Starting To Think I Have A Type

starting to think i have a type

THIS IS SO SO GOOD OMG!??? HAD ME CLUTCHING MY PEARLS THE ENTIRE TIME LIKE I NEED MY GOODSIS TO STAND UP BUT ALSO LIKE I FULLY GET HER

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WARNINGS: dark!rafe cameron, DUB-CON SMUT, HEAVY manipulation and gaslighting, cheating, abusive relationship, violence, brief mentions of virginity loss

Tags: naive/innocent! reader, sarah is readers best friend, secret relationship/situationship, pet name’s (baby & bunny)

Summary: You thought being in a secret relationship with your best friends brother was hard enough. Then things get much worse when you find out that he has a girlfriend l wc: 5.4k

Notes: Rafe has broken her down to the point where she's very desperate, he's gross and takes advantage of her. I would say I'm sorry but I am not lol. if there's mistakes pls ignore them ♡

!!! 18+ ONLY !!! AGELESS BLOG’s & MINOR’s who interact (that means even liking/reblogging this post) WILL get BLOCKED

You press your weight into your toes, in an attempt to find balance. The smooth edge of concrete at your soles indicates your options are limited. One more step back and you would be drenched, similar to the blonde standing before you. 

Your arms are out ahead of you attempting to warn him away. “JJ, don’t you dare!”

Even though you were serious, there was a smile smeared on your face. 

He inches towards you, “What? you can’t hang?” 

“I can!” You couldn't help but laugh as the words came out.

“Oh yeah?” He challenges as he closes in on you.

Water drips from his shaggy strands, down onto his bare chest. He practically glistens from the mixture of sun and water. 

Your eyes trail back up to his face and you can't help but realize that he was kind of cute?

You had met him only an hour ago, along with the rest of Sarah’s newfound friends. Your first impression of him was that he seemed like fun. Like the kind of guy that wants everyone to have a good time. The way he’s cornered you to the edge only confirms that. 

It didn't bother you though. You were having more fun now than in the past few weeks combined. 

You were really glad that you came. Albeit you were reluctant at first but for good reasons. You were nervous to meet “the pogues”, but more importantly you didn't want to have a run in with Rafe. You had been avoiding Tannyhill for weeks because of him. 

Which honestly sucked. You loved coming over here, it was like a second home to you. But not anymore.

You never thought that you would be avoiding him. For months he was everything to you. He made you feel worthy and perfect. Like the most important girl in his world. He was also the first and only person to touch you so intimately. He taught you things you didn't even think you could do. And dare you say it, you kinda loved him. Even if you guys weren’t official and even if it was all secret. 

When you used to think of him you felt like the happiest girl in the world. Now when you think of him and all the things you guys did together, nausea bubbles in your gut. 

You didn't know what you were thinking at the time. Going behind Sarah's back and getting involved with him was not your intention, but he was so alluring. So comforting in his assurance that you guys weren't doing anything wrong. That it was only a secret because he cared about you, and knew how terribly Sarah would react to it all. Saying that she'd make a whole drama out of it.

What you didn't know then was that he was in a relationship and that you were apparently some side thing. If you had known that information you wouldn’t have done anything with him. But how could you have known when there were no signs of her existence. You were lucky enough to find out by mere chance. If you didn’t, who knows how long things would have persisted for.

That day, you so happened to be sitting in Sarah’s windowsill. It showcased a perfect view of the backyard, the water, and the dock. Your heart sank when you saw them kissing there. Her arms slung around his neck, his hand placed at her hip. You were dumbfounded at the sight. So much that it caught Sarah’s attention. She matched your gaze and gagged. Even voiced her disgust about it, wondering how someone could even be in a relationship with her brother. Let alone for the length they were, which was half a year. It made you sick. You don't even know how you managed to not spew your guts in the moment.

Half a year was around the time you and him had sex for the first time. The first time you had sex at all at that. The realization that he was using you the whole time made you more than unsettled. Made you feel dumb and gross.

You were his dirty little secret.

You should've known, but again he was so damn charming. With his affirmations and promises that likely meant nothing. Promises that he would eventually make you his. That he wanted to be with you. And probably the biggest lie of them all was, that he… liked you. 

And you believed him. You fell for him like an idiot. When all he did was take advantage of you. It was humiliating, and the reason why you chose avoidance instead of confrontation.

Even though you had been following through with it, it was still hard. For some reason you couldn’t fully hate him. Your feelings and the memories you shared wouldn't just go away overnight. Some of them you couldn't even forget if you tried.

With all of it though, you were managing. You had to. Appearing happy as ever around others, to not let them get a glimpse of your shame. 

You were good at pretending, for the most part. It was easy to make up fake excuses every time Sarah invited you over. But this most recent time when she casually mentioned that the house was all hers, you couldn't find a reason to say no. Because he wasn't going to be there.

You snap back to reality, when cold hands connect with your waist. The contrast in temperature startles you.

You almost lose your balance, but the blond is quick to pull you into his body. Chest to chest. You cling to him out of instinct. 

“You’re ok I got you.” You exhale in relief, then he continues “Unless… I were to I don’t know… let go.”

You peer up at him, which only amuses him. “Please. Don’t.”

“you’re telling me that while everyone else is in the water. You’re just gonna sit on the sidelines?”

“Maybe. I don't know, I haven't decided yet.” 

“Oh, no we can’t have that. Definitely not.” He counters.

“And why is that?” You preen.

He breaks eye contact to look behind you for a split second. He then adjusts his head so that his lips are level with your ear.

“Would it be selfish to say that It's because I really want to get to know more about you.” 

His outwardness makes your mouth slightly part. When he looks at you again his eyes smoothly take in your expression. Then he continues.

“That and you look undeniably pretty in this two piece”

The compliment almost makes you melt within his now warm arms. His eyes smoothly trail over you. Heat flushes along your skin, and you can't help but look at his lips. They looked so inviting.

As you so shamelessly stare he takes a step forward, and you subsequently take one back forgetting that there was nowhere to plant it. 

You squeal, and tighten your grip fully anticipating the plunge. To your surprise he takes a couple steps back. Easing you both back away from the pool.

His hands fall from your body, and your knees almost go weak from the absence. 

“I’m just messing with you, beautiful. I wouldn't actually do that” he chuckles, and you find yourself gravitating back to him. “But I did mean what I said.”

You hum, not sure what to say to that.  

“No pressure though. Only if you want to” he continues, extending his hand out between you. The unspoken gesture makes you raise your brow. No you didn't want to swim quite yet but he was being sweet. Also you kind of liked that he wasn’t forcing you to do anything.

With that you make your decision and meet his hand with yours, interlocking your fingers together. 

“Atta girl” He smiles whilst giving your hand a light squeeze. 

There was one last shared look between you two, before you both took the leap. Hand in hand. 

You didn't expect to stay in as long as you did. But the pool games made time fly by. Specifically the chicken game. You liked that one, because JJ was your partner. You sat on his shoulders for multiple matches and each time he made it a point to cheer you on. 

The encouragement was making you extremely flustered, so much so that it was becoming impossible to conceal it. You felt oddly safe with him. He would strum your thigh often to make sure you were ok. Or he’d give it a light squeeze whenever you won a match. The lingering touches were making you feel warm, and tingly. Similar to how you felt with Rafe.

It was overwhelming and confusing, which was why you had to dismiss yourself.

You lie on a nearby lawnchair, as the others continue their roughhousing. The warm sun feels like a blanket against your chest. The tingle along your skin prompts you to check your swimsuit. You rub your fingers along the fabric and find that it's dry. You turn over to give your back an equal opportunity.

You get comfy and rest your head in the crook of your elbow. In the distance you hear JJ shout at Pope to grab him a beer, and your lips inadvertently curve up. You were so glad you came, the pogues were really nice, especially JJ. 

Being around them made you forget about all the bull you’ve been put through.

A yawn falls from your lips, likely a result of the rambunctious activities. You suppose a quick nap wouldn’t do much harm. The rowdy screams and shouts drown out as you rest your eyes. 

—

An unpleasant, cold feeling at your lower back rouses you awake.

It felt as if someone spilled something on you. 

You lift your head out of your arms and the brightness makes you squint. You squirm in the chair, as the sensation reappears but only this time along your… butt? Huh? Maybe it was JJ messing with you again?

You whine, as you tilt your head up. The sensation finally stops, as you look up at the culprit. What the hell? No- You were not expecting it to be him. He wasn't supposed to be here.

You notice that he holds a red solo cup over your body. Did he-?

Your hand brushes your very wet rear and you gasp. Yes, he did.

“Hey sleepy bunny” He taunts, as you sit up. There’s a shit eating grin on his face that makes you frown. “Looks like your friends left you out here, all alone”

You look around, noticing that they were indeed gone. Your heart begins to race. Why would they leave you like this? Why didn't they wake you?

“That’s better for us though isn't it?” he continues.

You scowl, and quickly get up. You both stand on opposing sides of the chair. 

You ignore him as you assess your skin, feeling all over. You suck in a breath at the now sticky residue coating your rear. Gross.

“Why would you pour beer on me?”

You watch as he brings the cup to his nose, then sucks his teeth. “Shit… I thought it was water. I’m sorry baby.” 

You squint at him. He has no right to call you that. 

“How about we go inside and I’ll clean you up nice and good. Hmm?” 

Seeing him after this long, makes you almost short circuit. You almost swoon at how he wants to take care of you, but then you remember. Your mind replays the visual of them kissing on that damn dock.

“Where’d my friends go?” You snip and his brows furrow slightly.

“What? Are you not happy to see me?” He chuckles.

“No, Not really” 

He tuts at your response, and you instantly wish you could flee. His presence was making you uneasy and unsure of yourself.

“They said something about getting booze, alright?” You frown at that, wishing they would have just woken you up. “You wanna tell me why you’re treating me like this?”

You shake your head, not wanting to bother. You just wanted to be away from him. The way he was looking at you, trailing over your body made you feel nasty, exposed, and objectified.

“Come on? Seriously baby?”

His eyes land on your chest and it makes you shiver. Your arms cross over the bikini top, to hide yourself from him. 

He notices the movement and sneers lowly, “Like I haven't seen it all before.”

“Leave me alone” you mumble, heart pounding in your chest. 

He steps around the chair, closer to you. His tongue rolls over his lips with a scoff, “What, don't tell me you’re being shy now?”

His pretty blue eyes bore into yours, and you force yourself to look away from him. It’s like the closer he gets to you the more you want to give into him. You hated that he still had this much power over you. That you still manage to find him handsome, even after what he did to you. 

“Cause it sure didn't seem like it when you were getting comfy with that pogue piece of shit earlier. Couldn’t fucking let him out your sight huh?”

Your eyes round at his accusation. You were speechless. How did he even know?

Your defense comes out quick, “Why does it matter?”

His face scrunches at that, “The hells gotten into you? What, did the chlorine seep into your brain?” His head tilts.

His insults shift your feelings. Your anger turns into sorrow, as you hug yourself tighter. “You're being mean, Rafe.”

Within an instant he intrudes on the space you created. 

“Well you make it hard to be nice when you’re acting like a slut.” His finger hooks at the strap on your hips. When he lets it go, the harsh snap against your skin makes you wince. 

“I-I’m not.” You look up at him, his ocean eyes connect with yours before he focuses on your lips.

“Look at yourself, bunny. You're the one parading around in this poor excuse of a swimsuit.” 

Your ears can't help but relish on the pet name that fell from his mouth. God, you loved when he said it. You hardly recognize that his hand is on you. Kneading a palmful of your ass. The feel sends you back to the nights you would sneak into his room and- no. No.

“No.'' You shake your head and push his chest. You peel his hand from your skin and back away. You put your hand out, and point an accusatory finger at him. “No more of that. I know you have a girlfriend.”

“The hell are you talking about??” He squints. 

His innocent facade pushes you over your edge.

“Don't try to make me feel dumb, I saw you two on the dock. A-and apparently you guys have been together for months!” You slide your hands down your face. The frustration causes a prickly feeling in your eyes. 

His scoff causes you to drop your hands. 

“She’s not my girlfriend? She’s just some girl my dad arranged me with. I don’t give a fuck about her.”

“I don't believe you at all. You looked really happy to me when she was practically all over you.”

“Do you hear yourself? Use your brain and think about what you just said. She was all over me. Not the other way around.” 

You momentarily think about it, trying to make sense of it. But still that explanation wasn't enough, he could have told you if that were the case, you would have understood. 

He takes a deep sigh, as he moves close to you again. He presses his chest to yours and brings his hand to your nape. At the same time, he nudges his forehead to yours and caresses his fingers against where your hair blends with your skin.

You sigh into his touch. You can't help it, it was comforting and familiar. You hate to admit it but you missed him. You knew you deserved better though. You deserve someone like JJ. Someone who made you bubble with laughter. Not cry yourself to sleep.

You bring your hand up and wrap your fingers around his forearm, a gentle attempt at getting him away. 

“Whatever it is Rafe, I don't care anymore. I know the truth, and it’s that you used me.” you suck in a breath “You don't care about me. You’re a liar, and I-I won't be your secret anymore. I won't be some piece of meat to you either. I think I deserve better. No, I know I deserve better.” 

When you finally look up at him you're surprised to find that he's calm? His fingers had stopped rubbing your skin, and you think he’s accepted your words. It made sense for him to give up on you so easily. Proves that you were just an object to him.

His jaw twitches as he looks over your weary expression.

“Let me guess you think JJ is better?” He snarls.

“For starters I think he at least likes me, and… I think I feel the same.” 

Almost immediately after the words leave your mouth, you feel his fingers press into the sides of your neck.

“Don't be stupid.” he sneers. you squirm in his hold, as he inches closer to your face. 

“He doesn't like you, he wants to fuck you. I mean really think about it baby, what have you given him to like besides your ass and tits? Maybe this pretty face huh?”

The mean words go to your head immediately. Maybe he was right? It’s not like you and JJ had sat down and had a real conversation. 

His fingers press harder and you squeeze at his forearm to get him to stop. The effort was useless, you knew he was too strong but you were desperate to stop the pain. 

“Please… stop. Please.” you squeak, whilst pleading with your eyes.

Only then does he let go. You gasp at the momentary relief, but it doesn't last for long. His hand travels up to the back of your head grabbing a fistful of hair before yanking your head back.

He hovers over you, intently focused on your torment. He looked like a madman, eyes gone black and unrecognizable. He was being so mean and it was breaking you. Tears brink your waterline, as you continue to plead.

“Please- Youre hurting me Rafe.” You grit out.

“I’m hurting you?” he snarls, “You know I really don’t think that’s the truth. I’m pretty fucking sure you’re the one hurting me.”

You weren't understanding. He was confusing you and the pain was becoming unbearable. The tears break free, at a particularly rough tug.

“I've told you so many times that I like you. That I want to be with you. I meant it then and I still mean it now. What more do I need to do to prove it to you, hmm?” 

Your scalp stings and the tears flow uncontrollably. Incoherent pleas fall from your mouth, as you dig your nails into his arm.

“You avoided me for weeks. That hurt. Then- then I find you throwing yourself at some random guy you don't even know. Like I wouldn't see? Like I dont fucking live here. But maybe you like hurting me? Is that it?”

“No- no. I don’t. I promise.”

The pressure was getting to you along with his confession. You were feeling guilty. You didn't mean to make him feel bad. You didn't mean to hurt him.

“Rafe. M’sorry.” He’s a blur as you look up at him, “I’m sorry ok? I shouldn't h-have assumed. I believe you-you.” Your voice was full of sorrow. 

He looks at you, like really looks at you. Then let's go. 

His eyes then looked in every direction except yours. He looked more than mad. He was livid, and It was all your fault. You felt so fucking bad, you wanted to fix it. Out of instinct you move to embrace him, shoving your head into his chest.

“I’m sorry” you whisper into his shirt. You feel him hesitate, before he brings his hand to encase your now tender head. You could feel the oncoming headache, but you didn't care. You needed to fix this. You bring your head away from his chest, and pout at his now tear stained fabric. 

All you wanted to hear was for him to say that it was ok. That he forgave you. 

Instead he doesn't say anything. Just swipes his thumb over your wet cheeks. 

“How about we go get you cleaned up hmm? Take care of these tears and wipe away the sticky booze from your skin.”

You nod and take the hand that he offers you. You misread everything so stupidly and look what it caused. 

-

The first thing Rafe did when you both entered his room was grab a wet towel. 

You stood between his legs as he wiped the alcohol residue from your skin. He still hadn’t said much, which made you wonder what was going through his mind. What was he thinking?

You turn when he prompts you to. You look down at him and he is entirely focused on getting you clean. He was being so sweet, which made you feel even worse. 

“Are you mad at me?” your voice is smaller than a whisper.

He looks up at you, and sets the towel aside. He doesn't take his eyes off you as he pulls you to sit down on his thigh. You watch him intently, awaiting a response. 

Instead he brings his palm to your face and pulls you into a kiss. Your lips meet and the fact that he still wants to kiss you makes you happy. You even get a little carried away. 

His lips were soft on yours and he met every single one of your movements. Your hand slides from his neck, feelings along his head of hair. You didn't want it to end, you desperately missed this. He pulls away and you look at him worried. Panicked. 

His forehead presses to yours.

“Fuckin missed you” His breath fans over your lips and you needily bridge the gap. You just want to make it right. He pulls away again and you pout. He said he missed you- so why did he not want to kiss you anymore? Was he repulsed by your behavior? 

You notice how his hand travels from your waist to his crotch, adjusting the tent in his pants

Oh he wasn't repulsed by you at all. The evidence of his arousal sparks an idea in your head. 

You ease off his thigh and he watches adoringly as you lower to your knees. It was the least you could do and it would make him feel better. This always made him feel better.

The wood is cold against your legs, but you don’t mind, for him. As you reach for his zipper, you look up at him with doe eyes. He looked pleased, which was good. 

When you try to undo his zipper his hand encases yours, stopping you. You pout again. Immediately thinking the worst. Did he not want you anymore?

“Look at you so sweet to me.” 

His hand frames your jaw, and his thumb brushes against your lip. He pushes fourth and you wrap your tongue around his digit. He then swiftly pulls it out, resulting in a pop sound. He wipes the wetness on your cheek, as he speaks. 

“I know you wanna show me that you're sorry bunny. But I need to show you something first, is that ok?”

You nod and he helps you stand up, he turns you around and tugs you down into his lap. You could feel how hard he was, through the seat of your bikini. 

You think better of grinding against him. Not wanting to be rejected again. As the thought passes, he so effortlessly slinks your legs over his. The movement causes your back to become flush with his chest. 

One of his hands sits at your inner thigh while the other splays along your bare stomach. The feel of his lips against the sweet spot of your neck makes you whimper. Makes you disgustingly sensitive. 

His palm glides up your torso, slipping underneath the fabric top. He feels and gropes at the soft skin, then subtly tweaks your nipple, causing your lips to part.

You move to rest your head on his shoulder, baring him your neck in the process. Giving more of yourself to him.

He’s gentle with you, until he starts to suck on the sensitive skin. Oddly enough it felt like it would leave a mark. You were familiar with the feeling on your chest, and places you could hide but never somewhere so visible like this. 

You weren't sure if it was his touch or the remnants from his aggression earlier, but you were starting to feel heady. 

His lips tickle as he slowly whispers into your skin causing goosebumps to erupt, “I think I need to really show you how much I care about you hmm?” His hand roams from your thigh to your covered core, and you suck in a breath. “Since you're doubting me.”

His hand dips into your bottoms, and his touch along your folds makes you feel so warm. You bite your lip when his cold ring grazes your clit. 

“Such a sloppy little pussy” He teases, as his fingers dip near your entrance to gather your slick. He slowly and methodically dances his fingers against your bundle of nerves. 

The sensation felt heavenly, he touched you better than anyone could. Even yourself.

He strums you ever so gently, and you feel heat rise along your skin. His pace grows faster and you can't help but grind your hips against his fingers. It feels too good to not. 

A distant slamlike noise bellows through the house, and you become all too aware of where you were and what you were doing with Rafe. Hopefully that wasn't them- oh, ohhh- your eyebrows knot at the pleasure of his quickened pace.

You sling your head against him, and in the corner of your vision you notice that the door is cracked open.

“Rafe, the door” you whine.

“It’s ok bunny, nobody’s coming up here. As long as you stay quiet, we’ve got nothing to worry about.”

The thought of being caught sends you over the edge. Quietly moaning and writhing under his touch,

“Fuck, there it is.” he continues his pace throughout your pulsating orgasm, “There we go. That’s it.” 

His touch strays from your clit and further down your slit. A different kind of pleasure nips at your nerves, when he dips his fingers into your entrance. They caress that soft spot within you, sending waves of ecstasy throughout your body. Eventually he coaxes another orgasm from you and you swear you could taste blood, from how hard you bit your lip.

His hand separates from your warmth, and the loss makes you twitch. 

“Open those pretty eyes for me, yeah?”

You follow his request and watch as he brings his fingers before you. Showcasing your slick that’s webbed between his fingers.

“Look at that, so fucking messy for me.”

In your euphoric daze, he picks you up from his lap and lies you down on the sheets. He hardly even has to spread your legs. You were willing for him. You’d let him do anything to you, with or without asking. He made you that way.

“You know I really think you wore this slutty little thing to get my attention, I think you wanted to make me jealous.”

“Nuh- I swear. I didn't. Just thought it was cute.”

“Oh you didn't? So you didn't think about me taking it off just like this, either?” He grabs each leg, and gently gets you out of the cheeky bottoms. 

“Didn't think of me touching you right here?” his thumb rubs along your overworked clit and you twitch. 

“Such a pretty pussy” he coos, as he continues his toying.

You don't know how or when he set himself free, but his warm member nudges its way through your slit. Rocking along your wetness and rubbing just right against your clit. The sensation was everything to you, and before you knew it you were cumming again.

“So greedy. Just cant stop cumming can you? I Think this pussy missed me?”

You feel cold and empty after that one, you need to feel his chest pressed against yours, You needed the contact, needed him so bad you didn't care if he suffocated you. 

As if he read your mind, he leans over you. Kissing you as he slides into you. Your mouth forms an O at the stretch. It had been weeks since you last had sex with him and he felt bigger than you remembered.

“I know, it’s so much isn’t it? So fucking tight for me.” You wrap your hands around his biceps, as he fucks you slow and deep. Your body bounces into the mattress from the weight of his thrusts. You squeeze his arms from the sensation, and your eyes gloss over. “Be good and take it bunny ”

His pace picks up and he continues kissing you, as if he was starved. You get so lost in the pleasure laced along your walls that you become sloppy with your kisses. 

“So drunk of my cock you can't even kiss me properly. Huh baby?”

“I-m sorry it feels so-so good Rafe” 

You feel the tightness creeping up on you again, and you whine, in protest. You can't anymore, it was too much. You press your hand to his shoulder, connecting your half lidded eyes with his.

“Cant s-too much”

“Just let it happen” he straightens his spine, pulling away from you to slink your calves over his shoulder.

The slight change in position, sends your eyes rolling back. He was so deep, hitting that perfect spot over and over again. The coil snaps and you moan is absent of noise, your eyes screw shut as he continues to spew nonsense. “Aww poor baby. Clenching me so tight. So pretty when you’re cock drunk.”

-

You had knocked out like a light, whenever Rafe was done. 

Which made it much easier for him to do what he needed. Which was damage control. 

You were a heavy sleeper, always had been after you guys fucked. So he assumed there was no risk in picking up the call right then. The phone rings a couple times before he decides to pick up. 

“I was busy Sofi” / “No I’m not coming over anymore I-something came up” / “Yeah..I’m fine.” / “I’ll take you to lunch tomorrow. That make up for it?” / “Look I gotta go” / “Yeah-yeah love you too babe.”

Rafe goes to set the phone aside when he gets another call. Just great. It’s Sarah. He knew exactly what this was gonna be about, but was he gonna let on about that? hell no.

“What do you want Sarah?” / “No” / “Yes, I’m sure. Why would I know the whereabouts of your dumb friend?” / “She probably wondered off to look for you-”

The call drops, indicating that she hung up on him. Which was good. No more questions. All his problems were solved for the time being except for the one that laid in his bed.

He watches you peacefully sleep, curled up underneath the throw blanket he laid over you. Did he like you? yeah, well at least he liked how devoted you were to him. You were pretty and naive.  

There was also the fact that he liked that he was fucking over his sister in the process. 

He didn’t mean for it to turn into this though. It was supposed to be one time, just a way for him to ease some stress and get his dick wet. He saw an easy opportunity and took it.

All he had to do was shower you with compliments. Leave lingering touches. Tell you that he liked you. Then the rest was easy.

Things changed however when he had you under him for that first time. He discovered how you’d let him do anything to you. When he got a little rough, you never once complained.

How was he supposed to just let that go? If anything he could take his frustration out on you and you’d beg for more. 

So if he had to tell you lies to keep you around, then so be it. And it seemed like he had you convinced at least for the time being.

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

@peachprairie @rvfecamerons 🥺🥺

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

babyyyy 🥲 It’s like a world sensation seeing you in my notifications 🙄 miss and love you bye

MISS YOU AND LOVE YOU SO MUCH BABYY

And isn't it just so pretty to think?

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

wc 9.4k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Arguably, this is where your story begins.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Delightful. It appears that some things truly never change.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

His eldest included, bequeathal of an impressive legacy notwithstanding. 

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

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

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

Smithy: we 🔛 for tonight ?

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

Cameron: can’t, bro. Working overtime

Kelce’s typing bubble pops up almost instantaneously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Total fluke. Right?

Cameron: what time?

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

—

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

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

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

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

Around you, a sea of familiar faces. 

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sorry,” you say, frowning up at him.

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

You blink. “Me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Right?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I haven’t had a lot,” he tries.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Right? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lucky. “You’re kidding.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Rafe notices. He always notices.

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

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

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

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

You raise your eyebrows. “Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

You frown bemusedly. “There is?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rafe’s stomach lurches. “Why?”

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

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

Your breath hitches. “Rafe —”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

--

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I LOVE YOU SO MUCH MORE MY SWEET GIRL 🥺

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