RAFE CAMERONin S03E06 THE DARK FORESTNot Really, Rafe. It Could Be One Of A Very Few People.

RAFE CAMERON in S03E06 THE DARK FOREST Not really, Rafe. It could be one of a very few people.

💌 Send this to the twelve nicest people you know or who seem to have a good heart and if you get five back you must be pretty awesome. 💌 ❤️❤️❤️

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Stop this is one of the best things that ever happened to me, the queen of tumblr in my inbox!!I’m literally in love with you🥺🥺🥺🥺 and your work is incredible by the way and it deserves all the appreciation in the world ❤️❤️

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And isn't it just so pretty to think?

All along there was some / Invisible string / Tying you to me?

wc 9.4k

a/n this Rafe is softer than my usual, so divergent from canon it’s kind of embarrassing. I hope you love him anyway. Because I do. He’s so 🥺

When you’re seven and a half years old, you make a playground pact with your best friend and neighbour, Kiara Carrera. 

It’s reinforced with twined pinky fingers and homemade friendship bracelets, the red and gold cotton floss shiny and half-hitched. 

I won’t leave the Outer Banks, never ever, you say, solemn eyes to the sky, legs crossed over itchy bark. And you repeat those words a few times, voice low and conspiratorial, the recess clamour like white noise against the backdrop of your conviction.

It doesn’t matter that she’s younger than you are, less sage, with a larger house to return to and shinier toys on her bed. When you attend the same elementary school, are afforded the same lunch-time break, social structure appears a menial concept — Kiara Carrera is your neighbour, and therefore she is your best friend. Six and three quarters with unkempt hair and a missing tooth, she echoes your sentiment with a hand on her heart, the other connected to yours, a sacred finger wreath.

Later, when you’re satisfied with your pinky promise enchantment, you steal away to a hidden corner of the playground to continue scheming.

Rafe Cameron and his friends, two grades above you, take over the hallowed spot to organise a game of Lava. It’s how, unbeknownst to him, even more so to you, a loose strand of red string gets caught in a sneaker groove. He brings it home with him, forgotten friendship bracelet floss, the same type of thread used to embroider the promise on your wrist.

Arguably, this is where your story begins.

It takes several more—fourteen, exactly—years for this fact to become obvious.

You’re twenty-one years old when you return to the Outer Banks for good. Driving the same, beaten-down Honda Civic with worn tires and a crooked bumper — you’d snagged it secondhand from a mechanic your father knew, its disposal at the hands of a Kook who deemed it decrepit. Something about how his kin deserved a newer model, the shiniest vehicle on the block, the car they’d used to practice on now your mainstay means of transportation. 

Not that you minded, of course. As someone who had always toed the line between Kook and Pogue, the class war had never been something that piqued any overt vehemence. You were perfectly content with your humble, middle-class roots; they’d provided you with the means to a good education, summer jobs galore, a roof over your head and food on the table that didn’t feel too much like a chore.

The callow freedom to decorate a reasonably sized bedroom, still embellished with the dangling fairy lights, glossy posters of your youth. It’s strange, being grown and surrounded by forgotten trinkets. The sun shines through a small crack in your curtains, lemon-yellow light that stripes your face with bittersweet nostalgia. 

You drop your belongings to the ground and make your way to the window, unlatching it to free a swell of stale air. Outside, the scenery is violently suburban — trim hedges and picket fences, winding streets of melted asphalt. Sticky honey-suckle in the air, distant traffic rivalling the trill of cicadas. You may reside within just another, run-of-the-mill American neighbourhood, but there’s magic in the thin wafer of sea in the horizon; nothing beats an Outer Banks summer, and of that you’ve always been certain.

Your gaze lingers over glimmering blue before it’s dropping again, falling onto the pavement just as someone there detects your presence.

When Kiara’s parents enrolled her into the Academy instead of Kildare High, you were understandably inconsolable at the prospect of starting afresh. She’d been your trusted confidant since before you’d had secrets to share; making brand new friends was a terrifying concept, one thirteen-year-old you definitely wasn’t ready to accept. But time doesn’t make allowances for anyone, as you’d come to realise — freshman year came and went, lack of best friend notwithstanding, and you managed to survive it the same way you would sophomore year, junior and senior year following. When she did finally transfer to Kildare High, growing pains and teenage ailments hindered any meaningful reconnection. Friends without the consigliere title — menial small-talk friends, the acquaintances you greet in the hallway between periods. 

History enough to make your wistful chest ache, not so great that you’re debilitated by a plaintive sense of regret.

She meets your gaze with a surprised smile on her face, any prior ambivalence giving way to affable delight. Two untidy plaits frame her otherwise flawless face, the rest of her brunette hair tucked behind sunburnt ears. Streaks of paler bronze shine in the sun. 

“No way!” She exclaims loudly, cupping one hand around her mouth. The other crimps the cardboard box of beers in her hand, curled under her arm and pressed into her side. “When the fuck did you get home?”

Beside her, a girl you recognise as Sarah Cameron furrows her brow. She’s wearing frayed denim shorts and a white baby tee, her silky blonde tresses lifting up in the breeze. The converse on her feet are pristine white, untouched. 

“Like,” you squint down at your watch, its polished face glaring in the sun, “ten minutes ago.”

Kiara nods approvingly, grinning up at you. “For summer break?”

“For good,” you correct, and then you balk, weak stomach lurching. Saying it out loud makes everything feel that much more real. 

The Outer Banks end-game, settling down and starting a family. You’ve always known that this is where you wanted to end up, but the prospect of getting started—of a ground-up, suburban conception—has your poor gut knotting, abdomen in stitches.

Job-hunting, check. House-hunting, check. Significant-other hunting… a burdensome detail. You haven’t quite hacked the art of sifting through the duds on dating apps.

Kiara’s eyes widen in surprise, her soft jaw slackening. “You’re kidding,” she says, disbelief evident on her features. “Why?”

“Shit, Kiara, the Outer Banks isn’t all bad,” you respond, breathing out a diffident laugh. “I’ve always liked it here.”

Kiara makes a face, sharing a look with Sarah beside her. “To live? Forever?”

“Well.” You pause, you shrug abashedly. One of your hands lifts to your face, knuckles scrubbing over your cheek. “I don’t know, yeah. It’s safe. Warm. Has enough beaches to keep kids pre-occupied.”

“Woah,” Sarah pipes up then, her face crumpling in tandem cynicism. “Dude. Kids?”

You grimace in embarrassment, the tips of your ears warming. “I — eventually.”

“Well fuck,” Sarah responds, her bronze eyes full of mirth. “I thought my brother was the only person who had something good to say about this place.”

She pauses, crinkling her nose in disdain. “Oh. And my dad.”

“Um, anyway,” Kiara coughs out reproachfully, sending Sarah a meaningful glance. “Enough about your twisted family. Y/n/n — you got anything planned for the summer?”

“Just settling back in.” You shrug again. “Job hunting, house hunting, the usual crap. You guys?”

Above them, the tangerine sun is beginning to sink below the horizon, a drupe of low hanging fruit. Sticky humidity presses into your skin, hot beads of sweat prickling over your nape.

“It’s our last summer before the end, baby,” she returns tenaciously, bumping her hip against the box under her arm. Your gaze falls with the movement, registering the familiar logo of a brand of beer you’d forgotten. Kildare Island’s finest, it boasts in emblazoned letters, prior memories of the lager reminding you of stale, basement air.

Delightful. It appears that some things truly never change.

“Shit, of course,” you nod, grinning approvingly. “I forgot that you’re not actually in my year, Kie.”

“That’s because grades didn’t matter when we became friends,” she says, furrowing her brow thoughtfully. “Nothing did, really.”

A poignant ache sears through your chest, gone before you’re able to truly acknowledge it. “Shit, I know,” you say softly, more wistful now. “Nothing but friendship bracelets and the Winx club, huh?”

Kiara’s face splits into another sweet smile, the box of liquor raised in make-shift cheers. “Cheers to that, Flor.”

The old nickname pulls a peal of laughter from your lips, and you shake your head bemusedly, the nostalgia making it spin. “Fucking hell, I almost forgot how much I loved her.”

“Not as cool as Stella, though.” Kiara raises her eyebrows meaningfully, sharing in sacred Winx scripture. “She was my fucking idol.”

Beside her, Sarah’s head has fallen, eyes trained on a string coming undone at her frayed hem. Rare moments of silence are filled by the cicada’s faint trill. 

“Did you watch it, Sarah?” You ask, looking toward her expectantly. 

Sarah’s chin lifts in surprise, her pretty eyes softening. “Shit, uh,” she flounders, turning to Kiara for help. “The what club?”

“Dude, Winx,” Kiara enunciates, sending her an incredulous look. “You’re kidding. You really don’t know?”

“I never had first pick of the TV when I was a kid, alright?” She defends indignantly, raising her arms in surrender. “Rafe and his dumb friends monopolised it with their video games.”

“God.” Kiara makes a face. “I don’t miss how much of an asshole he was when we were kids.”

Somewhere near the back of your mind, you park this revelation. The telling past on present tense juxtaposition — was an asshole, is as in love with the Island as you are; though you’ve crossed paths with Sarah’s older brother on several occasions, never once has anything about him managed to stick with this much permanence.

Except his name. Everyone on the Outer Banks knows the name Rafe Cameron. 

“Right?” Sarah agrees, grimacing in tandem. “Whatever, he spends most of his time at the firm these days. The only time I ever see him is at Kook parties or the Club.”

“Speaking of,” Kiara says, her brown eyes widening as they lift to your window-side figure. Several minutes have elapsed since they halted in their tracks, and not a single pedestrian has passed you by, let alone a motorcycle, a jeep full of passengers. You’ve missed the quaint purlieus of middle-class suburbia. There’s something so comforting about being able to hear the bird’s chirp, to hear anxious leaves rustle in wait of Kiara’s proposal. “We’re — listen, Y/n, we’re on our way out to the beach for a bonfire right now. Kooks, pogues, tourons… you know the deal, everyone’s going. You should come.”

You balk, gaze falling to your simple attire — white singlet and linen shorts, a wafer of bare waist in between. 

“You look hot,” she adds meaningfully, as if reading your mind. “Total Island boy bait. C’mon. We’re well overdue for a catch up, don’t you think?”

“Kie,” you hesitate, looking behind you surreptitiously, “I only just got back —”

“So?” Kiara interrupts impatiently, raising her eyebrows. “You’re here for good, right? Whatever you were planning on doing tonight can wait.” She turns to Sarah then, her eyes widening pointedly. “Right, Sar?”

Sarah’s split-second quizzical look dissipates under her glare, and she falters, her head whipping to yours before she’s nodding. “No really, Y/n. You should come. It’ll be fun.”

There’s a bulging suitcase a few feet away that needs unpacking. A bedroom full of dusty old trinkets that belong in an antique store; you’d promised your parents your grown-up presence at dinner, and the prospect of shirking responsibility has you feeling young and stupid again.

Adrenaline buzzes through your veins, a quick jolt of electricity to your senses. You realise, as it fills you with a kettle full of warmth, that you like it — like this, the latitude you’ve always associated with the Outer Banks. 

“Fuck it,” you acquiesce after a beat, cracking a defeated grin. “Wait there, okay? I’m coming down now.”

—

Rafe Cameron doesn’t think he’s going to make it out tonight.

Admittedly, he rarely ever does, these days — his father, ever the tyrannical leader, is intent on churning long hours out of every one of his workers.

His eldest included, bequeathal of an impressive legacy notwithstanding. 

When he receives Kelce’s text about the imminent bonfire, he’s hunched over a set of financial documents at his desk. 

Smooth mahogany with a sole, coffee mug rim blemish, it’s an organised clutters of pens and highlighters, staplers that double as impromptu paperweights. A single framed photo is propped up in one corner, ten-year-old Rafe posing beside an elegant woman. Her irises shine vivid blue in sunlight, smile lines that crinkle identical to her son’s. She’s beautiful, immortalised. A grounding presence.

When his phone screen lights up, the LED makes her pixelated figure glow.

Smithy: we 🔛 for tonight ?

Rafe’s brow furrows as it registers, his tired eyes drawn to the text like moths to a flame. He gives his surroundings a furtive once-over before sliding his phone into his lap, thumb braced over the keyboard.

Cameron: can’t, bro. Working overtime

Kelce’s typing bubble pops up almost instantaneously.

Smithy: miss me with that shit. It’s fucking Friday!

Rafe sighs defeatedly, a long, haggard exhale. He doesn’t know whether Kelce’ll ever understand the magnitude of patriarchal pressure he’s under. It’s as he’s attempting to contrive another excuse—simpler, less niche devoir and more relatable in nature—that the process is cut short by the arrival of his father.

Needless to say, Rafe straightens in a hurry. Suddenly, the stack of documents on his desk feels inadequate. 

“Getting through it all alright?” Ward asks menially, not bothering to look up from his phone as he enters. His paces are slow and purposeful, heavy-footed, his demeanour like dynamite you’re afraid to set off. This is a man who’s mastered the art of commanding a room with his presence.

“Uh, yeah,” Rafe answers, hunching over the desk protectively. The weight of his chest makes the financial statements crumple.

“Good.” It’s obvious that Ward Cameron isn’t the least bit interested. “So, listen, I’ve got to jet off and take care of some Bahama’s business tonight. I can count on you to dismiss the office staff and lock up?”

His gaze is trained on his phone screen, thick brows heavily furrowed as he types text after important text. Eye contact is reserved for business partners, clients of significance.

Not Rafe. If it was, he might’ve even noticed his son brighten, exhaustion giving way to a quiet sense of elation. 

“Oh — uh, yeah, definitely,” Rafe reassures after a beat, careful to keep his tone level. “When will you be home?”

“Sunday,” Ward answers curtly, his eyes lifting fleetingly. They move over Rafe’s face before dropping to his desk and narrowing, the hand that isn’t holding his phone gesticulating toward it intently. “Tidy this up,” he adds sternly, turning around. “And don’t leave until all financial paperwork is done.”

“Right.” Rafe nods, reaching up to scrub the back of his neck absentmindedly. “I won’t.”

Ward has his back to him when he halts near the exit, the menacing timbre of his voice almost making Rafe flinch. “Better not. I’m counting on you.”

He shoulders his way through the hardwood door before Rafe can so much as open his mouth — not that he particularly minds this, there isn’t much to say when a threat’s involved. Once Ward’s unwieldy footsteps have muffled out of existence, Rafe allows his shoulders to relax, retrieving his phone from its home in his lap.

It’s sheer luck, he decides, a serendipitous coincidence, that Ward’s business trip affords him an early finish in this instance. Temporary freedom from his father’s despotic regime is much appreciated — this way, Rafe can complete his tasks in his own time, allow for much-needed breaks and social activity. 

Total fluke. Right?

Cameron: what time?

Smithy: there he is! Got you some bud light btw, heading there now

—

“You’re sure?” You ask again, eyeing the white claw dubiously.

“Dude.” Kiara cuts you a cajoling faux-glare, thrusting it into your chest. “Please drink. You’re totally not enjoying yourself.”

“I don’t need alcohol to have fun,” you grumble back weakly, accepting it with reluctance. There’s a quick hiss as you pull open the tab, wispy carbon dioxide rising from within it. 

“No you don’t,” Kiara agrees sagely, raising her eyebrows. “But fuck, it makes fun more achievable, don’t you think?”

Around you, a sea of familiar faces. 

You’re huddled underneath a bald cypress tree with Sarah and Kiara, a modest, people-watching distance away from the bustling bonfire. Scorching flames ascend from a pith of deep ochre, clouds of grey and black smoke unfurling over the scene. The air is dry and slightly acrid, an alloy of saltwater and cheap liquor, the familiar scents of summer. Sweat, damp skin, body heat. A cedar-wood and musk cologne you didn’t realise was committed to memory.

“Not wrong,” you allow, tipping back the can and taking a generous gulp. It’s as you acquiesce and allow you head to fall that someone catches your eye; tall with broad shoulders and a Bud Light in his hand, Rafe Cameron is an overwhelming presence in your periphery. 

And he’s staring. He hasn’t had enough bottles of the American-style lager to blame the alcohol for this supposed indiscretion.

Perhaps it’s because it’s you, again, standing a few feet away from him, again. In the same place at the same time under the same, presumable act of divine providence; Rafe Cameron doesn’t know whether he’s overthinking it, but this fate-enacted déjà vu is getting a little ridiculous.

—

When you’re eight-years-old, Rafe Cameron asks you to join his game of Capture the Flag. The proposition comes after his mother—your classroom teacher—Mrs Cameron pulls him aside during her recess duty, having noticed your small frame hunched over and alone in a hidden corner of the playground. 

She beckons him over discreetly, alerting him to the issue at hand.

“Sweetheart, listen,” she murmurs quietly, bowing her head to his level. “Think you can do something for me?”

Rafe looks up at her quizzically, furrowing his brow. “What?”

“That girl over there,” she whispers, nodding toward you surreptitiously, “looks awfully lonely, don’t you think?”

He follows her gaze with a bemused frown on his face, unsure what this has to do with him. A gust of wind lifts his overgrown locks off his forehead, strands of ashen blonde that his mother pats down absentmindedly. 

“Mom,” he groans abashedly, ducking away from her hand with an angry scowl. “Stop. So?”

“So,” she echoes sternly. “Haven’t I taught you about the importance of the phrase ‘no man gets left behind’?”

“She isn’t a man,” Rafe argues meekly, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Rafael,” his mother warns, raising her eyebrows.

Rafe huffs out a frustrated sigh, wriggling his folded arms tauter, an airtight seal. “Can’t you ask someone else? A girl?”

“I could.” She allows a purposeful pause, her voice gentle but appraising. “I’m asking you.”

“Why?” Rafe groans out defeatedly, his small shoulders crumpling forward.

“Imagine if it was Sarah over there, or little Wheeze without anyone to play with.” Rafe’s heart pulls. “Wouldn’t you want another older brother making sure that they were okay?”

He keeps his gaze averted lest his mother see it soften, but it’s clear he acquiesces, his small feet beginning to drag him forward. 

“That’s my guy,” she says approvingly, stretching forward to comb through his wind-mussed hair, again. And as he dodges her fingers for the second time today, he thinks, why me? And then, why her?

Because of course you’re all alone on the one day of the month that his mother’s on recess duty, a cruel twist of fate. Of course he’s a convenient, beckon-able distance away, of course your isolated figure is within discernible range.

Of course, of course, of course… how many more before coincidence becomes something more, something greater, something he isn’t able to explain?

As Rafe nears, he realises that you’re folded over a tattered book. You’re clasping the hardwood cover with an intensity that makes your small knuckles blanch; your face is hidden, a wide brim sunhat on your head, and your knees are pulled close, right up against your torso.

An interlude to the warm sun on your back, cool breeze predominating. You slacken the draw-cord of you sunhat and tug it free, mildly bristled by the shadow-framing perpetrator that’s stopping you reading.

When you look up at him, you startle momentarily. He’s older and taller with brilliant blue eyes and a frown on his face; were it not for the fact that his hand was outstretched, you would’ve been certain that he was here to shun you away.

“Uh, hey,” he greets gauchely, his expression a little pained. “I’m Rafe.”

“Oh.” Your eyes widen in tandem diffidence, and you scramble to shut the book in your lap. “Y/n. I’ll get out of your way —”

“Wait — no, listen,” Rafe interrupts impatiently, stepping forward and placing his hand on your shoulder. “You know how to play Capture the Flag?”

You balk, gaze dropping to where his fingers fold over your skin. “No.”

“Oh.” Rafe grimaces, retrieving his hand in a hurry. “Right.”

From across the field, Kelce’s strident voice rings clear — he’s on an urgent, recess-induced time crunch, one that’s sure to garner the attention of his friends. They probably caught the absent-minded action, too, him reaching out for this pretty girl’s shoulder, all alone. Disinterested. Delaying a game of Capture the Flag in lieu of fraternising with the enemy. He swallows. The tips of his ears feel overwhelmingly warm all of a sudden.

“Sorry,” you say, frowning up at him.

“Um, yeah,” he returns, looking over his shoulder furtively. He’s going to kill his mom for putting him in this tricky position. “Listen. Want to learn?”

You blink. “Me?”

“Sure, why not,” Rafe replies awkwardly, scrubbing his palm over the back of his neck. 

A pause as your gaze moves over his features, screens for signs of insincerity, any vacillation in his demeanour. When you fail to find cause to doubt his proposition, you acquiesce, dusting off your linen shorts before standing up and straightening. 

Even at your full height, he has a generous few inches on your figure. The revelation does something funny to his underdeveloped heartstrings, makes his weak pulse lurch like it’s supposed to mean something.

He attributes this feeling to those aforementioned, older brotherly instincts. It isn’t as though there’s any other reason his resolve is so unwavering.

“Okay,” you say, smiling wide, unabashed. Rafe’s pulse does another funny little jolt, taunting him, refusing to dulcify.

He overcompensates for it by muttering a stilted no problem in response, guiding you through the recess bustle to the game-playing space his friends have designated.

And maybe you’re a faster learner than he’d initially anticipated, fitting right into the group despite being in a grade below him. Later, he’ll justify his closeness to you with similar sentiments — you were an asset to his team, he’d insist to his best friend Kelce, small and quick and difficult to catch, the perfect person to swipe the opponent’s flag.

Not pretty, or anything, easy to look at. Rafe Cameron refuses to touch how fundamentally right your proximity feels to him. 

There aren’t any more overt instances of contact until you’re ten. 

Sure, you’re placed in Rafe’s former classroom in third grade, and sure, you’re assigned the same window-side desk as him. You even manage to carve your initials in a wooden corner that opposes his — it’s a curious twist of fate, this immortalisation of your shared presence in that space. And it’s definitely just coincidence that you happen to take the same detour home, everyday; kicking up loose gravel on the same length of grey pavement, best friends with K-names and a joint affinity for ice-cream truck circumvents.

Right?

Rafe Cameron is twelve-years-old when he realises that you’re the coach’s daughter. With your mother working overtime and no spare cash for a baby-sitter, you’re forced to tag along to soccer practice after school.

Your figure on the bench is a familiar sight — the same shoulders folded over the same, small torso, a tattered book in your lap that’s near identical to the one before it. 

Admittedly, it’s a debilitating sight. He hasn’t experienced this overwhelming, pulse-lurching feeling in a while.

The coach’s firm hand on his shoulder breaks him out of his reverie. He realises that he’s gawking at you in the middle of a running drill.

“You alright, son?” He asks gruffly, frowning down at Rafe. 

“Oh, uh —” Rafe flounders, ducking his head in embarrassment. Damp strands of dirty-blonde kiss the top of his eyebrows before lifting, “— I — yes. Sorry.”

The coach cocks his head to one side curiously, following Rafe’s gaze to near-empty bench in the distance. His eyebrows lift in stern appraisal as your figure registers. “Ah,” he says, trying not to look too pleased. “You know my daughter?”

“No I don’t,” Rafe answers in a hurry, and then he falters, grimacing abashedly. “I mean… yeah, kind of. Same school.”

“Hm.” He nods, reaching for the whistle around his neck before blowing it dismissively. “Take five, alright?”

Rafe doesn’t want to. He can feel ten sets of eyes staring at him, the coach’s stern instruction doing little to quell their curiosity. But regardless of his willingness to re-introduce himself, there’s a pull in his chest that supersedes any reluctance, dragging his feet forward like a moth drawn to a flame.

You’re prettier at ten than you were at eight. When you look up at him today, free from the shackles of a wide brim hat, your lashes are longer and your soft cheeks fuller, a kind smile on your face as you look over his features.

Recognition. It’s comforting and terrifying at the same time. You say, shutting your book and angling your chin up toward his face, “Oh, hey. Capture the Flag Rafe.”

Rafe isn’t ready to admit what the sweet nickname is doing to his brain. “Y/n. Again,” he acknowledges, grinning weakly in tandem.

“I know.” You make a face. “Can’t go home until my dad’s done here.”

“Didn’t know he was,” Rafe says, glancing over at him wistfully. “Your dad, I mean. Must be nice to have coach around all the time.”

There’s something sombre in his tone as he says it, down-trodden, as though having a decent father is a privilege and not a right. Your brow furrows. “This team’s all he ever talks about,” you reply, clearing your throat in an attempt to adopt a lower, gruffer lilt. “You know, they’re a good set of lads, sweetheart,” you pause, raising your eyebrows, “if I’d have known one of them was you, I might’ve even told him I agree."

Rafe’s cheeks warm. “I’m nothing special.” You’re the special one.

“You’re good at Capture the Flag,” you return, shrugging easily. “Plus, your mom’s definitely my favourite teacher ever. Makes sense that you get my dad as a coach. Parent swap.”

“Parent swap,” Rafe echoes, still grinning. He reaches up to mess with his overgrown, blonde locks, yellow sunlight making his sweaty skin glow. 

“She’s been off sick a lot recently, though,” you add, chewing on your bottom lip thoughtfully. “Is everything okay?” 

“Oh.” Something in Rafe’s features tenses, an unreadable emotion flickering over his blue irises. “Um. I don’t know. She’s had to take time off to go to the hospital for some stuff.”

From the way his voice thickens, shoulders braced, you know not to pry or press him with more questions. You say, “I hope she’s okay.”

“Yeah,” Rafe responds roughly, clearing his throat.  “Uh, me too.”

A pause. You scramble for purchase on another conversation starter, absentminded gaze moving over his tense figure. Lingering over perspiration.

“How’s Kildare middle going, though?” You ask faux-nonchalantly, pretty eyes dropping again.

“Alright, I guess,” Rafe answers, his arm falling back to his side. “Not too long left. Moving on to the Academy after this year.”

“Oh.” You pause, disappointment etching your features. “Damn. We’ll just miss each other, huh?”

A beat. Though you’re right in principle, Rafe isn’t sure he agrees; take this rendezvous for example, the one before it, a set of superimposed coincidences that just happened to work in your favour. 

It’s strange. Something at his heart’s core tells him it’s certain you’ll meet again. “I don’t think so,” he responds, less bashful and more sure. “Sure we’re gonna find a way to bump into each other again, soon.”

And there’s truth in his admission, sanctioned by sweet conviction, your grandmother’s brief stint at the hospital coinciding with one of his mother’s.

He’s thirteen-years-old and staring down a vending machine when you find him. 

It bathes him in an offensive hue of fluorescent white, etching every frown line and forehead crease, a mirror machine of self-erosion. Just over a year since your bench-side tryst, but Rafe’s haggard appearance makes it feel far longer. 

You find yourself swallowing as you look over his figure, a subconscious urge to draw nearer taking over. Your bones ache. Walking slow at first, his unshed tears prompt your ginger paces to gain a quickness.

“Rafe,” is all you say at first, quiet, a little unsure. 

His face moves to yours before he’s ducking away in embarrassment, scrubbing the heel of his palm over his damp cheeks roughly. When he lifts his head again, the quiet desolation he displayed hides behind an armour of indifference. 

“Uh, hey,” his voice cracks, and he resists the urge to grimace. “What are you doing here?”

You balk, chewing on your bottom lip nervously. “My grandma’s sick.”

“Oh,” Rafe says quietly, his tense features softening. “I’m sorry.”

“Me too,” you return, more meek than anything disconsolate. “You?”

“My mom.” Rafe clears his throat abruptly, averting his gaze. “They’ve been giving her some stuff, I don’t know. Isn’t really helping.”

“Oh,” you say, furrowing your brow apologetically. “I’m sorry too.”

“And… and they won’t tell me anything,” he adds urgently, his quiet voice taking on a frustrated edge. Rafe isn’t sure where exactly this sudden burst candour is coming from — he’s barely able to confide in his best friend, Kelce, let alone the random girl from whom he appears to never stray.

That’s unfair. You aren’t that random to him. Though the pair of you have only shared a handful of meaningful conversations, the synonym isn’t well-suited — there has to be a reason that he feels so comfortable in your presence. 

Perhaps it’s to do with the way your features soften, the promise of proximity like a warm embrace, grounding. Not random, but pretty, he decides. Pretty girl. He’s struck with the sudden, surprising revelation that over Kelce, over his father, over almost anyone, you take precedence. 

Almost. He adds, “I don’t even know why. I — I mean, my dad’s been treating me like a grown-up since Wheezie was born, anyway. What’s different now? What — what’s wrong with my mom? I don’t get it. I’ll —”

He’s cut off when you wrap your arms around his torso, fingers intertwined and pressed into his back. It’s the way your mother’s always calmed you down when you’re stressed — pulled you close and squeezed you tight, held you until the anger and desolation acquiesces. 

Slowly, gingerly, Rafe’s arms encircle your shoulders, a heavy exhale leaving his lips and pressing into your hair. 

“I’m sorry,” you mumble into his chest, not particularly sonorous but vibrating over his skin anyway. His muscles relax. He allows his chin to drop an inch, sun-bleached strands of ashen blonde flopping over his forehead. 

“Me too,” he croaks out, clearing his throat again. He’s endured enough lectures about being strong for his mom to last him a lifetime, Ward’s stern voice imposing. About how men don’t cry and he should strive to do the same, emulate the undaunted older brother, hold down the fort he’ll inherit one day.

In this moment, all of that external noise melts away. How are you always in the right place at exactly the right time? There’s years within minutes when you do finally break the embrace.

“I don’t know why adults do that,” you admit after a beat, furrowing your brow apologetically. “I know you can handle the truth. You’re brave.”

Something in Rafe’s chest cracks. “You don’t know that.”

“You asked me to play Capture the Flag.” You shrug. “Even though we weren’t in the same class. And… and even though you didn’t even know me. That’s brave.”

“Is it?” Rafe asks, a hopeful lilt to his quiet voice.

“Yeah,” you nod reassuringly, frowning a little. “Don’t worry about your parents, they’re just being stupid. They’ll come around, I swear it. Do you trust me?”

It’s perplexing. Without access to the context clues that denote your perpetual closeness, it’s difficult for Rafe to justify how easily he’s able to answer that question. Yes, absolutely yes, and he means it too, with every ounce of conviction in a chest that beats for you.

But he doesn’t understand it, where this unwavering faith is coming from. And it’s because he doesn’t know of the red string in sneaker grooves that he’s outgrown.

He doesn’t know that the humble chalet he can see from his bedroom window is yours, that there’s a reason his eyes are drawn to the rectangle of light on the second floor. If he squints really hard, he can even catch vague details of its interior, small bed and smaller bed bathed in a lemon-yellow hue. You’ve always lived on the cusp of the Figure Eight and the Cut, a reasonably modest neighbourhood that’s kept you a convenient, stone’s throw away.

He isn’t educated on the statistical likelihood of such coincidences, of chance and seeming circumstance thrusting you together once again.

“Okay,” he agrees after pause, exhaling heavily.

“Good.” You nod again, glancing over your shoulder ruefully. “Will you be here tomorrow, too?”

“Maybe.” You need to head back, and he understands that. It doesn’t matter. He isn’t ready. His chest tightens and his haggard bones ache. “You?”

“Dunno,” you say, frowning sadly. “Don’t get told anything either.”

Rafe nods curtly, the column of his throat constricting. “Hopefully.”

“If not,” you pause, pretty eyes widening meaningfully, “doesn’t matter. We’ll see each other again. We always do.”

And your promise rings true, of course it does, when you’re fourteen-years-old and on an after school detour.

Three years without reconnection, growing pains and callow indisposition, has allowed the pair of you to forget about the string. But the string hasn’t forgotten. It’s formed through invisible locks of unfaltering, gold thread, made of strong fibres that maintain this look-don’t-touch distance.

For example, Rafe’s running route often cuts through your neighbourhood. It winds through the Figure Eight before trailing the outskirts of a public garden, the same one you enjoy reading in, neglected roots notwithstanding. And though he hasn't always been a stickler for aerobic endurance, the habit developed a little while after his mother’s passing.

It’s underpinned by a compulsion to tire himself out lest he expend his energy elsewhere. Agonise over all the thing he failed to tell her, failed to do, all the times he could’ve held her tight and said I love you. Men don’t cry, though. They run until their lacrimal ducts are void of any tears.

You’re studying the impressive array of candy in aisle four when he lumbers past it, paces broad and unwieldy. He’s following by an inebriated posse that’s causing ruckus; drunk and underage at the expense of attending fifth period, the group of Academy juniors are grappling with multiple misdemeanours.

It’s why they’ve opted to shop at this smaller supermarket instead of the haughty WholeFoods that’s a little closer to home; there aren’t many people that’d recognise them here, on the outskirts of the Eight with greater ties to the Cut.

Or so he thinks. A strange twist of fate that you’re here, sure, but even stranger is the fact that he looks over as your head turns.

Of course the one aisle he hazards a glance at has you. In the midst of drunken clamour, voices blaring and blissfully ignorant, his paces stagger to a halt, heartbeat sky-rocketing.

You startle as he registers, surprised gaze meeting his before you’re breaking eye-contact and looking away. The two years he hasn’t seen you are evident on your figure — Rafe isn’t sure whether it’s the dodgy liquor talking, or him, but there’s enough inches of bare skin on display for his brain to short-circuit. Cute uniform, longer limbs, same soft, airbrushed skin. Prettier eyes and fuller lips, as if that’s fucking possible, as if there’s ever been a time that he hasn’t agonised over your features.

He doesn’t mean to balk and take inventory, his sharp jaw slackening and palms beginning to grow clammy. It’s just that the alcohol he’s consumed has his self-control disintegrating.

“Yo, Cameron,” calls Kelce in front of him, stumbling back around with a bemused frown on his face. “The fuck are y’doing, bro?”

“You guy s’go ahead,” Rafe urges, grimacing at the slight slur to his words. “I’m coming.”

Kelce attempts to squint appraisingly, swaying in place for a beat before acquiescing. “Whatever,” he allows, turning around. “We’ll be in the snack aisle.”

Rafe nods distractedly, changing his trajectory to traverse the long aisle toward your figure. Slower, a little circumspect, hyper-aware of your tense shoulders and backpack braced hands. Bare limbs. The way the column of your throat shifts as you swallow.

The artificial lights overhead make your skin glow, and Rafe struggles to focus on placing one foot in front of the other. Once he’s close enough to touch, he rocks back on his heels, sheepish grin on his face and several inches on your frame. 

“Uh, shit,” he flounders, his voice liquefying around the edges. “We’ve gotta stop meeting like this.”

He’s mostly joking, but there’s an exaggerated edge to his voice that the alcohol isn’t able to liquefy.

“Yeah,” you say curtly, sending him a quick smile.

It doesn’t quite meet your eyes, though, and Rafe really aches.

He adds, “Especially since it always catches me off guard,” the slur hardening as the weight of your indifference washes over him.

A pause. You use the silence to take inventory of the features you’ve forgotten, the features that’ve changed — longer torso and broader shoulders, slanted jaw and sharper cheekbones. A gold signet ring on his forefinger. He flexes and relaxes his hand absentmindedly, a bulb of yellow light folding over its flat surface.

“Really?” You ask, gaze softening as it lifts to meet his. The ache ebbs. “I’ve come to expect it.”

“Yeah?” He steps closer still, unable to help himself. “Should I be flattered by that, Y/l/n?”

You raise your eyebrows at him. “I don’t know, Cameron. Should you?”

“Well,” he murmurs slowly, more sure, more willing to flirt with fate as his hazy mind clears. There's more blue in his eyes than there was a second ago, deep cerulean that appears to glint brighter with mirth. “If it means you think about me from time to time…”

“Hm.” You shrug again, heavy appraisal in your voice. “Even if I do, it definitely isn’t this you.”

Rafe grimaces, reaching up to scrub his palm over the back of his neck. He doesn’t know why your approval means so much to him; in theory, you’re just the girl he happens upon every few years.

Except that you’re not. Except that you never left.

Except that your favourite haunt is a hidden alcove that verges on Tannyhill Estate; that his mother’s grave is along the route to your grandparents, that his younger sister Wheezie has a best friend in your neighbourhood. He’s driven past your house a number of times over the past few months, oblivious to its significance, your presence beyond a white picket fence and garden.

“I haven’t had a lot,” he tries.

You raise your eyebrows again. “It’s 3.30 on a Wednesday afternoon.”

“And you’re buying candy,” he says, his arm dropping again. A pause as it swings dangerously close to your wrist, billowing air like static over your too-warm skin. “What’re you up to later?”

“Not much,” you answer easily, and then you balk, face crumpling in embarrassment. “I mean — shit, not that I don’t have friends to hang out with, or anything, I just —”

“— freshman year?” Rafe supplies helpfully, giving you a convenient out. You aren’t sure why you’re desperate to explain yourself to him; hypothetically, he’s just the boy you know through seeming coincidences.

Except that he’s not. Except that they’re astrally excogitated.

Except that you seldom stop at the supermarket on the way home — it’d been a spur of the moment decision, one you’d never predicted would end in another reconnection.

“Yeah,” you breathe out after a beat, fidgeting with your backpack straps. Rafe’s gaze drops with the movement, and he’s struck with the sudden urge to reach out and squeeze away your diffidence. He swallows. “I — it’s whatever. Making friends is hard, you know? I’d been banking on the fact that my best friend Kiara’d be joining me next year, but she just texted me saying her parents’d enrolled her into the Academy.”

“Oh.” Rafe pauses, furrowing his brow thoughtfully. “Kiara Carrera?”

“Uh, yeah?” You send him a bemused look. “You know her?”

“She’s Sarah’s friend,” Rafe affirms; another incidental link, another chance connection. His heart pulls. “My younger sister.”

“Right,” you say, chewing on your bottom lip thoughtfully. “Huh. This island’s way too small.”

Rafe’s about to disagree when Kelce’s garbled yell cuts him off, loud and liquor heavy from a few aisles away.

“Cameron!” He slurs out urgently, loudspeaker raucous with an inebriated posse of accomplices. “Bro — the fuck are you?”

“Shit.” Rafe grimaces apologetically, his heavy gaze skating over your features. Slow, agonisingly slow, memorising the subtle details that are sure to change in a year or two. Rafe hopes a year; he hopes less, he hopes tomorrow. “Sorry. I better…”

“No biggie,” you allow, smiling affably. That’s one of them, the way your full lips curve up as you address him. The soft creases on your forehead, the way your uniform hugs your figure. Undeserved inches of bare skin, glowing yellow in artificial light. It’s going to be harder to keep his hands to himself the next time your proximity is this evident. 

“And hey, about what you said,” he adds softly, pacing backward slow. “I think the island could be smaller, don’t you?”

He’s turned around and hastened to a jog before you’re so much as able to decipher his words, let alone effuse over the insinuation.

Rafe Cameron wants Kildare to shrink. He wants to see you more than he is already. The revelation rockets through your ribcage like tempest, wreaking havoc on every chamber of your heart, every nerve-ending. 

It’s terrifying. At least you don’t have to wait as long for your next reunion.

Rafe, along with the rest of the Camerons, spends the summer before college at the Bahamas house.

And though he has a grand time in the Caribbean, flirting with locals for fun and slurping down Mai Tai’s at beach clubs, when he returns to the Outer Banks in late August there’s a hankering in his bones that grows stronger with your absence.

A stroke of luck, really, that you’re working your final shift at the Club the same day as Rafe’s farewell dinner. 

Right? 

You’re assigned to their table as soon as you begin. It’s an amity sham orchestrated by his step-mother Rose, no doubt to assert a kindred front to the rest of its Figure Eight patrons. From your kitchen safe haven, you aren’t able to see Rafe right away; only his father and younger sister are visible, Wheezie rattling away about something insignificant.

But then you step away from guarded quarters, brave the bustling interior of the Club and spot him. 

He’s wearing a checkered button-up that stretches taut over solid biceps, less gel in his hair, the overgrown strands fabric mussed. A signet ring you recognise. There’s a shadow of stubble over his chiseled jaw, sharper blue in the eyes you memorised in third grade. 

He’s tense. You’re struck with the sudden, overwhelming need to make your presence known and relax him. 

When you do sidle up to their table, however, desire gives away to self-effacement. Even sheltered as you are in the no man’s land between Pogue and Kook, Ward Cameron’s stature and notoriety are well-known to those in your neighbourhood. 

“Hello,” you greet pleasantly, plastering on a smile. “I’m Y/n, and I’m going to be your server tonight. Can I get you started on some drinks?”

At the mere mention of your name, Rafe’s head whips up in surprise, his bright eyes flaring as they make contact with yours.

“Shit, you work here?” He exclaims, his entire demeanour changing in acknowledgement. Shoulders dropping, features softening, the angle of his torso slanting toward you. It makes your chest whir.

“Uh,” you balk, looking around the table helplessly. “Just over summer, yeah. This is my last shift.”

Lucky. “You’re kidding.”

“Like I said,” you return, pretty lips pulling up more genuinely now. “Small island.”

And it’s been… what? Two years since the last time he saw you? 

You’re wearing a cute uniform that affords him the luxury of bare limbs, skirt hemmed above your knee and button-up tighter than it should be. He bets you get hit on a lot around these parts, all soft eyes and kissable cheeks, exposed legs that glow in sconce lighting. Sweet voice that’s incapable of saying the wrong thing. He swallows thickly. A lot of his graduating class have a membership to this Club. 

“Huh.” Rafe grins too, reaching up and flicking your notepad playfully. “Good gig, though?”

“Definitely,” you answer, glancing over the dining room gratefully. “Super busy, but good to get some work experience, you know?”

Ward Cameron clears his throat significantly. “Well said, my dear,” he acknowledges faux-amicably, cutting his son an imperceptible glare. “See, Rafe? It isn’t just me who understands the significance of hard work.”

An unreadable emotion flickers over his blue irises, fierce but defeated, a battle he’s lost before. “I wouldn’t have enjoyed the internship, dad,” he mutters evenly.

“Work isn’t meant to be enjoyed, son,” Ward chastises, a cruel undercurrent to his tone. 

“Yeah, well,” he sighs out tiredly, running his fingers through his hair. “I’m glad it went to someone who deserved it. Leah probably got more out of it than I ever would’ve.”

“Leah isn’t the one that’s going to be inheriting the firm one day,” Ward rebukes, angrier now.

A pause. The tension in the air has shifted enough to feel palpable.

“Uh.” You gaze moves over the table feebly, scrambling for purchase before settling on your notepad. “I’ll give you guys a sec.”

“Nonsense, we’re fine,” Ward instructs firmly, halting you in your tracks. 

He parrots an order on behalf of the table that you scrawl down slovenly, resisting the urge to steal a glance at Rafe. Make things worse, somehow, his now chagrined son the center of your gaze. When you return with their drinks, with their entree’s and mains, you hope he doesn’t notice the newfound scarcity of your interactions.

But Rafe notices. He always notices.

It’s the reason he hangs back as they’re leaving the premises, lingering near the kitchen doors in an attempt to intercept you.

You’re carrying two steaming plates of Alfredo when he does so.

“Shit,” you curse, stumbling back in surprise. The mains wobble dangerously, heart hammering into your throat. “Don’t do that.”

Rafe’s features crumple apologetically, acquiescing into a weak grin. “Sorry. Just needed to see you before I left.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Why?”

“Uh.” Rafe falters. He combs his calloused fingers through his hair, loose strands creating a flyaway halo around his head. “Shit — I don’t know. Maybe ‘cause I’m heading to UNC tomorrow and you’re not.”

“So I gathered,” you return softly, more bashful now. “Your dad’s quite intense about it, huh?”

“Fuck,” Rafe sighs out, making a face. “I know. He’s — I’m sorry you had to see that shit, he usually reserves his stupid lectures for when we’re not out in public. Doesn't wanna fuck with his image, you know? He’s super heavy on all that happy family crap.”

“Oh,” you say, chewing on your bottom lip nervously. A rim of sharp heat is beginning to transfer from plate to palm. “No, it’s fine. You don’t have to apologise.”

“I do,” Rafe labours, stepping closer still. A tantalising inch of space between your figure and his, though his vetiver and musk cologne makes it feel like far less. “Because… fuck, because there’s only one reason he felt the need to make a scene.”

You frown bemusedly. “There is?”

“Yeah.” A pause. “To make me look bad. In front of you.”

“You didn’t look bad to me, Rafe,” you say gently, voice quiet but firm. 

“Listen,” he murmurs urgently, looking over your softened features. “D’you know where you want to go to college?”

“Not yet,” you answer slowly, your nervous breath stilling. His eyes have fallen over your soft cheeks and skidded at your lips, lingering.

“You should come to UNC.” He exhales heavily and takes a long step back, as though doing so is tying up every ounce of his conviction. It is. The invisible string loosens. “That’s where I’ll be.”

Another pause. You say, frighteningly sure of yourself, “Knowing us, I probably will.”

And though this revelation doesn’t quite ring true, fate bestows upon you one more chance encounter before present day.

When you’re eighteen-years-old, Rafe Cameron tells you you’re the one.

You’re strolling along the beachfront at dusk, ruminating. An amaranth hue presses over your silhouette, darker carmine wine, softer pink pulling away.

As sunlight recedes, it takes any discernible features with it. Rafe knows this. He knows he shouldn’t recognise you as easily as he does.

But he’s breathing heavy by the time he’s caught up with you, anyway, a sheen of sweat lining his limbs, damp strands of ashen blonde kissing his forehead. His throat burns and his heaving lungs bleed, though it’s the ache in his cracking ribcage that really has him panicking.

He needs to know whether or not you’re coming to UNC. Kildare Island may be small, but the world beyond it is dangerously big.

“Rafe!” You exclaim in surprise, stumbling back as he doubles over. He gulps down several pockets of cool air before straightening.

“Y/n,” he greets slovenly, his gaze skating over your figure. Big mistake — you’re so beautiful it steals the newfound oxygen from his lungs. He swallows thickly. “Thank fuck.”

“Thank fuck?” You echo, raising your eyebrows appraisingly.

“It’s been a while,” Rafe says then, stepping closer without meaning to. You’re wearing a white singlet and raw-hem denim shorts, a taunting rectangle of bare waist between them. It glows in waning light, the column of your throat, too. He’s struck with the sudden urge to dip his head and bruise it blue.

You soften a little, something demure about it. “Has it?”

“Yeah.” His arms swings forward absently, forefinger brushing over the pulse point on your wrist. The fleeting skin-on-skin rockets through you like static. “Was starting to get worried.”

“Oh,” you say quietly, gaze dropping to his hand. “You shouldn’t, really. Knew you’d find me eventually.”

“And next year?” He asks, an urgent edge to his voice. “When you head to college? Am I gonna be able to find you as easily as I do now?"

You exhale softly, eyes moving back up to his. “I’m going to Northwestern, if that’s what you mean.”

Rafe’s stomach lurches. “Why?”

“Rafe.” You pause. You try to ignore the deep woe in your ribcage. “It’s only three years away.”

“That's a year more than usual,” Rafe returns impatiently, his self-control wearing thin. He reaches up and presses his rough palm against your cheek, the other squeezing the side of your waist, thumb swiping over bare skin.

Your breath hitches. “Rafe —”

“No, listen, I promise I’ll fuck off in a sec.” His eyes drop to your soft lips, a peach-scented gloss making it difficult to concentrate. Maybe he should stop making promises he can’t keep. “But I — shit, I have to say this in case things don’t work out like you think they will.”

You swallow down a still-beating heart, nodding slowly. “Okay.”

“We’ve been…” he falters, shaking his head, “…fuck, I don’t know, it doesn’t make any sense. It’s like the Universe knows something I don’t and I think that something is that you’re it.”

“It?” You echo abashedly, voice messy and fond, barely audible.

“It, the one, the girl I’m going to end up with,” he clarifies, exhaling heavily. “And I just… I need you to know that I wouldn’t mind that. Shit — I want that. So bad.”

Your pretty eyes widen at the revelation, poor heart stuttering. “Three years, Rafe Cameron.”

Rafe pulls away, like he said you would. A part of you wishes he wasn’t so good at following through. “Three years. Longer, if you need. I’ll be here. I’ll wait forever.”

—

Thankfully, your presence at the bonfire confirms the former. His gaze, more pupil than brilliant blue iris, moves over your pretty features, over your bare limbs and surprised expression. Glowing skin. Soft lips he’s wanted to taste for a while now.

The way he drinks your figure in, as though he’s a poor man starved, has your weak knees threatening to buckle underneath you, pulse whirring alive as it pulls you toward him.

You meet in the middle, the rest of the bonfire fading away. It’s only you and him, now, and that invisible string of fate.

“You know what I think everytime I see you?” He asks, his voice a quiet murmur, low and gravelly around the edges. It spills over you like the first pull of a warm beverage, his cedar-wood cologne encircling you, a body-heat warm embrace. 

You cock your head to one side, smiling your sweet, unabashed smile. It makes his heart sing. “What?”

“I think.” He steps closer, the tips of his sneakers making contact with the tips of yours. “Fucking hell, she’s prettier than she was the last time I saw her. As if that’s fucking possible.”

“Three years, Rafe Cameron,” you say softly, smiling wider.

He nods meaningfully, reaching up and tucking his hand underneath your jaw. His thumb swipes over your too-warm cheek, soft on rough in a way that makes your pulse jolt. “Think this is it, now?”

“I don’t plan on leaving the Banks,” you answer, raising your eyebrows. “I hear from Sarah that you don’t either.”

Rafe scoffs, more amused than exasperated. “Of course you’ve seen Sarah.”

“With Kiara.” His thumb slides over your bottom lip absentmindedly, exerting a gentle pressure. You lean into it without meaning to. “Who d’you think told me about tonight?”

“Of fucking course,” he murmurs, exhaling slowly. “Just another one of those coincidences, huh?”

You swallow slightly, and his gaze drops to the column of your throat, bonfire flames painting them a burnt ochre hue. Back up to your lips, soft and glossed over. It’s debilitating, how badly he wants to taste you right now. “Must be.”

He ducks his head in the beat that passes, a kissable inch of space between your lips and his. “This is stupid,” he breathes out, warm and liquor-heavy as it fans your features. Your lashes flutter. “We’ve barely had five conversations over the course of our lives.”

“What’s stupid?” You ask quietly, a little bashful. Rafe’s deep voice has this sweet, terrifying effect on your havoc-wreaked insides.

“How badly I want to skip all the getting to know you bullshit and just kiss you.”

Your breath hitches. “You don’t think you know me?”

“That’s the thing,” he murmurs urgently, his torso pressing into yours, now, a rough hand on your waist. “I — fuck, I shouldn’t, but I do.”

You lean in first. There’s a soft brush of lips on his before he’s taking over, kissing you hard, fond and messy as he attaches his mouth to yours. A teeth-scraping pressure. He’s peppermint and warm beer and sunshine twang, the essence of an Outer Banks summer, a sloven osculation that has you craving more.

When he pulls away, your lips are bruised and kiss-heckled, warm cheeks glowing in the scorching flame of the bonfire. The embers crackle in appreciation. 

“That's not stupid,” you breathe out after a beat, voice hushed. “So do I. Hard not to, you know? Feels like you’ve been in my life forever.”

“Doesn’t it?” Rafe grins this fond, messy grin, his thumb swiping over your saliva-glossed bottom lip. “Makes no fucking sense, but it’s like we’re connected by a tiny bit of thread.”

“Hm.” A pause. It’s pretty to think about, all the ways astral influence thrust the pair of you together. “You’re right. An invisible string tying you and me together.”

--

--

--

the sexual tension!!!! the banter!!! rafe beinf a cocky mf (rightfully so)!!!!

gasoline - 2

Warnings (18+): DUB-CON (faint manipulation), SMUT (unprotected sex + car sex)

Tags: dark! rafe, he's an asshole who cant keep his hands to himself, teasing, praise kink a bit

series mlist! l wc: 3.9k

Notes: found a bit of motivation for this one! honesty i’ve tweaked and edited this ch so much to the point where i don’t even want to read it again so ignore any mistakes pls. also (small win) THIS is the longest piece of writing i've posted so cheers to that.

“It's five AM, my time again, I've soakin' up the moon, can't sleep”

I BLOCK AGELESS BLOG’s & MINOR’s who interact (that means even liking/reblogging this post)

The sun beams down, warming your skin as you ride by the large pond. The golf course was less busy than usual, a rarity for the country club in the summer season. It was truly a breath of fresh air, being able to take in the landscape, without having to do much work.

Not that your job was demanding, or anything. It was actually terribly easy, all you did was serve drinks to the members playing golf. It was simple. A con however, was that majority of them were entitled, condescending assholes. But somehow you find ways to persevere because of the pay and tips. 

No you didn't necessarily need the money, but it was nice to have some to call your own rather than it all being lumped together as your fathers. That’s why you were smiling, as you drove away from the man you just helped. He had given you a crisp benjamin, and you weren't even a full hour into your shift. 

It was bittersweet though. The entire interaction, he invaded your space and shamelessly studied your appearance. He even mentioned wanting to take you out to dinner, but you successfully diverted the conversation with a polite laugh and a lie. His behavior was creepy and gross, but it wasn't really out of character for the men that frequented the course. You tried to not let it get to you, but these kinds of situations always made you think back to what Jess and Di told you when you mentioned your first encounter to them.

“Men will be men. Why don't you just use it to your advantage?”

“I agree! Look at your uniform, it’s short for a reason. The club knows what their people want to see. So if you give it to them, I’m sure they’ll give you a nice sized tip!”

They were a bit ignorant to how it felt degrading to you, but their hearts were in the right place trying to make you feel better at the time. You shake off the memory, and tug the top of your dress so that it hides some of your cleavage.

The cart whirs as you near the next hole. It’s secluded from the others and hidden by clusters of palm trees. As you get closer, you hear the faint noises of laughter. You don't think much of it, aside from taking note that it was likely a group of people. When you breach the gap between the palms, a frown paints your face, as you discover who the group was. The trio stood on the small hill, where the tee off was, and their backs were turned to you. Completely unaware of your presence.

From where you were, It sounded like they were joking about something.

“Man, you're her bitch.” Rafe says, lining his club with the ball, and preparing to swing.

“Bro I’m not” Topper defends, while Kelce laughs.

“Yeah man. You are.” Rafe returns, before taking the swing and watching his ball travel in the distance. 

You were intensely focused on him, replaying the way his muscles flexed through his shirt when he took the swing. Your mind even flashes back to that night when he stood shirtless before you... confessing to you how he felt, just before kissing you.

You quickly snap out of your thoughts, trying to avoid the memory of what happened moments after you kissed him back.

It had been an entire week, and you had yet to process what happened. You had written it off in your head as a mistake, and avoided thinking about it, which worked for you up until now. Being confronted with his presence made it impossible to ignore the memories of the lust fueled night. An all too familiar desire even begins to pulse within you, but before it fully ignites you stop yourself, again. Realizing that this was bad.

That night shouldn't have happened, and you shouldn't be getting aroused by the memories, especially at your place of work. You inch down onto the gas, and make a U-turn for the direction that you came from. This way you could avoid seeing him and continue to repress your... emotions.

You're so close to the gap, when a holler from behind makes your stomach sink.

“Hey, hey! Hold on now!”

Your heart races in your chest as you come to a halt. If just looking at him made you feel this conflicted, how the hell could you have a conversation with him? You pause for a moment, and think before coming to the conclusion that pretending as if nothing happened was your best bet. If he even got a slight inclination that you were flustered, you knew he would pester and taunt you for the foreseeable future.

You inhale sharply, before flushing any kind of tell from your expression. The sound of dirt shifting, lets you know he’s near, and a tilt of your head confirms it. 

Your eyes follow his movement until he stops, right next to you. 

"Where were you going so fast sweetheart? No way you were leaving without offering us drinks, if so that’s kind of fucked up.”

“Sorry, I guess I didn't see you guys” You shrug your shoulders.

“It's a good thing I saw you then. Isn't it?”

"Yeah" you utter, glancing in the other direction. Feeling like you were at the brink of an implosion.

“How’ve you been?” you hear him say, causing you to look back at him, noticing he wears a smirk on his face.

“Great.” You lie.

“Good, Good.”

“Mhm. Is there anything I can get you guys?”

He slightly tilts his head, “Yeah uh actually, me and my boys are pretty parched. Wouldn't it have been a shame if we went thirsty because the cart girl’s ignoring us?”

The sly remark, pushes you to squint up at him. A thin layer of sweat, reflecting off his skin, and a hint of rose tints his cheeks.

“That would’ve been unfortunate.” 

You rub your palms down your exposed thighs, noticing how his eyes trail the movement and his lip tucks.

“Right? I mean, it would be kind of your fault though.” he peers down at you,“What do you think your boss would do if he heard you were making members unhappy?” 

It takes everything in you to keep it professional and ignore his attempt at provoking you. Pride wasn't worth your job.  

“Like I said, I didn't see you and I apologize.” you force a smile, and he hums.

“Aren't you cute?” his hand moves from his side, to pat your knee. “Why don’t you get out of the cart and show me what you have to offer?”

You hold back a scoff. The sheer audacity of him, to pester you and touch you.

Flooded with irritation you speak before you think.

“You know what we have, Rafe.” 

“Oh really? What do we have?” You squint knowing he was obviously insinuating something else. 

“Just tell me what you want. I know, you know the drinks” 

“So what If I know? I’m asking you to show me” He steps back “Now be a good cart girl and do as you're asked, or else maybe I’ll have to have a word with your boss.''

You wanted to scream, but instead you bite your lip. He was so incredibly good at getting on your nerves, and you hated him for it.

You scoot out of the seat, and throw him a glare as you sidle past him. On your walk to the back, you feel his presence lurking behind you.

When you reach the trunk, you grasp the side and bend to unlatch the cooler. You ruffle through the sea of ice, naming off your inventory as the logos cross your vision.

A soft strum up the back of your thigh interrupts your scanning and causes you to shiver. You peer behind you, to find Rafe responsible.

“What the-” You step away, glaring up at him and he doesn't even try to hide the smug look on his face. “What are you doing?”

He snickers, “You're so dramatic. You're really gonna keep pretending like we didn't hook up?”

“Yes actually, because it was a mistake” You cross your arms over your chest, and his eyes linger on the area.

He steps closer, into your space, and you feel the tension rise. As much as you try to be repulsed by him, you can't help how his mere presence rouses a warmth between your thighs.

“Why’s it a mistake?” 

“It just is.” 

His hand falls on your hip, “You’re lying, wanna know how I know?” Not really, but he gives you no time to say anything. “You literally begged for it”

You scoff, snatching his hand away from your body. “Like I told you then, It was a one time thing” 

“Why does it have to be hm? I wanna hear those pretty moans again.” Your eyes veer from his as you ignore the pulse in your core. “So you haven't thought about it then?” he tilts into your path of sight, forcing you to look at him.

“No.”

He chuckles “You're a shitty liar you know?”

“I’m not- I-” The words slowly die on your tongue, at the feel of him pressing his body to yours. He's leaned in so close that, it feels like there's no escape. Then, similar to earlier, you feel his fingers on your skin, only this time their trailing up your inner thigh close to your core.

“Rafe…” you gasp, looking up into his eyes, then down at his lips.

“Tell me you don't feel anything, and I’ll stop”

It was so wrong, but it felt so right.

You say nothing, looking up to him with approval, and his fingers continue trailing up your thigh until he reaches your mound. You let out a small whimper, as he traces your slit through the fabric. The barrier offers little release, as he presses against your clit. 

Your eyes travel to his lips again, the heat of the moment draws you in and just as you’re about to press your lips to his, he pulls away from your core.

You sigh defeatedly, and he grins while marveling over your dissatisfaction.

“Now, what was it you were trying to say earlier?”

Flustered, and slightly panicked, you observe your surroundings. Thankfully the only people around weren't paying attention. “Fine, yeah. It’s crossed my mind”

“Oh I know” he looks down at his fingers and they faintly glisten in the light, “What do you say, you give me your number and we can finish this later?” 

You knew you shouldn't entertain him, but you were blinded by the burning desire. Unable to resist his pull.

It’s late. So late, that you should be sleeping, but instead you lay awake restlessly staring out your bedroom window.

The sleepless nights started when you returned home for break, and the only thing that seemed to help the situation was the night sky. Specifically the moons soft light.

In your peripheral, another light glows and catches your attention. You curiously reach out for the device, and once it's in your hand your brow furrows, questioning the unknown number.

It takes you a short moment to realize who it was, but when you do you hum surprised that he messaged you so soon. 

Sweet y/n, you awake?

yeah. 

Send me your address.

for?? do u know what time it is?

You know why, I’ll pick you up alright?

You slowly type out your address, reassuring yourself that it would just be just sex, and nothing more. You hit send, then dangle your legs off the bed.

You stroll to the bathroom, and give your face a rinse. When you walk back to your room, you stand in front of the mirror, looking over your sleepwear. The tank top and sleep shorts didn't match, but did it even really matter if the clothes were coming off anyways? 

When he let you know he was there, you grabbed your keys and phone, then crept down the stairs being careful to not wake up your family.

Once you’re outside you make your way to where his truck sits. His headlights beam at you, forcing you to squint. When you get to the passenger side, you tug the door open.

“Are you trying to blind me?” you accuse, whilst climbing into the passenger seat. You turn to look at him for a response but instead, you find him… eyeing you, “Why are you looking at me like that?”

You notice him stifle a laugh. “I’m just appreciating how dressed up you are.” 

You sigh, knowing he was poking fun at your clothes. Maybe this was a dumb idea. Why should you be fucking someone who tormented you for an entire year? It was pathetic. Without much further contemplation, you grasp the door handle and push the door open. But before you can hop out, his large hand grasps your thigh.

“Would you relax, it was a fucking joke.”

“Stop being a dick to me then.”

“I’ll try." he gives your thigh a squeeze. "That make you happy?”

You grunt in return, as you close the door.

“Me messing with you, didn't seem to be a problem last week, though.” 

Of course it was, but knowing how he is you didn't even want to try and express that to him because somehow he'd find a way to hold it against you.

“I don't like you.” You mumble, leaning back into the seat as he pulls out the driveway.

“You seem to like fucking me though.” He glances over to you.

“Isn't it such a good thing that I don't need to like you as a person, to enjoy fucking you.” 

He doesn't say anything to that, just lets out a small tut, before reaching out to the stereo and drowning out the silence with loud music. 

The music faintly plays in the background, as you take in your surroundings. He had parked slightly off the road, down by the beach. Where there were no houses, no streetlights, nothing. 

“For someone who doesn't like me, you seem pretty nervous.”

You divert your attention from the windshield to him.

“Not nervous, just don’t want to get caught.”

“Now you want to act all innocent?” he tilts his body to you, “It's like four in the morning, nobody's going to catch us.” 

“How do you forsure know that?”

“I don't. That’s the thrill of it.” You throw him a glare, and he continues. “If anything, being a Cameron gets me out of trouble, so we’re fine alright?”

“Mhm” 

His tongue rolls over his bottom lip. “You looked hot at work today, the uniform doesn't really leave much to the imagination though.”

“You’re perverted” 

“Oh please, like you're not the one sitting in my passenger seat right now?” 

You huff, looking away from his gaze “I need a shot” 

“Nah” His hands cups your jaw, turning you to look at him and tugging you close to his lips. “Think you’re perfect like this. Only problem is this mouth of yours. So mean and nasty now, what are we gonna do about it?” 

A faint smile grows on your face, you had provoked him. It was unintentional but so satisfying to see.

“Doesn't feel nice does it?” you whisper, staring down at his soft lips. Aching for him to just kiss you already.

His forefinger and thumb squish your cheeks as he tilts your head up. Within seconds his lips press against yours. It was heated, and bruising. A gentle moan mixes into the kiss, when he gropes along your chest, squeezing at the soft skin. 

His grip on your face slides down to your throat. Then his fingers briefly brush your pelvis and dip past the band of your shorts. You moan, when he swipes his fingers through your wet slit. 

He smiles against your lips. “No panties for me baby?”

The pet name slightly pulls you out of your lust driven haze, you hated it, only because this wasn't that.

“Don't call me-” You heave a breath when his touch sweeps between your folds and rubs against your clit. A whimper escapes your mouth as he swirls the button, causing you to forget your train of thought. “Don't call me that.”

He hardly acknowledges your words with a hum, against your lips. His fingers work magic at your core, pulling strings of moans from you. It felt so good you didn't want him to stop. His pace picks up causing heat to bloom along your skin. You were approaching your orgasm, and nothing mattered to you outside of it. 

He peels away from your lips, and you whimper at the loss. “You’re so pretty like this you know?” Your eyes connect and the way he looks at you with complete desire, sends you over the edge. “S’much better when you aren't being mouthy.” 

Your breath wavers as the release floods your senses. The incessant strumming at your clit made you a writhing mess. Eyes clinched and face contorted with delight, completely blind to the fact that he was enamored by you.

You were unaware to the fact that after that initial night, he couldn't get you off his mind. He craved you. He adored how you completely let go when he touched you. Yeah you hated him, but the fact that you let him have you in this way only drew him to you more. 

He lightly tugs at the band of your shorts.

“Take these off for me, yeah?” 

Without thinking you foolishly do as he asks. Your shorts are discarded on the floor. He leans back into his seat, beckoning you over and you shift onto your knees and climb over the center console. Straddling his lap.

His hands splay along your thighs, and you fumble with his zipper. You slightly tug his briefs down and his member springs free. You gently bring him into your palm, and strum your thumb underneath the tip playing with the stickiness that’s accumulated there. His head falls back with a groan as you continue the slow motions.

“Do you have a condom?”

His head lifts up, and his brows are slightly furrowed. “You’re fucking with me right? We didn't use one last time.” 

His hands move to rest on your hips.

“Yeah, I know… but…” you trail off, unable to think clearly. 

“C'mon y/n,” You feel him lean forward, pressing his chest to yours before distractingly leaving wet kisses along your neck. “Need to feel you like that again. Felt so good.”

His ministrations made your brain fuzz, and walls clench. You could forgo the barrier, considering how you were on the pill and that Rafe wouldn't cum inside you. 

As if reading your mind his arm wraps around your waist and pulls you against him, as he leans back. Your hands rest on his chest, as his member now pokes at your entrance. He holds you tight against him, and his other hand connects with your column, pulling you into another kiss.

Knowing you were lost in the dance of your tongues, he deliberately eases you down onto his member. 

Your eyes slant as a lewd moan escapes your mouth. You sit there for a second, adjusting to him as he continues to work at your lips. By the end of the night they probably were going to be swollen. 

You slowly rock your hips, and his hand slips from your waist down to squeeze your ass. You peel away from his lips, and sit up as the grinding slowly transforms into small bounces. 

“Fuck.” he groans as he peers down to where you two connect, savoring how messy you got for him. With every bounce you’re dripping around him. So wet that a puddle of your slick, formed along his pants. “Just like that, so perfect and pretty like this”

His hand slides down your body, fondling your tits as you chase your high. The sudden cold air against your chest makes you shudder, however the chill only lasts for a split second before his mouth attaches to the sensitive bud. You were so sensitive, in all the right places. 

He detaches from your bud, with a lewd pop. “All it takes is some dick for you to be nice to me now? Isn't that right?” 

“Uh huh” you nod, eyes glazed over.

“Being so sweet to me right now, fuck”

Your head tilts back at the fullness, you were so close. Your eyes squint shut feeling your end approach. You're almost there when his fingers cup your jaw and pull you close.

“Look at me” his breath ghosts over you.

You whine looking into his eyes, as you clench down on him, walls fluttering with ecstasy as you ride out your high. You fall against his chest, for a moment to catch your breath and you’re suddenly taken by surprise when he begins fucking up into you, holding you tight. “Oh Fuck”

“feel so good,” he groans.

You were a murmuring mess, wrapping your arms around his neck at the overwhelming pleasure and overstimulation. You faintly hear his breaths grow louder, among yours. Then all of a sudden you feel so warm... and full, as he slows to a stop. It was a sensation you never felt before. 

At the realization, you quickly untangle yourself from him, and sit straight. “Rafe… Did you just…?” 

You stare dumbfounded, as you try to detach from him. His hand however grips your waist, holding you down.

“Hold on” he grunts, thrusting up into you one last time. Only then does he let you go and you slowly ease up off him.

“Why’d you do that?” you snap as you tug your tank top down.

“Felt too good, you’re fucking dangerous you know?” he grins up at you, and you huff before climbing back over to the passenger seat.

“I actually wouldn't know because nobody’s ever came in me.” you grab your shorts and tug them up your legs

 “Shit really?” he drags his palm down his face, and then zips himself back up. “Look, I'll give you money for plan B, alright?” 

“Don’t want your money, and I’m on the pill so it’s fine.” 

You glance at the dash, as you tilt your body into the door. It was already 5 in the morning.

He pulls onto the road and for a while it's just the soft noise of the music, as he drives.

“Why were you up so late anyways?” He looks over at your turned away body.

“Couldn't sleep” you mumble into the window before letting out a yawn. “You?” 

“It’s complicated.” he responds and you hum, not having anything to say to that.

You look out the passenger window, and think to yourself… What had you just done? More importantly, what had you just started? 

thanks for reading! thoughts and feedback are always welcome and highly appreciated ♡

gif creds

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I LOVE YOU SO MUCH MORE MY SWEET GIRL 🥺

Taking anti-depressant pills?? Seeing a therapist??? Journaling??? No need babe, my fav writer just dropped another x reader fic.

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Euro Trip: the epilogue

a/n alright, you twisted my hand. I’m about to reread this real time w u guys so lets make it fun and do a bit of reminiscing together 😁

wc 20.1K lmao

Rafe Cameron wasn’t certain that he would ever get used to this feeling.

The thought crossed his mind on an uneventful, Sunday night; one that was occurring as Sunday nights usually did. You – splayed across that shaggy, retro rug that you “absolutely had to get, Rafael!” from Etsy, poring over the bright screen of your laptop through those blue light glasses he so adored. Him – forcing the air out of his nose noncommittally, the way he tended to do when something was mildly amusing, but not funny enough to warrant a full blown chuckle. Him, again (this time, on occasion) – hazarding a glance at your tired figure; catching you work through the n-th draft of an assignment, or the bills, or old emails, or that weathered study guide that you knew off by heart, anyway. 

Why you felt the need to do all of your work on the floor, Rafe Cameron would never understand. You had a perfectly sturdy desk, one he had built you – “with my bare fucking hands, baby” – the same day that you had moved in. You had a perfectly modest double bed (though you were sure a single would have sufficed; the way Rafe blanketed you, and pulled you onto his side, every single night). The Arts library was a perfectly convenient five minute walk away; it was well-stocked, well-insulated, and well-protected from the rowdy frat boys that inhabited your residence every Friday. And most importantly, you had a perfectly enamoured hometown boyfriend with a knack for soothing those forehead creases you got when you were a little more stressed than usual. His arms were strong, and his torso broad; he made for the perfect, makeshift seat, one that held endless comfort – fingers carding through your hair, thumb brushing over the contour of your cheek, lazy kisses pressed onto your temple, small circles traced into your skin. And yet, you worked – diligently, he’ll give you that – on the boring old Etsy rug that you had purchased two years and five months ago, on a whim. You’d spent so very long perfecting the position that your figure was beginning to cave it’s surface; it was more than a little flattened, at this stage, and your body was its favourite callus. Though the peculiarity of this comparison wasn’t lost on Rafe, he maintained that it was the only word, really, that he could find to describe it. The space your body inhabited was a friction-addled surface, similar to the callus that notched your ring finger; the same space where you rest your blue pen, when it wasn’t annotating, or editing, or rewriting, or – God, did you ever relax?

“Y/n/n.” Rafe hummed, lifting his head from the arch of your back – his favourite spot. “What exactly are you doing?”

You knitted your brow, shaking your head absently. “Nothing.”

“Exams finished last week, yeah?” Rafe chided, shifting slightly to better survey your features. “So why’re you still hunched over like that?”

Above him, the sky was periwinkle blue – like it always was – and twilight was beginning to smear its surface was careless daubs of silver. In his periphery, the horizon hung low – like it always did – and sunbeams dipped in and out of your room like golden bullets. And sitting an arm’s length away – like you always were – was his dream girl, hair tousled just a little, lips puckered pink, cheeks rosied just right, fingers fiddling with his signet ring. Everything was as it was last Sunday, and the Sunday before that, and the Sunday that occurred two Sundays ago, and that one Sunday you braved a trip to the supermarket at midnight. And still, as Rafe Cameron took in the scene – the ‘this feeling’ in question, in all it’s mundane glory — he wasn’t certain that he would ever get used to it.

The furrow in your brow deepened, and it was enough to straighten Rafe with a jolt. “It’s nothing.”

“Don’t worry about it.” You added sternly, feeling a strong arm circle your waist. “Seriously. Nothing.”

“Sweetheart –”

Rafe lifted you up and pulled you into his lap, registering the haste with which you scrambled to hide the screen. “ – you know I’m going to worry about it.”

You couldn’t help but pout a little at that, though Rafe’s certain the doe-eyed display had an ulterior motive. “Fine. Then worry about it. But if you expect me to worry about you worrying about it —”

Rafe attempted to force a falter through a particularly indignant huff, but despite his conviction, it’s resonance was slight; it failed to convey any real irritation, and you had him exactly where you wanted him. He tried to scowl (to keep the act going… adorable), and it was though he didn’t know that you had already clocked every single one of his tells — the low rumble of his chest as he suppressed a laugh, the little quirk that tugged at the corners of his mouth, the twinkle in his eye that so effortlessly mirrored yours, the defeated sigh on his lips as he realised: you’d won the argument before the argument had even begun. “ — then you’re about to be very disappointed, Rafael.”

Rafe pressed his tongue against his cheek, an endeared smirk adorning his features. He cocked his head to one side, marvelling at the sight of you in his arms, and after a single, infinitesimally long, beat, he purposefully dipped his head, and pressed wet kisses on every inch of your bare skin. “You could never disappoint me, sweetheart.”

“Right.” You breathed, shifting a little closer, tangling your legs a little tighter, and when your fingers found their way to his ruffled hair, Rafe Cameron’s thoughts rose to a clamour, and he was certain — so certain he swore it — that he would never get used to this feeling. 

Rafe brought his head back to eye-level, meeting your lips for a heady embrace. They parted obligingly as he made to deepen the kiss, breathy moans leaving little to the imagination — this was the favourite part of your day, the lawlessness with which you and your golden boy made out. He nipped at your bottom lip playfully, his bruising touch teasing the sweet spot between coy and handsy.

“Rafael.” You protested lamely, realising he had discovered your convenient lack of lingerie. “You have to go soon.”

Rafe let out a strangled groan, burying his head in the crook of your neck. “There’s just something about your nipples being this hard under my fucking sigma phi tee —”

“Rafe —”

“Alright, trouble.” He grinned, cupping your cheeks and kissing you slow. “Relax. I’m heading.”

You shimmed off his lap with a satisfied huff, arms folded across your chest, but mouth twisting mischievously, all the same. “Trouble. That’s new.”

“New good?” Rafe mused, guiding you back to your feet. “Or new like never-call-me-mommy-again?”

You crinkled your nose playfully, giving him that small smile that was reserved just for him. “New good.”

Wrapping your arms around his neck, you flushed right against his chest, letting out a surprised squeal as he began to palm your ass. With a small pout, you nudged your nose against his chin, prompting him to tilt his head so you could peppering lazy kisses along the contour of his jaw.

“Baby.” You frowned, making a face as you hit a particularly scratchy patch of stubble. “You need to shave.”

“Oh?” Rafe teased, roughing it against your soft cheeks. “Last time I heard that, I lost 500 bucks.”

“That porn stache didn’t go with my dress.” You argued, jutting out your bottom lip obstinately. “It didn’t go with your suit, either —”

“And what about your dress for tomorrow?” 

Rafe cocked his head to one side, feeling like the same, bright-eyed sixteen year old that had agonised over a certain, baby blue number, so many years ago. “Does it go with that, dream girl?”

“Nice try.” You quipped, a small smile tugging at your lips. “You’ll see tomorrow.”

Rafe slipped his hand back under your (his) shirt, allowing a pause to lazily cup your breast. “Or I can see right now —”

“At the dry cleaners.” You managed to swallow, palms pressed against his torso with every ounce of conviction you could muster. “My mom’s picking it up when she arrives —”

You sucked in a sharp breath — Rafe’s forefinger had made contact with your nipple, again, the worn curve of his emerald ring kissing the valley of your breasts.  “Rafael.”

“I don’t get why I can’t just stay.” Rafe protested, breaking contact reluctantly. “Wanna feel you, baby.”

You let out an exasperated scoff, fingers flying to the silver chain adorning your nape. “Graduation is tomorrow.”

“Yeah, graduation.” Rafe emphasised, making a mental note to ask Topper and Kelce for dress clues before he left. “Not our fucking wedding.”

“Our wedding?” You repeated, cocking your head to one side — teasing. “How can you be so sure we’re going to get married, Rafael?”

It was a silly question, really; you knew it, Rafe Cameron knew it, and the constellation of stars above you most definitely knew it. They decorated the purple sky like argent pearls, and as they registered the — near rhetorical, Rafe would argue vehemently; the answer far too obvious to be anything but — question, they flickered through the air lightning; almost threatening you, daring you to continue. 

They knew better than anyone the ardency of Rafe’s feelings, and though his actions spoke for themselves, they had admired them diligently, from the sidelines; a curt nudge here, a slight straighten there, all in the name of love — in the name of you, it’s very definition.

“Because, sweetheart.” Rafe murmured, his gaze impossibly intense — your knees weak, feeling on the edge of seventeen, again. “Fate wouldn’t let you leave, even if you tried.”

You let out a little laugh at that, shaking your head bemusedly. “Three years later and you’re still the same lover boy, huh?”

“Always.” Rafe nodded sagely, pressing one last, chaste kiss on your temple before stepping backward. “So what time tomorrow?”

“My parents are arriving at 9am, I think.” You responded, expression unreadable as you hazarded a glance at your laptop. “And my ceremony is at 10. And yours is at —”

“— 12.” Rafe affirmed, gently catching your wrist. “Yeah.”

“And Ward and Rose are coming at…” You faltered, squeezing your eyes shut in an attempt to concentrate. “…11.30?”

Rafe felt his features soften, a familiar thrum steadying his chest. He loved how attentive you always were; the intention with which you committed the details of his life to memory. Everything from his class schedule to his favourite parking spot on campus was neatly filed in the Rafe Cameron folder of your brain; sizeable enough to fill you to the brim — a fact you weren’t sure you minded, especially not with him. 

“Mm-hm.” Rafe nodded, ghosting over your knuckles with the phantom of his lips. “Oh, and —”

Rafe paused for a moment, speaking through a sheepish grin. “— I think Sar and Wheeze are coming after all.”

“Oh, of course!” You exclaimed, recalling the text message — can’t wait to celebrate you in a few days xo — Sarah had sent you not a day prior. “I’m glad, Rafael.”

“Me too.” Rafe admitted, feeling the tips of his ears redden. “But it’s not that big of a deal, really —”

“You’re graduating from college.” You interrupted, tracing soothing circles into the skin of his palm. “Of course it’s a big deal.”

“Not to mention.” You added, tugging at his shirt collar to pull him close. “You have a killer job lined up —”

“That doesn’t count, it’s with my fucking dad —”

“ — up.” You continued, raising your voice to drown out any interruptions. “As soon as you get outta here.”

“So yeah.” You finished, balancing on tip-toes to press a gentle kiss on his lips. “It is a big deal, hot shot.”

Rafe rolled his eyes in feigned exasperation, the blush blooming across his cheeks a dead giveaway. “You’re the one graduating with all A’s, baby.”

“Oh, yeah.” You coughed, chewing at your bottom lip nervously. “It’s not, uh —”

You cringed at the forced falter, swallowing the near imperceptible quaver to your tone. “ — yeah. Excited.”

Rafe knitted his brow, bowing his head to eye-level. “Sweetheart…”

He trailed off with a small sigh, searching your features in earnest. “…something’s on your mind.”

“Something to do with —” He paused, jerking a forefinger toward your still-open laptop. “— that.”

You grimaced, drawing your bottom lip between your teeth. “Listen, it’s —”

“No way.” Rafe interrupted, stern. “No avoiding. Not with me.”

You had come a long — long — way from the timid girl who had broken his heart so many years ago. You no longer collapsed into yourself at the first sign of adversity, nor attempted to hide the truth from your favourite confidantes. When you cried, it was loud, and it was unabashed — you allowed yourself to feel everything fully, and when all was said and done, you afforded your friends the luxury of helping you back to your feet. You had come a long way, and your golden boy couldn’t be prouder. That didn’t stop you succumbing to the occasional slip; even the most determined of individuals weren’t immune to relapse. I’m not perfect, you would reason, and I don’t pretend to be, and — what was that saying? The one people tended to use before making bad decisions? Ah. Old habits, die hard.

“Seriously, Rafe.” You frowned, your features languid — pleading. “It’s nothing, okay?”

“Y/n.” Rafe warned, your wrists clasped against his chest in pre-emptive determination. “If you don’t tell me, I’m just going to go ahead and check —”

“Go on then.” You goaded, wriggling out of his grasp to cross your arms across your chest. “Read my emails. You wouldn’t.”

“Oh?” Rafe pressed, narrowing his eyes. “So it’s an email, then? What is it about?”

He chewed at his bottom lip thoughtfully, his mind moving a mile a minute. His contact with you had been frustratingly minimal over the last few weeks — a decision that was entirely your doing; intent on performing your very best on your exams (and your golden boy performing the same). Time had blurred into a haze of late nights and copious amounts of coffee; he was still catching up on sleep, and his restless brain was only encouraging the whisper of what-ifs. 

You offered him a simple, half-shrug, in response, stubbornly gesturing toward your laptop screen. “Why don’t you just go ahead and have a look?”

Your voice was saccharine sweet, your words strangely permissive, and yet, Rafe Cameron didn’t dare budge. You did this often. So often he was T-1 admonishments close to finding it almost endearing. Unbelievable. Was he ever going to get used to this feeling?

“Alright.” He sighed finally, reaching toward your desk to grab a green claw clip. The action alone was enough to prompt a small pout, your head tilting a little, allowing Rafe to bunch up your wild curls and twist them into an up-do. He had always been attentive, in that way; registering your frustrated huffs before you did, the way you kinked your neck when their presence grew abrasive. “You win.”

You furrowed your brow, palms splaying his chest. “Rafael, I —”

You hesitated, biting the inside of your cheek until you tasted blood. The words you wanted to say, and the words you should say, were separating at lightning speed; it was late, and the din now distant — maybe tomorrow. Maybe not today. 

“ — tomorrow, okay?” You proffered, swallowing the want’s, and then swallowing the should’s, as though you couldn’t feel the foreboding ache settling into every crevice of your chest. “After graduation. Tomorrow.”

“You can lean on me, you know?” Rafe frowned, thumbing at the soft skin of your cheek. “I love you, always.”

You allowed your eyes to close, leaning into his touch, the way you always did. “I love you, always.”

—

“Mom.” You groaned, letting out an exasperated huff. “Stop. I’m fine.”

“You should have given me more time.” Your mother tutted, choosing to ignore your protests in favour of pulling, and tugging, and pulling-and-tugging, and readjusting, and… well, and treating the affair with almost as much remonstrance as she did Midsummer’s. “I could have gotten this tailored, I mean honestly, Y/n, the fabric is beginning to bunch up right —”

She tweaked the beaded tulle that began at your waist, pinching the bridge of her nose frustratedly. “ — here, and the corset is showing —”

She curled a forefinger into the space above your breastbone, attempting to shimmy the far-too-tight for-your-(read: Rafe’s)-own-good garment loose. “ — far too much, and —”

“Respectfully.” Rafe grinned, leaning his shoulder into the space where the room door hinged. “I think she looks perfect, Mrs. Y/l/n.”

He looked ruggedly handsome, as always, all 6’4 of carelessly gelled hair, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and biceps flexing his dress shirt taut as he folded them across his chest.

“Rafe!” Your mother gushed, eager to pull him into a hug. “How are you, dear?”

Rafe happily obliged, tucking his chin over your mother’s shoulder to allow his eyes free reign over your figure. “I’m good, Evelyn. How are you? Where’s Bill?”

“He’s just popped out to grab us some coffee.” Evelyn responded, leaning backward with a twinkle in her eye. “When are Ward and Rose arriving, sweetheart?”

“A little later — my ceremony isn’t till noon.” Rafe explained, absently popping his shirt collar. “Found some seats with Topper and Kelco to cheer on our girl, though.”

“Ah.” Your mother beamed, casting you a meaningful look before clearing her throat. “Right, well, I better go find those boys. It’s been far far too long.”

“Yeah mom.” You nodded keenly, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. “Go. Please go.”

Rafe Cameron, ever the gentleman, waited until your mother disappeared out of sight to close the space between you. You remembered how much the opposite he used to be; a douchebag with — what appeared to be — zero regard for the girls he pressed into hidden corners of his house, or shamelessly pulled into his lap, or guided upstairs with that stupid conceited smirk. You remember how much you hated the way his lips quirked upward; it felt so very silly, now, in light of the warmth his presence brought your skin. 

“Hey, baby.” He breathed, crowding you against the opposing wall as soon as he got the chance. “So this is the dress, huh?”

“No, this is just something I threw on.” You quipped teasingly, tangling your fingers in his hair. “Rafael, it’s like, an hour till my ceremony. Of course this is the fucking dress.”

Rafe tucked his forefinger over the lilac corset, his free palm gripping the curve of your waist. “So that’s a no to letting me rip it right off you?”

He bowed his head ever so slightly, enjoying the way your breath hitched — even now, so very many years later — at his proximity. “Because that’s all I can think about right now, baby.”

“Rafael.” You swallowed, and his lips were inches away from yours, now, his unfastened buttons and popped shirt collar and that single strand that always managed to escape his gel taking you back to your hotel room in Florence. “Your buttons are undone.”

Your eyes flitted over his tinged lips and toward his open chest, registering the silver chain peeking out at his shoulder, and resisting the urge to use it’s shackles to tug him in for a breathy kiss.

“So do them up for me.” Rafe teased, his palm finding its way to your ass with an appreciative groan. “Jesus Y/n/n, why the fuck can I feel everything?”

“Material’s thin.” You mumbled lamely, tilting your chin obligingly as Rafe attached his lips to yours. “Rafael — lipstick —”

Rafe pulled away reluctantly, his eyes still half-closed as he wiped away its careless smear. “I don’t mind.”

“But I do.” You responded tersely, licking your thumb to remove the lipstick smudges that had — you weren’t sure how really, you were sure the kiss had only lasted a single beat, though time did appear to still when you lost yourself in such an embrace — found their way to Rafe’s stubbled jaw. “And Kelce and Top definitely do.”

“Our girl?” You added, mouth twitching mischievously. “And here I thought the Kook fucking prince was incapable of sharing.”

“Been three years since I was the Kook anything, sweetheart.” Rafe countered, dipping his head until his breath fanned the sweet spot under your earlobe. “But yeah. That was definitely for show. Don’t think I’ll ever be able to share you.”

You crinkled your nose a little at that, one palm pressed against his chest and the other entertwined with his. “C’mon.”

Giving your reflection one last, fleeting, once-over (“Don’t fucking bite your lip — how many fucking times… I — Jesus —”), you grabbed your regalia from its place on your desk, sliding it into the front pocket of Rafe’s dress pants before allowing him to guide you through the door.

Though the living room of your apartment wasn’t particularly full, the buoyancy its current inhabitants exuded was enough to knot your stomach. Squeezing Rafe’s hand tight, you halted at its very helm, not daring breathe too loud lest they register how nervous you were.

Kelce and Topper were in the middle of an avid conversation with your father — one he had roped them into forcibly, you imagined — donning the same, carelessly fitted graduation attire as your golden boy. Beside them, the beautiful figure of Chloe Peterson was gushing over the flower arrangements your mother had ordered for Midsummer’s, this year. Her and Kelce had become official two summers ago, affording her exactly two iterations of the infamous event to memorise every single one of it’s quirks. She had of course, passed with flying colours. You were fairly certain your mother would make Chloe her daughter-in-law, if she could. 

Rafe knitted his brow slightly, always honed in on your subtle tells. “Sweetheart, are you alright?”

You weren’t. Things were moving entirely too quickly; you were here, now, and then you would be at the Ceremony, and then at your graduation party after that, and then in your room with Rafe, alone, and then — you would have to tell him the truth. You weren’t.

“Mm-hm.” You nodded, plastering on a smile. “C’mon.”

“Dad!” You greeted, sidling away from Rafe’s figure to pull him into a tight hug. “Hey.”

“There she is!” Your father exclaimed, grinning broadly as he wrapped his arms around your waist. “My beautiful girl.”

He pressed a gentle kiss on your forehead, only pulling away once he was certain you were ready. “A toast?”

“Yes — but first.” Your mother frowned, reaching over to smooth out any, near non-existent creases. “Where’s your regalia, honey?”

“I’ll get it.” Rafe offered, giving you an encouraging nod. “You stay here and toast. I think I saw it in your room.”

He leaned in to give your lips a small peck, and it wasn’t the action itself that warmed your skin, it was the beautifully innate manner with which he did it — as though kissing you was the most natural thing in the world; as though kissing you was hard-wired into his DNA, somehow. 

“Thanks.” You mumbled, reaching over to give his hand a quick squeeze (it was all the explanation he needed; he knew exactly what it meant — hurry, Rafael. I miss you already). “Love you always.”

“Love you always.” Rafe echoed with a reassuring smile, stepping backward slowly before pivoting on his heel. “As you were!”

“Right.” Your father nodded, clearing his throat to conviction. “Does everyone have a glass?”

Topper was already pouring you a flute before your father had voiced the question, thrusting it into your chest with an affectionate smile playing on his lips. “Now they do.”

“To Y/n!” Your father saluted, words a little strained as they caught in his throat. “The brightest star in the Outer Banks.”

“No offense, boys.” Your father added with a cough, clapping a strong hand on Kelce’s shoulder. “You’re great kids, of course —”

“No, Mr. Y/l/n.” Kelce interrupted, and you swore there was a watery gleam in his eye — a trick of the light, you supposed; there was no way your best friend was crying, was there? “She is. We agree.”

He raised his champagne flute expectantly, his features softening as he met your eye. “To Y/n.”

“You guys are graduating today, too.” You added meekly, blushing crimson. “To all of us!”

“But especially to you.” Rafe murmured, the warmth of his embrace far more comforting than the regalia he wrapped around your figure, a moment later. “The most talented girl in the OBX, baby.”

“Cheers!” He added, clinking his flute against yours before taking a modest sip. “To Y/n!”

“And Rafael, and Top, and Kelce.” You quipped, pouting a little. “Stop, you guys. I’m already feeling enough emotions about today.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” Your mother cooed, leaning forward to untuck your loose curls. “We’re just proud of you, is all.”

You tried to shake the flush right out of your cheeks, but there it remained – implacable as ever – for the rest of the day. It was there when your mother ushered you through the door of your apartment, there still when you bid Rafe farewell at the door. Amber acknowledged its presence as “shut up. Is that the new Anastasia blush? I absolutely have to steal it off you before the party tonight”, and when you crossed the stage to a loud holler of cheers, you were certain all the graduation photographer captured was your damned, crimson blush. 

It returned with a roar at Rafe’s ceremony an hour later, when he flashed you that roguish grin that made you feel sixteen and a little drunk. This time, however, it wasn’t splotchy and uncomfortable; it radiated across your cheeks in waves of adoration, feeling warm against your skin; feeling the very same as his gentle touch. 

“There they are!” You beamed, already waiting outside the ceremony hall when Rafe, Topper, and Kelce stepped into the sunshine. “Business graduates, baby!”

Your families surrounded your figure like a shroud, but Rafe wasn’t certain he’d ever seen someone so clearly. “And the hottest Arts graduate for fucking miles.”

“No offense.” He added teasingly, bumping his knuckle against Amber’s shoulder. “Congratulations, Graham.”

“And you, bud.” Amber smiled, bumping his shoulder right back. “Proud of us.”

She excused herself once Topper was in close proximity, giving your forearm a friendly squeeze before disappearing out of sight. 

“Hey.” Rafe mumbled, giving you that bashful smile he reserved just for you. “Think time stopped when you walked across, you know that?”

You crinkled your nose a little at that, tangling your fingers in his hair, and then, ruffling the gel right out. “Think we’re a little old for your comments now, aren’t we?”

“I mean.” You continued sagely, biting back a laugh. “You’re a graduate now, Rafael. You’re going to like… be going to your 9-5, not skipping 9am lectures –” 

“We are.” Rafe corrected, grinning broadly. “Together.”

He leaned in to kiss you slow, and you were too busy hoping to God that he didn’t clock the tension returning to your shoulders to fully enjoy it. “Together.”

—

Though the stress that came with a celebratory lunch with the Cameron family (at the most expensive restaurant on this side of town, no less) would have been the perfect excuse for your unusual behaviour, your — frustratingly perceptive; especially when it came to you — golden boy was simply not having a bar of it. 

After dropping your parents off at the airport, you and Rafe drove back to your apartment in silence; not the comfortable kind, nor the kind that promised solidarity, no — the tension was palpable, the silence heavy, and it swallowed the air around you like deadweight. Something was definitely troubling you, and this in turn, was troubling Rafe too.

You unbuckled your seatbelt as soon as the car stopped, acutely aware of Rafe’s watchful gaze, and eager to put as much as between it and you as possible. But Rafe’s stride was wider, his persistence resolute, and the love he had for you enough to force a halt.

“Stop.” Rafe started, resting his hands on the hood of his car to disallow your figure from pulling away. “Y/n…”

He trailed off with a defeated sigh, drawing his bottom lip between his teeth. “…it’s tomorrow now, baby.”

You squeezed your eyes shut for a moment, allowing yourself to feel — really feel — the comfort of his proximity, for what felt like the first time today. The knots in your shoulders began loosening, the muscle in your jaw a little more relaxed, and as your spine slumped against the side of his car, Rafe Cameron did the only thing he knew how to do — wrap you up in his arms and refuse to let go.

“Is it the future?” He murmured into your hair, his gentle remonstrance loud enough to be heard over the heavy bass. “Because, you’re going to be just fine, sweetheart, the museum would be lucky to have you over summer break.”

You shook your head slowly, wondering whether now was the right time, whether there would ever be a right time, whether you even had a choice at this stage, whether Rafe’s arms had always felt so much like home and whether they still would, after today.

“No, it’s not that.” You sighed, forcing yourself to straighten. “I, uh —”

You hesitated, drawing your bottom lip between your teeth. “ — I applied to Duke.”

“Post-grad.” You explained, smiling small. “I got in. That was the email.”

“Y/n/n!” Rafe exclaimed, picking you up and twirling you around. “Are you kidding? That’s amazing, baby!”

He dipped his head to press wet kisses onto every inch of your face, unwilling to relent until he heard the beautiful sound of your giggle. 

“I — yeah, thank you.” You exhaled, scrunching up your nose a little. “I kinda did it on a whim, but I mean, they have an amazing Art History programme, and I think it’ll be a great place to do my Masters, you know?”

“Mm-hm.” Rafe nodded, grinning proudly. “Why didn’t you just tell me? This is great news!”

You furrowed your brow at that, peeling your eyes away from his figure to shift your gaze heavenward. Above you, a cloak of stars spangled the moonless sky, and you wondered whether they were responsible for the painful sense of nostalgia binding your chest.

“Because...” You swallowed, mouth going dry. “You’re moving back to the Outer Banks, and I’m staying right here.”

“I mean — I know Duke isn’t far.” You hurried, squeezing your eyes shut in an attempt to gather your thoughts. “But it’s not exactly close, either, not if you’re in the Eight and I’m further from it than UNC.”

You forced out a shaky breath, digging your palms into the soft skin of your cheeks. “I just… I know how excited you were to go home together, and to start your new job, and for me to start one too, and our lives to stay in sync like they have been for so long —”

“Stop.” Rafe frowned, gently catching your wrists. “Baby…”

He muffled his words by guiding your knuckles to his lips, pressing kiss after gentle kiss on their surface before holding them against his chest. “…our lives are always going to be in sync.”

He paused, bumping your chin with the pad of his thumb. “You — doing what you love? Infinitely more important than me. Infinitely more important than anything else.”

“Long distance, Rafael.” You mumbled, forehead puckered as you chewed at your bottom lip. “The degree is two years.”

“It won’t —” Rafe faltered, a flicker of something slight transforming his features. “ — okay, listen, I was going to wait till tomorrow, but —”

He smoothed out the shallow creases lining your forehead, free hand splaying the small of your back to guide you back into your seat. “ — come on. Let’s get you some peace of mind.”

Though the car ride back through the city brought the same disquiet as the one from the airport, it existed within a renewed sense of togetherness, now — Rafe’s comforting grip on your thigh, chaste kisses on your temple at red lights, palm resting atop his on the gear stick, soothing circles traced into your bare skin. By the time he had pulled into an unknown street and parked beside an unknown house, your phone was beginning to blow up with expectant messages from Topper and Kelce. With a small frown, you slid it back into your handbag, knowing whatever Rafe had to show you was entirely more important than a stupid party.

“C’mon.” Rafe encouraged, having jogged to your side of the car and opened the door for you. “I want to show you something.”

He took your hand in his and guided you to your feet, locking the car with a jingle of his keys, and, you noticed bemusedly — knowing their home was in his back pocket — keeping them in his clutches. 

“Show me something?” You echoed, tucking into his side and circling his waist (or what appeared to be a valiant effort at doing so — his broad torso stretching your limbs). “In Raleigh?”

He made a big show of zipping his lips and throwing away the key, shaking his head slowly before making for the house in front of which he had parked.

“Rafael…” You fretted, eyes widening. “Why are we walking toward an empty house?”

“We’re not.” Rafe responded cryptically, quirking an eyebrow at your expression. “It’s not empty. It’s fully furnished.”

“Rafael —”

“You’ll see, sweetheart.” Rafe chided, halting at the threshold to shimmy the house key free. “Ah — this one.”

He pushed it through the keyhole and unlocked the door, and still, his lips remained diligently sealed.

“Here.” He smiled, pawing at the wall on his left for a moment before finding the light switch for the hallway. “Home.”

He pressed his forefinger against your lips before you had a chance to respond, his emerald ring glinting where it reflected your wide eyes — illuminating the many questions that swam within its depths. “Let me just show you around, first, yeah?”

He took you through the perfectly sized foyer into the perfectly sized living room, the same one that was painted a perfect shade of porcelain white and perfectly contrasted the gorgeous brown oak panels that vaulted it’s perfectly high ceiling. To his right, a perfectly large kitchen welcomed you in with minimal clutter, its wide, black marble countertop a perfect display for a bunch of perfectly picked, baby pink peonies. Just behind him, a perfectly slatted set of wooden stairs was illuminated with the golden glow of hidden lights, their destination a perfectly zen bathroom, two perfectly sized bedrooms, and in the latter — a perfectly designed en-suite with an expertly carved, marble toothbrush holder, already containing a perfectly worn set of suspiciously familiar toothbrushes.

“So?” Rafe questioned nervously, surveying your features in earnest. “Do you like it?”

Your perfectly golden hometown boyfriend had bought you the perfect first home to move into after graduation, and all you could manage was a far from perfect: “I —”

You allowed a pause to gather your thoughts, unsure if you were capable of articulating them just yet. “ — Rafael… I — I don’t know what to say.”

“It was just meant to be for the summer.” Rafe hurried, tugging at his shirt collar nervously. “The house I wanted to show you is in the Eight. I was going to get it renovated over summer for us to move intojust after, but I thought I’d find a house for us to rent —” 

He gestured toward the large living room, heartbeat threatening to thrum right out of his chest. “— in the meanwhile.”

“But since it’s close to Duke.” He continued, chewing at his bottom lip thoughtfully. “We can just stay here, after summer break, and I can put a pause on renovations — at least for now — and maybe talk to my dad about working from home.”

“Rafael.” You breathed, lips parting slightly. “I — when did you manage to do all this?”

“It’s been on my mind for a while.” Rafe admitted, offering you a sheepish, half-grin. “Asking you to move in with me after college was always my plan.”

“And sure, it’s a little different to how I imagined.” He added, bumping your chin to kiss you slow. “But when does anything ever go to plan when it comes to us?”

He wrapped his arms around your waist, flushing your back against his chest as he tucked his chin over your shoulder. “We can stay here together till you’re done with your Masters.”

“And then.” He lilted, shifting your curls away to pepper bruising kisses on your nape. “We can move back home and make you the hottest milf on the OBX, yeah?”

You smiled a little at that, cupping the stubble on his jaw as he continued his assault on your soft skin. “I absolutely don’t deserve you, you know that?”

“You deserve this and more, sweetheart.” Rafe frowned, whirling you around and guiding your arms around his neck. “So… is that a yes?”

You knitted your brow in mock concentration, allowing a pause before leaning in to nip at his bottom lip. “Of course it’s a yes, Rafael.”

Rafe let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, his bright eyes bedecked by the fated twinkle of distant stars. “We’re moving in together, baby.”

“Mm-hm.” You affirmed, as though it was the most natural thing in the world. “We’re moving in together.”

And wasn’t it? The most natural thing in the world? Wasn’t this moment so very blanketed by fate that you felt silly for ever doubting its omnipresence? In a world of star-crossed lovers, and organised mess, you and Rafe Cameron remained the one thing the twilit sky had accurately predicted. And they’d be damned if they let you go – they’d be damned, and you knew it, too.

—

You should’ve known it the minute Sarah insisted you accompany her to her favourite nail salon on the mainland. Scratch that – you should’ve known it the minute prior.

“You should go.” Rafe suggested, trying his very best – and failing miserably, Sarah would later proffer – to feign nonchalance. “We weren’t going to do anything today, anyway, were we?”

You crinkled your nose a little at that, knowing your plans – or more specifically, lack thereof – were entirely his doing. The ride to Tannyhill had consisted of suggestion after (admittedly, poorly tailored) suggestion of a Figure Eight itinerary: a visit to all your favourite haunts, a scoop – single in a cup, as Rafe had discovered so many (nearly six, you thought with a soar) years ago – of mint choc chip, a leisurely stroll along the beach, the OBX sunset caught on film. Despite the allure of a blissfully free day in your presence, Rafe Cameron had remained resolute, rolling through every possible iteration of the word “No” before pulling into his childhood home with a distracted huff.

“Let’s just –” He had paused here, jogging to the passenger’s side (as a way to release some nervous energy, you realised now) to open the door for you. “ – see how we go, yeah?”

He had locked the Ford GT, and that had been that. You would see how things go – and boy, were things going.

“Mm-hm.” You nodded finally, making to wriggle out of his grasp to wrap Sarah up in a hug. “Sar’s better company than you anyway, Rafael.”

Rafe’s grip only tightened at the action, tongue pressed against his cheek as he lowered his voice to a near inaudible lilt. “Didn’t sound like it this morning.”

Your eyes widened at the quip, fingers flying to your lips instinctively – still bruised by the phantom of his. “You’re the worst.”

“Yeah.” Rafe grinned, bowing his head ever so slightly. “But you love me anyway.”

“Unfortunately.” You grumbled, wrapping your arms around his neck to kiss him slow. “What are you going to do all day?”

Rafe faltered momentarily, drawing his bottom lip between his teeth. “Probably find my dad.”

“Your dad?” You echoed, concern manifesting through the characteristic way your fingers found his signet ring. “But it’s the weekend.”

“To catch up, sweetheart.” Rafe laughed, carding his fingers through his hair and hoping to God you didn’t clock their nervous tremble. “Not business. Swear it.”

A lot was riding on today, and his worrying lack of composure was doing little to help his cause. He hadn’t so much as done a promposal, before, let alone a –

He swallowed dryly, knowing the mere mention of the term would swirl his half-chewed breakfast right into his throat. “But I’ll see you back here in the afternoon anyway, yeah?”

“That long?” You frowned, casting Sarah a meaningful look. “Are we running errands too, Sar?”

“Yeah.” Sarah responded quickly, grimacing as she registered the eagerness lacing her tone. “Uh, yeah. We can get lunch too, we’re only due back when –”

“Didn’t you say you booked for 10am, Sarah?” Rafe coughed, eyes widening pointedly. “You guys should probably head if you wanna catch the 9.30 ferry.”

You whirled around bemusedly, placing your hands on your hips. “Rafael, when the fuck did she say –”

“Yeah.” Sarah interrupted, linking your arm with a vigorous head nod. “I’ve always booked for 10, just like our mom. That’s how you know, right Rafe?”

You features softened at the mention of Rafe’s mother, reaching backward to give his hand a comforting squeeze. “I’ll see you later then, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Rafe exhaled, smiling small. “Counting down to it, sweetheart.”

No, I’m not. I’m absolutely, positively, shitting it.

He waved you down the driveway and into Sarah’s VW Golf, fighting the very real urge to tug at the now-empty space behind his head. His hair was a little floppier than it was back in college; he had grown into his blonde locks with grace, and they “shouldn’t be hidden by that faded Knights logo, I don’t care how sure you are that they’re going to qualify this year” — so hidden, they weren’t. Not often, at least, with the baseball cap’s occasional appearance reserved for golf with Noah, or the monthly barbecues that Kelce and Chloe liked to throw. His awareness of its absence had waned with age; he seldom employed his nervous tic, these days, much preferring the familiarity of your presence — that fragrant, lavender shampoo, that bergamot perfume that drove him absolutely crazy, your small smile, your bright eyes, your nimble fingers carding through his hair — to ease him through a particularly rough day. Today, however, it returned with a roar, and Rafe Cameron wondered whether this was how seventeen, once felt. 

He didn’t budge until Sarah’s car disappeared out of sight, and even then, a pause mantled the passage of time, forcing him to remain rooted to the spot. A beat passed, and then another, and still, there Rafe Cameron stood. He breathed in the purlieus of upper-class suburbia – cavalier birdsong, the near imperceptible sound of traffic, even the effervescence of foamy waves appeared far more pretentious than he recalled.

The Eight had been his home for as long as he could remember, though he wasn’t sure he could say the same for Tannyhill. It was strangely nostalgic, being back here; at the threshold of his old life – one that represented his old self – with the prospect of starting anew. The low flutter in his chest permeated for an entirely different reason, the whir of thoughts in his mind rising to an entirely different clamour. 

“Rafe.” He muttered finally, pushing off the tiled windows that flocked either side of the entrance. “Fucking breathe.”

Letting out a shaky breath, he forced his figure to turn, moving through the house on autopilot before halting in front of his father’s study. When he rapped his knuckles against the door, he was almost surprised at how smooth their grooves appeared; disuse had allowed them to heal completely, their once calloused surface subject only to your touch, nowadays.

“Son, is that you?” Ward called, sharing a meaningful look with Rose before continuing. “Come in.”

Rafe nodded slowly, catching one wrist with the other — Shit, why was he shaking? Maybe he should’ve had a shot. Maybe he should’ve had two — as he made to turn the door handle. “Yeah, it’s just me.”

“And Y/n is…” Ward paused, clearing his throat awkwardly. “...Y/n, dear, are you here, too?”

“Just me, dad.” Rafe affirmed, an endeared smile tugging at his lips. “Rose with you?”

“Just made the last phone call.” Rose answered by way of greeting, pulling Rafe into a tight hug as he stepped through the door. “Oh, this is all so very exciting!”

“Thanks, Rose.” Rafe exhaled, allowing his shoulders to wilt, if only for a single moment. “Couldn’t have done it without you, seriously.”

“Both of you.” Rafe corrected, catching the gleam of something slight in his father’s eye. “Still got the ring?”

“In the safe.” Ward nodded, standing up to clap a firm hand on his shoulder. “Just upstairs.”

He gestured toward the exit, and for once in his life, Rafe was grateful for his father’s punishing grip — it was iron-clad, as he had been when he was younger, and it was the only reason Rafe was capable of shifting one foot in front of the other. “Rafe…”

He trailed off with an unwieldy cough, drawing his bottom lip between his teeth. “...how are you feeling, son?”

The sentiment alone was enough to force a falter, though Rafe was certain Ward’s softened features would’ve done it, had his words failed. They stood on the fourth step, just under the skylight, and burnt orange airbrushed Ward’s forehead creases into gentle oblivion – he appeared younger, somehow; the version of him that was once his mother’s. 

“I, uh –”

Rafe faltered, trying to remember the last time Ward had asked him that question. When he couldn’t, he didn’t seem to mind. It wasn’t a scathing revelation, nor particularly malicious, it was a guileless fact about their relationship – that just wasn’t how they operated; it never had been. 

“ – nervous.” Rafe admitted after a beat, absently threading his fingers through his hair. “I’ve always known, but…”

He trailed off with a sigh, squeezing his eyes shut in an attempt to gather his thoughts. “…this needs to be perfect, you know? She deserves nothing short of perfect.”

“And she’s already settled with me.” Rafe continued, raising his voice with a renewed sense of conviction. “She shouldn’t have to settle for a subpar proposal, too, or a subpar wedding, after that, or a –”

“Rafe.” Ward interrupted, his tone exact to the point of deliberation. “She hasn’t settled with you.”

And for the first time in his life, Rafe Cameron knew that his father meant it.

__

“Okay, stop.”

Sarah cringed at the stern lilt to your tone, attempting to fix her features before turning back toward you. “What’s up, Y/n/n?”

“Don’t play dumb.” You accused, narrowing your eyes punishingly. “You’re up to something. Spill it.”

Sarah fiddled with the raw hem of her denim shorts, twisting her manicured forefinger around a particular strand that was dangerously close to breaking loose. “No I’m not.”

You’re not?” You cajoled, raising an eyebrow. “Because we’ve been to the nail salon, and then we went to five different shops to find me a dress, for God knows what –”

“You should treat yourself more often, Y/n/n –”

“ – what, not to mention, every fucking dress I’ve tried on has been either been too long, or too short, or too purple, or too frilly, or just plain too Figure Eight for your highness to budge.”

The corners of Sarah’s mouth quirked up a little at that, allowing a pause before nodding toward the bag in your hand. “That one’s perfect.”

“Perfect for what?” You pressed irately, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Sarah, Midsummers isn’t for a few weeks –”

“It’s always good to be prepared.” Sarah argued, jutting out her bottom lip obstinately. “And seeing Rafe in baby fucking pink –”

“Nope.” You interrupted, not letting her change the subject. “We’re getting off topic. Spill. It.”

Sarah offered you a simple, half-shrug, unwilling to relent. “Like I said. Not up to anything.”

“Sar.” You sighed, folding your arms across your chest. “It’s Rafael, isn’t it? You’re covering for him.”

You knitted your brow in concentration, attempting to gather your thoughts. “Is he secretly working today, or something? Because he promised me he would fucking take a break, and –”

“Yeah.” Sarah responded quickly, eager for an out. “Sorry, yeah. He told me to distract you so he could do some paperwork. Sorry, Y/n/n.”

“Of course he did.” You scoffed, letting out an exasperated huff. “I’m going to fucking kill him, he –”

“Can you kill him in like –” Sarah hazarded a glance at her watch, squinting slightly as she did the mental math. “ – an hour? So that he doesn’t kill me?”

You smiled a little at that, shaking your head bemusedly. “You’re a good sister, you know that?”

And an even better sister-in-law. T-2 hours, Y/n/n.

“I know.” Sarah grinned, propping her sunglasses back onto the bridge of her nose. “C’mon, there’s this new sushi place by the water that I’ve been dying to try.”

“Of course there is.” You quipped, your eyes twinkling mischievously. “Just like the new nail salon you’ve been dying to go to, and the –”

“Hey!” Sarah admonished, poking her tongue out at you. “You love it.”

And it was true. You were willing to comb through every, single, Sarah Cameron-esque destination on the mainland in the name of augmenting your special bond. From Bloom (the only cafe for miles that made matcha lattes with – “there’s a pinch of cocaine in here. I swear to god.”) to Island Time (“Have you seen how big these almond croissants are? It’s criminal.”) to that one boutique on the corner of Fort Street that had changing room mirrors that “make your ass look bigger – trust me, they do.”, the older sister file in the back of your brain was growing with a marvellous swell. You had slotted into the Cameron family with such a characteristic ease that Rafe couldn’t help but wonder whether fate’s intentions extended past the love he had to give; whether they circled the people in his periphery – the promise of siblings, of sisters, of a big old, American family.

“True.” You agreed, bumping your hip against hers playfully. “Hey – how’s that kid you were seeing? Mason, or…?”

“Matt.” Sarah corrected, making a face. “Not good.”

You frowned, surveying her features carefully. “Lamest. How come?”

“He’s just –”

Sarah squeezed her eyes shut frustratedly, speaking through gritted teeth. “ – like every other frat boy I’ve had the displeasure of seeing. Extremely disappointing.”

“Oh no.” You winced, wrapping an arm around her shoulder to give it a comforting squeeze. “Why is this the first I’m hearing of it?”

Sarah faltered, drawing her bottom lip between her teeth. “Because…”

She trailed off awkwardly, twisting and untwisting the golden, croissant ring she had inherited from her late grandmother. “…I don’t know. I guess I was embarrassed.”

Though you were the same height (if not a modest, half-inch shorter) as Sarah, your soothing touch was enough to flute her figure into your side; she buried her head into the crook of your neck, and slowly, you managed to coax out a frustrated sigh. 

“About what, Sar?” You encouraged, furrowing your brow. “You don’t have to be, not with me.”

“With Rafael, sure.” You added, lilting your tone teasingly – a languid attempt at lightening the mood. “But never – ever – with me, yeah?”

You felt her smile against your skin, and wondered whether it was because she had registered your use of her brother’s favourite form of punctuation – yeah? 

Over the past five years (and four months, and twelve days, and eight and a half minutes, and… you were fairly certain Rafe Cameron would pleat the passage of time till the n-th fraction of a millisecond, if he could), the clandestine phrase had found its way into your vocabulary; a fact so golden it quirked at Rafe’s lips every time it escaped yours – another part of him, tangled up in another part of you.

“How’d you crack it, Y/n?”

“Crack it?” You echoed, brows snapping together in confusion. “Crack what?”

“You know –” Sarah faltered for a moment, emphasising her words by means of vague gesticulations. “ – douchebags.”

You let out a little laugh at that, cheeks tinged pink as you teased your fingers through her blonde locks. “Like Rafael? My Rafael?”

“Mm-hm.” Sarah smiled wanly, casting you a wayward glance. “Like…”

She was quick to fix her features, keeling over dramatically and pretending to gag. “...your Rafael.”

“Hey.” You quipped, blush roaring back. “I thought you weren’t allowed to call him that.”

You slid your sunglasses down the bridge of your nose, the intensity of your gaze stopping Sarah in her tracks. 

“To answer your question.” You started, speaking slow – with a gentle remonstrance. “You find one that isn’t actually a douchebag.”

You paused, smiling fondly. “A lovable douchebag, you know?”

“But –” Sarah faltered, her brow knitted in mock concentration. “ – my brother isn’t that, either, so –”

“Not too late for me to change my mind.” You lilted, fixing her with what you thought was a stern glare (read: an affectionate glance). “About going back to the Eight, I mean.”

“No way.” Sarah pressed, jerking her forefinger toward the bustle of cafes in the distance. “Sushi’s like, right there. Come on.”

She tugged you through dipping sunbeams and their intermittent, nebulous glow; flitting between tourons and locals alike until she arrived at the new restaurant. Once you were seated, and your orders placed, Sarah let out a relieved sigh. She knew all she had to do now was kill-time; an art form that tended to come naturally, when you were a Figure Eight legacy in the Outer Banks. 

It took her exactly half an hour to fill you in on all the Island Gossip you had missed, and a further thirty-five minutes to echo every single reproach it proffered. By the time you were onto the topic of Mrs. perfectly-preened-garden-with-a-white-picket-fence, who had managed to cheat on her husband with not one but two separate teachers from her son’s boarding school, the display on your watch read 2.30pm; the one on Rafe’s Cartier – 30 minutes till forever.

A fair few miles away, he was pacing the space between the pool and the deck, a dangerous tremor developing in his forefinger as it began the scroll through his contacts. The action was more to buy him time, than anything else; he was fairly certain your phone number was the first thing he had memorised, when the two of you had gotten together, punching it into his keypad almost muscle memory, at this stage. He forced out a shaky breath, willing his heartbeat to slow. Everything was ready. But what if you weren’t?

“Hold on, Sar.” You frowned, the familiar chorus of Lover resonating through the speaker of your phone where it sat face down beside your sushi bowl. “This is Rafael’s ringtone.”

You picked up the phone with a small scowl, forcing a breath of air through your nose — the way you tended to do, when you were particularly vexed with his actions — before answering. “Rafael.”

“Sweetheart?” Rafe greeted, the furrow in his brow audible. “What happened?”

“Dont play dumb.” You derided, letting out an indignant huff. “Sarah told me.”

“And don’t go blaming her either.” You added, almost feeling the irreverent curses threatening to roll off his tongue like bullets. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

Rafe swallowed several times, giving his shirt collar a nervous tug. “Baby… I mean – it’s not just something I could tell you, it’s –”

“Right.” You scoffed, narrowing your eyes to a punishing degree. “Because you knew I’d be mad.”

Rafe froze, his features blanching. “Mad?”

“Yeah?” You glowered, wild gesticulations acting to spur you on. “You told me you weren’t going to do any work over the weekend, you’ve been –”

You paused, drawing your bottom lip between your teeth. “ – you’ve been so busy recently, Rafael. I thought today was for us.”

“And that’s not to say I don’t love spending time with Sarah.” You added hurriedly, though the genuine smile you offered her was unnecessary – she’d known you for five years, now, and it was fair to say she loved you unconditionally. “But… I mean, even in the car, you were saying no to everything, and I was so excited because heading back to the Eight was your idea, and now…”

You trailed off, squeezing your eyes shut frustratedly. “…well now I know you only wanted to come to finish off some paperwork or something.”

“Sweetheart –”

“Am I wrong?” You argued, and Rafe knew you were folding your arms across your chest, now; he knew all of your little quirks off by heart. “Don’t sweetheart me, buddy, I’m mad.”

God, I’m so in love with you. All I can think about is how fucking hot you look when you’re mad. 

“I swear to you —” Rafe proffered, and you knew he was crossing his forefinger across his breastbone, now; you were fairly certain it was his most endearing quality — cross my heart and hope to die, baby. “ — that I was not finishing off paperwork.”

“I did say ‘or something’, too.” You scowled, unwilling to relent. “Rafael, if you’re calling to —”

“Ask you to come home?” Rafe interrupted, speaking through a sheepish grin. “Yeah. Come home, baby.”

He raised his voice just enough to pique Sarah’s interest, her eyes flitting past the row of Instagram stories on display to find the time in the top left hand corner. With a satisfied huff, she opened up the Snapchat app, hazarding a sneaky photo of you (captioned: T-30 💍) before sliding it back into her handbag with an admiring amount of circumspection. 

“You better have some burger shack ordered for when I arrive.” You grumbled, rising from your chair reluctantly. “With a milkshake and fries, no skimping.”

“Skimping?” Rafe echoed, pressing his tongue against his cheek — teasing. “Remember the first time I got you burger shack?”

“What?” You goaded, though a small smile was tugging at your lips — one that wistful, almost nostalgic; the same smile that appeared so very in awe of the years that had gone by, and so very aware of them, at the same time. It rang through Rafe’s speaker with a specific kind of sentimentality; the kind that comes with years and years of pining — the kind that seemed only to belong to you and him. “On our not-date?”

“Y/n/n.” Rafe lilted, absently fiddling with the emerald ring on his forefinger (a habit he had developed after catching you twisting and untwisting within those rare moments that you happened to get sick of the one adorning your nape). “You know I’d buy you burger shack if you wanted me to, right?”

“Well yeah, getting your girlfriend a burger is hardly —”

“No.” Rafe interrupted, shaking his head slowly — how did you still not get it, after all these years? How exactly were you still so painfully oblivious? “I’d buy you the burger shack — like, the restaurant. I’d buy you the whole fucking restaurant.”

“I’d buy you several restaurants.” Rafe added, chewing at his bottom lip thoughtfully. “I’d also buy you the Island Club, and then I’d buy you a big house on the beach, and then I’d buy you a —”

— big fat engagement ring. I already did that one, though. I did that one a few weeks ago.

“Rafael.” You warned, blushing crimson. “Don’t start with your little comments.”

“Rule #3?”

You paused, heartbeat quickening at the mention of the list you had once created in your efforts to avoid Rafe Cameron. The steady thrum in your chest was the same one you had felt in Paris, so many years ago; the same implacable thrum that had roared back in the Amalfi Coast, and then again in Florence — the same place Rafe had first won you over; the same place Rafe had first lost you, too. Though the latter appeared to vacillate its permanence, its flicker was as transient as the smatter of stars in the purple sky — the same stars that fate acknowledged, the same stars that dotted its vast expanse, today.

“Rule #3.”

—

“Here.” Sarah insisted, readjusting the straps of your dress for what felt like the millionth time today. “Let me just —”

“You’re going to make a perfect Figure Eight mom, one day, you know that?” You teased, swatting away her hand playfully. “Honestly, the way you’re fussing over me right now —”

“Hey.” Sarah admonished, though a mischievous grin was spreading across her face — betraying her. “You’re going to thank me for it. In exactly —”

She forced a falter at the threshold of Tannyhill, twisting her wrist to bring her watch displaying into view. “— ten minutes.”

You knitted your brow bemusedly, tilting your chin to better survey her features. “Huh?”

“You’ll see.” Sarah shrugged easily, a nervous excitement — the kind that almost scared you, but did so in the best way possible — lacing her tone. “Rafe! We’re here!”

Rafe’s figure stood a single stride away from yours; sweaty palms jammed into his front pockets (the back being off limits — stretched into the shape of a velvet box as it held the precious cargo) as he forced out a shaky breath. 

“Door’s open.” Rafe swallowed, resisting the urge to rake his fingers through his hair. “Come on in.”

You rolled your eyes preemptively, misreading the slight quaver to his tone. He’s nervous, you thought grimly, glad that he had the common decency to appear recreant at your arrival. Good. He should be. I’m going to fucking kill him. 

“Rafael.” You greeted shortly, folding your arms back across your chest once you had pushed open the door. “How was work?”

Rafe pressed his tongue against his cheek, an endeared smirk tugging at his lips. “Good.”

“Good?” You scoffed, throwing your arms up in exasperation. “You have some fucking nerve –”

You stepped forward with pupils flared, and when you punched a forefinger into his chest, all Rafe wanted to do was it – right here, right now, get down on one knee and lament the promise of forever. “ – telling me it was fucking good, after you –”

“Sweetheart?” Rafe coughed, casting Sarah a meaningful glance. “Can we go on a walk?”

“Fine.” You huffed irately, your narrow eyed gaze remaining unrelenting. “As I was saying, after you…”

Nodding obligingly, Rafe wrapped a strong arm around your shoulder, slotting you into his side before making for the shortcut to the beach. The conviction underlying your admonishments was admirable, and if Rafe wasn’t so distracted, he was sure that they would’ve transformed his features.

Unfortunately for you, however, they did the exact opposite. The trepid thrum in Rafe’s chest was rising to a dangerous clamour, and your words rendered white noise in the presence of the square-shaped bulge in his back-pocket. All he could focus on, really, was you; one foot in front of the other – you – breath in, and then out, again – you – a million different thoughts racing through his mind – you – the warmth of your skin, the bergamot smell of your perfume, the fiery twinkle in your eye – you, all of you. 

By the time you reached the edge of the beach, you were beginning to exhaust all possible avenues of reprimand. Your arms were beginning to unfold, your lips quirking just a little, and as you leaned into the comforting touch of your golden boy, the anger dissolving like white foam on golden sand. 

“Okay, m’done.” You exhaled finally, guiding his arm around your neck. “Where are we walking to?”

Your brows snapped together in concentration, attempting to guess the correct answer to your question. “Are we finally doing my OBX itinerary?”

“Not quite.” Rafe responded cryptically, a knowing smile tugging at his lips. “You’ll see.”

“I’ll see?” You repeated bemusedly, shifting your gaze from the low horizon to the expanse of sand underlying your feet. “Wait a minute –”

You stumbled to a halt, registering a large, white gazebo billowing in the distance. “ – what’s that?”

“No clue.” Rafe lied, offering you a simple, half-shrug. “Should we go check it out?”

Your narrowed your eyes a little at that — since when did the Rafe Cameron offer to look at forgotten, old make-shift belvederes in lieu of tugging you toward that forgotten corner of the beach you had discovered in the summer following your Euro Trip? 

“Uh — okay?” You nodded, the curious lilt to your tone making it sound more like another question, than an answer to his. “I guess so?”

Replacing his grip on your waist, he stole you toward the gazebo, it’s curtained walls ballooning just a little as they caught the worst of the ocean breeze. The closer you got to the entrance, the more erratic Rafe’s gait appeared; reduced to just plain stumbling by the time you were taking the last few strides.

“What is with you?” You frowned, palms splaying his chest to steady him. “Did you have a drink with your dad, or something?”

No, sweetheart. Your presence is intoxicating enough.

“Shut up.” Race chided, playfully nudging your chin. “I just lost my balance, come on.”

Intertwining his fingers with yours, he allowed a pause at the threshold of the entrance, it’s yawning surface appearing far larger up close than it had done so many steps ago.

“Rafael…” You mused, registering how very comfortable he appeared — almost as though he’d been here before. “What’s going on?”

You glanced down at where your hands were clasped together, absently chewing at your bottom lip. “Why are you shaking?”

“Are you okay?” You frowned, cupping his jaw to tilt his head down toward you. “Rafe — what aren’t you telling me?”

Rafe let out a shaky breath, and when he reached for the missing bill of his missing backwards cap, he felt like the same seventeen year old boy who had drunkenly proffered his love for you, so many years ago. 

“I’m fine.” He assured you, the intensity of his brilliant blue gaze demanding a moment’s pause. “I — uh, I lied before.”

“I know what it’s for.” He continued, beckoning you forward. “I know because I’m the one who set it up.”

Shifting behind you, he pressed a palm on either shoulder, trying to ignore the anticipation swirling in his gut as he guided you through the curtained entrance. Sitting in the very middle of the space, a black projector emitted a single beam of bright light — fanning out over the high ceiling, appearing to scintillate with the same, characteristic speckle as that of the twilight sky. 

“This is the same spot of sand where you asked me if I was alright at the end of junior year.” Rafe murmured, resting your chin between his forefinger and thumb. “The same spot I realised you were it for me, you know?”

He allowed you a moment’s pause to bask in the revelation, your eyes flitting over the rest of your surroundings — looking for more clues, trying desperately (even after all these years) to stay in control. 

“And this projector.” He continued, wrapping his arm around your shoulder to jerk his forefinger toward it. “Cycles through photos of the night sky.”

He reached backward to close the curtained entrance completely, plunging the room into velvety darkness. The spangled ceiling was your only source of illumination now, currently frozen to an image of several, brilliantly silver constellations.

“This.” He murmured, pulling you into his chest. “Is how the sky looked that day in freshman year, when we first met.”

The projector flickered to a different image, this time, curtained by the presence of a crescent moon. “This one, is from the Thornton fundraiser before senior year.”

“Arguably our first date.” Rafe added teasingly, and as he pressed a chaste kiss on your temple, the image switched once again. “This one’s from the day Topper invited me on the trip.”

“And this one’s from the night we had our first kiss.”

The projector cycled through several more images of the starry, night sky — the day you first told him you loved him, the day you moved to UNC, the day he asked you to move in, the first day in your shared apartment — before stopping at a single, fated image with a purposeful whir.

“And this one.” Rafe breathed, admiringly discreet as he slipped the velvet box out of his back-pocket. “Is a prediction of how the sky is going to look tonight.”

“Tonight?” You repeated, frowning. “What’s happening tonight?”

Rafe shook his head slowly, giving the large rope to his left a purposeful tug. It undid the curtained walls and ceiling of the gazebo, allowing them to drape the golden sand beneath your feet. The mesmerising crash of ocean waves was brought back into view, and with it, the halo of sunbeams that so effortlessly circled your figure. 

You whirled around with a small start, lips parting slightly as you breathed in the wonderful sight. For a moment, you furrowed your brow — so used to gazing up at the figure of Rafe Cameron that you thought he had disappeared completely when he made to get down on one knee.

“There’s a party at the Island Club.” Rafe answered easily, his gentle voice bringing your gaze downward, just a little. “Rose and your mom planned it, actually.”

“Rafael.” You breathed, registering his popped knee, registering the velvet box in his hand, registering the nervous furrow in his brow, registering the small smile tugging at his lips. “What’s going on?”

“Sweetheart.” Rafe started, the steady thrum of his chest returning with a roar. “I feel like I’ve been planning this day in my head since fourteen year old you rejected me on the track.”

“It’s been over ten years since that happened, and you still give me the same butterflies you did when you first called me Rafael.”

He paused, taking in a long breath. “I’ve spent so many years now loving you, sweetheart, that I don’t think I’d be me without the way you make me feel.”

“I know that we say ‘Love you, always’.” He continued, the ocean breeze teasing through his blonde locks — ruffling them just a little, exactly the way you liked. “But I think it’s time we make that last word official, don’t you?”

He opened the velvet box, revealing a gorgeous, Venetian ring, it’s oval cut diamond glinting magnificently in the bright sunshine. “Y/n Y/l/n…”

He trailed off purposefully, giving you a moment to let out an audible gasp. “…will you marry me?”

“Rafael.” You breathed, and you were nodding your head, now, you were nodding your head with absolutely everything in you, you were nodding your head and you weren’t certain you would ever stop. “Rafael, of course. Of course I’ll marry you. I — yes. Yes.”

Rafe let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, steadying your shaky hand with his shaky hand and twisting the gorgeous, Tiffany rock onto your shaky ring finger using his shaky forefinger and shakier thumb and silently cursing himself for ever thinking you could say no and silently cursing you for being crazy enough to settle for little old him. 

Cupping his cheeks, you guided him back to his feet; your cheeks flushed, eyes impossibly bright, and as his strong arms circled your waist, heartbeat thrumming right out of his chest and into the warmth of his embrace, instead.

He kissed you with the same, dizzying sense of ardency as he always did, but it was a little wilder, this time — like he was trying to memorise how exactly a fiancé’s (his fiancé, he thought with a soar) lips should taste. 

“So.” You mumbled finally, lips puckered pink — bruised in that desperate way that hitched your breath, every time. “Doing some paperwork, huh?”

Rafe bit back an endeared smile, tucking a stray curl behind your ear. “I mean, I was doing work.”

He allowed a purposeful pause, gesturing toward the crumpled gazebo behind you. “Just, not the kind you were thinking.”

Your eyes were still half-closed, but you knew those tiny crinkles were creasing the sides of his — you knew it the way you knew that the sky was blue, or that the Earth was round, or that the sun was just a bright star. You knew it the way you knew him; the way you always had, even all those years ago, when you would desperately pretend that you didn’t. “I forgive you, I guess.”

“Thank fuck.” Rafe grinned, exhaling dramatically. “Saying that your fiancé is mad at you sounds way worse than saying your girlfriend is.”

“Fiancé.” You echoed, doe-eyes catching his with that same, sweet disposition they possessed when you were kids. “We’re fiancés now.”

“I may be your fiancé.” Rafe lilted, pulling you close to kiss you slow. “But you’re still my dream girl.”

—

“Holy shit!” Amber shrieked, eyes widening as she dipped her head to examine the ring. “What is this, like twenty fucking carats?”

“Shut up.” You quipped, blushing crimson. “You know I have no idea.”

“It definitely did some serious damage.” Amber responded sagely, splaying your fingers before shifting them into plain sight. “Oi! Cameron! Nice job, buddy!”

“It was all me, Ambs!” Sarah chimed, absolutely beaming from across the Island Club. “As if my brother has enough taste to pick out an authentic Tiffany.”

“True.” Amber grinned, slowly shaking her head before turning back toward you. “I’m so so happy for you guys. Seriously.”

“We’re so so happy for you guys.” Topper corrected, coming up behind Amber and slinking his arms around her waist. “Dude. You’re getting married.”

He reached out to bump his knuckle against your shoulder, a genuine, almost reverent, smile tugging at his lips. “My best fucking friend is getting married.”

“So me and Top are obviously joint maid-of-honour…” Kelce lilted, his figure appearing at your side with two champagne flutes filled to the brim with bubbly. “…right?”

You bit back an appreciative giggle, furrowing your brow in feigned confusion. “Don’t let your girlfriend hear you say that, bud.”

“Hear him say what?” Chloe frowned, clinking her glass with yours as she leaned into your other side. “Kelco. Behave.”

You pretended to zip your lips and pocket the key, taking a long sip of champagne before looking around the Club. In typical, Figure Eight fashion, it appeared embarrassingly ostentatious, bedecked with grandiose floral arrangements, expensive plates of hors d'oeuvres, and fountains of the Island’s best Dom Pérignon. Usually, this fact would’ve been a source of significant chagrin. Today, you weren’t sure anything was capable of dulling your shine. 

Rafe was leaning against the drinks counter when you caught his eye from a distance, ruggedly handsome as ever, mid-roguish grin, a palm clapped against Noah’s shoulder as he raised his flute in acknowledgement.

“This is my engagement party.” Rafe felt himself repeat, unsure if he would ever get used to this feeling; unsure if he ever wanted to. “She’s my fucking fiancé.”

“Proud of you, Cameron.” Noah grinned, his bright eyes reflecting constellations — fate’s favourite messenger. “It’s been a long time coming.”

He shifted his gaze past Rafe’s figure, settling instead, on where your mother was attempting to steel you toward a crowd of people. “Oof. Trouble in paradise.”

A fair few steps away, you were dragging your feet against the hardwood floor.

“Mom.” You groaned, registering the individual at the very helm of the group. “I’m —”

“Sweetheart.” Your mother hissed discreetly, her lips barely moving as she spoke. “They are our family friends. You cannot avoid them forever.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose for a moment, nodding slowly before plastering in a smile. “James! Hey!”

“There she is!” James grinned, and in the distance, Rafe Cameron’s shoulders tensed. “Where’s the man of the hour?”

Rafe knew that you could hold your own, but he also knew that you shouldn’t have to. In this moment, he was the same boy from the Bonfire who had so effortlessly clocked the subtle change in your demeanour – he was sure James’ hug gave you today, teetered the same edge between comfort and unease, and the thought alone was enough to tighten his jaw to a punishing degree.  

“Ah, it really is a wonderful ring.” His mother acknowledged, taking your hand as you pulled away. “And your fiance is Ward’s son?”

“Rafael.” You affirmed, smiling broadly. “Yeah.”

“He was quite the character when you were all kids, we hear.” James’ father boomed, clearing his throat purposefully. “What did you say he does again, Evelyn?”

“He’s in development.” Your mother answered, frowning slightly as she spotted a near-empty plate of hors d'oeuvres in the distance. “Sorry, if you’ll excuse me –” 

She had disappeared into the crowd before you had a chance to protest, and you found yourself cursing her generational roots for allowing her to become such an expert at flitting between familiar faces. “Yeah, he, uh, he’s working with Ward at the moment.”

“Ah, speaking of!” James’ father exclaimed, casting his mother a meaningful glance. “We simply must go speak to him and Rose, it’s been entirely too long.”

“It was lovely to see you, my dear.” He added, flashing you a smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes. “And congratulations, once again!”

Once his wife had echoed the sentiment, he gave James’ shoulder a purposeful pat, muttering an inaudible comment that you swore involved the words “convenient” and “filthy rich” before heading back into the crowd. 

“So he’s working with his dad, then?” James established, offering you a sweet smile once his parents were out of sight. “Nepotism. That’s lovely.”

You hardened a little at that, wishing for a moment that you weren’t twenty-four with a gorgeous ring glinting on your finger, just so you could punch him a third time, for good measure. “How’s the summer internship at Johnson Law going, James?”

“Oh, yeah, it’s good.” James responded, absently tracing the rim of his champagne flute. “Glad I stuck with Law, you know? It’s been really rewarding.”

In the distance, Rafe felt his arm jerk against his side. He wondered if he could get away with tugging James’ out of the party by the obnoxious emblem sewed onto his shirt collar. 

“Good to hear.” You deadpanned, offering him a tight-lipped smile. “Anyway, I should –”

“Relax, Y/n, we’re still talking.” James’ dismissed, not letting you finish your sentence. “So you decided on a degree in…”

He trailed off with a furrowed brow, though the action appeared almost derisive as it transformed his features. “…making paintings?”

“Art History.” You corrected with a wince, biting the inside of your cheek. “Graduated with a Master of Arts, majoring in Art –”

“Whatever.” He jeered, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “Not that it matters.”

When you refused to rise to the bait, he let out a low bark of laughter. “Cause I mean, you’re going to end up being a stay-at-home mom, anyway, right? That’s the whole reason you married into one of the richest families on the Island?” 

“Excuse me?” You spluttered, keeling over a little as bubbly dripped down the rim of your flute. “What the fuck did you just say?”

You weren’t being particularly loud, nor startling enough to cause a scene, but the unease radiating from your figure blanketed Rafe like a spectral being; it sent a dangerous shudder down his spine, and his legs were taking him back toward you before his conscious mind had a chance to intervene. 

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of!” James simpered, his mouth twisting spitefully. “My mom’s stay-at-home, and so is yours, I guess you just weren’t cut out for –”

“ – a disciplinary hearing?” Rafe finished, circling your waist protectively — home. “Heard a funny little story about that from Amber, actually.”

A muscle in James’ jaw twitched, his next few words spoken through gritted teeth. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I?” Rafe goaded, tucking you behind him before rolling his shoulders. “Selling kids coke and telling them it’s Ritalin isn’t the greatest look for a future lawyer, is it?”

His eyes flitted toward James’ knuckles, almost laughing at the way they blanched. “Really, buddy? At my engagement party?”

He allowed a purposeful pause, here, punching a forefinger into James’ breastbone until he was certain it would bruise. “Take a walk.”

“Now.” He snarled, his pupils dangerously flared. “Oh – and Johnson?”

He applied a punishing grip on James’ shoulder, only satisfied when he registered his subtle wince. “Y/n graduated with a Masters at the top of her fucking class, she’s got a killer job lined up as senior art curator of the museum her grandfather built, she’s going to Spain in a few months with some of the best people in her field, and she’s going to knock them right off their tenured asses once they realise how incredibly talented she is.”

“So don’t you dare –” He shoved James’ forward roughly, bumping a clenched fist into his back for good measure. “ – tell her what she is and isn’t cut out for. She’s already more successful than you’re ever going to be.”

James swallowed slightly at the sentiment, and when he disappeared into the crowd, his head was low, his shoulders wilted, and he left only a low mutter of inaudible curses in his wake. 

“Thank you.” You sighed, allowing yourself to fully relax. “I don’t know where that came from.”

Rafe frowned a little at that, pressing a chaste kiss on your temple. “He’s just bitter.”

“Amber told me he’s repeating his final year.” Rafe explained, slotting you back into his side protectively. “His father had to pay the school out to avoid expulsion.”

“Fucking hell.” You winced, shaking your head. “What a mess.”

“What a mess.” Rafe agreed, guiding you through the crowd before slowing to a stop in front of his best friend. “But enough about that motherfucker –”

“What motherfucker?” Noah asked, quirking an eyebrow bemusedly. “Johnson not bothering you, is he Y/n?”

“He was.” You pouted, leaning into Rafe’s side with a small smile tugging at your lips. “Gave Rafael his knight in shining armour moment though.”

You paused, the corners of your mouth twitching mischievously. “You know… the one I robbed him of at your party in our freshman year of college.”

“Would’ve been more satisfying if I’d thrown a punch.” Rafe grumbled, but he tilted your chin, all the same, kissing you hard – like it was the first time, all over again. “Six years later and he’s still the same douchebag, huh?”

“And you’re still the same lovable one.” You countered, crinkling your nose playfully. “Douchebag, I mean.”

When he let out an appreciative chuckle, you couldn’t help but do the same – when he was happy, so were you, and when you were happy? When you were happy, the stars above were, too.

“So… you should know.” Noah smiled, raising his arms to pull you into a tight hug. “That when you become a Cameron, you become a White by default, too.”

“Kid’s my brother, you know?” He added, and you pouted a little when you registered how strained his voice sounded; the way his eyes glistened under the dull glow of the ceiling light. Who would’ve thought that your presence — little old you — could render the two biggest, self-proclaimed douchebags in your year to tears? “So… welcome to the family.”

—

You tugged at the alarmingly high hem of your black dress, turning to one side, and then the other, as you surveyed your appearance in the full-length mirror. “Too much?”

“Y/n.” Chloe lilted, rolling her eyes over the white claw she was sipping. “It’s your bachelorette party.”

She shifted forward from where her figure splayed your blue comforter, insistent fingers pulling it right back up. “There’s no such thing as too much.”

You crinkled your nose a little at that, swatting her hand away playfully. “Shut up. I don’t even care about the party.”

“But I care.” She chastised, fixing you with a pointed glare. “And I’m definitely getting you drunk, baby.”

“We are definitely getting you drunk.” Amber corrected, her figure appearing at the threshold of the door with several, haphazardly balanced drinks in hand. “Here — you’re already behind.”

“Behind who?” You frowned, narrowing your eyes suspiciously. “What do you know, Graham?”

Amber’s features twisted into a defeated grimace, a sheepish smile tugging at her lips. “Topper might have mentioned that the boys have been drinking since three.”

“Three?” You repeated, letting out an exasperated scoff. “It’s nearly fucking six —”

“Which is why —” Amber cajoled, carelessly thrusting a white claw into your chest. “ — you need to start. Like, now.”

She placed a hand on her hip, the other gesturing for you to hiss open the can. “Now, Y/n/n.”

“Alright, alright.” You pouted, biting back a small smile. “Although…”

You trailed off with a quirked brow, eyes twinkling mischievously. “…think there’s some vodka on the top-shelf of the pantry.”

“Now we’re talking!” Chloe grinned appreciatively, standing up and wobbling toward your figure. “Opa!”

She linked your arm with hers, nodding Amber forward before tugging you toward the door. “To the pantry!”

“To the pantry!” You echoed teasingly, reaching forward to tuck Amber’s figure into your other side. “When are we leaving?”

You paused, flirting with the idea of getting a little more information (Chloe had been adamant that the night’s itinerary be kept a secret, a fact that the control freak in you couldn’t bear to accept). “And what are we doing?”

“Well, first.” Chloe inclined, stepping forward to claw at the top shelf of the cupboard. “We’re getting drunk.”

She tugged the near-full bottle of vodka out of its hiding spot, setting it down on the marble countertop before finding three shot glasses within your drawers. She only poured all of them to the brim the first time round, and by the time you had hit your fourth, you were far too spacey to notice she had stopped filling the other two, entirely.

“Okay.” You cringed, downing it with a low shudder. “Enough.”

“We’re just getting started, actually.” Chloe grinned, bumping her hip against your affectionately. “Okay, c‘mon — final touch.”

She guided you toward the living room with the tiniest hint of a stumble, reaching for the hideous, fuschia sash (Bride to be!) that she had placed atop the coffee table.

“I’m definitely not wearing that.” You warned, wincing slightly at the dangerous slur to your voice. “Like, definitely not wearing it.”

Amber was halfway opening her mouth in protest when the resonant ding of the doorbell interrupted your conversation, your brow furrowing slightly as you attempted to figure out who exactly it could be.

“Guys.” You frowned, narrowing your eyes suspiciously. “This was meant to be small!”

“It’s nothing.” Chloe insisted, waving a dismissive hand in the air as she disappeared to the foyer. “Promise.”

When she returned, it was with the animated bustle of more company — Priya and Jade from your fleeting time at UPenn, Sophie Nichols, Amber’s best friend, a few of the girls you had met through your Art History papers at UNC, and —

“Top and Kelce!” You exclaimed, wrapping your arms around their equally inebriated figures. “I thought you guys were with —”

“— Cameron?” Kelce finished, raising an eyebrow at your guilelessness. “You didn’t think we’d actually miss your bachelorette party just because we’re guys, right?”

“Besides.” Topper added, smiling dopily. “They started early, so we got to spend some time with Cameron, anyway.”

“It also means we’re adequately buzzed.” Kelce said solemnly, draping his arm over your shoulder. “And ready to get you fucked up.”

Several drinking games, another two shots, and half a game of twenty questions later, Topper and Kelce were completely sober (not for lack of trying — they were out drinking you by miles), and a single, slurred confession away from eating their words. 

“So.” You continued, squinting slightly as your vision began to slur. “S’he does this thing with his tongue, that makes m’ —”

“Should we go now?” Kelce coughed, fixing Chloe with a pointed glare. “To a club? With people around?”

“We are in a sec.” Amber laughed, nodding toward her phone. “Ubers are a minute away.”

“Don’t think that’s going to get her to bite her tongue, though.” Chloe grinned, tipsy enough not to care about your actions, but sober enough to mean every word she said. “You’re the one who wanted to come to the party.”

“Yeah.” Kelce responded grimly, making a face. “Because I thought a male stripper was as bad as it was going to get.”

“S’a stripper?” You slurred, stumbling into Chloe’s side. “One time, I surprised m’Rafael in that Lara Croft s’outfit that —”

Topper clapped his hand over your mouth, a painful grimace twisting his features. “Jesus, Y/n, stop.”

“Though w’playing twenty questions.” You muffled, splaying your palm in front of his face. “S’answered fifteen, now, think.”

“True.” Priya nodded thoughtfully, biting back a laugh. “Hey, Y/n, where’s the craziest place you and Rafe have had sex?”

“Topper’s pool.” You giggled, giving his cheek a fond pat. “Sorry, Top.”

“No you fucking didn’t.” Topper gagged, steadying your figure against his chest as he made to stand. “When?”

“S’freshman year of college.” You slurred dopily, dragging your feet against the floor as he guided you toward the exit. “S’movie night.”

Kelce furrowed his brow slightly, slowing to a stop to allow the rest of the girls to move past him. “Movie night?”

“Mm-hm.” You grinned, eyes twinkling mischievously. “S’you guys went to shower after swim and m’and Rafael said we’d go after.”

You wriggled out of Topper’s grasp to stumble through the door and onto the porch, clapping excitedly when you realised the girls were beginning to hop into several, patiently waiting Ubers. 

“I don’t know why I even asked.” Kelce cringed, painfully aware of the fact that he used Topper’s guest bathroom, that day, the same one that had a clear view of the large pool it overlayed. “Disgusting.”

“Nooooo.” You protested, folding your arms across your chest crossly. “Pool sex s’reaaalllly nice —”

“Stop talking.” Topper interrupted, making a mental note to punch Rafe in his smug face the next time he saw him — honestly, sex with his childhood best friend in the pool he had spent his entire childhood swimming in? With you, his childhood best friend? Who he had known since childhood? And who he — yeah. When he saw Rafe Cameron, next, he was definitely going to give him a shiner. “And please get in the fucking Uber.”

—

There were far too many nightclubs in Chapel Hill for this encounter to just be a coincidence. 

Despite this, it appeared the only viable explanation – Noah and Chloe had diligently combed through the facts, and there was simply no way that you and Rafe could have planned this late night rendezvous. And it was true – you hadn’t. The star spangled sky above you was the one who preferred doing all the hard work.

“Rafaellllll.” You slurred, eyes widening comically. “S’you!”

Rafe Cameron – who (bless his heart) was seeing far more than four, and wouldn’t have spotted your figure for miles, the state he was currently in – furrowed his brow, allowing a moment’s pause before vigorously shaking his head. “Okay. M’definitely too drunk t’function now.”

“You didn’t imagine it this time, buddy.” Noah snorted, tugging Rafe forward by the shirt collar. “She’s there.”

And there, you were. Already hobbling toward him in those blistering heels you seemed to love, your eyes a little wild, loose curls tousled just right. You were far too drunk to stand, and still, you continued your careless lumber, stumbling right into his chest with a that dopey smile he couldn’t get enough off, doe-eyes speckled, fingers clasping the blonde locks that teased the nape of his neck

“Woah.” Rafe mumbled, carelessly circling your waist. “Y’like really hot, bu’ I have a fiancé.” 

“M’too.” You nodded sagely, nudging his chin with your nose to pepper wet kisses alonghis jaw. “M’getting married to him tomorrow.”

“Y’are?” Rafe slurred, pressing himself further into you with an appreciative groan. “Lucky guy.”

“Y’should wear this dress tomorrow.” He added sloppily, roaming hands finding their way to the curve of your ass. “S’hot.”

“You’re hot.” You moaned, spurred on by the alcohol running through your veins. “Why didn’t w’do this party together?”

“Mmmm.” Rafe nodded, and his bruising touch was dangerously close to hitching your dress up further, now, the low neck he traced with his puffy lips leaving little to the imagination. “W’should’ve. W’out everyone else.”

“Okay that’s enough.” Noah coughed, applying a punishing grip on Rafe’s shoulder to pull him backward. “We’re in public. Please behave.”

“Noah!” You grinned, carelessly leaning into his chest (what he assumed was heavily intoxicated you giving him a sloppy version of a hug). “Fancy seeing y’here.”

“At my best friend’s bachelor party?” Noah questioned, biting back an amused chuckle. “I know. Super random.”

He beckoned Chloe over with a meaningful glance, his free hand pressed into your forearm to steady you. “How’s your night going, Y/n?”

“S’really good!” You exclaimed, squinting a little as you looked toward your palms, and then focussing all of your energy on maneuvering them into two thumbs up. “H’yours?”

Noah resisted the urge to make a face, his bicep rippling threateningly as he circled it Rafe’s neck. “Oh, you know. Same old.”

“Bro.” A guy named Will (one of Rafe’s frat brothers from his time at UNC) proffered, pressing his tongue against his cheek. “Tell me you hired a stripper.”

Currently, they were sitting in the private room of a centrally located club, the one Noah had hired for the night. The room was littered with empty glasses of beer, whiskey, and different iterations of the same tequila shot — no one was sober enough to think straight; the conversation was just beginning to get interesting.

“No way.” Noah chuckled, shaking his head knowingly. “You guys know how whipped Cameron is for Y/n.”

He paused, resisting the urge to make a face. “ And you guys didn’t know him in high-school, he was so much fucking worse then —”

“Stripper?” Rafe echoed, as though he had only just registered the sentiment – alcohol was running through his veins like water, and he was a single shot away from reaching the point of no return. “I know the perfect stripper.”

He scrunched up his features momentarily, attempting to gather his thoughts. “Lara Croft.”

Noah’s eyes widened at the admission, knowing where this was going, and clapping his hand over Rafe’s mouth (for his own good, he would later say, though they both knew it was really for Noah’s good, and for the good of humanity as a whole). “You’re not repeating that story again.”

“S’a good story!” Rafe protested, his voice muffled to a near imperceptible degree (or was his inability to speak a result of the several shots he had downed? Noah White was struggling to keep count). “Y’know who s’about?”

He swatted at Noah’s hand crossly, and his eyes were glazing over, now, the corners of his eyes crinkling a little, his features soft, his brow a little furrowed, and – oh, boy, Noah knew that look far – far – too well. “S’about my dreeeeaaaammmm girllll.”

“Y’know.” He continued, his eyes widening comically. “M’getting married t’her tomorrow.”

He stumbled into Noah’s figure, circling his neck to the point of suffocation. “How’d I manage that?”

“Been asking myself the same thing.” Noah teased, attempting to loosen his grip with minimal avail. “Bro –”

“White.” Rafe interrupted, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Th’stripper y’should call is Y/n. She’s really good at it, but y’guys can’t b’here for it, it’s a private show –”

“Right.” You nodded, chewing at your bottom lip thoughtfully. “Same old.”

You were opening your mouth to ask another question – “Hey, Noah, c’you leave us alone now?” – when Chloe’s figure appeared at his side, hands on her hips as she gave you a once over, stern glare enough to force a falter. “You’re not meant to spend your bachelorette party with the bachelor you’re marrying, by the way.”

“But I want to.” You protested, jutting out your bottom lip obstinately. “S’right here. My Rafael.”

Chloe couldn’t help but smile a little at that, sharing a knowing look with Noah before lowering her voice. “And how goes the best man duties?”

Noah shook his head as if to say – oh, you have no idea, his lips barely moving as he dipped his head. “We started the night with a drinking game where Cameron has to take a shot every time he mentions Y/n.”

“Ah.” Chloe nodded, surveying Rafe’s stumbling figure with a stifled giggle. “No wonder he’s so fucked up.”

“Oh… no.” Noah responded grimly, shaking his head. “We had to stop playing fifteen minutes in.”

“You know.” He continued, the corners of his mouth quirking up just a little. “Because you can’t say your vows if you have fucking alcohol poisoning.”

__

You let out another shaky breath, smoothing out the lace roses that emblazoned the waistline of your wedding dress. It was day dot – the promise-of-forever day, as your future self would lovably tout it (your current self couldn’t think of anything worse than adding the extra pressure of a fucking nickname, to today, and she was silently cursing you for ever doing such a thing – didn’t you know that it was thrumming through her chest like an omen? Didn’t you know it was the exact opposite of what she needed today?). 

“Relax.” You muttered to yourself, scrutinising your appearance with a punishing amount of determination. “You’re going to be fine.”

“Yes, you are.” Your father smiled, his booming voice enough to whirl you around. “You look beautiful, sweetheart.”

He allowed a pause to swallow thickly, his eyes glistening as he offered you an outstretched palm. “Ready?”

Several steps away, sheltered by an elegantly sculptured pavilion, Rafe Cameron hazarded another glance at his Cartier watch. It glinted just a little as it caught the light, and when he registered the time it displayed, it was enough to straighten him with a start. He blew all of the air out of his cheeks, and for a single, infinitesimally long moment, he closed his eyes, and committed every single detail around him to memory. The enchanting hum of Taylor Swift lyrics. The salty embrace of a clement, ocean breeze. The pompous murmur of Figure Eight patriarchs, and matriarchs, alike. The burnt orange hues of radiating sunbeams. The expectant glint of an argent, silver ring. And then – the promise of forever. You.

Rafe Cameron opened his eyes, and the passage of time blurred into a mess of slurpy brushstrokes. Slowly, he blinked back unshed tears, and as he zero-ed in on your angelic figure, he committed every single detail to memory, all over again. The wreath of loose curls that held a magnificent, ivory veil. The waterfall of beaded tulle that radiated around your waist like a halo. The slight pucker to your tinged lips, the brilliant twinkle in your doe-eyes, the teasing waft of your bergamot perfume, that near-imperceptible crinkle of your nose — the same crinkle that you reserved just for him. You. 

“This is it.” Noah muttered, giving his forearm a reassuring pat. “Got the rings when you’re ready, buddy.”

Rafe didn’t hear him. You were close enough, now, for Rafe to feel the full strength of your magnetic pull; the world warped around your intertwined figures like space-time, and he wasn’t certain he ever wanted it to stop.

“Hey.” He managed, clasping your manicured fingers to guide you up the pavilion steps. “You look…”

He trailed off with the small shake of his head, and in the distance, the chorus appeared to know exactly what he was going to say. 

“You too.” You breathed, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. “I love you, Rafael.”

“I love you. Always.”

Behind him, the wedding officiant appeared to be speaking, and through the arms he raised in welcome, he assumed it was the opening address. He didn’t bother tuning it in, nor anything else, really, in his periphery, focussing all of his effort instead, on memorising you. 

He looked down at the way your fingers knotted in his, and remembered the very first time you had taken his hand in yours. It was senior year, right after your History project, and you — bright-eyed and beaming, had clapped alongside your peers before absently clasping his hand and dipping your figure into a polite bow. His breath had hitched, as it was doing right now, and his heartbeat thrummed, as it did in this moment. And though he gazed down at you today with the same glint of adoration his eye had reflected, back then, he was met, this time, with the beautiful gift of solidarity — the air was still, and it acted a two-way mirror between your fated figures. This time, you felt it too. And Rafe Cameron wasn’t certain he would ever — ever — get used to this fact. 

“…and I believe that the bride and groom have prepared their own vows?”

The last word was enough to bring Rafe out of his reverie, giving the wedding officiant a small nod before sliding a piece of paper out of his pocket. Though he clutched it taut enough to cause a small rip, his hands were shaky, and his palms a little clammy — the words were blurring into splotches of ink, though Rafe wasn’t sure he would have made sense of the words, regardless. He closed his eyes for a moment, and within the darkness, Rafe found gratitude in the number of years he had spent loving you. He didn’t need the piece of paper, nor the words that they displayed. They were already written in the stars above and reflected within his beating heart — he hadn’t said them, nor read them, but he already knew them off by heart, and with a deep breath in, and then a deep breath out, Rafe Cameron raised his chin, and he confessed every ounce of his undying love. 

“Y/n.” He started, and his voice was no longer quavering, now, the words resolute as they rang through the air. “Firstly — you look so goddamn beautiful, baby, you know that?”

The crowd let out an appreciative hum at that, though the bashful smile tugging at your lips was enough to render it white noise.

“I’ve loved you since before I even knew what love was.” He continued, letting out a slow breath. “And I’m not sure I could stop loving you, even if I tried.”

“You — the way you make me feel…”

He trailed off with a small shake of his head, clasping your hands a little tighter. “…most people spend their whole lives trying and failing to chase that feeling.”

“And I get to feel it every damn day.” He added thoughtfully, drawing his bottom lip between his teeth. “I get to hold you, and to love you, and somehow —”

He paused, and as he dipped his head, you willed yourself to lose yourself in his brilliant blue gaze, completely. “— somehow, I get to say that you love me too.”

“When we were fourteen, I remember thinking — there’s something about her, you know?” 

“And I tried my very best to shake it.” He added with a grin, and when he lowered his voice to a near inaudible lilt, it was to address you, and you only. “Via a two-year long stint on douchebag autopilot.”

“But I couldn’t.” He continued, raising his voice again. “And I look back at it now and just want to yell at that stupid kid — because why the hell would you want to let this feeling go?”

He allowed a pause to exhale, brushing over the soft skin of your knuckles. “Because there isn’t just something about you.”

“There’s —” He faltered, knowing there didn’t exist enough words in the English language to do you justice. “— I mean, ‘something’ sounds so insignificant.”

“It’s the way you smile, and the way you throw you head back when you laugh; it’s that little twinkle in your eye, and it’s how concentrated you get when you try to say goodbye. It’s your way with words and it’s the how deeply you love and how fiercely you care and how gently you breathe and —”

He drew in a sharp breath, as though his love for you was so all-consuming that it threatened to swallow him whole. “ — God, it’s everything, you know? I’ve loved you since before I knew what love was, and I’ll probably love you until I take my last breath. Thank you, for being mine.”

Maybe the crowd rose to a clamour when Rafe finished, or maybe they did the exact opposite. You didn’t know. You didn’t care. You were zero-ed in on the only boy that mattered, and the warmth of his presence alone was enough to coax your vows right out of your mouth. 

“Rafael.” You started, smiling small — just for him. “I think I’m finally ready to admit that I was pining for you for a bit there, too.”

The crowd laughed, but you didn’t notice. You were too busy basking in the afterglow of Rafe Cameron’s roguish grin — the same one he had flashed you so many years ago, the same one that made you feel seventeen, again. “You taught me what love is supposed to feel like, and for that, I will be eternally grateful.”

“I remember spending all of senior year being way too scared of giving you my heart.”

“I built up so many walls.” You continued, swallowing slightly. “But with you, it was like they were made of glass.”

You sidled a little closer to his figure, matched his gaze with a little more finality. “You make me come alive, Rafael — you make me feel like I can do anything, you know?”

“To find someone like you — someone who fits me like a jigsaw puzzle — within a place as small as the Eight?”

You paused, shifting your gaze heavenward. “I’m so incredibly lucky. I can’t even begin to explain how very rare it is — the way I feel about you.”

“So thank you.” You finished, your forehead creasing in earnest. “For making me yours. It’s the only place I’ve ever truly belonged, you know? In your arms. Always.”

Rafe smiled so very bright at that you had to remind yourself to breathe. God, he thought, will I ever get used to this feeling? not knowing that you were asking yourself the very same question, fate coaxing it out at the very same time.

“Wonderful.” The officiant beamed, raising his arms appreciatively. “Now, repeat after me…”

And repeat his words, you did. 

When he told Rafe to kiss you, the world blurred into a haze of stolen memories — intertwined as your figures were, threatening to melt into the same oblivion within which you inhabited a single spot. He kissed you like it was his last day on Earth, and then, he kissed you some more. He kissed you for every almost-kiss, for every accidental touch, for every forced embrace. The sky above you spangled silver with a blanket of stars, and Rafe Cameron kissed you hard enough for them to wink in acknowledgement. He kissed away every chance encounter, every rude awakening, every dangerous quaver. He kissed you hard enough to immortalise forever, and when he did finally pull away, it was no longer just a promise. It was here. You had reached it — you had reached forever. 

—

Noah cleared his throat purposefully, casting Rose a meaningful glance before nodding toward the live band.

Rose flashed him a small wink in acknowledgement (one day, Mrs. Cameron, he thought with a cryptic smile), mouthing a discreet “On it!” before getting out of her seat and disappearing into the crowd. 

Beside him, his best friend was whispering something near indiscernible in your ear. It was just the right amount of audacious, Noah was sure of it. He was sure by the way you scoffed, surer still when he clocked that tiny smile (the same one you used to think no one noticed – the same one Noah always did, when you interacted with Rafe Cameron). 

Once he was given the go-ahead by Rose, he straightened in his chair, clinking his fork against the crystal glassware until the room murmured into silence. 

“May I have everyone’s attention?” He announced, standing up with a confident smile. “I would like to make a toast.”

He glanced down at Rafe’s figure with a twinkle in his eye, clapping a hand over his shoulder before continuing. “When I first met Cameron, we were like two peas in the same douchebag pod.”

“Granted, we were ten.” Noah grinned, allowing a pause as people laughed. “But we used to strut around the playground of Kildare middle school like we owned the place.”

“One of us grew out of the habit.” Noah continued sagely, making a show of pointing at himself. “And the other…”

He trailed off with a dramatic sigh, shaking his head defeatedly. “…the other took a couple more years.”

“And you know what?”

He paused, catching your eye with a little wink. “It would’ve taken him a lot longer than a couple of years if a certain, special girl hadn’t called out Mr Williams in our freshman math class.”

“No, wrong reaction.” Noah reproached, speaking to the sea of saccharine sweet Ooh!s and Ah!s. “Mr Williams sucked.”

He allowed another pause as people laughed again, using the moment to reach over and tousle your curls just a little. “Y/n, the boy loves you like crazy, you know that?”

“It’s insufferable.” He continued, keeling over and pretending to gag. “I mean, he’s been smitten since the day he met her. I didn’t even think he was capable of real human emotions until she called him Rafael, that day on the track, and all he did was flash her that disgusting, I’m-hopelessly-in-love-with-you smile.”

“For context.” Noah explained, his pressed tongue against his cheek as he recalled the fond memory. “In eighth grade, Cameron punched a kid – yo, James, you in the crowd, bud? – for calling him Rafael.”

“And I never understood why he hated his full name so much.” He frowned, and he was guiding you to your feet, now, pulling you into his side to speak to you, and only to you. “I didn’t understand till he met you.”

He paused, here, the intensity of his gaze so very mesmerising that you felt exactly how he had described you – like that certain, special fourteen year old girl who had plagued Mr William’s math class, so many years ago. “He was saving it for the girl of his dreams.”

“Or his dream girl.” He corrected, pressing a gentle kiss on your temple. “And to that I say… welcome to the family, Mrs. Dream-Girl Cameron!”

You wrapped your arms around his waist as people cheered, feeling the warm figure of your golden boy – your husband, you thought with a soar – flush the back of your body to wrap his arms around him, too.

“Love you, bro.” Noah muttered, clearing his throat in an attempt to drown out his small sniff. “So fucking happy for you.”

“And you.” He added with a smile, bumping your chin affectionately. “Surprised you didn’t rope him into hyphenating.”

“No way.” You lilted, crinkling your nose playfully. “Can’t turn down the satisfaction of being a Cameron milf.”

“Once Rose retires, of course.” You added, biting back a laugh. “When are you going to snatch her up?”

Noah cast you a meaningful glance, shaking his head gloomily. “One day.”

A few spots away, Topper and Kelce were preparing to make their speech, perched on the very edge of their respective chairs in anticipation of the moment. Once they were certain that the crowd had stilled, and your figures adequately settled, the latter clinked a fork against his champagne flute, straightening in sync with the former’s announcement.

“Our turn!” Topper grinned, raising his glass preemptively. “We, too, would like to make a toast.”

“So me and Top here have known Y/n for most of our lives.” Kelce started, jerking a forefinger toward his figure before continuing. “But for some reason, she’s always liked him more than me.”

“And I mean like-like.” He added, raising his fingers in air-quotes. “Verbatim what she told me when we were ten and he was away for summer camp – ‘Kelce, I think I like Topper. Like, like-like him’.”

You blushed a little at that, burying your head in your hands. 

“So she spent most of middle school and high-school deluding herself into thinking she liked Topper.” Kelce continued, shaking his head knowingly. “But I think that was because she had never really crushed on someone before, so she didn’t know how it was meant to feel.”

“And, douchebag Cameron over here didn’t make things easier for her.” Topper picked up, biting back a fond chuckle. “He was so insufferable all of high-school that he gave her the perfect out.”

“Y/n…” Kelce teased, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips. “…no way is it possible to talk about someone you hate that much.”

“For real.” He continued, making a show of shaking his head soberly. “Every single day – Oh my god, did you hear what Cameron just said to me? Or – No way am I going to prom with Cameron… but who is he going with, anyway? And even – Let’s ditch his birthday party and hang out at home… oh but here’s a $700 bottle of Bordeaux from my parent’s wine cellar that I’m going to give him –”

Around him, people laughed appreciatively, and he had the gall to grin, enjoying the attention a little bit too much. Asshole.

“But on a more serious note.” Topper smiled finally, moving his earnest gaze back toward you and Rafe. “I’m glad I invited you to Europe with us, Cameron, because it was the first time I ever saw Y/n come alive.”

“She deserves the kind of love you give her.” He added, quirking his eyebrow just a little. “Even if it makes the rest of us want to gag.” 

Kelce clinked his glass against Topper’s in agreement, gesturing for everyone to raise theirs, too. “To Rafe and Y/n!”

“Rafe and Y/n!” The crowd echoed, the clamour allowing you a moment to slip out of your seat and into their arms. 

“Going to make me cry.” You mumbled, blinking back unshed tears. “I love you, guys.”

They squeezed you extra tight, the second time around, pretending like it was because you were crying (but really, it was because they were, too). “We love you.”

Chloe’s speech came after that, and it was by far the most unforgiving. Perhaps it was because she was the only one who bore witness to “you and hometown’s disgustingly long FaceTime calls – I mean seriously, there’s no way you were just talking for that long”, or perhaps, it was the fact that she was your first real girl friend. It wasn’t as though Topper and Kelce were willing to sit through a debrief on your dates, or your conversations, or your sex, or why “Come over if you want!” really reads as “Don’t come over at all”; they remained blissfully debrief-less, and were none the wiser for it. By the time she had completed her address, you were dangerously close to tears, your voice a little thick as you wrapped her up in an embrace.

“Thank you.” You muffled, drawing backward with a watery smile. “Seriously.”

“I love you, baby.” Chloe pouted, words strangled as they caught in her throat. “My favourite person ever.”

She tucked a stray curl behind your ear before gently whirling you around, Rafe Cameron’s calloused palm already raised expectantly. 

“It’s first dance time.” He murmured gently, intertwining your fingers before guiding you to the floor. “We can leave the Christmas lights up ‘til January…”

“This is our place.” You continued, wrapping your arms around his neck. “We make the rules…”

Rafe circled your waist a little tighter, your head resting in the small nook between his breastbones – close enough to hear the nervous thrum of his heart; close enough to cause it to quicken with a start. You were swaying in time to the music – and, he thought with a soar, in sync with him – and fleetingly, Rafe wondered whether this is how you two would have danced had he managed to ask you to prom so many years ago, when you were seventeen. Whether you would have shared the same first dance you were doing, right now, whether you would have elicited the same emotions, and felt them in turn, allowed the rest of the world to melt into oblivion, allowed yourself to melt into him, instead. 

“You know.” He smiled, his breath tickling the sweet spot below your ear as he gently dipped his head. “We’ve never slow danced before.”

“Not properly.” He added, guiding his hand to the small of your back. “Not like this.”

It felt as though every memory that knitted you into the fabric of space-time was unravelling – they were blurring around your tangled figures like a golden halo, and for a moment, Rafe wondered whether it was possible for all of the atoms in his body to deliquesce into it, too.

“That’s true.” You nodded, and when you tilted your chin, it felt as though he was going to drown in the ardency of your embrace. “Not like this.”

He caught your wrist and brought it to his chest, your other hand resting on the top of his broad shoulder. The chorus was starting, and your touch so very intoxicating, and your soft skin caving his, and your tinged lips speaking slow, and – god, would he ever get used to this feeling?

“I love you.” He mumbled into your hair, and in the distance – Can we always be this close, forever and ever? “Always.”

“You’re my…” You smiled, allowing your eyes to close. “...my, my, my…

–

Rafe Cameron wasn’t certain he would ever get used to this feeling. 

“Good book?” He murmured, careful not to disturb you. “How long have you been out here, baby?”

You furrowed your brow slightly, peeling your eyes away from the weathered pages of Pride and Prejudice. “A little while. How was golf?”

“Good.” Rafe smiled, pressing a gentle kiss on your temple. “Here.”

He handed you a bottle of your favourite, organic Kombucha, shifting your figure sideways so he could lay on the hammock beside you. “Where’s Lex?”

“Asleep.” You hummed, resting your head on his chest as he wrapped a strong arm around your shoulder. “Picked her up from her play-date with Holly and she was absolutely floored.”

“Still managed a glass with Ambs, though.” You added with an appreciative nod. “She told me allll about James’ new girlfriend.”

“New girlfriend?” Rafe echoed, absently threading his fingers through your curls. “He still hasn’t settled down?”

“Nope.” You responded, popping the p. “And —”

You paused, casting Rafe a meaningful glance. “— she’s twenty.”

“No she fucking isn’t.” Rafe grimaced, shaking his head in disdain. “Jesus — 10 years?”

“Mm-hm.” You nodded, bringing the book back to eye-level. “Fucking unbelievable.”

Rafe hummed concomitantly at that, sliding his phone out of his back-pocket to scroll through the evening news. 

Above him, the sky was blanketed by purple velvet — the way it always was — stars spangling its moonless surface like dust. In his periphery, still water reflected the waning glow of twilight — like it always did — confining its magnificent glimmer within the four walls of your pool. Beside the hammock, your wooden deck streamlined the artificial beam of lights within your home — as he expected — cloaking the scene in a curious sense of satisfaction, as if to say: we made it. This is all ours. And I’m all yours. And effortlessly tucked into his side — like you always were — was his dream girl, eyes a little tired behind blue light glasses, cheeks painted pink by the salty breeze, loose curls twisted into that green claw clip you loved, fingers padding over the weather skin of his knuckle. Everything was as it was last Saturday, and the Saturday before that, and the Saturday that occurred two Saturdays ago, and that one Saturday you opened a rare bottle of Bordeaux to celebrate Rafe’s promotion to CEO of Ward Development. And still, as Rafe Cameron took in the scene — so very beautiful it made his head spin — he felt like the same fourteen year old boy who had fell in love with you so many years ago, and with a small soar, and an even smaller sigh, he realised — 

No. He would never get used to this feeling.

—