Cruel Summer

Cruel Summer

synopsis In the Outer Banks for summer break, you happen to cross paths with the one boy you know you shouldn’t. And there may not be any rules in breakable heaven, but you know it’s going to be a cruel summer with Rafe Cameron.

warnings cursing, angst, smut i.e. minors please DNI!

wc 8k

Fever dream high, in the quiet of the night

You shouldn’t be walking the streets alone.

It’s the first thought Rafe has when he spots your figure from a distance, smooth legs exposed and pretty face hidden. Above him, the argent moon wanes, a half-crescent of silver light that does little to illuminate your features. A lone star twinkles further north of the horizon.

He begins to slow down and squints hard, pupils sharp and thick eyebrows furrowed. You have your head down as you walk along the path ahead of him, worn sneakers kicking up loose bits of gravel from the asphalt. 

Of the paltry details he is able to discern, perhaps most valuable to him is your thready, white singlet and raw-cut, denim shorts. Glowing inches of bare skin. Rafe’s gaze skates along the poorly-defined edges of your silhouette, taking careful note of your slender limbs, the shadows created by the column of your throat. His pulse does something strange. You really, really shouldn’t be walking the streets alone, especially not looking like that. 

He’s frozen in place, a conspicuous few feet away, when you do finally lift your head and meet his gaze. 

You startle as his figure registers, stumbling backward in surprise. 

“Fuck,” you curse, clutching your chest with adrenaline-weak fingers. Underneath them, your poor heart staggers forth in quick surges. “You scared the shit out of me.”

The street lamp overhead stripes your face with lemon-yellow light. A thick band of kiss-able cheek, a soft corner of parted lip. You must be a touron. There’s no other explanation for why someone as pretty as you has evaded him until now.

“Me?” He asks, mostly joking as he raises his eyebrows. “What about you?”

You lift yours in tandem, the rate of your pulse acquiescing a little. Through the inches of velvet night that fill the space between your figures, there’s enough solid torso for your eyes to find purchase. Shadowing light defines his chiseled jaw, the strong biceps that become stronger, forearm muscles.

He’s hot. You almost forget that he’s also the stranger that’s blocking your path.

“What about me?” You return, faux-indignant.

“I’ve been walking this path since I was a kid,” he answers easily, taking a step closer. There’s something woody—vetiver, maybe, warmer notes of crackling musk—in his cologne that draws you in. “And never before have I seen you walking it, too.”

You shrug. “Maybe you’ve just never bothered to notice.”

“Trust me.” Rafe pauses, his voice low, gravelly around the edges. “When it comes to girls like you, I always bother to notice.”

You feel your pulse leap. The summer air presses into your skin, an all-encompassing heat, but it’s the sincerity in his tone that really has your warm cheeks burning.

“Girls like me?” You ask quietly, more bashful now. 

He steps even closer still, the tips of his sneakers making contact with yours. And maybe it’s the stillness that twilight tends to bring, the way that dead of night suburbia warps time into something meaningless. But Rafe swears, in that moment, that you’re definitely not real. There’s a thin film of sweat that shines over your bare skin, and Rafe swears, bathed in dim moonlight, it looks honest-to-God iridescent.

The way his train of thought is veering toward Jane Austen prose is perplexing. His hand twitches toward yours without meaning to, an absent-minded action.

“Yeah,” he says, his heavy gaze falling over your features slow, agonizingly slow, like he’s trying to commit all of you to memory. “You’re the whole reason I’m out here so late at night in the first place.”

Lie. His father’s stern instruction about taking care of family business was the only thing capable of bringing him back to the Banks in the first place. 

He’d only docked at the anchorage near Tannyhill a short while ago, the sky bleeding burnt ochre, dusk his only accomplice. And though he’d managed to sit down at Ward’s desk and get started, the restless whir in his brain had prevented any meaningful progress. 

All he’d needed was some air. Clearly, your presence had given more than he’d bargained for. 

“What?” You narrow your eyes jokingly. “Because I’m easier to kidnap in the dark?”

Rafe cocks his head to one side, his roguish grin cracking through. “Like… in a sexual way? Or…?”

“Oh my god,” you admonish, breathing out an exasperated laugh. “No way you’re trying to pick me up right now.”

“That’s the whole reason you’re out here, right?” Rafe asks seriously, furrowing his brow in feigned bemusement. “God’s put you in my path because he knows how much I need it.”

You raise your eyebrows appraisingly. “It?”

“You know,” Rafe answers vaguely, waving his hand in the air. His signet ring glints as the street light folds over it. “Beautiful girl with an end-of-summer deadline. Something to live for until the shit I’m running from catches up with me.”

This gets your attention. Your expression falters as the weight of his words wash over you, parenthetical tone with an allusion to something deeper. 

And it makes Rafe’s chest ache, the concerned crease between your brows, pretty lips he wants to kiss pulling down into a frown. He’s even about to call it quits on grounds of your worry alone, when he realizes, questionable motive or not, you’re a touron that’ll be leaving in two months.

There isn’t time enough for you to wind up in his fucked-up orbit. He can still have you, he attests, he’ll just have to keep at  arm's length; resign himself to touching, not marking, letting the bruises he leaves fade away.

Amongst other things. He adds, definitely overcompensating, “Don’t look at me like that, it’s nothing serious, yeah? I just mean the boring family business I’m supposed to inherit from my dad.”

“Oh,” you say, features relaxing it a little. You cock your head to one side and regard him for a moment, the moon’s glow bringing light to the mirth within your gaze. 

When you’d first moved into your grandparent’s quaint beach house a few days ago, never once had you imagined stumbling into a no-strings-attached arrangement. 

Not that there was any harm in one, especially not with a boy with as much small-town charm as this one. He’s just enough brash to make this fling a forgetful one, maintain a safe enough distance to ensure your heart remains unharmed.

You blink. Would-be fling. “So I’m something to live for, huh?”

“Worship, even,” Rafe murmurs quietly, his gaze dropping to your lips.

Your eyes widen in surprise, his rough voice rousing something deep in your stomach. “Little excessive, don’t you think?” You ask weakly, clearing your throat in an effort to regain your composure. 

“Probably.” Rafe shrugs. So close now, you can almost feel the rustle of his polo as he does so. “Working though, isn’t it?”

A pause. You hate how right he is about that. Trying for more fire, you answer, “Maybe it’d work better if I knew who you were.”

“Fair enough,” Rafe says through a roguish smirk, pressing his tongue against his cheek. “Rafe Cameron.”

“Cameron?” You echo slowly, brow furrowing in thought. 

Of the slew of unfamiliar names your grandfather had mentioned on his Outer Banks tour, Cameron was one of the few with enough significance to consolidate for good. The details were a little hazy — something about a powerful patriarch, a Pogue on Kook war gone awry. You’re sure the island slang would rouse more concern if you knew what any of it meant in the first place.

“Like…” you pause, looking up at him in astonishment, “…Ward Cameron who owns all of Tannyhill estate?” 

Rafe makes a face. “Of course you’ve heard of my dad and not me.”

“Rafe Cameron.” You say his name slowly, soft eyes widening as they skate over his features. It makes Rafe’s chest ache. “The family business you’re inheriting is Cameron Development?”

Rafe could get used to this. Not often does he come across strangers—let alone pretty strangers—who correctly identify him as the big deal he is. He raises his eyebrows playfully, returning, “You sure you’re a touron, Polaris?” 

“Pogue, kook, touron,” you list, shaking your head exasperatedly. “Why do the people that live here speak another language?”

Rafe chuckles appreciatively, strong arm swinging forward as he runs his hand over his buzz cut. Goosebumps bloom as the air shifts. “It’s a superiority complex thing.”

“To hold over tourons?” You half-admonish, mostly tease, the sticky heat of night pressing over you in waves. 

Rafe doesn’t miss a beat. “To impress them. You.”

You balk, frowning bemusedly. “Why would you want to impress me, Rafe Cameron?”

“Are you kidding?” A gust of wind lifts your hair from your shoulders, exposing a smooth canvas of bruise-able neck. He could definitely get used to this. “You’ve gotta know that you’re the most beautiful thing on this Island right now.”

“This thing has a name, you know,” you say indignantly, your traitorous cheeks warming. “And it’s not Polaris.”

“You’re sure?” He grins easily, placing his hands on your shoulders, a soft-on-rough pressure that has your skin burning. In one, swift motion, he pivots you on your heel, stretching an arm above you to point out a lone star that's twinkling. “It was right above you when I spotted it, you know that?”

His broad torso folds over you easily, a blanket of vetiver and musk body heat. “The North Star?”

“Yeah,” Rafe says, his head above yours, chin this close to your hair. “Pretty, huh? Sure your name’s prettier.”

A pause. You can feel his chest wall lifting with every breath he takes, a barely-there force that pushes against your chest.

“Guess you’ll never know,” you say with a shrug, pulling away slowly. Charming as he is, you’ll be damned if you make the chase that easy. You step out of his sphere of influence and turn back around, regarding him warily. 

“Anyway,” you add, beginning to walk past him. “I better get back before my grandparents realize I’ve left.”

“Hey — wait,” Rafe says in a hurry, reaching out to clasp your wrist. Hold you in place. He squeezes gently, jolting fire along veins that are already half-singed. “I can’t let you go alone.”

Your gaze drops to his rough fingers encircling your wrist, the way his thumb swipes over the skin of your forearm. You blink. “Of course you can.”

“No I can’t.” Rafe pulls ever so slightly, just enough force to return you to his side. “Not in good conscience, at least.”

“Seriously, Rafe,” you argue, drawing your hand back when his hold acquiesces. An imprint of heat lingers. “I’ll be fine.”

Rafe frowns, looking over your features carefully. “Why’re you out here this late, anyway?”

Your lips pull down in tandem, a little meaner, a little more defensive. “Why’re you?”

“I know this neighborhood inside out,” he answers, raising his eyebrows. 

“So you’ll know that the Clarence Lane cul-de-sac is only two streets away,” you return, folding your arms across your chest.

“Uh-huh.” He beckons you forward expectantly. “Won’t talk very long to walk you there.”

You frown down at his calloused palm, all the rough grooves and ridges that he’d pressed into your shoulders. “Alone.”

“Not on my watch.”

“If you’re trying to be chivalrous —”

“Would it help if I wasn’t?” Rafe interrupts faux-solemnly, splaying his large hard across the center of chest. “If I was only offering to walk you home as an excuse to get your number?”

“No.” You pause, the corners of your mouth twitching despite your feigned disinterest. “Maybe. Yes.”

“Alright then,” he says, nodding soberly. “I’ll be a total fucking douchebag from here on in.”

“From here on in?” You echo, raising your eyebrows playfully. “What? Because you weren’t being one of those when you scared the living daylight out of me ten minutes ago?”

“Shit, I know right?” He agrees apologetically, resting his hand on the small of your back to guide you forward. “I’m such a fucking tool. You’ve gotta make me pay by forcing me to walk you home.”

The warmth of his palm filters through your singlet, a spiderweb of heat that unfurls over your skin. You hadn’t realized, until now, how much comfort you’d find in his presence. It makes your pathetic pulse lurch, heart racing in juxtaposition. 

“A five minute walk hardly counts as a punishment,” you say.

“You know what else you could do?” Rafe’s thick brows furrow as he pretends to think. “You could… wait, I know — you could let me take you out. I hate doing that shit. Fucking hate taking out pretty girls. Especially hate paying for them, bringing them home with me for another drink —”

“Fucking hell,” you interrupt exasperatedly, laughing despite yourself. “You know how creepy this’d be, Rafe Cameron, if you weren’t as hot as you are?”

“And rich,” Rafe supplies unhelpfully. “You forgot to mention my lord of the manor shit.”

His large hand sinks lower, a little less chaste and a lot more firm. You turn a corner in tandem and kick up more loose gravel, your grandparent’s large beach house growing in your line of vision. 

“Cocky, too,” you return with a shake of your head, shying away from his touch. “Not used to people saying no.”

“Is that what you’re doing?” A few houses away from yours, now. The quaint cul-de-sac ends at a shortcut to the beach, suburbia beginning to thin as you near the trail. “Saying no to me?”

“If I am,” you say, raising your eyebrows at him. “It’s mostly just because I want to knock you down a peg.”

Rafe pretends to look affronted, his bright eyes full of mirth. “After I’ve taken the time to walk you all the way home?”

“Five minutes,” you remind him.

Rafe shrugs. “Feels longer.” His palm makes contact with your skin before drawing back, the rectangle of bare waist that’s exposed between hem and buckle. The heat of his touch lingers. “Actually, no, feels shorter. Five insanely short minutes where I still haven’t got your number.”

“Or your name,” he adds significantly, looking over you with a frown.

“Shame,” you say evenly, slowing to a stop as you near their gate. It’s paneled with driftwood and rustic bamboo, still quietly unlatched from when you’d snuck away before.

This time, when you step away from him, Rafe Cameron doesn’t catch your wrist and stop you. You walk backwards and nudge it open with your hip, trying to ignore the way your bones ache in protest. A phantom of his rough, clasping touch folds over your forearm.

“So…” Rafe trails off helplessly, running his fingers over his buzz cut, “...shit, I mean, that’s it?”

“I don’t know, Rafe Cameron,” you say softly, slipping through the gate and closing it on him. “Is it?”

“Fuck.” His pathetic heart lurches. “I hope not.”

“Hm,” he only just catches your silhouette shrug, any definable features shrouded by velvet night. “I guess all you can do is just keep hoping.”

Bad, bad boy shiny toy with a price

It’s a week before you see Rafe Cameron again.

The sky is a seamless, periwinkle blue, the sun shining over the horizon, a yellow bulb of light. Tepid seawater glimmers below it. 

As you roll along the Island Club green in a golf-cart, the coastline dances in and out of sight. You veer to the right as hole nine comes into view, your grandfather and his old friend, Judge Thornton, close behind you.

You don’t recognise him at first. His buzz cut is hidden under a regal, white cap, a salmon-coloured polo stretching over taut biceps. He’s in the process of loosening the Velcro straps of his glove, and as he slips his fingers free, a signet ring glints in the sun. 

An identifiable signet ring, with a flat surface of buttery gold. You swallow down the beating heart that’s bounding into your throat, trying not to think about the implications of him being here.

You being here. There’s something about the looming proximity that’s making your chest whir.

When the cart is close enough to cast his figure in shadow, he straightens and looks over, deep, blue eyes squinting hard. Acquiescing. He’s able to recognise you without any extra thought. 

The whir in your chest grows deafening. It replaces the golf cart’s ignition as you slow, stopping just short of his figure by the hole.

“Looks like all that hoping’s paid off,” he says by way of greeting, grinning down at you as you climb out of your seat. 

“All that hoping, huh?” you return playfully, folding your arms across your chest.

Rafe’s gaze drops with the action, an absent-minded gesture, and he catches an eyeful of cleavage that has him balking. You’re wearing a tighter singlet than you were a week ago, a black skirt instead of denim, shin-high socks with embroidered sunflowers. More gloss on your pretty lips, a sunscreen shine to your tired complexion. 

And a visor. Rafe gives it a careless, little flick before responding.

“Think we can make a deal, Polaris?” He asks blithely, cocking his head to one side.

You raise your eyebrows. “Depends on the deal.”

“Alright,” Rafe says, gesturing to the tee below him. “I get this hole below par, and you let me buy you a drink.”

“And if you don’t?” You return with a frown, looking over the green assessingly. The low rumble of Judge Thornton’s golf-cart grows louder.

“I will,” Rafe answers confidently, not missing a beat.

“That wasn’t my question, Rafe Cameron.”

“I know.” Rafe grins handsomely, strapping his golf glove back on. “That is my answer, though.”

You let out a defeated sigh, shaking your head exasperatedly. “What’s par for this hole, anyway?” You ask, obliging as he motions you backward.

Rafe doesn’t answer right away. He steps up to the tee with strong shoulders hunched, a punishing grip on the club that brings his knuckles to a blanch. When he swings, the metal heel clips the golf ball neatly, its trajectory through the air a majestic, half-crescent. It lands just short of the putting green, a few feet from a hole-in-one.

Behind you, your grandfather wolf whistles appreciatively. You blink.

“That was a beautiful shot, son,” Judge Thornton says then, stepping past you to give Rafe’s back a firm pat. 

“Beautiful shot for a beautiful girl,” Rafe says smoothly, flashing you a quick, roguish wink as he straightens. 

The compliment roars through your traitorous cheeks, a burning heat. You say, fighting hard to maintain nonchalance, “Par, Rafe Cameron.”

“Four,” he answers through a smirk, pressing his tongue against his cheek. “Does two under mean two drinks instead of one?”

“Woah there, country club,” you return playfully, trying not to smile. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Your ball’s on the putting green, you haven’t even got it in yet.”

“C’mon,” he faux-chastises, raising his eyebrows. “What did I say before?”

“Something fucking cocky, I’m sure,” you snort out, shaking your head exasperatedly. 

“Cocky or not,” he returns, plunging the club back into his bag, “I was right.”

“Not quite.” You watch him jog it backward with raised eyebrows. “Not yet.”

He grins devilishly before turning around and quickening his pace, the heavy bag gathering grass stains as it trudges along behind him.

There’s no denying the mild amusement on your features as you watch him, though it’s only once Rafe’s well out of earshot that someone addresses it.

“Ward’s kid, huh?” your grandfather says, raising his eyebrows appraisingly. Rafe’s poised and ready on the putting green, now, his strong forearms flexed, the sun’s shadow making them ripple. You swallow instinctively. “How do you two know each other?”

This gets your attention. You tear your gaze away from Rafe as he taps the ball forward, just enough force behind his mallet to make the ninth hole in two. “Hm?”

“Your acquaintance with the Cameron boy, my dear,” your grandfather repeats, regarding you with steely-eyed disapproval. “How long has this been going on for?”

You grimace abashedly, looking equal parts helpless and defensive. “We aren’t… well, I wouldn’t say we’re acquainted, per se —”

“Now listen,” your grandfather interrupts sharply, his gruff voice austere. “That boy may come from a very reputable family, but there’s no denying that trouble seems to follow him everywhere he goes.”

“Grandpa,” you groan, burying your head in your heads. You do not want to be having this conversation with him right now.

Or ever, for that matter. It isn’t as though this fling with Rafe Cameron is capable of turning into something serious.

Right? You add, your quiet voice muffled weaker by sweaty palms, “I’m not — I mean… we aren’t –”

“And that’s not to say,” he continues grimly, more to eschew an argument than anything particularly paternal, “that I forbid you from seeing him. God knows he’s still far better than the pogues your mother would bring home.”

Your diffidence eases a smidgen, head lifting again and pretty smile shining through. Through the corner of your eye, you catch a smug-looking Rafe Cameron with his putter raised above his head, thick biceps stretching. 

“You think so?” You ask absently, a little distracted now. Rafe relaxes his shoulders and jerks his thumb toward the Island Club, mouthing, through a satisfied smirk, “Come find me when you’re done, yeah?”

A terrifying emotion sears through you. You send him a playful glare before turning away, meeting your grandfather’s weary gaze with something akin to embarrassment. 

“Sorry,” you say sheepishly, grimacing again. “You were saying? About Rafe?”

A pause. Something within his stern features softens. “You’ll promise me one thing?”

“Anything.”

“You’ll take everything he says with a grain of salt?”

“C’mon, grandpa,” you chide, elbowing him playfully. “You really think I’d fall for his little douchebag act?”

“My dear,” he returns sagely, raising his eyebrows. “You can’t blame me for worrying. It’s a tale as old as time. How else do you think I got your grandmother?”

—

Rafe’s already ordered you a Mai Tai when you find him.

He’s drinking whiskey neat, the deep colour of thick molasses, lounging back against a chair that overlooks the yawning green. When he spots you, he’s quick to lean forward and straighten. The front legs of his chair slant down and strike the ground with a thud.

“What?” You fold your arms across your chest, pretending to look affronted. “I don’t come across as someone who also likes straight whiskey?”

“D’you want to swap?” Rafe offers with a grin, sliding his low ball across the table. 

You raise your eyebrows dubiously, sidling into the seat opposite his. The drink in front of you is sunset tangerine, a heady mix of tropical citrus and sweet, orgeat syrup.  “That easy, huh?”

Rafe presses his tongue against his cheek, regarding you with mild amusement. “Anything for a name, Polaris.”

“And what if I say no?” You return, taking a long sip of your drink. Remnants of sticky Curacao hang back as you acquiesce, mixing with saliva to make your full lips shine.

“I mean,” Rafe says, his voice lower now, more gravelly. His eyes drop to the column of your throat as you swallow, soft inches of bare skin that are waiting to be marked. “There’s nothing I can do about that.”

He leans forward and swipes his thumb over your bottom lip gently, just enough pressure to gather the glossy, Mai Tai film. When he brings it to his own mouth, his heavy gaze holding firm, it’s sweeter than he remembers it, more you than the orange liquer of his youth. “But I’ve realised,” he adds after pause, pulling away. “That a need-to-know basis doesn’t have to be so bad.”

Your eyes widen in surprise, hand lifting to your chin on instinct. The pads of your fingers press over your bottom lip, feeling the phantom of his touch, the soft nerve-endings he singed.

“Exactly,” you agree after a beat, swallowing thickly. “If anything, it’s better if you don’t know my name.”

Rafe cocks his head to one side, an imperceptible something flickering over his blue irises. “How so?”

You don’t miss a beat. “Makes things more interesting.”

Rafe picks up his wide-rimmed glass, taking a generous pull of whiskey. “And the other way around?” He asks, the auburn liquid burning as he swallows. “Am I less interesting as Rafe Cameron to you?”

“Not at all,” you answer honestly, shaking your head. “My name doesn’t carry the same weight that yours does.”

“Bad weight,” Rafe infers, a funny ache in his chest. 

“Mm-hm.” A pause. There’s no way you’re thinking straight right now. “So bad that it’s good.”

Killing me slow, out the window

You’d decided against providing Rafe with any means of contacting you.

Save knowing where you live and your affinity for moonlight trysts, you’ve given him little over nothing to work with since he’d bought you a Mai Tai.

Not that it mattered. Somewhere between your first meeting and now, he’d made a habit of sneaking through your grandparent’s driftwood gate and waiting below your window for you.

Admittedly, there’d been a hankering in his chest since your Island Club rendezvous. Though you’d politely declined his offer to walk you home after a few rounds, the promise of more had permeated the sticky air as you’d looked over his features.

Harder when you’d pulled him closer. The kiss had been quick and fleeting, soft lips tinged with longing, and his rough hands had only just found purchase when you’d broken it.

“Later,” you’d said in cryptic yearning, ducking away from his figure and disappearing through the exit.

And of course, he’d taken you up this on this offer, finding his way to your grandparent’s front porch that night, rough heat in the stillness of suburbia.

Another kiss to seal your fate. His was doomed the second you’d slipped away.

Tonight, the air is thick with honeysuckle and the trill of cicadas.

You unlatch your window and push it open fully, the thick heat of June curling over you unrelentingly. You push your head through the opening and peer into the back garden, a canopy of indigo dusk overlaying the perennials. No Rafe within the flowers. Your traitorous heart aches.

It’s as you’re preparing to pull back that a rustle of movement catches your eye. It crawls along the dimly lit path until it’s right below you, a vague form with broad shoulders that you recognise, strong forearms.

“Waiting for me, tonight?” He asks quietly, raising his eyebrows up at you. “I’m touched.”

“God, shut up,” you bite back, smiling despite yourself. “What are we doing tonight?”

He shrugs cryptically. “You’ll see.”

It’s how you find yourself in a secret alcove on the edge of the beach, two towels splayed out with a bottle of French label connecting them.

You’re sitting opposite each other, cross-legged, the tips of your knees touching, jolts of electricity that hold you in place.

You reach for the bottle and take a careless swig, the bottom of your singlet riding up from the action. Rafe’s eyes drop to the taunting rectangle of exposed skin, silvery moonlight making it glow iridescent. He swallows thickly.

“Okay,” you say, handing it over to him. “Truth or dare?”

Rafe presses his tongue against his cheek mirthfully, still looking over at you as he tips back the bottle. “Truth.”

“How’d you find this place?”

A pause. Rafe looks over the weathered walls of the alcove, his eyes lingering over familiar ridges, the grooves his mother traced over when she’d first brought him here.

“I didn’t,” he says after a beat, the revelation searing through his chest like a knife. “My mom did.”

“Oh.” You regard him for a moment, your mischievous smile faltering a little. “Do you think about her often?”

Rafe hesitates. He takes another steely pull of the wine before thrusting it toward you, quick to avert his gaze. “That’s two questions, Polaris. It’s my turn.”

“Right,” you say, frowning slightly. You accept the bottle and take another long sip, your soft lips stick with saliva and warm liquor.

“Truth or dare?”

“Hm.” You pause, turning toward the poorly defined coastline in the distance, inky night descending over a slurry of dark waves. “Dare.”

“I dare you,” Rafe says deviously, swiping the bottle from your grasp, “to go for a swim.”

You tear your gaze away from the horizon, raising your eyebrows. “That’s it?”

“Naked.”

There’s only a moment where you falter, a split- second of uncertainty. Had you not already consumed half a bottle of expensive wine, you probably wouldn’t have had it in you to go through with something so brazen.

There’s a blur to your vision that has Rafe liquefying around the edges. You nod curtly and stand up, a coy smile dancing over your features.

“On one condition,” you say, voice smooth and saccharine sweet.

“Anything,” Rafe answers, and means it, too. He discards the near-empty bottle and pulls himself onto his feet, your gaze lifting up as his shadow folds over you.

“You count to five before following me.”

“Fuck,” Rafe groans, reaching forward and pinching your hip indulgently. “Fine. Alright. One —”

You break free from his grasp and tug off your thready singlet, throwing it into his chest before turning around and running forward. Rafe watches as articles of clothing fly onto the warm sand, watches the soft curves of your silhouette, the way you shrink as you grow bare.

By the time he’s counted to five, you’re already submerged in the water. Your exposed limbs glisten in the moonlight as you wave him over, and as he follows your fabric trail, Rafe feels a strange pull that makes him falter.

He’s a few feet away from you, now, and the pulse in his wrist isn’t capable of bounding faster.

“It’s warm, I promise,” you say, running your fingers through your wet hair.

“Fucking hell.” It’s an unrelenting rhythm, and his fingers shake as he fumbles with his own clothing. “You’re going to be the death of me, you know that?”

“In a good way?” You ask. You watch as his arms muscles ripple in tandem with the waves, almost balking at the ease with which he wades through the water.

He’s in your space before you can so much as blink, his rough hands skating along your bare back. “The best way,” he murmurs, pressing you against him indulgently. 

“Guess that makes two of us, huh?” You mumble back distractedly, wrapping your arms around his neck. He nudges the slant of your jaw with his nose, coaxing your head to fall back, column of your throat exposed. Wet, hungry kisses sponge the skin he finds there.

“Hm?” He hums, the sound reverberating through your skin.

“You’re the best kind of bad weight,” you breathe out, a little distracted. His tongue is this close to rolling over your hard nipple. “And I’m the best kind of death.”

There’s no coming back from making love in the middle of the ocean.

In that moment, though, alcohol in your veins and Rafe everywhere, you realise, as the needy ache sears through you, that you couldn’t care less.

Control is overrated. For Rafe Cameron, you’d pick cruel over safe anyday.

And it's new, the shape of your body

“Shit, Rafe,” you breathe out, awestruck, staring down at the vintage bottle of champagne that he’s holding. “No way you just happen to have 1990 Cristal lying around.”

A dim row of wall sconces bathe the scene in yellow light. 

The air feels stale as it bears down on you, thick and untouched, every bottle you disentomb exhaling a fresh cloud of must. 

“What?” Rafe furrows his brow in mock thought, swiping over the chalky film of dust on the label. “This old thing?”

“Shut up,” you chide, swatting his chest playfully. “You have to know it’s worth like, $10,000, easy.”

Rafe’s blue eyes lift to yours, a glimmer of mirth painting them softer pastel. “Good enough to open, you reckon?”

You balk. “You’re kidding.”

There are a torturous, few inches between your figure and his, a little less when you consider the champagne bottle’s width.  A faint, yeasty scent, some vetiver, a little bergamot, enough emanating body heat to rid the air of your alcohol-heavy lungs.

Rafe’s long retired the baseball-style shirt he was wearing when you’d first arrived, the mood lighting etching every line on his torso. His shorts hang low on his hips, belt free, revealing the devastating V that defines his lower abdomen. He passes the bottle between his hands absentmindedly, strong shoulders square and thick biceps tensing. 

“C’mon, Polaris.” He raises his eyebrows faux-appraisingly, holding the neck away from your face. “Do I ever kid when it comes to expensive shit?”

He holds your gaze as he peels away the aureate foil, uncorking the screw and releasing wisps of white smoke. No brilliant spurts of foam, no deafening fireworks, and yet — you still feel that quick flurry of hope.

You reach for the bottle just as he pulls away, nimble fingers swiping still air instead of Cristal. He tsk-tsks softly before bringing it to your mouth, the cool rim bruising the pillow of your lips as he slants it forward to permit a pull.

It’s all effervescence and a hint of citrus, candied fruit and truffle within the melange. Rafe’s gaze skates along your neck as you swallow, his pupils dilating as he takes a gulp himself. 

“More?” He murmurs absently, more an ulterior motive than anything particularly gallant.

“Mm-hm,” you answer, lips parting obligingly. He pinches your chin between his forefinger and thumb gently, tilting it up so he can tip more in. The wetness on the bottle rim leaves your soft lips shining. 

Rafe stares down at them, all pupil now, with something akin to reverence. “Can I have a taste?” He asks quietly, setting the bottle on a table beside him.

Your breath hitches. The criss-crossing shelves of the wine cellar press into your back, a firm pressure, though the heat of his gaze feels far heavier. He cages you in by placing his arm on the wall adjacent your figure, bicep to ear. And he’s so close, his head ducking to yours, lips a hairsbreadth away and yet still so far. 

You lean in first. 

There’s a tentative press of your lips on his before he gathers his bearings, pushing into you fully. The weight of his torso holds you against the shelves, a sloven, almost discomposed air to his movements. Like he’s desperate, memorising your mouth through rough, teeth scraping kisses. 

His lips drag along your jaw, the smooth expanse of your neck. And when he finds the sensitive spot beneath your earlobe, bruising it amaranthine, you have to bite down on your soft cheek to suppress the moan it elicits. 

“Don’t do that,” he murmurs into your skin, like he’s worshipping you. “Wanna hear you, sweetheart.”

There’s a mess of warm limbs and discarded clothing as he paws at your layers, eager to feel you fully. 

And though you’d never once imagined you’d make love in a wine cellar, the way Rafe Cameron rocks into you, slow, agonisingly deep, makes you feel as though you’ve been missing out on a whole avenue of sexual misdemeanours.

He’s in tune with your body in a way you didn’t think possible. Every thrust of his cock has your tender clit swelling, the stale air filled with the lewd sound of your wetness. And he’s a man starved as he fucks you, his needy tongue swirling over your nipple, rough hands groping every inch of soft skin. 

“Fuck, you feel unreal,” he grunts out, a thin sheen of sweat making his chiseled torso shine. 

“Mm,” is all you can manage in response, fingers gripping his broad shoulders, a needy ache at your core. “K—Keep going —”

“Yeah?” He encourages, his own orgasm close to apex. “You going to cum for me, angel?”

And when you do, hot pleasure shaking through you in waves, it isn’t the first time, nor the last, that Rafe’s made you finish since you’d arrived. 

There’s something about being around him that tends to charge the air with hungry static.

A little later, when you’re lying in his bed, details hazy, you turn your head and look over his vaguely obscured features. A lone band of silver moonlight spills through his slightly ajar, bedroom window.

“Rafe Cameron,” you whisper, angling your body toward his.

He shifts in tandem, his vivid, blue eyes like glow-in-the-dark stars. “What’s on your mind, Polaris?”

There’s an ache in your chest that’s difficult to explain. It enfolds the heart within your ribcage and squeezes, a heavy, cloying pressure that’s fairly unrelenting. 

If only you knew that you aren’t it’s only victim. 

“I don’t know.” A pause. Rafe reaches out before he can help himself, tracing over the planes of your face with his forefinger. Along your cheekbones, the pert tip of your nose. The Cupid’s bow above your lips. There’s a soft on rough juxtaposition that he’s trying to commit to memory. “Summer’s ending in a month.”

“I know,” he murmurs softly, barely audible. He thumbs over pillow of your bruised bottom lip, faltering. 

“I’m leaving in a month,” you say quietly.

“I know.”

Another pause. You reach up and clasp his outstretched wrist gently, squeezing the pulse within it that’s staggering. “How come I only feel like this when I’m meant to be sleeping?”

“The same reason you were out that night that we met,” he answers, coaxing your fingers free to intertwine with his. “Easier to think when the world isn’t listening.”

“I feel like,” you hesitate, exhaling carefully, “like this is going to end badly.”

Rafe moves a little closer, his hip brushing against your thigh. “Probably.”

“But hey,” he adds, bringing both of your hands down. He leans in and presses a kiss on your lips, harder, more pressure, his figure bearing down. “Let’s leave worrying about that for when it comes, okay?”

It's cool, that's what I tell 'em

Polaris: my grandparents aren’t home tonight btw

“…and — eh! Hey now, country Club,” Barry rebukes, his metal crown glinting as he bares his teeth. “I ain’t got the time to say this shit again.”

Rafe peels his gaze away from his phone screen forcibly, feigning a cool sense of disinterest. “What?”

Barry pauses, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. “Who you texting?”

“Shit, relax, no one, alright?” Rafe answers in a hurry, locking his phone and sliding it into his back pocket. He raises his arms in placating surrender, trying to ignore the restless whir of his insides.

“Now I know that ain’t true,” Barry throws back, waving his weathered pocket knife at his face knowingly. “You ain’t been in this room for a while.”

Rafe swallows evenly, leaning back into Barry’s dirty couch and spreading his thighs against either armrest. “I’m listening.”

“No you ain’t,” Barry snorts back, shaking his head. “You been texting since you came. What…Mrs Country Club asking you where you went?”

The taunt makes Rafe’s face crumple, if only for a split-second, and the realisation that dawns on Barry’s features tells him he’s lost this battle.

“Well, shit,” he goads, wolf whistling lewdly. “A Mrs Country Club, huh. Didn’t even know that you had one of those.”

“I don’t,” Rafe answers, gritting his teeth.

“Why you getting your little panties in a twist then, eh?” Barry smirks smugly, regarding Rafe with mild amusement. “Where you two meet? Brunch, or some shit?”

“There’s — it’s not like that, okay?” Rafe responds wearily, running his fingers over his buzz cut. “We’re just fucking. No strings attached.”

“Shit, doesn’t look like no strings,” Barry raises his eyebrows, gesticulating with his knife. “You been off your game for a while now.”

Rafe balks, frowning bemusedly. Sure he’s had to cut a few business meetings short, cancel a trip or two to Barry’s because he didn’t want a date to stop.

But it isn’t as though he’s with you every second of every day, is it? Thinking about you within these parameters of time is different to your physical presence.

Right? He says, voice hoarse and unconvincing, “Whatever, bro. You’re full of shit.”

“And you, Rafe,” Barry returns, scoffing exasperatedly, “ain’t listening to me.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Rafe dismisses frustratedly, a muscle in his jaw ticking. “What were you saying? I’m fucking listening.”

Barry ignores him. He walks forward and squats just short of the couch, face to face now with his brown eyes narrowed. “She the reason you been avoiding these parts the last few weeks?” He accuses, cocking his head to one side.

“I’ve just been busy, alright?” Rafe answers gruffly, keenly avoiding the question.

“Huh.” Barry runs his tongue over his metal crown, his own jaw tight. “With Mrs Country Club.”

Rafe feels his phone vibrate with another text through his linen shorts. It’s as though, when the urge to check it surges through him, when the forefront of his mind works furiously to place his absence elsewhere, that he realises he needs to give in and stop fighting it.

You. Brazen as his taunts are, there’s some truth to what Barry’s saying.

Every spare moment Rafe’s had in the past few weeks, he’s wanted to spend in your presence. Sunset walks that end in moonlight trysts, endless hours of pillow talk, skinny-dipping at the beach. He’s tasted more champagne through your lips than he has a bottle, marked more of your soft skin with purple bruises than he thought possible. A criminal amount of touching. Don’t even get him started on the looking. Rafe thinks, the course of the cruel summer coming to fruition, that he’s done more memorising of you than school’s taught him. God, he’s in love with you, and the revelation is dreadful.

This wasn’t part of the plan. You’re leaving the Banks in a week or two.

“There,” Barry says after a beat, tapping the sharp edge of his pocket knife against Rafe’s forehead. “Shit’s clicking, ain’t it?”

“Yeah,” Rafe answers in a rush, straightening. “I need to get my priorities straight.”

“And what might they be?”

“Not this.” Nothing else has ever felt more obvious. “Not any of this. Listen, Barry, I’m done.”

I'm drunk in the back of the car

You aren’t quite sure what set you off.

The pair of you were a few drinks deep when you’d felt it, that deep, cloying ache that’d been plaguing you since you met him. It was a sudden blow to the system, this ticking time-bomb of an arrangement, and the Island Club clamour in your ears was only heightening your emotions. 

It was the same timbre of obnoxious as on your first rendezvous, a reminder of the day he’d used a Mai Tai to covet you. Frightening to think that that was a mere two months ago, the whirlwind of a summer romance with him feeling far longer.

Moments from ending. You were forty-eight hours away from being fully packed up and leaving.

So when that stupid, Taylor Swift song blares through the car radio, the same one you were listening to when he’d startled your midnight walk, you forgive yourself for the thick, hot tears that well to the surface.

Rafe’s struggling with his own hankering heart as they surge forward. He’s been stealing long, wistful glances at you throughout the car ride home, selfishly driving the scenic route in an attempt to avoid what’s coming. The fact that your skin glows in silver moonlight—a neck that he’s marked with a bouquet of bruises, smooth legs that he’s felt encircling his torso—is but an added bonus to an otherwise excruciating end to summer. 

He isn’t sure when exactly it happened, but somewhere within the haze, you begun taking precedence over his father.  He stopped thinking about retribution, his dauntless greed ebbed, and the situation with the cross and the pogues meant far less. Almost nothing, as he registers the falling tear on your cheek. It sears him with a fresh swell of longing, car beginning to slow as he pulls up beside your grandparent’s beach house. 

He unbuckles and leans forward, placing his hand on your thigh and squeezing gently. 

“What are you doing?” You ask in a strained voice, shying away from his touch. You turn away lest he see you cry, scrubbing your cheek in a hurry. 

“Polaris.” Rafe reaches up to cradle your jaw, feeling his chest tighten when you flinch. “You’re crying.”

“I’m drunk,” you mutter, looking away from him. A fresh steam of tears flow down your face, creating a trail of hot fire that makes you ache. 

“Talk to me,” he tries again, sounding more desperate than he wants to. He moves his arm around your headrest, the other finding purchase on the centre console. An all-encompassing figure in your periphery, the way he’s always been, the way you’re doomed to remember him.

“About what?” You ask, voice breaking as it rises.

“What — what’s on your mind?” Is it the same as what’s on mine? 

“What do you think, Rafe Cameron?” You let out an exasperated sigh, muffled weaker by the sound of a strangled sob. “I’m leaving in two days.”

A pause. You turn toward him bravely, the whites of your eyes tinged red with a spiderweb of tears. “You’re staying.”

Rafe swallows. The pads of his fingers brush over the bare skin of your shoulder. “I thought that’s what we agreed on.”

It comes out all wrong — Rafe didn’t mean it like that. He grimaces when he catches the way your face crumples, cruel buzzcut a little longer, almost swaying as he shakes his head. “That’s not — I mean — I’m not saying I’m happy with —”

“No… I, whatever, I get it,” you interrupt languidly, swallowing down another sob. “We… it was no-strings-attached for a reason.”

“I’m bad news,” he reminds you quietly, honest-to-God yearning.”

“And don’t even know my name,” you agree, equally as quiet, a touch more subdued.

Rafe feels his own eyes burn, the unshed tears in your making them vague and glossy. “Not for lack of trying,” he murmurs.

“Glad I held my ground, anyway,” you whisper back, biting down on your cheek roughly. “It’s better this way.”

Is it? 

Rafe doesn’t think so. His gaze falls to the same lips he’s memorised with his kisses, sometimes soft, something hard, and he really doesn’t think so.

“If you say so,” he allows after a beat.

“I do.” A pause. “I’m fine.”

Rafe forces himself to draw his arm back to his side. “You’re sure?”

“Of course I am,” you answer with a nod, averting your gaze as you click open the passenger’s side door. “Listen. Thank you. For… for showing me around, for taking me out, for making this summer so fucking incredible.”

Too fucking incredible. There’s a sad voice in your head that’s screaming in protest, growing louder, more desperate, with every inch of added distance.

“Hey,” Rafe calls, clasping your wrist as you pull away. “I — wait. That’s it?”

You look down at the rough fingers as they encircle it, wide-eyed and fairly close to acquiescing again. “That’s it,” you echo, forcing yourself to meet his gaze.

“Well,” he retrieves his hand, running his palm over his buzzcut distractedly, “Now it’s my turn to talk

You exhale slowly, watching him. “About what?”

“Shit, Polaris, maybe the fact that I’m in love with you?” He says incredulously, torso over the center console now. He’s looking up at you with enough intensity to revive burning embers, dry the tears on your cheeks until your skin feels vulnerable. 

You balk, frozen in place as your eyes widen. “What?”

“I love you,” he repeats, sighing defeatedly. “And I know that I’m meant to keep that shit to myself, it wasn’t part of the plan and —”

“Rafe Cameron,” you interrupt, your warm cheeks burning. “I love you too.”

A pause. The confession makes the hankering dissipate, so quick Rafe almost doesn’t notice. His lips pull up until he’s sending you that sweet, devilish grin.

“Huh.” He reaches for your wrist again, tugging hard. “Well ain’t that just the worst thing I’ve ever heard.”

—

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💌 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. 💌 ❤️❤️❤️

ur always so supportive of my work and ilyyyysm

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 ❤️❤️

---

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.

—

This is so sweet🥺🥺🥺🥺

star’s top tumblrs ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆

below is a list of tumblr profiles that have been deemed the prestigious award of star’s favorites. whether they’re my favorite people or my favorite writers on this app!! it also includes writers that have a death grip chokehold around my neck every time they post… this list is ever growing and ever changing! if you need recommendations for fics about rafe, anakin, spencer, the triplets, or other various men, this is where you’ll find them! ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆

in no order:

@madsmadeit (president of my fan club)

@iluvmeeen (💍)

@princessbrunette

@justadmiringanakin

@coryosbaby

@anilovie

@anakinsbunniegirl

@fuckmyskywalker

@anakincentric

@st4rfckerz

@meiiie

@rafescokewhore

@drudyslut

@wifeofasith

@rafeandonlyrafe

@starkeyisthelastname

@hanasnx

@sturniolowhore

@proactivetypaperson

@maybankswhore

@dwntwn-strnlo

@lvrsparadise

@rafeysbafey

@ddejavvu

@golden1u5t

@soursturniolo

@ssahotchnerr

@delusionaldeadgirl

@recklesssturniolo

@flowerxbunnie

@mangosrar

@oversturn

@mangoposts

@drewstarkeyslut

@sturniozo

@kenzieiskoolaid

@shellxrls

@gamermattsgf

@freshloveforthefit

@rafeology

@rvfecamerons

@cosmicanakin

---

This was everything I have ever wanted and more. The best bday present I could’ve ever gotten, I’m genuinely in love with you and this FIC!!! 🫶🫶

cheers to falling short

WARNINGS: dark!rafe cameron, DUB/NON-CON SMUT, drinking

Tags: reader and rafe are newlyweds, housewife kink, hate sex, breeding kink if u squint

Summary: rafe stands you up on your birthday l wc: 3.3k

Notes: this is for my sweet riri, ily and happy belated birthday @proactivetypaperson♡

!!! 18+ ONLY !!! AGELESS BLOG's & MINOR's who like/reblog/interact with this post WILL get BLOCKED to be unblocked send an ask to @prairiesrecs

The clicks of your heels reverberate throughout the foyer as you ease down the steps. You glance at your phone and curse to yourself. It’s thirty minutes past the time he’d told you to be ready. 

You didn't really do anything today- well atleast nothing outside of your norm- therefore you had no excuse to be late. Yet here you were. 

Like always, you had started the day off with making breakfast. 

The early meal was more for your husband than for you. He loved when you made him meals, and you loved making them for him. Every morning you’d get up a little earlier than him, if he’d let you out of bed, and you’d make him whatever he wanted. 

This particular morning, as you were scrambling his eggs, he came to you in a rush. He held two different color ties in his hand. One plain and one patterned.

“I need you.” He huffed, visibly flustered “Which one goes better with this suit? I- I can't decide.” 

With no hesitation you had chosen the plain one. The deciding factor being how it complimented his eyes. Like every other morning, you tied it for him only today he was… fidgety as you did so. His heightened nerves were over this deal he was aiming to secure. He had told you previously that if everything went right it would make him, and you in turn, a “shit ton of money”. 

You didn't necessarily understand why he was so keen on the deal considering how you guys already live way above your means. You were curious, but you didn't probe. He takes care of the money, he knows best. 

In that moment, you had smoothed your hands against his chest and told him, “You’re going to do great babe. You’re gonna secure this deal and then we’ll celebrate tonight. Together.” you tippy toed to kiss him, “With whatever secret you have planned for me” you smirked.

Prior to this, Rafe had told you to be ready for him in the evening. Specifically, to be ready at 8 pm. The only details he gave you were that it was for your birthday. The rest of the morning he was evasive as ever when it came to your questions about his plans.

After a lengthy goodbye kiss and some extra words of affirmation, you sent him on his way. You had spent most of the day cleaning up the house, responding to happy birthday wishes, and wondering what exactly Rafe had set out for the evening. 

At two o’clock you found yourself waiting to hear from your husband. Around his lunch he would usually call or text you to simply check in. Today however, he didn’t. 

You tried not to give it much thought, assuming that he was just super busy with his work thing. He did say that the negotiation was happening later in the day… and for that reason you didn't call him or reach out to him. You didn't want to distract him, or worse interrupt him. Especially if the meeting had already started. You were sure that he’d call you whenever he had the time. 

The day had gone on and you still hadn’t heard anything from him. Instead of worrying though, you kept yourself distracted with mundane tasks around the house. When the evening rolled around you settled on getting ready for your outing.

Your dress was easy to pick out. 

Mainly because it showcases your figure well, while still having an elegant essence to it. It’s also a dress that Rafe loves on you. Every time you wear it he can hardly keep his hands off of you. No matter the time or place.

The culprit behind your current tardiness was your hair. The original style you planned didn't turn out the way you wanted. So you had to think of something else, which took up more time than you expected..

You strut into the living room fully expecting Rafe to be sitting in the armchair with his legs spread, impatiently checking the time. To your surprise though, he’s not there. 

Your lips turn into a pout as you acknowledge your phone screen. 8:34 pm. 

The deal probably took longer than he anticipated. He wouldn't miss this. In fact he was probably on his way home right now. Likely speeding down the highway.

Thirty minutes had passed since you assumed he was on his way. Upon your wait, you cracked open a bottle of white wine, poured yourself a glass, and sat on the couch. Cheers huh? 

Time ticked on as you awaited his late arrival. One glass turned into two, then three. Then at one point you just stopped going back into the kitchen to refill the glass. Instead you brought the bottle with you to the couch and drank it straight from the spout. Eventually the alcohol broke your barriers down, and your true feelings seeped in. 

You were irritated and more importantly fed up, not caring anymore if you would be disturbing him. 

When you dialed him, it rang a couple times then went to voicemail. Immediately after you tried again, and instead of ringing that time it went straight to voicemail. The hell? 

You sent him a slew of texts afterward. 

The way that they noted ‘delivered’ confirmed to you that at least his phone wasn't dead. Which somewhat only pissed you off more, considering that he hadn't yet responded to you. Even with your anger though, you were still hopeful that he’d show up and fulfill his promise. Or at least that he’d do something to make today feel special for you.

At some point he did respond, “I’m running late, but I’ll be there.” The text was vague, but at least he was ok.

Even more time had passed since he responded. So much that you were now tired and completely wasted. Waiting felt like a lost cause. So much that you ended up calling it a night once the large wine bottle ran empty. 

Full of anger and irritation you stumbled up the stairs, drunkenly muttering some not so nice things about your husband. 

“What an asshole” you sneered, as you utilized the rail for support.

You hadn't even bothered trashing the wine bottle that sits empty in the living room. He could clean it up whenever he gets home. That was if he’d even notice. Truth was that you would likely have to do it tomorrow, but you didn't want to think about it. You just wanted to go to bed.

Red bottom heels dangle from your fingertips as you stand outside of your open bedroom door. You ponder it for a second, then grunt. Instead of walking inside, you make a not so steady beeline to one of the guestrooms down the hall. Fuck him.

You shut the door behind you, and glance at the clock that sits in the corner of the room. 11:36 pm. Fuckkkkk him! 

You don't bother with turning the light on as you stumble closer to the bed, "You're gonna love it baby” You mumble to yourself, childishly mocking Rafe and the words that he’d said earlier in the day.

You reach to your back and momentarily wrestle with your zipper. You come out triumphant and slip out of the soft material. Letting it pool at your feet. Next to go were your matching undergarments.  

How dare he? No, how could he? Rafe had missed dates before, but it hurt exceptionally more today because it was your birthday.

You scoff as you pull the neatly tucked sheets from their place. It would have been one thing if he told you that something came up or if something happened, but instead he practically screened you. All day at that! The thought of him makes you feel hot, and not in a good way. 

If he thinks that he can treat you like this, then come home to sleep in the same bed as you… he would have to be out of his mind. He can sleep alone in the master bedroom for all you care. It’s better anyways that you slept here. His scent alone on the sheets and pillows would have sent you into a fit of rage.

Your mind raced, as you laid there. You were upset, angry, sad, and disappointed. It all eventually brought you to tears, which resulted in you crying yourself to sleep. Alone and drunk, on your birthday.

The sound of a distant crash startles you from your slumber. The loud noise sounded as if a heavy figurine was knocked over. Being that you’re somehow still intoxicated, your mind goes to the worst. What if it’s an intruder?

“Baby? You down here?” you hear an all too familiar voice call from downstairs. You throw your head back into the pillow, thinking that you’d prefer the intruder. 

You turn onto your side, facing the direction of the door. You lay there, eyes open, thinking to yourself. Awaiting for his realization. You focus on the sounds of him trekking through the house, knowing that it wouldn't be long before he discovered you here. 

He calls your name, again and again, and you just stare off at the wall. Your gaze shifts to the door and to how the light beneath it darkens with a shadow.

“Where the hell are you?” his voice dragged, as he stood just outside the door. He sounded worried along with something else but you couldn't quite place it.

The sound of your phone ringing on the bedside table snaps you out of your daze. It was the specific ringtone you had for Rafe and without hesitation, you close your eyes and pretend as if you’re sleeping. You’d love to chew him out, but you were genuinely exhausted. You didn't want to deal with him tonight. He can grovel for your forgiveness in the morning.

The door creaked open.

“y/n? Are you in here….” His voice trailed off towards the end, probably at the discovery of your ‘sleeping’ frame. You hadn't missed the way his words blended into each other, resemblant of a slur.

The sound of his steps are heavy, unsteady even, as he nears you. His footsteps halt near the bed, leaving the room silent for a brief moment. The faint crumpling of plastic then fills the space. Whatever it is, he sets it on the bedside table before cursing to himself, voice all breathy. 

His large hand gently connects with your face and his thumb moves to softly rub your cheek. 

“You’re this upset huh?” He sniffles, “Yeah. I guess I fuckin deserve it.”

It became apparent to you quickly that he was drunk. Why was fucking drunk?? Maybe he was even high too from the way he was repeatedly sniffing.

His lips press against your cheek, then to your lips. When he pulls away you think that maybe he’s going to leave you alone. That maybe he realized it was in his best interest to let you be. 

You then hear some ruffling sounds, and associate the noise with shifting weight. Was he picking up your clothes?

A cold gust of air rushes you, as the covers suddenly disappear from your body. The chill is fleeting though, dissipating when his rather hot skin presses up against yours. You gasp, at the feel, unable to pretend you were asleep anymore. 

“What the-” Your words are cut short when his lips engulf yours. 

His hand practically cradles your jaw in his grasp as he attacks your lips with his. Your eyes widen at his behavior, and you instinctively press your hand to his muscular chest. The movement hardly does much to deter him, but you're able to pull away from him.

His eyes are half lidded and his lips are parted, desperate and wanting, as you stare at him in awe.

“Get off” you sneer out of disgust. He not only reeks of liquor but he tastes like it too. How the hell did he even drive home like this?

“Relax.” He coos as he caresses your jaw. There’s this intense look in his eyes when he continues, “It’s me.” 

“I know that.” You tut, “And I don't care. Get out.”

You were now upset for more than a few reasons. He was visibly fucked up, he blew you off to get like this, and on top of it all he drove home like this!

“You’re mad… I- I’m sorry alright?” He blinked slowly, “The investors took the deal- and they wanted to get drinks- and we- I lost track of time… and-”

“I don’t want to hear it” you snap, “Get out, and leave me alone.”

“I’m sorry…” He leans in to kiss you, as if that were to make things better. You tilt your head away evading his lips, and he rolls his eyes back into his head. “I’ll make it up to you. Look I promise.” 

He tugs your head back in his direction and presses his lips to yours. You whine, out in protest but he doesn't care. His hand moves to your shoulder, and roughly nudges you so that you now lay on your back. His lips never leave yours as he positions himself between your legs. 

With his movements, you feel his hard member press up against your inner thigh. It makes you gasp which only grants him access to your tongue. He swirls his against yours, overpowering you with the tastes of liquor and desperation. When his head moves to burrow between your neck and shoulder his breath fans against your clavicle.

“Let me start making it up to you now, hm?” His words sprout goosebumps along your skin. 

Your focus drifts, when his member lines up with your slit. The initial connection makes you feel tingly. Then when his hips start to slowly grind against yours, pleasure begins to seep in. 

His lips are relentless against yours, as his tip now glides effortlessly along your clit. The feel has a slight rush going to your head, while your core clenches needily at nothing.  

It was embarrassing that you were physically responding to him like this. Even mad at him, he had an affect on you. Your body had practically given in to him, but you surely weren't going to allow him the verbal or emotional satisfaction along with it.

“Rafe seriously get off.”

“Relax, alright. Let me treat my birthday girl” He murmurs, before pressing his face into your chest latching onto one of your perked nipples. 

“Rafe-” You could feel a fucking cascade surge within you, as he laved at your chest. Shit.

His large hand rests at your ribs as he sucks and rolls his tongue against your bud. He alternates between the two, teasing and biting at your soft skin. All while continuing to rock against your slit. … and fuck does it feel good. 

His head raises from your chest, and he sports a devious smirk. “Always so sensitive here, huh? Making a mess all over my cock and I havent even fuck you yet.”

Heat flows to your face, and you look away from him irritated. He could be so cocky, and he was in no position to be! Not after his actions today!

Within an instant his hand swiftly grasps your face, forcing you to keep eye contact with him.

“Baby you’re soaked, stop denying me.”

He closes the distance between your lips, but before they connect you tilt your head up. Throwing him a curve ball this time. You hardly get to relish on your victory, when his hand slips away from your jaw and his fingers curl around your throat. 

His grip tightens, and you gasp, as he possessively presses his lips to yours.

“Don’t piss me off. Try me again and see what happens.”

The restriction of air makes it hard for you to pace your breaths, and an uncontrollable moan slips out as he works your clit. 

That devilish grin appears on his face again. Then all at once he sheathes himself into you. Warmth spreads throughout your body and your focus falls to the soft moans that escape from his lips. His soft, pink, pretty lips that hover just over yours.

His eyes are half lidded as he rocks into you, completely and utterly blissed out.

“God you feel so fucking good” He praises.

You snap out of your fucked out daze, and remeber that you had to be strong. You needed to prove your point.

“This isn't me-” you gasp at a particularly deep stroke, “This isn't me forgiving you. I’m still mad at you”

His hips are slow and calculated as he thrusts into yours. “Is that right?” He chuckles lowly, “You’re so mad at me… that why you're dripping around me and sucking me in? Is that it huh?” 

His pace quickens, stroking along your walls just right. Making you so sensitive. You hate how good he’s making you feel. The swirl of emotions and confliction and alcohol has your lips parting.

“Fuck you” you whine out. 

He snickers at that. Which meant nothing good.

His pace increases almost instantaneously. He pounds into you, harder and less gentle than before. His hand moves to splay along one of your thighs. Pinning it to the mattress to further spread your legs open for him. 

The new angle allows him to reach new depths that make your vision go spotty. His hand tightens around your airways, and the pleasure has you clenching your eyes shut. You were close, you could feel it.

“Please” you moan out, not sure what exactly you're begging for at this point. “Please”

As soon as the pleas fall from your tongue, he pulls out of you. The emptiness has you longing and aching to be filled again. 

He flips you over, so that you're laying on your tummy. Your face gets buried into a pillow and a lewd muffled moan escapes your mouth when he buries himself inside you again. 

He holds you down at your waist, fucking you into the mattress with a silent rage.

“You hear that?” he taunts, knowing damn well that all you can hear is the sound of your smothered moans.

To your surprise his hand snakes around your neck, lifting you from the pillow. The sound of you squelching around him accompanied by the slapping of skin fills the air. Oh that sound. 

At this rate you can hardly remember what you were holding out for.

Your gaze trails to the bedside table, more so what sits on top of it. A bouquet of flowers. Fuck maybe he actually is sorry. 

You feel your walls begin to tighten. Your orgasm was approaching fast and you didn't know how much longer you could last. His pace was relentless.

“Rafe slow down” you whine, and pout.

He drops your head back into the pillow, then presses his chest to your back. His ragged breath fans over your ears. 

“You feel too fucking good.” He continues stroking your walls, “You make it so hard to stop. Shit maybe I shouldn’t stop. Maybe I should fuck you all night and give you a baby as a birthday gift huh?”

You grab a fistfull of the fitted sheet as your walls flutter and tighten around him. Letting the waves of electricity flow through you as he continues fucking you through it.

“Already such a perfect little housewife, the only thing missing is a little one running around. Isn’t that right?”

---

I love in-depth analysis of characters like this!!! Especially when a FIC fully conveys how complex of a character rafe is, I’m so in awe

like father, like son

WARNINGS: dark!rafe cameron, d*mestic vi*lence, manipulation, gaslighting

Tags: established relationship, daddy issues for both reader and rafe, canon ward (boooo!🍅)

Summary: Rafe looses his temper because you don't want to move in with him quite yet… I wc: 4.3k

Notes: inspired by this, tbh there may be mistakes but idc. tumblr is giving me sm shit rn so idk if this is gonna even show up lol, fingers crossed.

!!! 18+ ONLY !!! AGELESS BLOG's & MINOR's who like/reblog/interact with this post WILL get BLOCKED to be unblocked dm @prairiesrecs :)

You set the wine glasses in the sink, careful not to break them. As you turn on the faucet, you feel Rafe press up against you. He casually invades your space to place a kiss on the side of your forehead.  

“He really cares about you, you know?”

“I do baby.” you murmur, as you rinse out the red residue. “I appreciate how he treats me like family, it’s nice.”

Rafe’s father is the ‘he’ you’re referring to. The first time you’d met him you were under the impression that he’d  be uptight and arrogant. His business brings their family great wealth, and people with such money have a certain way of acting. You knew from first hand experience with your own father, before he passed. 

Your dad was far from perfect but he’d never done anything horrible to you, ever. You were his princess, and he was practically your idol. Well… up until you realized that even though he was perfect to you, he wasn't like that to others. He lacked faithfulness and was a lair. As you grew older, you began to notice more things. Like how he wasn’t attentive, how he was entitled, and how he hardly listened to most of the things you’d tell him. After he passed was when you truly started to differentiate between him as a father and him as a person. 

Since then, you found yourself less trusting of older men, especially rich ones. Considering where you live though, it’s merely impossible to steer clear of them. More often than not the demographic proved your point whenever you found yourself in the same setting as them. 

To your surprise though, Ward was different. He made an effort to get to know you as an individual. It feels like he sees you as your own person and not just some extension of his son. More importantly he never makes you feel like you’re an obligation. When you speak he listens. When you need advice, you know you can go to him. He also constantly checks in on you, and ensures you never feel left out. Within the year you’ve been with his son, you can feel in your heart that Ward’s grown to genuinely care for you. And oddly enough, you felt the same for him. 

“That’s because you are family” Rafe assures you while pressing his lips to your shoulder. You can feel his hands wander from your hips and up your blouse, as you lather up a glass. 

“Babe” you playfully laugh at the affection, squirming under his touch. “Are you trying to get us in trouble?”

His sole response is a hum, then he continues to feel you up. 

Usually you adore Rafes affections. But right now you’re all too aware that it’s not just you and him in the house. In the distance you can hear Ward arguing with someone in his office. The impromptu business call cut lunch between the three of you short. Hence why you were cleaning up. 

“I don’t know, I think he’s pretty occupied.” Rafe teases and you don't say anything to that. 

His hand roves along your tummy and all you can imagine is the disappointed look on Ward’s face if he were to find the two of you in such a compromising position. The thought makes you stiff, and Rafe must've taken notice because almost immediately after his touch disappears from your skin.

He remains close though, choosing to lean against the counter right beside you, watching you closely as you finish with the last glass. You shut the faucet off and tilt your body in his direction, taking notice of how he’s gazing down at you. Appearing deep in thought.

“What are you thinking about?” You ask softly, closing the small distance between you both.

He momentarily looks away from you to stare off ahead at nothing. You lean into him patiently waiting for a response. There was a subtle shift in energy in the spacious kitchen, and an almost foreboding feeling that you chose to ignore. 

He straightens to his full height, tilting his head as he scratches his jaw. “Earlier. You said something, and I’ve been thinking about it.”

“Did I say something wrong?” you joke aiming to lighten the mood. When he doesn’t laugh, you raise a confused brow. “Wait- did I say something?”

The way his eyes dart to yours unsettles you. The irritated look on his face tells you that you may have said the wrong thing. 

When it comes to your boyfriend you're usually pretty good at navigating his feelings, however you’re not perfect. It was something you’d learned to do quickly, after realizing how intense his emotions can be. Like when he would come to you sobbing, you knew just the right things to say to get him calmed down. Same when he was mad, you knew how to talk him down before he made others suffer. Rafe’s endless ability to feel, good and bad, is one of the things you love most about him because it shows that he is imperfectly human. He’s different from your selfish, ingenuine peers. 

His arms cross over his chest, and he glances over you, “You tell me.”

A slight weight settles in your chest and you start to feel pressure to figure out what exactly you said. You think back to the short lived lunch. You remember saying how you were proud of Rafe for moving up a position at Cameron development… You recall the conversation about your birthday approaching soon… Then it dawns on you. 

You remember the glare he gave you when you answered his fathers question. It was subtle, and you assumed that it was because of what his dad asked, not about what you said... 

“Is it what I said about us moving in together?”

He erupts at that, “Course it is y/n. What kind of answer was that? Do you know how embarrassing that was?” 

You blink at him in awe, not understanding. You thought you worded it perfectly. But, apparently you guys weren't on the same page.

You speak slowly, “Babe, I didn't mean to embarrass you.” You think about your next words wisely but before you can put them together he’s hurling you another question at you.

“Why don’t you think we’re ready?” The question sounds almost accusatory.

You hold back a sigh, and look at the marble floor. There’s so many reasons… yet you lump them together in too little of an explanation. “Living together is a big step.”

When you meet his gaze again his expression is unreadable. Which in your case is not good being that you rely so heavily on it. You dart between his eyes searching for any kind of hint to how he's feeling, but it was like everything had been washed away. He appeared numb. Bleak. Empty.

His cold eyes peer into yours making you shrivel in on yourself, “I feel like you're lying to me” he airs.

You shake your head, “I’m not.” 

He slowly moves away from the counter to stand directly in front of you.

“Big step.”  he mocks slowly, “You know to me that sounds like an excuse, not a reason.”

“Rafe.”

“Are you unsure about a future with me or something? Is that it?”

Your mouth falls open, “No. No, not at all. I’m more than sure I want to be with you.” You reach for his hand, intertwining yours with his “I promise.” For a brief moment you notice how his eyes gleam at your assurance, like everything’s alright again.

The glimmer of hope makes you feel the need to continue on, thinking he’d understand. “Living together is something I want to do with you, just not necessarily now. It’s a lot. We’d have to figure out finances, do a lot of planning, you know?” 

The soft look in his blue orbs dies within seconds of you finishing the sentence. A sneer appears on his face as he lets go of your hand. His head shakes in disagreeance.

“I’d take care of all of that though, so I don't know why you're saying that like it's something to worry about.” 

It was like you were talking to a brick wall.

“Rafe, my love. It’s not entirely on you to do though, it's something we do together.” You breach his space and wrap your arms around his muscular torso. “I’m sorry, ok?”

It’s silent between you two for a moment. When he brings his arms around you, and rests his chin on your head, you let out a small breath of relief. 

“I have something for you. It was supposed to be a surprise for your birthday but I’d rather just tell you now.”

“Oh really?” you murmur into his chest, glad that the conversation is taking a turn from the direction it’d previously been in.

His fingers caress up your back as he speaks, “Uh huh. The company’s developing a house on the east side of figure 8. If construction stays on top of it, it should be done in a few weeks around your birthday.”

Unease brews in your gut, and you hope that he’s talking about using this house as a party venue, and not for what you’re so anxiously thinking.

“You see, my dad thinks it’d be a good place for us to… to start, and I agree with him.”

Within an instant you feel your heart drop. 

This was why he didn't like your answer, why he felt embarrassed, and why he was so adamant on wanting to know why you weren't ready. You pull away from him, mouth parted from shock. Your hands slide down your face. 

“A house… ?” You ask out of disbelief, “No Rafe. Our first place together isn’t going to be a house. It can't be.” The words come out in a way that makes you seem certain. On the outside it may appear as if you're handling the information well, but he doesn't know how your heart hammers in your chest and how badly your nerves are tingling throughout your limbs. “An apartment is reasonable, but a house? No.” 

“Look, I don't think you understand y/n” 

Trust you understand well and clear what’s going on and it makes your airways tight. You look up at the ceiling and take notice of how it’s slowly starting to spin. You look away and take a deep breath before directing your attention back towards your boyfriend. However you can't seem to focus on him.

Your growing need for oxygen moves you past him, and out of the kitchen. Your legs have a mind of their own as they guide you down the hall. The sight of the front door brings some relief to your lungs. In just a few more steps you’d be out there.

However, your track of mind changes when you're yanked at your forearm to a complete stop. 

You stand just outside of Ward's closed office doors and the older man's voice is much clearer now as he continues to shout over the phone.

“Where the hell are you going?” Rafe grits out, wide eyed and brows furrowed.

“I need some air.” You confess. You attempt to tug your arm free but his grasp doesn't loosen, instead it does the opposite. You turn to him, “Let go. Seriously I need-”

“Stop trying to run away and fucking listen to me. He bought the place already. For you and me, It's ours.” His eyes flicker between yours anticipating a response. Your blood runs cold as you stare back at him. 

What the hell was this? This is crazy, no? Who just buys a house for someone without as much as even a discussion? It’s utterly blindsiding.

“Why?” is all you can muster up.

“I told you, he cares about you. He- he cares about us and wants us to have a good future together.” He explains, while tapping at his chest. 

Still holding you in place, he stalks closer. You feel his other hand graze up your neck, and rest at your jaw. His thumb gently brushes the area. “Say something.” 

You flicker up at him, struggling to maintain eye contact. “I don’t know what to say…” 

A muscle in his tight jaw twitches as he stares down at you, “I don’t know, how about thank you?”

Sadness clouds your features, “Rafe this is such a sweet gesture. I mean it, it’s the nicest I’ve ever gotten. But it’s too soon.” 

You guys had barely just celebrated your one year. Now what? You were supposed to up and move into a home together? That’s absurd to you. Especially because you associate a house with marriage and children, and you surely aren't ready for that either.

He tilts your head upward, forcing you to meet his intensely dark gaze. He trails your eyes as he speaks, ensuring that your attention is on him.

“This isn't the type of gift you refuse y/n. It would be stupid of you to do that… and you’re not gonna make me look bad because you’re a little scared.” 

His words cascade you with an overwhelming amount of emotions, and a frown appears on your face. 

“I need time to think.”

To your surprise, your cheeks are then squeezed together by his large hand and you whine out of discomfort.

“Y/n there’s no thinking about this'' His tongue quickly rolls over his lip, “it’s happening whether you like it or not.” He finishes with a snarl. 

Your eyes widen, out of pure shock, and your hand flies up to tug his away from your face. “The hell it is.” You scowl at him.

Within an instant your face is whipped to the side, and a stinging pain blossoms in your cheek. It’s as if time stopped. 

You draw in a deep breath, and take a moment to admit to yourself that your boyfriend just slapped you. In disbelief you turn your head slowly to look back at him. There’s this empty look in his eyes that elicits a prickle in your waterline. It’s weird because you don’t know what hurts more, the fact that he hit you or the fact that he appears to not care that he did it.

His touch feels like poison, when he pulls you closer to him. Your noses are practically touching, as he hovers over you.

“You should be grateful,” he spat lowly. 

Your eyes wander his face, and it’s the first time you register the feeling of fear towards Rafe.

The click sound of a lock and twist of a doorknob pulls you from your daze. You turn your attention towards where the noise came from, and Ward stands at his doorway in awe at the scene before him. 

Time feels slowed, which makes it easier for you to notice the little things. You watch as the older man looks down at where Rafe has a tight grip on you. The attention there makes you anxiously lick your lip, inadvertently forcing a metallic taste onto your tongue. Pain follows almost immediately at the discovery.

You could see the moment it all clicked for Ward. 

His eyebrows rose and he reeled back in disgust. Time went back to normal within an instant when he stepped in and detached Rafe from you. He shoved him up against the other door harshly. So hard that the wood rattled from the pressure.

The older man shouts at his son with vitriol laced in his voice. You don’t hear anything he’s saying, as you’re completely in your own head replaying what happened. The memory and the pain you're left with not only in your face, but in your heart, finally brings you to tears.

Wards familiar voice coos at you, “y/n honey….” His face is solemn, as he takes in your shakenness. 

He reaches out to you and you flinch uncontrollably. “Oh sweetheart” he frowns, as he pulls you into a consoling hug. You lean into him, and sob into his chest while he caresses the back of your head. When he pulls away your gaze wanders behind him to Rafe’s cold eyes.

“Hey, hey. Look at me, not him. I’m gonna handle this alright. You trust me, don’t you?” You slightly nod, then deeply sniffle. He rubs your shoulder, “Go sit in my office while I deal with him, ok?”

You move on autopilot, cradling your arms around yourself as you sit down on the couch. Ward had the doors closed, but you could hear everything. There’s a loud shove into the door that makes you twitch.

“What the hell have you done?! I want to hear it from your mouth!” There’s another shove, “Tell me exactly what you did! I want to hear you admit it!”

Your knee shakes and you can’t help but continue to listen.

Rafe’s voice is low but clear. 

“I hit her” there’s a pause, “But I don’t care that I did”

You feel your heart crack at that. How can he not care? 

There’s then a sound that can be clearly identified as a smack, which makes you wince. Another follows accompanied by rustling. 

“You are a damn fuck up Rafe! You know how lucky you are to have even found a girl like her! To have someone be that patient with you! To stick around you considering how screwed up you are! You disappointment me…” You hear panting, and wonder how aggressive Ward had been, almost worried about Rafe. “If you know what’s best for you, you’re going to fix this!”

The door rattles again. Then it opens with a click. Ward walks in first and Rafe follows behind at a distance. The blonde stops a few feet before you yet Ward continues in the direction of his desk, stopping at his mini fridge.

You glare up at Rafe, through blurry eyes and make out how his cheek burns bright red and how his jaw’s set tight.

“I’m sorry,” He murmurs, with not an ounce of remorse. 

Your anger bubbles up quickly and takes over, pushing you to get up and shove him in the chest. He hardly moves as you shove him again and again. The most you get out of him is a few quickenned blinks. 

Ward eventually steps between the two of you with one of his hands going to your shoulder to hold you back.

“Sweetheart I know, I know. He deserves it alright? You can have at him in just a second. First I need you to let me see how bad this lip is.” 

He brings a handkerchief to your lip and you wince when he goes over a painful spot.

“There we go, almost done.” He pulls away, balling the fabric in his hand. “Just a little wound, it’ll heal alright with some time.'' 

He looks at you with kind eyes, before handing you a cold pack. You bring it up to your cheek and thank him, all sniffly. He gives you a kiss on the forehead in response, “Course dear. How about we sit… yeah? We should talk about everything that just happened…” 

You nod and he gestures to one of the seats in front of his desk. You take it, and he does the same with the seat behind his desk and Rafe still stands over by the couch, brooding.

“Sit down Rafe” Ward commands, in a harsh voice. There was a large contrast in comparison to how his tone was so soft with you. 

Eventually, you hear Rafe slump into the chair beside yours but you refuse to look at him. Instead, you give your attention to Ward as he starts speaking.

“I think it’s fair to say everyone’s emotions are high right now. Some are more reasonable than others, yes?”  Ward slightly curves his lip up at you, then scowls in Rafe’s direction. 

“It’s truly unacceptable, what’s happened… I don't even know where he'd learn to do something like that.” He puffs.

It isn't hard for you to realize where he learned it from, the dots connected right in front of you. Literally. Still though it wasn't ok for him to do it to you. 

For some reason though you still feel empathy towards Rafe, likely because of how harsh his own father is being towards him.

You glance over at Rafe and take in how he’s looking down at his lap, tail completely tucked. Perhaps what he’d done was finally starting to set in.

“With that said…”, Ward continues “Our emotions can sometimes get the best of us, and sometimes they can push us to make rash impulsive decisions. You know?” The older man directs his gaze at you as he continues on. “I think it’s something important to consider. It’s just-” he sighs “I don't want anyone making any decision that they might regret over what’s transpired here today.” 

You hum, at that. Thinking over his words and trying to figure out what he’s getting on about.

“I want you to know y/n that I will be handling him, ok? He’ll never do anything like this again. For as long as you are together and as I’m alive. I promise you that.”

You blink at his assumption that you still want to be with his son. Your eyes stick to the ground and your voice comes out weak, “Sir. I don’t think I want-” you cut yourself off with a sigh. Your teary eyes look up at the graying man.“I don’t think I can be with him anymore.”

“I understand.” he swallows with a nod, “Look you know I want the best for you right? I would never force you to stay with him, that’s your decision. However, I want you to make sure you’re really thinking before you make that decision.”

“I- What’s there to think about?” you question. 

He hit you.

“There’s a lot to think about. I mean look at the relationship you two have created, how much you love each other, how much he loves you. Let me ask you this, has he ever hit you before this?” You shake your head no, 

“See. That’s something, and it shows how this was a one time mistake… that won’t happen again.”

You gnaw your lip, considering the older man’s words. 

“Listen hon, I’m not trying to sway your decision. I truly just love having you around. You may or may not know but I practically consider you as my daughter in law” he laughs softly “As for Rafe though, I can see how much he loves you.. I mean you make him a better person. I've never seen him happier than with you. I feel like you know better than anyone how he is and unfortunately how he can get sometimes. And that’s not an excuse. It’s my fault if anyone’s really, I knew that he wasn't well and I neglected it but I’m gonna get him the help he needs.”

You think over Ward’s words. It’s always been kind of apparent to you that Rafe’s needed some kind of help. You’ve been aware of the fact that he struggles with managing his emotions but you thought you were helping him get better at that. Today proved you wrong though.

Wards guidance does make you think though.

You and Rafe have been together a while and within the time he’d never done anything like this before. Also Ward was making a promise that he wouldn't let it happen again, and that he’d get his son help. With all of these solutions being proposed, you didn't want to just give up on Rafe. Because deep down you do love him and only want him to be the best version of himself.

“Well…” You murmur more so to yourself as you’re  still unsure.

“He’ll be better, I promise you that. Right Rafe?” 

You both look at the blonde and he slightly shuffles in his chair, and sniffles out a “Yeah”. 

“How’d this even happen?” Ward questions and you sniffle.

“Um- He told me about the house and I told him I wasn’t ready” 

He deflates in his chair, and shakes his head. “Oh my god… I think this is all a misunderstanding. Look… the house wasn't supposed to be something that made you feel pressured. It’ll always be there, for whenever you both are ready. I’m not gonna sell it” He chuckled, “It’s my gift to you”

Your heart swells at that assurance. “Are you sure?”

“Of course. Look at it this way, there are plenty of options for you guys with the place. When it’s ready I could  get it furnished and you both can come and go as you please. Or maybe you guys can even do a trial run for a month to see how you like it.” He leans back in his chair. “Again no pressure, I’m just throwing suggestions out there”

“That… that would be nice” You hum.

“Great” Ward smiles “Hey how about we go take a look at it now. We can do a walk through, see how it's coming along., and maybe we can even go to dinner after, I owe it to you guys. I did cut lunch short.” 

You look over at Rafe, to gauge your answer. His eyes are now brimmed with water. You reach out a hand to him. “Baby. I’m not mad at you ok?” you whisper as you intertwine your fingers with his. A tear streams down his cheek as he looks at you with soft familiar eyes. 

He squeezes your hand, with a nod. “I screwed up… I’m screwed up.”

“Babe, it’s ok. You’re gonna get help, which is good. I still love you, so much ok? Nothing’s changed alright? I promise. Let’s go see the house, yeah?” 

notes! i wanted to clarify that ward is absolutely motivated by selfish reasons and has impure intentions. he knows that reader trusts him and he uses that to his advantage to get her to stay with rafe. why does he do that? he knows that rafe isn’t necessarily as much of a problem if reader is around. he cares about protecting the family name and reputation more than her. alsooo the way that ward is treating reader (as in him being nice to her and not him) will deff harbor some resentment and jealousy in rafe! im sure nobody wanted this explanation but i wanted to give it lol.

anyways thanks for reading! thoughts and feedback are always welcome and highly appreciated ♡!! they encourage me to share more😽

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