I Had A Dream About Rudy Pankow Where I Went To See The Rehersal Of His Romeo & Juliet Play And There

I had a dream about Rudy Pankow where I went to see the rehersal of his Romeo & Juliet play and there weren’t many people there so before they started he just talked with some of us and he was being his silly self doing little dances so I gathered all the courage I could in my body and did a little dance with him and felt awkward a second later but he was sweet as fuck being all giggly like “That was so good!” and then we talked about dogs and then he occasionally looked at me while they were rehersing and it was just so wholesome I wish I never woke up lmfao. Wanted to share it as a little scenario for ya’ll as well! 😭🙏🏻

texting with boyfriend jj maybank, part 5 🤍

Theodore: Love is weakness and an evolutionary mistake.

Blaise: You are literally making a Valentine’s day card for Y/N.

Theodore, pointing his hot glue gun towards Blaise: You’re on thin fucking ice.

TE AMO | Rafe Cameron

MASTERLIST (oneshot) | x Mexican!Female Reader .ᐟ

Summary — After a fight with his father, Rafe shows up at your door for comfort. He didn't expect to be loved so deeply. Word Count — 4.6K.

Content — 18+, angst, fluff, smut, established relationship, brief mentions of Ward's abuse (implicit), dry-humping, fingering, gags/muffling, unprotected p in v sex, position: doggy style, and semi-public sex (almost-caught), and mentions of Mexican-American culture.

Dedication — to @rafestaurusgf for inspiring this idea and for your continual support of my fics, ily <3 (or, more fitting, te amo)

lıllılı Cariño by The Marías

Rafe feels like he's going to die.

His heart beats fiercely against the puncture of his sternum, threatening to cut out of his chest. Each inhale he takes constricts his airway, wheezing its way through the narrow pipe, as if he's choking on his own oxygen.

His mind is another problem. The way it feels like nothing and everything at once. Wiry strings tangled together, a static noise humming in the background of a broken television. He's losing his own grip on reality—and his first thought is to go to you.

When you open the door, your eyes widen, lips part into a delicate pout. You're wearing nothing out of the ordinary; an old red tank top that cuts above your naval and pajama pants that drags over the glazed wooden floor of the foyer.

His rigid shoulders instantly fall upon seeing you and he can take his first real breath. The buzz humming in the back of his head drops to a hush. Rafe can't believe how much you eliminate his problem by simply being here.

"Are you okay?" is the first thing you ask because Rafe rarely shows up unannounced. He hesitantly nods and in that brief second of delay, you catch his truth.

Taking a step outside, bare feet scraping against the fine ridges of the concrete slab, you eye him carefully. "Are you sure?"

Nothing in his head feels right.

"I just—" Rafe stammers, throat dry. "I just needed to see you."

Your eyes soften and before you get the chance to ask further, your abuelita's voice carries through the house, fluid and swift Spanish reminding you to close the door before the mosquitoes are let in.

You obey, using your clean hand—free from the dried masa crusting your fingertips—and pull Rafe into the house. Instantaneously, the sharp aroma of spice hits him, accompanied by the savory scent of stewed pork.

Without further instructions, Rafe slips off his shoes. His eyes briefly scan over your living room that's across the stairwell and notice the peeled and worn-down leather of your brown couches, the bundles of handmade quilts and woven blankets sitting on the armrests, and the plentiful candles stationed all around the room—from the coffee table with the Bible to the television stand carrying old VHS tapes behind the cabinet's glass.

Tugging Rafe along, you lead him through the hallway fitted with your family portraits and a pinned crucifix on the wall. When he enters the kitchen, the aromatic smell strengthens tenfold.

Abuelita spares a glance over her shoulders at your arrival. “Hola, Rafe. ¿Has comido?”

He doesn’t understand. “W-what?”

“She asked if you ate yet,” your mother translates with a sweet smile.

Directing his timid gaze on her, he shakes his head. Feeling small. He met your family before but he's nervous, especially now—after his fight with his father—that he'll somehow fuck it up. "No, ma'am."

She nods, translating back and the elderly woman huffs, shaking her head as her frail hand stirs the pot, muttering something quick under her breath.

Rafe's hands are trembling. Afraid that he's done something wrong. Turning to you, he asks. "What'd she say?"

“That you’re too skinny and need to eat more.”

Rafe's stomach turns. He didn't like that he was also disappointing your family but before he can dwell on it further, your mother affectionately pats his shoulder. Her voice gentle when she says, "It's a good thing. It means she cares about you."

All tension in his shoulders dissolves. Your mother returns back to her work, and Rafe finds himself able to take another breath.

He thought your family would hate him. For something, anything, but they didn't. Instead of being met with criticism and disappointment, they were concerned for his well-being. It sank into his chest how he didn't know how to respond to that.

“Hey,” your soft voice draws him away from his thoughts and grounds him. “Where’d you go?”

Rafe swallows hard. You're recognizing the heavier signs of his defense mechanism and know that, right now, all Rafe needs is some space.

You're about to pardon yourself but your abuelita cuts you off to ask for help. Momentarily shifting priorities, you seat Rafe over at the circular breakfast table shoved to the corner of the kitchen, covered with a white frilly lace tablecloth and various jars of salsas, and move towards the elder.

A distinct, low-volume sound of Spanish opera plays in the background, where your abuelita occasionally mumbles along to the lyrics. That is before she's done cooking with the pork and steps back, directing you to carry the large metallic pot to the sink.

Rafe tries to settle into the wooden chair but his shoulders return to their rigid stance. He's recognizing that you're in the middle of cooking with your family and all his presence does is disturb that time.

Once you set the pot into the basin, you grab one of the colorful washcloths on the counter—the dark blue one, not the yellow one that's strictly reserved for water spills—and clean your hand of the crusted masa before sitting down on the empty seat next to Rafe. His head hung low with guilt.

You bump your knee against his, gravitating his attention back to you.

"Don't think I forgot about you," you whisper lightheartedly, but your soft smile fades when your eyes meet his shameful ones. "What happened?"

Rafe's voice is rough when he finally answers. "I'm sorry."

"Why are you apologizing?"

"You're busy."

"I'm fine," you reassure, glancing over to your mother, who's filling in your role of flattening the masa on the corn husks. "Three's a crowd anyways."

He knows you're trying to comfort him but he feels nauseous. He doesn't deserve your kindness, much less your family's warmth and consideration. Goddammit, he should be acting like a man and get his shit together—not drag you into it.

It's pathetic and cowardly for him to come here.

With a perpetual frown, Rafe doesn't say anything. That's when you realize that whatever's going on is worse than you imagine. You reach out and lace your fingers through his calloused hand, pulling him back to Earth once more.

Your words are gentle, like a summer breeze, and you raise his knuckles to your lips before brushing a chaste kiss against the roughened skin. "What's wrong, mi amor?"

His heart buzzes. He always loved that endearment, the way the accent falls off your tongue. Whenever you call him that, it makes him feel like he's worth something.

But not right now.

He feels like absolutely shit. Rafe can't seem to articulate how he doesn't deserve you. That if anything, he's a darkened cloud in your life, constantly forecasting a future of pain, misery, and obsolete. All he wants to do is retreat and isolate, pulling himself away before he brings you any more trouble.

It doesn't help that he can't vocalize it. The words caught in his throat, thick and enormous. You can see the frustration behind his gaze, his mouth slackens but no words come through. Rafe clenches his jaw out of anger, eyes piercing and filled with self-loathe.

You recognize that it's because of the additional people in the room.

Turning to your mother, you ask, "Ma, voy a ir a mi habitación, ¿vale?"

She stops what she's doing to look at you. That silent—only a Mexican mother could converse with their daughter—look. Not wanting to hear a refusal, you added an additional por favor, to which she conceded with a nod.

Quickly pulling Rafe's hand, you haul him out of the cramped kitchen before racing up the carpeted stairs, careful not to step on any of the little trinkets scattered around. Before you make it to your bedroom, your mother shouts her warning: "Don't close the door!"

You reluctantly oblige, leaving your bedroom door cracked open as Rafe enters through the familiar space, taking a seat on the edge of your mattress. His legs are parted and he bounces one of his knees, hands brushing over his knuckles as an anxious tic.

You take the seat next to him, but the distance is too far. His hand immediately circles your waist and pulls you onto his lap.

His restless leg stops and he lifts his gaze to yours. Using your free hand, you cup the underside of his jaw, running your thumb across his cheek. "Do you wanna talk about it?"

He wants to, but he doesn't know if he can. His voice is still lost to him, and a small frown replaces his face.

"It's okay, I'm here," your words are tender, and the gentle strokes of your thumb across his skin feel good, contrasting the burning of his face. Rafe continues to answer with his silence and you decide to fill in the gaps, recounting how you spent your day. How you were preparing tamales for the upcoming church mass, how you cut chilis from your own backyard garden, how your abuelita added so much spices you had to beg her to crank open the backdoor to let some of the smell out.

Rafe listens as the words cascade out, carefree and smooth, and how your descriptions of mundane activities still captivate him. He could listen to you talk for hours.

You inform him that you missed him. That, after finishing the last batch, the first thing you were going to do was call him. But he came anyway. It's like he knew you wanted him here. That he can read your soul from miles away.

The last comment you made was meant to let him feel at peace. To let him know that he was never a bother to you—now or ever. That you, with your whole heart, will always want him.

It broke off a piece of his walls. His heart swells with your trust and you grin, running your thumb across his jaw to feel the short pricks of his fresh shave. You sigh lovingly, burying yourself into the crook of his neck. "Amor de mi vida."

Rafe recognizes those words. You've said them before, and after constant badgering, he finally learned of its meaning: love of my life.

God, he truly doesn't deserve you.

For the new few minutes, there's nothing but the stillness of your bedroom. The soft sounds of your breaths, the slow thumping of Rafe's pulse in his chest, steady and calming. Your eyes briefly close from the rhythmic beats.

Finally, he confesses. "I'm fucked up."

You don't pull away from your position, curled up in his arms—as if you were the one in need of comfort instead—and wait for him to continue. You knew he always talks better without the scrutiny of a gaze. "Why would you say that?"

His hand grazes your waist, squeezing, needing to feel you. To know you're real. His next words come out with a sharp exhale. "Because I'm a fuck-up. Everyone thinks that. Even my dad said so."

You scoff.

"That pendejo doesn't know anything, okay?" You declare, a subtle bite behind your emphasis. You're always soft and gentle, with him and everyone else, but there's a side of protectiveness that comes out whenever you hear how Ward treats his son. You pull back enough to meet his gaze, using both hands to cup his face. "I know you. And believe me when I say that's absolutely not true."

Even though he trusts you, he doesn't agree.

"You're only saying that because you love me."

"And I'll keep saying it until you believe it," your tone goes delicate, wishing he could see himself through your eyes. "You deserve so much more, mi amor."

The conviction behind your words fizzles out any of his remaining arguments. It's always easy for Rafe to doubt himself, to see all his mistakes as an atrocity committed to humankind. How could he not? He grew up hearing it said by the one person he loves most.

But not you. Never by you.

His hand captures your profile, warm palm pressed against his cheek. "You're too good for me."

You smile. "I think I'm just right."

Rafe feels lighter. Better. Real. He can't believe your simple presence dissolves all the things he hates about himself. When he sees the way you look at him, with this pure, unadulterated love, he knows he will stop at nothing to preserve it.

Rafe draws you closer, slowly, steadily, until you're nothing but a breath away. His darkened blue eyes trace your features before landing on your lips. Your heart stutters and, with a brief hesitance, Rafe leans forward to kiss you.

Gently at first, as if to taste your air, before deepening it. His hand falls to your waist while your arms loop around his shoulders. His fingers splay over your warm skin, grabbing the soft plump flesh, and causing a quiet moan to slip out of you.

He feels good. You feel good. You know where this leads and before it can proceed any further, you shut the door.

Rafe watches as you return to his lap. "Your mom's gonna kill you for that."

"Yeah," you smile teasingly, "so let's make it worth it then."

Pulling off your tank top, revealing your bare tits underneath, Rafe sheds his shirt. His eyes follow the dip between the valley of your breasts before capturing a nipple between his teeth, grazing the sensitive bub, making you arch into him.

"Rafe," you gasp, threading your fingers through his tousled hair. "That feels good."

He loves hearing how he makes you feel, reveling in your praises. Moving to the other breast, Rafe takes his time to drag out your pleasure, teeth pinching the sensitive tip in a manner that intensifies the ache between your legs.

You're going greedy. Mind blurred with a lustful haze, you pull back slightly, separating from his mouth, and Rafe pouts at the loss of contact. The image makes you giggle and when you sweep your hand across his heated skin, you mumble in sweet reminder, "This is supposed to be about you."

"Me making you feel good is enough for me," Rafe whispers and a flame licks its way up your naval, making your reservation harder to control. He delivers another kiss against your swollen lips. "Please, baby."

"No," you shake your head, lowering your hands to mess with the buckle of his belt. His erection presses directly against your core. "I want to make you feel good first."

Refusing to take no for an answer, Rafe takes your wrists and throws them back around his neck, pulling you into another deep kiss. This time, it conveys more urgency and desperation, needing to taste you and feel you flush against his chest.

Instinctively, you roll your hips over his bulge, causing a groan to slip out from him. The low rasp that comes from the back of his throat drives you wild that you part from his lips to deliver hard kisses along the curve of his neck, sucking his sensitive spots, just for a chance to hear it again.

"Fuck, baby," Rafe grunts, feeling his cock twitch beneath you. His hands descend to claim your hips. "Keep doing that, just like that—fuck, that's a good girl."

Rafe's loud. Always has been, that you had to slap a hand over his mouth, muffling the noise from reaching your family downstairs. His dark brows wrinkle in surprise, but with one clever rock of your hips, his eyes roll to the back of his head, forgetting your gag.

Noises escaping through the slits of your fingers, you're losing your restraint with each roll. Thighs burning, you persist, separating from his neck to ask, "Do you feel good?"

He nods, eyes glazed over with lust and need, and a whimper escapes when you grind against his hard-on just right.

"Baby, you know anything with you feels good to me," Rafe compliments under your palm, before gently pulling your hand away and delivering chaste kisses behind your ear, making your eyes flutter shut and your hips go faster. Wanting him deeper. "God, you're killing me here."

He needs you. He needs to be inside you.

Having enough, Rafe wraps a strong arm around your waist before flipping you over, causing you to gasp. He pins your back against the mattress as he settles on top, quickly stripping you of your pants and panties. When he has you completely bare, he reels back to admire your naked perfection.

"You're so fucking beautiful, baby, you know that?"

You blush, "You always say that."

"Because I mean it," Rafe declares earnestly, lowering himself to your level. His voice drops to a delicate whisper. "How do you say beautiful in Spanish?"

Dios mío, he can't get any more perfect.

You mumble the translated word in his ear and he repeats it back, full of conviction, with an American accent that slices through the letters. "Did I say it right?"

"Sí," you land a soft peck on his lips, causing his smile to grow, eyes bright.

Rafe descends, planting wet kisses on the valley between your breasts, to the space under your naval, to the open spread of your inner thighs. Each kiss complimented with the accented hermosa rolling off his tongue, reminding every inch of you is a sight for worship.

When he enters the space between your legs, Rafe places a sweet, lingering kiss against your dripping slit, the sensitivity of your body causing you to arch upwards, into his face.

His laugh is soft but taunting. "Need me, baby?"

"Por favor, Rafe, please," you whimper, craving him so desperately, that you draw him back up into a hungry kiss, tasting your arousal on his lips. Heat spreads through your core, needing stimulation.

Rafe fucking loves kissing you, capturing your bottom pout between his teeth and tugging it with a sweet pull. His free hand roams down to your cunt, fingers entering you with a slow and steady pump.

"You're so wet for me," Rafe teases with a whisper, swallowing your moans with a hard kiss, and quickening his pace until the sound of squelching is heard throughout the small room.

Your hips buck. "It feels so good, mi amor," you moan, eyes fluttering shut from pleasure. "Please don't stop. Please, please, don't."

"I couldn't if I tried," Rafe laughs with a tinge of condescension, his thumb rotating small circles over your swollen clit. "Baby, you're clenching around me so hard, I don't even think I can pull out."

"Don't you dare," you grab onto his arm, the one between your thighs, holding him in place and needing some sense of stability. The familiar tightness in your stomach coils and your legs shake. "Rafe."

Encouraged by your needy voice, he goes faster, pumping you, rubbing you, till you're pushed over your edge, and that thin line of restraint snaps. His free hand slaps over your mouth to cover your erupted moan, just as Rafe slows down, guiding you through your climax.

When you come down from your high, Rafe pulls out, the loss of his fingers makes you whimper. The sound itself makes him impossibly more hard, and he needs to be in you, now.

Landing another kiss on your lips, your eyes flutter open from exhaustion. "You gonna take care of me now, baby?" Rafe whispers, gaze flicking across your face to read your willingness.

You nod, and he flips you over on your stomach before hauling your ass in the air. He slips out of his boxers, red and swollen, dripping with beads of pre-cum, and pumps a couple of shots before spreading your knees apart.

Your heart is hammering when he slips it in, tip teasing your wet entrance before sliding through your folds, and a hiss escapes from Rafe's throat. "You're so fucking tight, baby," Rafe groans, filling you to the hilt. "So fucking good for me."

His thrusts start slow, your walls enveloping him in such a tight vice, that he has to move with precision, or else he'll come in seconds. Rough hands find your hips, guiding his movements, and the muscles in his thighs flex with each pump.

"My perfect girl," Rafe whispers in your ear, each roll of his hips punctuated by a heavy breath fanning against your cheek, "too good for me. Too fucking good."

Your hand flattens over his profile, his chin digging into your shoulder blades. With one hand up to grope your breast, Rafe fucks you harder, bringing you closer to your orgasm.

"Harder," you demand, and Rafe obliges, his fingers toying with your sensitive nipple, his penetration hitting your g-spot. A moan slips out of you once more, mind numb with pleasure. "Dios mío, yes."

Wrapped up in your own chase, both of your heavy breaths saturating the air, you didn't even hear that your mother was calling you.

You still as the familial Spanish alert you that dinner is ready, and to come downstairs. But you're still mid-thrust, the embers of your climax just within the horizon, and your fervent desire sizzles out.

Rafe stiffens behind you, halting to a stop, waiting for her voice to flatten out into oblivion before starting again. Rolling his hips. Controlling his thrusts. His speed quickens.

"Rafe," you whimper, eyes fluttering shut from pleasure but knowing you have other business to attend to. "We have to go."

He shakes his head, "Not until you come."

"Mi amor, please," you moan, just as he lands a hard thrust, and you attempt to pull away.

But Rafe won't have it.

"Why are you arguing with me?" He grunts, grabbing your throat and hauling your back against his chest. His strokes are erratic and passionate, bottoming out with each pump. "I thought you wanted to make me feel good."

You're losing your senses. Your walls flutter around his cock and you cry out. "I–I do."

His head lowers till his lips are right next to the shell of your ear, hot breath fanning against your skin. "Then let me fill you up."

That does it for you, and you finally snap. Another orgasm crashes into you, so powerful and sharp, that Rafe uses his free hand to cover your mouth and muffle your loud moans.

Your walls clench around him and his thrusts go faster, harder, more desperate, until his own orgasm rolls over, his hot cum spurting, filling you up.

Both of you fall onto the mattress, with heavy breaths, eyes closing shut for recovery. Nothing but the sound of harsh breathing is heard throughout the air, and Rafe's fingers trace up your spine before collecting a strand of your hair.

You wish you could stay like this forever, in this moment, nothing but the separation of skin, but reality quickly shatters your bubble when the locked handle of your door rattles.

Your mother's Spanish comes through quick. In warning. In threats. She's coming up with vivid imagery about what she will do if she catches something inappropriate in your bedroom, promising a chase with chanclas.

You have no energy in you to come up with an excuse, grabbing a nearby pillow off your bed and throwing it over your head. "I'm going to die," you mumble into the plush, and Rafe chuckles, consoling you with delicate patterns against your backside.

"I'll protect you," Rafe promises, lowering himself to plant a tender kiss behind your shoulder.

"You've never had a Mexican mother before,"

"How bad could it be?"

You remove your pillow to glare at him, but it is half-hearted and you can't stay mad at him for long. The remnants of your mother's threats fade out and she parts with a final warning; yelling at you—and Rafe—to be downstairs in five minutes. That was said in English.

"Come on, baby, let's go," Rafe scoops you up and takes you to your ensuite bathroom, turning on the faucet before helping you clean up.

His hands roam all over, and after both of you are free of the post-sex smell, you find your clothes and quickly redress before heading downstairs.

But just before you descend down the steps, you catch Rafe's bicep, holding him back. He's just a step ahead, leveling your height with his, and your eyes soften as you ask: "Do you feel better, mi amor?"

His smile is soft and gentle, but the buzz in his chest is indescribable. He leans forward to place a kiss on your forehead, before mumbling into your skin, "Always with you."

When you reach the dining table, Rafe makes some bullshit excuse about what took you so long and the reason behind the locked door. It was impressive, enough that your mother eyed you carefully before accepting the lie with a firm nod, gesturing for you to take a seat.

There are cases of tamales over the wooden dining table, each with its separate fillings, and a selection of sauces to choose from, such as red and green salsa, queso fresco, crumbled cotija cheese, and fresh limes with pickled red onions on the side.

The moment Rafe steps foot into the room, your abuelita shoots from her chair to grab a plate, selecting everything off the menu and putting it on his dish. She coos, in quick Spanish, about how Rafe needs to eat more. Adding that she'll take great offense if he doesn't try everything on the table.

Rafe laughs, but nods respectfully, taking the plate from her hands as she resettles. You pluck a dish off the side and start selecting your own choices, picking your favorite types of tamales and sauce.

Independently, Rafe attempts to unwrap his tamale and it falls apart. Your mother laughs, "Mijo, you're supposed to set it on the plate," she instructs, demonstrating how to properly unfold the corn husk. "There! Felicidades! You got it!"

You laugh softly beside him, and he turns his head, meeting your contagious smile with his own grin.

Rafe leans over to watch what you're doing, following the steps of how you usually eat and mimics them himself. When he takes his first bite, your abuelita watches him intensely, waiting, for his following review.

Which has to be a solid 10/10, or else she'll throw a fit.

He agrees, nodding to her brilliance, and your abuelita gestures for him to try the next. He hasn't even finished half of the tamale before she's forcing him to taste-test the other stuffing—from the pork to the chicken, to the vegetarian options she cooked. All of them gaining a raved five-star appraisal from your boyfriend.

And you're laughing at this. So, he is. He's having a grand time with your family, with the way your abuelita is insistent on him eating, on him trying every food she'll ever make, and how your mother refers to him as mijo. While you're trying to eat your dinner, you feel something squeezing your thighs, and you look down to see Rafe's hand connected to it.

You raise a brow, wondering if something happened, if something is wrong, but when he leans over, his lips brushing the curve of your earlobe, he mumbles, in absolute fondness and appreciation, "Te amo."

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Best Friend Rafe x Reader mood board

Masterlist: Boat Day ; Late Nights

Your best friend, Rafe, who the whole island thinks was your boyfriend, given yours and his closeness. 

Your best friend, Rafe, would randomly just appear with flowers in his hands. It could be flowers he bought or flowers he picked by the side of the road; it did not matter; he would always just randomly give you flowers, and you would take them gratefully, giving him a kiss on the cheek in gratitude. 

Your best friend, Rafe would always have a hair tie on his wrist or one of your claw clamps on his pocket or shirt, anticipating the moment you would need it. You smile up at him in appreciation because you yourself would always seem to forget to bring with you such essential things. 

Your best friend, Rafe, would let you rant to him about the books you read even though he had no particular interest in them. Nodding along as you would yap about the plot, not really paying attention to the words you uttered because his mind was focused on how your voice sounded, the way your lips would move, and the twinkle in your eyes as you told him about what you had read. 

Your best friend, Rafe, who hates taking photos with others, but every time he was with you, he would take out his phone and snap the most random of pictures just as long as it was with you and him. He would even post it on his social media, and when you would see his feed, it was mostly just the two of you. Igniting further the speculations that you two were a couple when, in reality, you two were just really good friends. 

Your best friend, Rafe, who would do anything for you. From tying up your shoelaces when they come undone to waking up in the middle of the night to pick you up from your house just because you said you were craving a midnight snack. The moment you called for him, he was there. 

Your best friend, Rafe, who would randomly just come to your house, take off his shirt and lay in your bed just to scroll through his phone or watch a movie with you. No particular agenda or warning. He’d just surprise you and show up to your house. You, of course, would always welcome his company. 

Your best friend, Rafe, who loved eating your baked treats and even dared to help you out, but he would often just make a mess of things, from ‘accidentally’ smearing flour on your face to spilling the wet ingredients to burning a batch of cookies. He was a hazard in the kitchen, forcing you to make him stay out and only letting him help out when it was time to decorate and where he could cause no damage. However, he would always tease you by threatening to smear icing on your face, chasing you around the kitchen island until he would eventually catch up to you and make good on his promise. 

Your best friend, Rafe, always says how he hates your pet cat. He would glare at the feline as he sat on your lap, and you stroked his fur, your cat only giving Rafe a smug look as he nestled further into your lap. Though he says he detests your pet, often catching him arguing with the animal, you would see him stroke your cat’s head when you weren’t looking— begrudgingly petting him. 

Your best friend, Rafe, who had loved you ever since you two were children but never mustered up the courage to confess. Settling to be your best friend because he had no idea how you felt about him, and he would rather be your friend and keep your two’s close proximity than risk confessing his true intentions and lose you.

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