pygmypuffs_

Sage’s words hung in the air, a blunt, harsh reality check that you desperately needed. She was right: the planned and articulated version of you that had done everything with Ethan, down to following his diet, was supposed to be gone. That girl that should have been buried under a pile of cardboard boxes and gold-embossed wedding invitations all those weeks ago.

“New fiancée,” you absentmindedly replied as you tried to squeeze a pair of sandals into the side of your suitcase. You whispered, “What if this is all a mistake?”

Sage’s expression softened quickly, her hand covering yours to comfort you. “Then it’ll be a mistake in Europe. And don’t you dare doubt yourself.” 

“It’s just not me!” You exclaimed while Sage rolled her eyes.

“Listen, I know that for the first time in your life, you're doing something completely insane. But maybe you need this to step out of your comfort zone!” She held up a swimsuit, eyebrow raised as she looked at you with a horrified look that crossed her face. “The first step being throwing this away.” 

“What’s wrong with it?” 

“No! Absolutely not.” You turned away towards your closet to collect more dresses to pack. A little twinge in your stomach pulsed as you pondered over the entire situation, if it’d even been the right thing to do after all these weeks. For the first two weeks after Rafe left that folder on your counter, you had completely frozen, as if touching it would’ve burnt you alive. It pained you not to know the contents of its package, but you knew it’d hurt you even more to see everything they would’ve done, while you were expected to move on as if the last eleven years were simply a snapshot that you never thought would mean so little. 

It wasn’t until one night that curiosity had gotten the best of you, leading to you typing Charlotte’s name into the search bar on Instagram. You should have removed every trace of them both to give them no access to your life, regardless of how much of a trainwreck it is behind the scenes. Yet still, you couldn’t bring yourself to cut that part off, perhaps out of nostalgia or that Charlotte had truly been nice to you, someone who’d held your hand as she’d laugh while retelling about a memory she’d shared with Ethan, or when she’d shown up at your doorstep with soup and medicine after you’d spent three days bedridden with the flu because Ethan had been away on a business trip.

Maybe that was what made it all hurt so much more.

It would’ve been easier if she’d been cruel, or if she’d been some villain that had deliberately set out to destroy your life. Instead, she had been woven into it, invited into your home for dinners and holidays like family, trusted with secrets and stories that you hadn’t shared with many others. She’d sat beside you while discussing wedding venues, smiled as you showed her photographs of dresses, and hugged you tightly when you told her how excited you were to spend the rest of your life with Ethan.

It barely registered in your mind as to what you’d been doing when you clicked on her profile, yet you immediately regretted that you’d done so. The image was still burned into the back of your eyelids. It was a photo of Ethan and Charlotte at a vineyard, the lighting perfectly golden. He was laughing, his arm draped around her waist in a way he used to hold you, while she looked at him like he was her entire world. The caption had read: The best chapters are the ones we never planned. Counting down the days. It was disgustingly adorable. 

It was a slap in the face when you saw your college best friend, one who was your friend before becoming yours and Ethan’s couple friend with her husband, looking like she’d be celebrating with them in the background. They weren't hiding; they were outright flaunting the life they’d supposedly “won”, yet stole from you and Rafe. 

That was the exact moment you had grabbed your phone, dialled the number in the folder, and told Rafe to count you in.

“Hey, earth to my nun of a roomie!” Sage’s voice snapped you out of the memory. You blinked, turning back around to see her tossing your old, sensible one-piece onto your bed with utter disdain. Before you could defend it, she lunged toward your closet, digging past the sweaters until she pulled out a hidden drawer at the very bottom.

“A-ha!” Sage emerged from your dresser with a triumphant grin, holding up multiple scraps of fabric that made your cheeks instantly flush.

It was a pile of striking, incredibly sultry bikinis you had bought on a total whim months ago during a late-night online shopping spree—and had promptly hidden away, too self-conscious to ever actually wear them around Ethan. Sage wriggled her eyebrows suggestively, dangling the small strings in front of your face. “Now this is what you pack for a euro-summer, babe. This screams ‘I am hot, single, and down for a rebound.’”

“Sage, oh my god, no. I am not wearing that,” you groaned, reaching for your one piece and putting it in, but she playfully swerved out of your sight.

“You absolutely are,” Sage insisted, shoving the bikinis directly into whatever space was in your suitcase. “Look, even if the whole sabotage plan goes sideways, you’re going to be under the Mediterranean sun. You need to put this in—even if it just means you get to hook up with some drop-dead gorgeous Italian or Greek guy to finally get over your ex-fiancé.”

She winked, leaning over your luggage. “Or, you know... there's always your partner in crime.”

“No, Sage, don't start,” you warned, though a nervous, electric flutter danced in your chest at the mere mention of Rafe. “He’s going through it too. The last thing we could ever do is hook up with each other. Plus, he doesn’t have the best…past.”

“And who told you that?” She queried, deadpan apparent in her tone. “The same guy who ended up with his fiancée?” Sage wasn’t wrong; it was a bit unfair to judge someone whom you’d barely known aside from the information Ethan had told you from a biased lens. It was obvious that he hadn’t approved of Rafe, often voicing his disapproval for him, which had you believing that perhaps he truly wasn’t worth your time. Though, ironically, looking at the evidence, Ethan was the one who turned out to be the only one who’d had you debating whether he was worth your time now.

"Fair point," you muttered, pulling the zipper around the suitcase, hopefully shutting any second thoughts of backing out as you finished packing. Sage firmly gripped your shoulders, the unwavering belief she had in you evident in the way she looked into your eyes. "Go have some fun, get your lick back from that man, and for once, do something that's just for you."

Your suitcase felt heavy in your hand as you dragged it along the polished marble tiles in the airport, the anticipation and anxiety of this whole ordeal you’d gotten in bubbling deep within your stomach. The whole Uber ride was constantly checking your ticket, along with that moment replaying in your head like a record over the chains of events that’d strung together, yet you still couldn’t comprehend how it’d even come to be. 

It was the only thing that could consume your mind at work while the numbers on your monitor stared tauntingly back at you—another reminder of him that’d been etched into your life. Math might’ve been okay for you; finance wasn’t too bad for you to bear either; however, it was never your forte nor something you’d found yourself particularly drawn to. It only made sense because of how Ethan had framed it, leading you to both pursue the same career, even if the little voice at the back of your head nagged for the opposite.

Your spiral down memory lane was abruptly stopped when a low, gravelly voice cut through that haze. “You’re late.” 

Leaning against the support columns near the check-in desk was an unmistakable figure, his sunglasses resting atop his head despite the airport being entirely indoors, one hand shoved into the pocket of his navy jacket, the other absentmindedly gripping his phone. Your breath hitched at the sight, perhaps that this was truly about to happen. 

“I’m twenty minutes early from when we agreed to meet,” you frowned, instinctively looking towards the large clock suspended above the departures board.

"Could've been earlier."

Your eyebrows knitted together. "Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed." 

He only shrugged before turning on his heel. "C'mon." 

You stared after him in disbelief before hurrying to catch up, your suitcase bumping against your ankle. By the time you reached the priority counter, Rafe was already handing over his passport. 

“We’re checking two bags,” he told the attendant, his voice carrying that effortless authority he always seemed to have. You reached into your tote bag, sliding your own passport and printed confirmation onto the sleek marble surface. “I’ve already checked in.”

“With what ticket?” Rafe asked, puzzled. 

“The one that I bought?”

Rafe froze, like the gears in his head had stopped turning, and blaring alarms came on instead. Slowly, he turned his head toward you, his sharp eyes narrowing behind his sunglasses. “...You what?”

“I… bought a ticket?” you replied, looking back at him as if the answer was obvious. "I'm sorry, am I confusing you?"

“No, I heard you.” His jaw clenched, a familiar stiffness taking over his shoulders. “I’m asking why.”

“Because it’s my ticket? It didn’t make sense for you to buy it.”

“The hell it didn’t.”

Beside you, the airline attendant suddenly found the keyboard in front of her incredibly interesting, her fingers typing rapidly to pretend she wasn't listening. You lowered your voice, stepping closer into Rafe's space, entirely aware of the expensive scent of his cologne cutting through the sterile, static airport air. It had you thinking about how much  “Rafe, you’ve already paid for the hotel, the ferries. Literally everything.”

“And?” he challenged, leaning a hand on the counter.

“My point is that I’m perfectly capable of paying for my own flight. I'm not a charity case.”

Rafe let out a sharp breath through his nose, running a hand over his buzzed hair before looking away toward the terminal windows. “Jesus Christ. D’you know how that looks? It looks like I dragged someone halfway across the world and made her pay for her own seat.”

You let out a small, bitter scoff, the exhausting weight of the last seven weeks making you bold. “Who cares what a bunch of strangers think?”

“I do,” the answer came so fast, so raw, it caught you entirely off guard. Rafe met your eyes again, his expression unreadable, stripped of his usual arrogance and instead, leaving something deeply frustrated underneath. Ward’s voice always echoed in the back of his head, demanding perfection, someone who was a natural leader, a man of status to match the prestige their family’s name held. To Rafe, letting you pay felt like a direct blow to his capability rather than an inconvenience. “I asked you to come, so ’m paying.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“You’re impossible,” you muttered, your grip tightening around the strap of your tote bag.

“Me?” Rafe let out a humourless laugh, stepping into your space. “You act like letting someone do something for you is going to kill you. What is it with you and letting people take care of you?”

You shifted your weight, the cool, sterile air conditioning of the airport suddenly feeling suffocating. “I don't like owing people. I don't like being in debt.”

Rafe studied you for a long moment, his gaze tracking the defensive, rigid line of your shoulders, the slight tremble of your lower lip, and the stubbornness that wouldn’t crack. The heaviness of his gaze made you double down on him, your own expression mirroring his studying one as you refused to let yourself succumb to whatever Rafe had been trying to emphasize otherwise.

“You don’t have to do everything the way Ethan did.”

Your head snapped up, the mention of your ex hitting you like a physical slap. “What?”

“If the guy made you split every single bill or made you feel like a burden every time he spent a dime, that’s his problem,” Rafe said, his tone entirely matter-of-fact. “You’re here with me. So next time, let me pay for the damn ticket.”

For the first time since he’d stormed into your apartment, you found yourself completely speechless. You could only stare at him, your heart hammering against your ribs as the weight of his words settled over you, unsure if you had the energy to defend your moral ground or fight Rafe for assuming anything.

The silence stretched between you until the airline attendant cautiously cleared her throat, breaking the spell. “...Sir, ma'am? Would either of you like to check those bags?”

Your heads snapped towards the attendant, an embarrassed flush making you feel hot while Rafe cleared his throat and nodded. “Yeah, just uh-get those checked in.”

With not a word spoken to each other, you and Rafe made your way onto the airplane, only to go part ways upon climbing aboard, with Rafe headed towards the front while you made your way to the back. Being in economy had never bothered you, and seeing your dispute with Rafe having gone south, it felt better not to have to face the one person you’d be stuck with for the next few days. But as your back hit the cushioned seat, the plane’s wing in your sight from the window, you were forced to remember how you ended up here, or the irony of your situation. 

“But Italy is so overrated, and there’s barely anything exciting there,” Ethan exclaimed as you flipped through a travel magazine. The bright blues of the water and the small passages that could hold more value than they were intended for appealed to you, even if they were just ink on a page in front of you. “I think you’d like it more in Australia, trust me, it’ll be so much better.” 

“Italy’s pretty fun too, though, like here! Look at the Emerald Grotto!” You pointed at its image, though the disdain on Ethan’s face was pretty telling otherwise. 

“Australia has the same thing.” 

You looked back down at the photograph, mulling over the fact that it probably did.

“Really?”

“Probably better.”

"Oh." You looked back down at the magazine before offering him a small smile. "Then Australia it is." With one last look at the page, you pondered whether you’d ever get to go, but pushed that thought away because perhaps he was right. Australia had so much to offer that perhaps one place could never, or so you told yourself as you forced yourself to flip the page, trying to forget the idea of spending the summer in someplace that was almost everything.

Yet now, you found yourself on a flight to the same exact place he’d been bashing about, only for him to agree to go with someone else. Someone else who wasn’t you, someone who you hadn’t ever felt insecure of until now.

The hazy Italian sun flooded through the tiny airplane window, a stark contrast to the sterile fluorescent lighting of the cabin. The humid air of Rome wrapped itself around you the moment you stepped out of the airplane, replacing the stale, recycled air from inside with the energy that made you feel lighter than you’d been for the past two months. The scent of espresso drifted from a nearby cafe, mixing with the warmth of the sun-soaked pavement and the subtle note of cigarettes, yet somehow, it made everything feel more vibrant than home. It was all so surreal, and for a brief moment, you forgot why you were here in the first place. 

Before even landing, you’d noticed the terracotta rooftops peeking out from under the plane as you flew above them, your parents’ voices suddenly surfacing in the back of your mind as they reminisced about the summer they’d spent lazing through Italy before you’d been born. They'd always promised they'd take you one day, your mother insisting you'd fall in love with the little cafés hidden between cobblestone streets while your father swore you'd spend more money on gelato than souvenirs.

If only you’d had the chance with Ethan. 

By the time you navigated your way through customs and dragged your feet toward the baggage claim carousel, the jet lag was already starting to settle heavily into your bones. The area was a chaotic sea of weary travellers, with drifted conversations in both Italian and other languages flowing effortlessly around you, though Rafe was impossible to miss. He was already standing right at the edge of the moving belt, his dark sunglasses back on, looking completely unaffected by the nine-hour flight.

As you finally caught up to him, your mouth opened to say something, but the words died in your throat when you noticed the rigid, lethal stillness in his posture. He was staring intently at a pair of matching, designer leather suitcases that had just tumbled onto the carousel. They were unmistakable; large, monogrammed, and the luggage tags showed to be none other than Charlotte’s and Ethan’s, with their names embossed in the same gold tone.

Before you could even process the sheer coincidence of their bags arriving on an earlier connection, Rafe stepped forward. His movements were swift, practiced even, with not a sliver of hesitation. He reached down, hoisting Ethan’s heavy bag off the belt with one hand. With a quick, violent flick of his wrist, he ripped the personalized leather name tag right off the handle. He didn't stop there, grabbing Charlotte's bag and tearing her tag off too, tossing both pieces of plastic into a nearby trash bin without a single shred of remorse.

Sure, it was cruel, but something in Rafe made it feel more cruel to him that Charlotte had discarded their relationship, left him behind, and still willingly went ahead with the plan that he’d done for her. Perhaps the first time he’d done for anyone, purely out of making an effort to show his love for her.  

“Rafe!” you gasped, your eyes widening as you looked around the crowded terminal, panic surging through you. “What are you doing? Someone’s going to see you!”

“Let them look,” Rafe muttered, his voice a low, venomous rumble as he deliberately pushed both of their untagged bags off the moving carousel, sending them sliding aimlessly onto the concrete floor behind a massive pillar where they’d be completely obscured from view. He turned to you, a dark, chaotic glint in his eyes. “Good luck to them trying to find those anytime soon. Let's go.”

Your heart hammered against your ribs, a mix of adrenaline and terror coursing through your veins as you remembered that this was truly happening. You didn’t even have time to recover before Rafe gripped your elbow, steering you firmly through the sliding glass doors of the arrival terminal and into the bustling, humid Italian air. A crowd of private drivers stood behind a barricade, holding up signs with various surnames printed on them. Rafe’s eyes scanned the crowd like a hawk until they locked onto a man in a sharp black suit holding a sleek white placard that read in bold, black letters: CAMERON.

“Still can’t believe she was going to go on MY dime,” Rafe muttered and shook his head before marching you both forth toward the man. “C'mon, keep up.” 

The driver’s face instantly lit up with a warm, professional smile the moment he took in Rafe’s expensive jacket and your presence beside him. “Buongiorno! Mr. Cameron? And the beautiful new bride, Mrs. Cameron?” the driver asked in a thick, melodic Italian accent, gesturing toward a luxurious black Mercedes idling at the curb.

“Oh, we’re no-”

“Yes,” Rafe interjected before you could finish your sentence, and immediately, your head snapped towards him in astonishment. The lie slid smoothly from his mouth, his voice dripping with an effortless charm that was sure to have anyone falling for him. “That’s us.” Your breath hitched, and it only got worse when you felt Rafe’s hand slide down to wrap firmly around yours, his fingers intertwining with yours in a tight, warning grip that silenced you instantly.

“Ah, meraviglioso! Congratulations to you both!” The driver beamed, stepping forward to take your suitcase. But before he opened the car door, he paused, reaching into his breast pocket and pulling out a small, beautifully wrapped velvet box tied with a satin ribbon. He handed it directly to you with a respectful bow. “A complimentary welcome gift from the hotel. We wish for you to have this the moment you touch down in Italy to celebrate your marriage.”

You held the heavy velvet box in your hands, the plush material pressing into your palms as you looked from the driver to the sleek car. You glanced up at Rafe, whose jaw was clenched tight, though a victorious, razor-sharp smirk played on his lips. You were officially holding the gift meant for the woman who stole your fiancé, sitting in the car meant to take them to paradise. There was no turning back now; you were completely in the driver's seat of their stolen life.

The second the driver disappeared to load the luggage into the trunk, you turned to Rafe. “You didn’t cancel any of your reservations?” You frowned. “How’d she know you had them booked in the first place?” 

Rafe, who was completely engrossed in looking out the window, looked back at you with a somewhat satisfied smirk on his face. “I was going to until I saw her email inbox. She’d been forwarding every confirmation to herself.” 

He said it so matter-of-factly that it almost made you forget just how invasive that sounded. “She never changed the password.”

“So... you read all of them?”

Rafe let out a dry laugh, but he couldn’t tell himself if it was out of pity for him or how dumb she’d been to overlook such a thing. “It wasn’t like I was going looking for recipes, now was I?”

“You know...” he continued, “at first I was pissed.”

“At first?”

“I was gonna cancel every booking she had.”

You blinked. “You were?”

“Mhm.”

“And then?”

His smirk widened. “Then I realized she'd already be expecting that.” The corners of your lips twitched despite yourself.

“So instead,” he continued, turning back towards you, “I figured it'd be a hell of a lot more fun if we just... beat 'em to everything. Like how they’re losing their shit right now.”

Following Rafe’s finger pointed at the airport behind the windows, you could see a poor desk attendant having to deal with exasperated people who’d been arguing with him. It was none other than Ethan and Charlotte, luggageless, while Ethan’s one vein began to bulge how it always did when he was distressed. You found yourself enjoying it more than you should have, a laugh escaping before you managed to bite it back, “Oh my god.” 

It was then, when the car drove away, you found yourself almost feeling bad for how much trouble Rafe had already put them through. Yet, for the first time in what felt like forever, laughing at it didn’t make you feel guilty.

It probably should have been obvious that for a honeymoon, Rafe would’ve booked a honeymoon suite, yet neither of you had realized it would be a bedroom you’d have to share. The bed, which was bigger than four of your twin-sized beds combined, had a huge bouquet of roses, with a note that had a congratulatory message written on it. Just beyond that was a terrace with a whole overview of the private estate's lush Roman gardens, the distant, sun-drenched rooftops of the historic city stretching out beneath a pale blue sky.

It was breathtaking, romantic even, yet everything that probably shouldn’t have been experienced with Rafe by your side. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you whispered, your voice echoing off the vaulted, white-washed ceilings of the villa.

Your eyes slowly travelled from the majestic view back to the single, massive bed dominating the center of the room. The sheer white canopy netting hung elegantly around it, and the sprawling arrangement of blood-red roses sat right in the middle of the silk sheets like a glaring red flag. Behind you, the heavy wooden door clicked shut. Rafe dropped his duffel bag onto the terracotta tiled floor with a dull thud and tossed his sunglasses onto a nearby marble console table, his eyes sweeping over the room with a sudden, rigid tension that hadn't been there a moment ago.

He picked up the cream-colored card resting against the vase, his eyes scanning the elegant cursive. A cold, bitter laugh escaped his lips. “‘May your love bloom as beautifully as the coast. Warmest wishes to the happy couple, Mr. and Mrs. Cameron.’ Happy my ass.” Rafe said, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly rumble as he walked toward the bed. He ripped the card in half, tossing the pieces carelessly onto the mattress to kill the reminder of who Mrs. Cameron was supposed to be in this case. 

“Rafe, there’s only one bed,” you pointed out, the panic finally breaking through your jet-lagged haze. Your heart did a strange, erratic flip against your ribs as you thought of what would inevitably have to happen if there wasn’t another bed. “When you said we were booting them out of your reservations, I thought you meant we’d have separate rooms. A suite usually has a pull-out couch, or a second bedroom, or—"

“Darlin’, this is the honeymoon suite,” Rafe interrupted, his tone entirely matter-of-fact as he turned to face you. He loosened the top button of his shirt, the sharp lines of his jaw tight as he observed how on edge you were. As the fabric shifted, the afternoon light spilling through the terrace doors caught against the tanned skin just beneath his collar, your eyes lingering for a fraction too long before you forced yourself to look away. “There are no other rooms. This is what I paid for when it was supposed to be a honeymoon.”

You stared at him dumbfoundedly, your heart spiking in both frustration and confusion at Rafe’s reaction to the lack of space for you both, while the reality of the situation was crashing down on you. You were thousands of miles away from home, in a country Ethan had told you wasn't worth visiting, about to share a bed with Rafe Cameron—a man who was currently acting as the architect of a chaotic revenge plot.

“I can go ask the front desk if they have a vacancy,” you muttered, already half-turning back toward the door, your middle-class instinct to fix the problem kicking in. “I can pay for a standard room. It’s fine, I’ll just—”

“Nah, nah, nah. Not this shit again,” Rafe snapped, his hand shooting out to catch your wrist. His grip wasn't painful, but it was firm, the warmth of his hand sending an unfamiliar current up your arm that you immediately hated yourself for noticing. It had only been a touch, one meant to stop you from walking away, yet your body had reacted as though it had forgotten whose hand it belonged to. 

He stepped closer, towering over you, the expensive scent of his cologne completely overtaking the room's lemon-scented air. “There are no vacancies. This is peak season in the country, and frankly, I’m not lettin’ you spend your money on some subpar room when my name is on the deed for this entire place for the next four days.”

You looked up at him, breathless at the sheer intensity he held in the cerulean hues of his eyes. “So what do you suggest we do, Rafe? Just sleep together? Like it's nothing?”

Rafe’s gaze dropped to your lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back to your eyes, as if he were considering it. He would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about it sporadically, sometimes lying at night, wondering if you’d be needing someone’s touch more intimately. Except, you were currently getting on his nerves a lot more than you did before, which made it hard to desire. 

“We’re adults,” he said softly, a dangerous, low cadence taking over his voice as his fingers slowly uncurled from your wrist. “The bed is huge. Jus’ keep t’your side, I’ll keep t’mine. We’re here to do a job, remember? Don't let a piece of furniture make you chicken out now.”

Neither of you moved. The breeze drifting through the terrace doors stirred the sheer canopy overhead, carrying the scent of citrus blossoms from the gardens below. Somewhere in the distance, church bells rang across the city, yet neither of you seemed capable of looking away first.

It was you who broke eye contact, stepping around him toward your suitcase with a muttered, "I'm taking the left side." Rafe let out a quiet hum behind you. "Wasn't gonna argue with you, Angel."

You rolled your eyes at the nickname, already irritated by how effortlessly he got under your skin, yet somehow still unable to decide whether his lack of protest was disappointing or relieving.

“This is where they’re supposed to be in a bit for their reservations,” Rafe said matter-of-factly after looking up from his phone screen. He looked to see you fidgeting with the side of your dress as you stared at the restaurant, uneasiness radiating from you. “Hey, uh- y’don’t need to stress ‘bout it.” 

You stopped twisting the fabric of your dress, cutting your eyes toward him with a flat, unimpressed look. "I'm not stressing, Rafe, I'm just… calculating the risk of everything." You levelled him with a firm gaze, making sure he knew you weren't about to fold or scurry off to hide the second things got real. "If we're committing to this, we can’t fuck this up."

Rafe’s lips twitched, a sudden, genuinely amused gleam cutting through his serious demeanour. "Fair enough, but you're wit' me. Nothing's gonna happen."

The nervous flutter in your stomach didn't fully melt until the hostess led you out onto the main terrace. The second your heels hit the stone floor, it was as if the air in your lungs were suddenly gone. The view was entirely unfair for the current circumstances you’d come here for. The restaurant was carved directly into the cliffside, hanging over a sea that looked like liquid sapphire under the setting sun. Below, the historic rooftops of the coastal town glowed in warm, golden hues, and the soft strumming of a mandolin drifted through the air, almost exactly how you’d imagined it, yet more. 

"Oh my god," you breathed, completely forgetting to be on guard for a split second. "I gotta hand it to her, she’s got taste."

"Yeah," Rafe murmured, though when you glanced at him, he wasn't looking at the sunset. He was scanning the layout of the patio, checking the perimeter like a man preparing for a casino heist. Once seated at a prime, frontline table overlooking the water, a waiter in a crisp white tuxedo slid two heavy, leather-bound menus into your hands. “Buonasera. May I start you with some wine, or are we ready to order?”

You opened the menu, your eyes scanning the Italian words as a sudden, deeply annoying wave of blankness washed over you. For all these years, your culinary identity had been entirely dictated by Ethan. 'We don't like seafood, remember, babe? Let's just share the truffle pasta.' You realized with a sickening jolt that you didn't even know what you liked to eat anymore because of how long you’d spent adapting to his preferences to keep the peace; your own personality had completely stalled.

"We'll do the Branzino al Forno," Rafe spoke up smoothly, not even looking at his menu. "And a bottle of the '21 Brunello."

The waiter nodded, pen poised. "And for the lady?"

“She’ll have the lemon risotto, but hold the capers.” Rafe froze immediately after the words left his mouth, while you blinked, staring across the table at him, lowering your menu. The second instinct he had to immediately jump to this order stunned him, the memory of it all making him peeved. “Actually, what do you want?”

You looked at him, just as ashamed as you softly replied, "I don't know."  A heavy, incredibly ironic silence settled over the table. You were a blank slate, entirely stunted by Ethan’s control, and Rafe was a carbon copy of Charlotte’s ghost, ordering her favourite dishes out of sheer, co-dependent habit. You were two fractured people trying to play roles that didn't even belong to you.

The waiter stood awkwardly between the two of you, clearly unsure of what was happening. "...Would you like another minute?" 

“No, it’s uhm, okay. I’ll try the risotto, but keep the capers please.” The waiter disappeared, causing silence to settle on the table that was heavy with shame and guilt. Somehow, between the two of you, neither one actually knew what they liked. Not because you'd never had the chance to discover it, but because somewhere along the way, the people you'd loved had quietly started deciding for you.

“To be honest, I don’t think I’ve ever ordered for myself,” you confessed to Rafe, not really caring if he’d been listening or not. “Ethan mostly did it because his diet was more complicated and ‘better’, whatever that meant, so I guess it was safer just to follow that.”

Rafe let out a quiet breath through his nose before shaking his head once. "Jesus." A humourless smile crossed his face while rubbing a hand across his jaw. "I don't think I have either."

"You literally just did."

"I wasn't orderin' for me." His gaze drifted toward the view, a distant look in his eyes. "I was orderin' what Charlotte would've gotten."

Before you could say anything, Rafe reached across the table, straightening the candle before adjusting the position of your wine glass by less than an inch.

"What?" He asked, suddenly feeling hotter under your analyzing gaze as you watched him.

"Nothing."

He smoothed down the front of his jacket, adjusted the watch on his wrist, then glanced around the restaurant for what felt like the tenth time since you'd sat down. You couldn't quite figure out what he was looking for, or why he cared so much. Suddenly, a rise in voices and its ensuing commotion near the hostess stand caught your attention, causing you both to look in that direction. Through the small gap between people and their menus raised, you saw them.

Ethan and Charlotte walked onto the terrace looking like they’d been to hell and back. Their clothes were wrinkled, their hair was windblown from the coastal air, and Ethan was clearly carrying the stress of their previous mishap, his face red from the humid trek up the cliffside steps. But to your surprise, they were still clearly in love—Ethan was murmuring an apology, his hand resting against the small of her back—but the romantic illusion was definitely cracked.

“I hate to say this, but I feel bad that their trip started off this way,” You confessed, taking in the way her hand was wrapped around his arm, as Ethan’s eyes looked at her with a glimmer of love. Even with it all, you somewhat found it adorable how they’d still managed to find comfort in each other, not letting the circumstances affect them. 

Rafe looked at you before looking in their direction, seeing the amount of love you still held for Ethan in your eyes as your pupils widened with a glint of bittersweet that made it obvious that you were replaying the moments when it’d been you and Ethan in that exact position. He’d seen it one too many times at every backyard barbecue, every social event, at any and every setting your paths would cross, and yet, no part of him questioned if Charlotte had ever looked at him with that same gaze. Because for some reason, he knew she didn’t. 

Then, looking at the two, he couldn’t help but tense under how Charlotte had eased into Ethan’s touch, while most of the time, she was usually stiff under his. The realization was enough to make his stomach turn as he recounted all the times in the past two years that he’d told himself that she wasn’t affectionate, that physical touch was simply not her thing. That she showed love differently, and he was asking for too much every time he'd reached for her hand only to be met with frigidness and a polite smile. Even in their dishevelled, agitated state, she leaned into him like he was her gravity, a natural reflex that Rafe had never managed to evoke from her no matter how many luxury vacations or diamonds he threw her way.

He shifted his gaze back to you, watching the way your lower lip trembled slightly before you bit it down, forcing the bittersweet nostalgia back into the shadows where it belonged. A sudden, unfamiliar spike of resentment flared in his chest, not at Ethan, but at the sheer injustice of it all. You were sitting here, practical and sharp, holding onto a love that had been completely weaponized against you. On the other hand, he was sitting across from you, drowning in the phantom echoes of a relationship that had probably been a lie from the very first page.

Rafe tore his eyes away from them with a scoff, shaking his head once as if the movement alone could rid him of the sight. “Nah, fuck that. I’m hoping they get food poisoning from this place.”

“Rafe!” You giggled at his bluntness, making Rafe smile despite his mind saying otherwise. “That’s excessive!”

“Yeah? Well, it’s either that or them getting an STD-they’re coming this way. Look the other way!” Rafe reached for your hands, your nimble fingers finding a place in his palm as he rubbed his thumbs across your fingers in a loving manner. For the first time all evening, the knot sitting in your chest loosened just enough that you forgot—if only for a few seconds—that the two people sitting twenty feet away had once been the center of your entire worlds.

"I don't understand why our reservation was pushed back an hour," Charlotte complained in her honey-like voice as they were led past your table toward a cramped, dark corner near the kitchen doors. "And we were supposed to have a water view!"

“It’s okay, honey. We'll make the best of it,” Ethan soothed her, making you roll your eyes at their calm demeanours.

As they disappeared into the back corner, Rafe turned back, a victorious, entirely chaotic smirk spreading across his handsome features as he snapped his fingers, gesturing the waiter back over. 

"Sir?" the waiter asked politely.

Rafe leaned in, "The couple that just sat back by the kitchen—the Americans. Send them a complimentary bottle of this.” He pointed at the menu. “And tell them it's a special gift from the kitchen to celebrate their... delay."

“I must advise you, sir. That is very bitter; they’ll have a headache in two sips.”

“I know,” Rafe smirked, sliding a crisp hundred-euro note across the tablecloth with practiced ease. The waiter’s eyes widened slightly at the bill, but he smoothly pocketed it with a respectful nod. “Right away”

You watched the waiter walk off, then turned your gaze back to Rafe, who was looking entirely pleased with himself. You leaned back in your chair, crossing your arms as you studied him. "You know, for someone who claims he doesn't care about anything, you are deeply obsessed with how the world sees you. And getting revenge."

Rafe’s smirk only grew bigger at the mention of it. "It keeps me alive."

“You got nothing else to live for?” You raised your eyebrows.

“It’s either that or making my dad proud.” 

“Doesn’t it get suffocating though?” You challenged, the analytical side of your brain digging in. “Trying to fit into a box?”

The question hung heavily in the air, thick and uncomfortable. Rafe didn't answer; he just stared at you, his eyes dark and unreadable, the sudden wall between you growing ten feet high. The reality was that you didn't really know each other, which made you feel worse about pushing it. You were just two tragic casualties of the same war, forced into a beautiful place under terrible circumstances.

The rest of the dinner was a quiet, slightly awkward affair, with small talk about how the food was good. You ate your risotto—which, ironically, you actually enjoyed—and watched from afar as Ethan took a sip of the terrible house wine, his face instantly twisting in disgust while Charlotte had a grimace on her face that she tried to mask as pleasure.

You found yourself looking into the bathroom mirror, trying to think of all the ways you could stall getting into the same bed as Rafe for the night. The nightly skincare routine was scattered on the bathroom counter and had all been applied with five minutes for each step, trying to delay every second you’d have to face him after awkwardly ending whatever banter you both had going on. 

With a deep breath, you looked up to the sky, eyes closed as you pleaded, “Please let him be asleep. Or hooking up with another woman in their room. Or anywhere but here.” 

As you stepped back into the room with whatever false confidence you could muster up, you looked to see Rafe, shirtless as he lay on the bed in his pyjama pants, scrolling absentmindedly on his phone. But once Rafe glanced up, for a second, he forgot what he'd been reading.

The pale satin of your pyjama set caught the warm glow from the bedside lamps, the fabric shifting with every hesitant step you took toward the bed. It wasn't revealing by any means, yet something about the way it draped over you so effortlessly made it impossible for him to look away. You looked softer than you'd been all day, more like the woman he'd watched laugh across the dinner table rather than the one who'd spent the afternoon arguing with him at every opportunity.

He cleared his throat, forcing his eyes back down to his phone before you caught him staring.

"You took forever."

You rolled your eyes. "I was hoping you'd disappeared by now."

"Yeah?"

"Mhm."

"Mmm, tough luck, Angel."

A quiet smile tugged at your lips upon hearing the nickname, despite yourself. You climbed onto the opposite side of the bed, making a dramatic effort to keep as much distance between the two of you as humanly possible. The mattress dipped beneath your weight. For a moment, neither of you said anything, the awkwardness of the situation feeling more apparent than ever.

You reached over to switch off the lamp before pausing.

"You know," you said quietly, turning back to see Rafe already looking at you, "today could've gone a lot worse."

"We're still alive."

"I was thinking more along the lines of not getting caught."

"We didn't."

"No thanks to you stealing their driver."

"Aye, they weren't usin' him."

You let out a small laugh, shaking your head.

"You're truly something else."

"I've heard."

Silence settled over the room again, though this time it wasn't nearly as uncomfortable. You found yourself stealing a glance in his direction. The dim light softened the sharpness that usually lived in his features. Without the tailored shirts and expensive watches he'd worn all day, he looked different from all the times you had seen him; he looked younger and more relaxed. Less like the polished businessman he'd spent years trying to become, and more like himself, even if you hadn’t met that version yet.

The thought caught you off guard, making you quickly turn your attention toward the ceiling. Beside you, Rafe turned back to stare stubbornly at his phone screen, though he hadn't read a single word in the last minute. 

Jesus Christ, he thought to himself. He needed to stop looking at you in the light he was seeing you in right now. This was temporary anyway. You were temporary. You were just the girl he'd been dragged into this ridiculous revenge scheme with, nothing more, nothing less.

"Night," he muttered, finally locking his phone before setting it on the bedside table.

"Good night," you whispered back, turning towards the balcony door to see the tinge from the street lights glow from under. For what felt like an eternity, the only sounds were the distant hum of Rome beyond the doors and the quiet rustling of sheets every time one of you shifted, both painfully aware that there was another person only a few feet away.

Eventually, the steady rhythm of breathing replaced the silence. Tomorrow was another day, another opportunity to ruin their day, yet you hadn’t realized how much you dreaded doing it with the stranger sleeping on the other side of the bed.

dividers: @cursed-carmine @saradika-graphics

taglist update!!!: hi all, i mean this with my heart when i say I truly get so happy when see any of you asking to be on the taglist for eys. unfortunately, i’ll have to close the taglist solely because its getting hard for me to maintain, as i’m writing on top of working a corporate job which has become more demanding as i’ve gotten promoted. if you’d like to stay on the taglist, all I ask is that you interact with the chapters posted (even if it’s simply a like). otherwise, feel free to have the notifications on my my notif blog @starkeyscumdoll on to be updated. i'm so sorry to disappoint anyone and thank you for understanding! :’)

Outside the restaurant and not on the second floor, you can finally breathe again, watching the city come alive with its vehicle rush and streetlight hum. 

Next to you, your tattooed savior takes a long hit of his vape, and you run a hand across the thin gold chain around your neck. 

Without your permission, another memory slips through your defenses. 

Hands grabbing a string of gold from a nightstand make you ache, because you remember what comes next. As soon as it’s clipped onto a slim neck, you can see the necklace lower, and lower, right before you angle your mouth up to take it between your—

“Fuck.” 

Jeongguk whips his head your way right as force your eyes open. “You okay? What’s wrong?” 

You didn’t even fucking realize they were shut tight until light flooded out your unwanted nostalgia. Fuck, you hadn’t thought of that summer afternoon in years. Your reaction was visceral enough to spurn an oncoming headache. “Nothing,” you whoosh out. “What time is it?” 

“Almost time to head over to Lo Prohibido.” Gripping his phone, the man asks with concern, “You sure you’re good to go?” 

Head pulsing, you nod. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just dehydrated.” 

Unconvinced, Jeongguk cocks his head to the door. “Then let’s go back inside. I know your new friend is waiting, but you gotta drink water.” 

“Don’t,” you groan. “He’s cute, but I got the biggest ick like halfway in.” 

Your amused savior giggles as he holds the door open, “You lasted a lot longer than I thought you would.” 

Laughing, you give his jacketed arm a playful shove as you look down the street. “I’m nice, okay? Don’t—”

Your heart. 

It booms. 

In an instant, the whole world seems to flow in a blur around you, lights making solid, serpentine lines and people multiplying into obscure, indiscernible shapes. 

The only one you can see. The only person you can make out with perfect clarity. 

Is the one you’ve been trying your fucking hardest to not remember. 

Staring right at you with eyes you’ll never, ever forget. 

-

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tbc!

hi lovelies are we ready !! | main masterlist

a/n: HERE WE GOOOO first new fic in literal years :')) seriously can't believe this is happening just based on one (1) outfit!!!!! goodbye army goodbye world bangtan forever <333 it's gonna be filth city

a/n 2: comment if you wanna be tagged + what you're looking forward to!

⚓︎ prologue ⚓︎

ch. 1 

ch. 2

ch. 3 

ch. 4

ch. 5  pt. 1

ch. 5  pt. 2

ch. 6  pt. 1

ch. 6  pt. 2

ch. 7

ch. 8  pt. 1

ch. 8  pt. 2

ch. 9  pt. 1

ch. 9  pt. 2 

ch. 9  pt. 3

Extras⋆.˚𓇼

high school flashback 

hoping