expected to tell anyone this, not for a long time. Especially not him. It was supposed to stay locked inside, where it couldn’t be used against you. But now it’s out and you feel powerless in a way that’s worse than anything you imagined.

“But you already knew,” you murmur. “And you had so many chances to...”

Your breath comes out as a quiver. Rafe’s blood is ice in his veins. He thought he was protecting you. He didn’t want to corner you, didn’t want to take away your choice. But now, he feels cowardly.

In trying not to hurt you, he did. Like everything he does, he fucked this up, and the shame deepens because you almost look vindicated. Like you were justified to believe every bad thing you thought about him when you met.

He moves closer, but you shove him away again. Frustration burns through him.

“Don’t come near me,” you warn. You don’t know how to even look at him without thinking of every moment he could’ve said something and didn’t. Every moment he could’ve made you feel less alone.

You thought he was in your corner, that he respected you enough to be honest.

“I was trying to do what’s good for you,” he says, hurt, his voice beginning to shake.

“Lying is good for me?” you say through a choked whimper. There’s a fire in your eyes, tears glossing over, and it slices into him, you looking at him like that. But then, you say what really cuts. “I was right about you. I hate you.”

You storm out, sniffling. Rafe’s jaw is tight, heart burning. Your words ruin him. Your bedroom door shuts hard, not quite a slam, but enough to make him flinch.

He exhales like he’s been punched. He told himself he deserved the pain he went through, the guilt, the ache of never being enough. You said he didn’t. You looked him in the eye and said he was worthy of better.

But now, standing in the wreckage of what he couldn’t be for you, the clock loudly ticking and his pulse thundering in his ears, it’s clear: he deserves it. Every bit of pain.

(to be continued - next part is the last)

Your hand trembles as you take in a slow pull of cold water, lingering in the kitchen. For once, you have to pause. While you’re used to running away in every possible sense of the word, what happened last night demands your attention.

The man who held you steady was a complete stranger. That couldn’t have been Rafe.

But it was. Those same blue eyes, softened instead of cold, that same low voice, comforting instead of combative. You think of the bite of the night air, the hum of the party behind you, the way he looked when he knelt in front of you.

In that moment of crisis, he gave you what you needed. But now, you can’t help but be bitter about it, because how dare he speak to you and hold you like that after how awful he’s been to you. He’d threatened you, uttered cruel things, suggested you deserved the horrible ways you’ve been treated.

The thread in you pulls again, weakening you as you remember his words in the darkness of the backseat on the way home. I want you.

When the key turns in the front door with a loud rattle, you realize you were wrong to assume he was still sleeping. You can’t rush away in time. His stare lands on yours, ushering in an unavoidable awkwardness.

“Hey,” Rafe says, his voice low.

You chew on your bottom lip, look down at your glass, the knot of mixed emotions lumping in your chest. You hate that he saw you like that. You hate that he knew what to do.

It’d be so much easier if he were simply a bad person. Irrevocably. Undoubtedly. But because his intentions are so unclear, because his behaviour is so unpredictable, you’re left with nothing but frustrating confusion.

You don’t know what to feel. Or what to think.

“They’re making a big deal out of nothing,” he murmurs as he crosses into the kitchen, standing across from you, leaning on the counter.

“What are you talking about?” you say, looking up at him.

He realizes you must have not seen Celeste’s group text demanding you two get to the house this morning.

“They got a picture,” he explains. “Last night.”

“Of what?” you snip.

You’re tense. That scowl you have reserved specifically for him is etched in your features. He thought you’d pick up where you left off last night. That the animosity between you had been extinguished. But you’re clearly pissed off.

“Of us. Outside,” he says.

Your heart drops.

“Show me,” you say quietly.

Rafe pulls out his phone, opens the article, and hands it to you. You hold his phone in quivering hands, giving him a chance to gaze at you as you stare at the photo.

And he looks at you, really looks at you, as your father’s words continue to sink into every gap in his mind. He’s seen firsthand what a chronic illness can do to a person. How much it can demand from them.

And Kal's indifference about it told him everything. You handle it by yourself. You’ve always had to.

“This is…” you say in a sigh of disbelief as you read. You have no words, eyes travelling over the story about you being comforted by your fiance in the middle of a public breakdown, heart pounding harder every time you glance up to the blurred image of him holding your face in his hands.

You’ve had your privacy invaded many times. This has to be the worst.

Rafe can’t take his eyes off of you. Last night, in a wavering, nearly silent voice, you told him you were never wanted. Yet as he looks at you, all he can think about is how that can’t be possible, about how fucking wrong he was about you.

Between your fiery arguments and your passionate nights and the rare moments of fragility, he can see it now, that you’re the way you are because you have no other choice.

You don’t try to be difficult. It’s more complex than that. You’re constantly in survival mode because you have to be.

“What did you tell them happened?” you ask.

“What you told me,” he says.

“That I had a panic attack,” you realize in an cold tone, all in an effort to hide your anxiety that your father told him. That he knows. “They’ll use that against me. You know that, right?”

Rafe wets his lips, unsure of how to navigate this.

“I just – I wanted them to know how much this is fucking with you,” he admits.

You hate that his words make your heart feel a little less heavy. He sees the turmoil this is putting you through.

So, why did it have to get this bad for him to worry? Why did he have to witness three months of your pain to start giving a damn? None of this would be happening to you if it weren’t for his compliance in the first place.

You exhale, sliding his phone back towards him.

“Did you mention my inhaler, too?” you ask.

He decides to lie right now. He shakes his head. He doesn’t want the conversation to unfold like this. Not when you’re already upset and stressed out, looking at him like that.

“So, what then? What’d they say?” you ask.

“She’s going to write something. Damage control, I guess.”

“And my dad?”

Your eyes find his again. The anger in them has lessened, replaced with fear. And he’s sure of it now. You really don’t want him to know. So, right now, he’ll settle for half the truth.

“He said you’re dramatic,” Rafe answers, dipping his head in disagreement.

“Typical.” You wish you were in that room with them to defend yourself. “Why didn’t you just wake me up?”

Your nervous questions underscore it for him. You’re terrified of him knowing, as if it changes anything. The only thing it does to him is make the urge to protect you burn hotter.

“Thought you should get your sleep,” he admits.

You swallow hard. It’s a foreign feeling, someone caring about you when they don’t have to. It’s almost unsettling. Like it can’t be real.

You shift to rinse out your glass, your back to him, as if to shield yourself from how breakable you feel in this moment. But you have to ask.

“Why did you do that last night?” you say, your voice reduced to a hush.

Rafe doesn’t answer. When you turn, you realize he was waiting for you to face him. He leans closer, stares at you with those eyes you hate that you love to look into.

“Because I wanted to,” he answers.

His words ring in your head again. I want you.

“Why?” you press, looking up through your lashes.

It aches how bad he wants you to trust him enough to tell him. How bad he wants to just pull you in right now.

“Because…” He squints as he searches your face. “You never had anyone looking out for you.”

You stiffen, a rush of frustration stinging you. It still digs at you; why would he care now, and why would you think you need him of all people?

“I never needed anyone to,” you say. “Is that it? You pity me?”

There’s that defensiveness of yours, that stubborn pride that you seem to wrap yourself in all the time. Yet again, Rafe sees himself in you. Afraid to need someone. Desperate to let anyone see any weakness.

He doesn’t know why you’re keeping it quiet. But he won’t confront you. He won’t make you explain. He’ll pretend he doesn’t know you’re sick, that he hasn’t seen what that can do to someone, even if it hurts him to watch you do it alone.

Opening up that part of himself reminds him of what happened the last time someone he cared about lived the way you do. And he can’t run away from the fact that he does care for you.

Words refuse to form.

“Why is this what it took?” you ask when he doesn’t respond.

“What?”

“Why did I have to be… like that for you to give a shit?”

Rafe breathes a sardonic chuckle. He’s given a shit about you for a long time.

He held your hand when you needed an anchor, told that annoying publicist to stop making you wear uncomfortable things, looked at your project for you and left you a note you haven’t even mentioned.

You need to be convinced that he cares. And he can’t do that without opening up wounds. Without telling you that he understands being angry at the world, because he lost his mother to something that drained her of who she was, because he’s seen what a person’s body not cooperating can do to them.

He can’t fault you for not wanting to admit it. There’s a lot he doesn’t want to admit to himself.

You shake your head, uneasy with his silence, unsure if this is hesitation or manipulation. The quiet feels like a trap.

“Say something. Did you know reporters were out there?” you mutter. “Did you set that up?”

His face hardens, temper flaring at the accusation.

“I followed you outside,” he says. you serious right now?”

You step back. It’s all so overwhelming, the fragile and contradicting sense of safety you feel with this man. You can’t let yourself fall for it. You can’t forgive him for the role he played in forcing you into this.

Last night was a wake-up call. Rafe is getting too close. He’s seeing too much. And you can’t allow it to continue.

“You shouldn’t have,” you say, your tone thin as you glare up at him.

“I shouldn’t have what?”

“You shouldn’t have followed me.”

He takes you in, every moment of the last three months running through his head. Your recklessness and defiance read differently now. All he can think is that someone needs to make you feel safe. That it needs to be him.

But it can’t be. You’re cold and angry and he realizes that you’ll always do this. You’ll always push him away. You’ll always look at him like this, like you loathe him, like you regret every single minute you share.

You told him you’d always hate him. You meant it. Whatever he thought you had isn’t there. You clearly regret showing him that side of you last night. And it stings like rejection. Worse.

It’s another thing he has in common with you. He hardly ever feels wanted, too. But this is not just in his head. You can’t stand him.

His lips firm into a tight line, and he nods stiffly before he leaves. He’s not going to make a fool of himself again.

You wish his walking away from you didn’t hurt. You tell yourself to get a grip. You’ve spent your entire life protecting yourself from people like Rafe.

And as you stand in quiet solitude once again, you remind yourself that you can’t fall for it. For him.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

You don’t take the risk of Rafe catching you in the middle of your monthly check-up again. This time, you head back to your family’s home to meet with your nurse.

You go through the motions, until Iris stops mid-sentence when she reads your blood pressure. You notice the crease in her forehead as she resets, wraps the cuff around you again, shuffles in her seat.

The monitor beeps when it flashes a number again. Her lips turn into a frown.

“Are you feeling anxious or upset?” she asks.

You hesitate before you nod, divulging the details of the episode you had a few nights ago, sharing how the stress of awaiting your exam results has been affecting you.

It’s so much more than that, but you have no choice but to lie.