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rewiringtoheal · 4 months ago

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My Soul Aches For Your Touch

Natasha Romanoff x GN!Reader

Summary: Reconnecting with a spouse can be challenging, especially when children and mundane tasks take up so much of the day. Sometimes you have to do something drastic in order to shake things up.

warnings: 18+, minor DNI, Reader has a penis, smut.

A/N: This one is a labor of love, nervous to release it into the world but happy it's complete. First time writing anything like this. I tried my best.

Natasha stared at herself in the mirror. The woman staring back at her had softened quite significantly with the domestic life she has been leading. Long gone were the days of powerful thighs and toned arms from countless hours spent in the training room. She knows she still looks beautiful, shapely even but she can’t help scrutinizing the ways in which she has changed. Not just physical changes but the emotional ones as well. The once unphased Black Widow now a mother and wife who wears her heart on her sleeve. She was barely on the cusp of 35 yet she sometimes felt like a has-been stuck in the same boring routine; having traded in saving the world for morning school drop offs.

Don’t get her wrong, she loves her life. She has everything she had ever dreamed of and never truly dared to hope for. The most amazing spouse and two children who mean the absolute world to her. The changes that have been made to her mind and body over time are a testament to them. And the prolonged feeling of being loved and safe; they have instilled within her. But there was something missing in this wonderful life that left her feeling unfulfilled. A silent yearning to feel desirable again.

She needed a change of pace, desperately. Nothing too drastic, just something to knock her out of the rut she’s been in. If she is honest with herself, she wants to feel like her younger self used to; powerful and untouchable. A world renowned spy with a sexual prowess that rivaled none; making men and women alike beg for a chance to warm her bed.

Which is why despite her nerves she has decided to go through with this tonight.

She finishes styling her signature auburn curls, the soft waves cascade down her back and shoulders, framing her face in a way that brings attention to supple lips coated in a subtle pink lipstick. She went a bit lighter on the mascara and eyeliner as well, wanting her natural features to shine through, and the green of her eyes had definitely become the star of the show. She smirks, trying to emulate the confidence that used to be second nature to her.

Before the feelings of embarrassment could take root and she lost the will to continue this facade, she turned on her heels and strode into her closet, determined to find an outfit that would turn heads tonight. She wanted something that showed off her sex appeal; which she knew she still possessed. It just wasn’t something she flaunted anymore.

She wanted something that was sexy yet sophisticated, settling on an understated black dress and a pair of matching pumps. The light pink lingerie set she had underneath would be quite the surprise for whoever would be finding themselves in her bed. She hopes the discovery makes their heart race.

She felt a flicker of guilt twist in her stomach at the sensual thought, or perhaps just her nerves continuing to act up. Natasha compartmentalizes those thoughts away as she dresses quickly. It was sister’s night this evening and Yelena’s girlfriend’s family was hosting a bit of a soiree. And her goal for the evening was quite different to her baby sisters.

She took one last glance at herself, making sure she looked put together. She smirked again, this time she truly felt like her old self. For the first time in a long time she felt sexy and emboldened; it was a nice feeling. She turned to leave the walk-in closet, pausing at the entryway, her eyes briefly catching sight of her spouse's dirty boxers haphazardly thrown into their laundry basket. They’re covered in crocodiles with little sunglasses on them. The sight makes her heart pang with sorrow as she fiddles with her wedding ring, taking a deep breath she wiggles the ring until it slides off her finger, before placing it in her jewelry box.

The front gate alarm pings, signaling that Yelena and Kate have arrived. She shakes the anxious thoughts from her mind not wanting to think about this any longer; steeling her resolve she makes her way out to her ride.

xXx

You were in desperate need of a thrill. The life you had was one you coveted but the mundane activities that were expected of you everyday had grown rather dull. You knew that doing the same old things wouldn’t get you the results you wanted so you decided to shake things up. Instead of heading straight home after a long day of work, you decided to take up your client's invitation to her fancy soiree.

After greeting Eleanor Bishop with a warm hello, you head straight toward the bar, asking for an old fashioned with an orange twist. You take a slow deep drink, enjoying the first initial burning sensation that hits the back of your throat. Gently, leaning against the bar you allow the alcohol to settle into your system and just bask in the ease at which it puts your mind.

You let your eyes sweep across the room looking for a woman that peaks your interest. You knew you weren’t going home alone tonight; a beautiful woman warming your bed may just be the key to shaking up the monotony. You take note of several gorgeous women, some twirling around the dance floor and some chatting amongst peers, when a shimmering waterfall of red caught your eye.

Your eyes zero in on her, she’s mingling with a group of socialites, an heiress in her own right perhaps. Not an outlandish guess with how she carries herself and the beauty that radiates from her. She’s made to be the center of attention and you can tell she revels in it. It’s not long before the belle of the ball is asked to dance. Some tall aristocrat; he’s handsome you suppose if you're into that sort of thing.

You take another swig of your drink, allowing yourself to watch her move across the ballroom. The embodiment of grace as she dances.

You were mesmerized by the woman, and there was no way that pretentious asshole was going to be the one taking her home. Her fiery mane shimmered underneath the ballroom lights, the soft curls bouncing with every graceful movement. The black dress she was wearing had your mouth watering; every movement allowed you to see delicious amounts of ivory skin. Her curves were on full display; the thought of sinking your teeth into that voluptuous backside had you weak in the knees. And that damn smirk she’s wearing almost does you in; you swear she’s taunting you.

You want to worship every inch of her. It’s what she deserves being that damn fine. And you know for a fact that this yuppie won’t get on his knees for her.

You shoot back the rest of your drink, before setting down the empty glass, and making your way towards them.

“Excuse me, sweetheart, would you mind if I cut in?” You say almost breathless.

She’s even more gorgeous up close.

xXx

She had seen you walk in a while ago, the warm greetings exchanged with Eleanor Bishop and the casual way you were leaning against the bar aroused her curiosity. And the form fitted black suit you were wearing aroused more than that. You looked dashing to say the least.

She felt your gaze linger on her as she socialized, it exhilarated her to be watched in such a shameless manner. You did nothing to hide the desire, lighting up your eyes, your intentions quite clear.

She smirked before accepting an invitation to dance from a rather stiff businessman, wondering just how far she would have to push you for you to be the one asking. Never taking into account that you would interrupt them. It was bold of you and she was pleased with your actions.

With your offer accepted the nameless man left without making a scene; just slight disappointment in his eyes. She didn’t even feel a hint of remorse as you took her in your arms.

She felt a shiver run up her spine as you took command of the dance. Leading her around the ballroom with a finesse that comes with years of practice.

The two of you moved through the dance with a sensual grace, your bodies flowing together seamlessly, the passionate embrace amplifying the flirtatious atmosphere.

The warmth of your body, the smell of your cologne, and your hungry gaze had Natasha burning with desire. She hadn’t been this turned on in quite some time.

As the dance was coming to a close she decided she couldn’t deny herself the pleasure of your company any longer.

“Do you want to get out of here?”

You nodded without hesitation, grabbing her hand with tenderness as you led her out of the ballroom. She waved to Yelena before they got too far away, letting her sister know where she was headed. The blonde was grinning ear to ear.

xXx

The car ride to their final destination was taking entirely too long. She was enchanted by the way your tongue darted out to lick your lips and the subtle bouncing of your left leg. It was one of the only indications she had that you were just as impatient as she was. The other clue she had to go off of was the generous outline of a semi-erect penis making itself visible in those deliciously tight pants of yours. She needed the fire burning between her legs to be satiated this instant. The hand caressing Natasha’s inner thigh was not helping matters.

“Pull over.”

“Sweetheart, we’re almost there.”

She didn’t care. All she cared about was the deep ache she knew could only be satisfied by your cock. As need and lust consumed her; every rational thought left her mind.

She grabbed the hand resting on her thigh, slowly dragging it up to stroke against soft pink panties, the groan you released let her know you could feel how wet she was.

“Pull the damn car over, now”

“Fucking hell, you’re already so worked up babe.” You husk, as you pull over onto the side of the road, safely parking.

Natasha slides into your lap in a hast, “You have no idea.”

xXx

You situate the seat so she’s comfortable, before pulling that tantalizing mouth of hers into an earth shattering kiss. She whimpers as your assault on her mouth turns frantic; wanting nothing more than to consume her. Delicate hands weave their fingers through your hair, as you work to undo the zipper on the back of her dress. You break away from the kiss briefly to peel it down Natasha’s arms, and to pull the black material down her body to pool around her waist. Fuck, the lacey pink bra covering her breasts makes your cock throb with need.

Your eyes watch goosebumps erupt on Natasha’s heaving chest; as her flushed skin adjusts to the cool air. She tilts your head up, kissing you hard and desperate. Your tongues massaging one anothers in tandem, every once in a while pausing to suck and swirl your tongues into the caverns of each other's mouths.

Your arms slip around her sides, fingers caressing the smooth skin of Natasha’s back before unclasping her bra and shimming it down her arms. Discarding it without care as your lips leave that additive mouth of hers to kiss along her jaw. She squirms in your lap, as you nip and lick your way down the line of her throat, leaving a trail of red marks in your wake.

You pull back and admire the intoxicating woman before you. Those gorgeous emerald eyes that bewitched you from across the ballroom are now blown black with a carnal hunger and her lips are kiss swollen. That lovely shade of pink lipstick is smeared down her chin. And her neck is painted in your love-bites and saliva. She looks wrecked. You could come at the sight alone.

“Are you going to stare at me all night or are you finally going to touch me?”

She looks pleased by your admiration, despite what her words may otherwise imply.

“Sweetheart, I’ve been touching you but I promise you’re going to be able to feel me everywhere in a second.”

The pair of soft full breasts attached to this divine being are too tempting to ignore any longer. Your lips descend on her right breast with utter devotion, your tongue flicking over a pretty pink peak; coaxing it taut. Before pulling her nipple into your mouth and suckling.

She arches into you with a breathless moan, offering more of herself up to you with fervor. As you show equal amounts of attention to each breast your hands caress Natasha’s sides, slowly making their way to her backside. You drag the dress up her hips and expose her center, sliding her panties to the side, your fingers slip through damp curls with ease to massage her clit.

Natasha shudders from the contact, intuitively grinding her hips into your fingers. She revels in the friction for a little while, feeling the pressure begin to build, and knowing that she needs you inside of her right now. Her hands slide down to your belt buckle, yanking it open, you lift your hips up allowing her to drag your slacks and boxers down in one foul swoop. Her fingers wrap around your thickness with enthusiasm; her hand stroking in a firm but gentle caress.

“Hmm, fuck. I need you so bad.” You groan, thrusting into her hand.

“Me too, baby. I need you inside me.” Natasha mewls.

Natasha slows her movements, grabbing your tie pulling you into a passionate kiss, her hips lifting up and with your guidance sinks down onto your cock.

Her back grows taut, needing to take a minute to adjust to the feeling of being so full, before she starts rolling her hips. You grip her backside and begin to thrust up into her. She chants your name as you pick up the pace. Natasha matches your rhythm with vigor, her breath labored as she slams down onto you.

Natasha’s hands find purchase on your shoulders, her fingers crumpling the fabric of your suit jacket as she slides up and down against you. You can’t believe you bothered to get it pressed when this is the only way it should be worn; rumpled and covered in her slick. She rests her forehead against yours, panting into your mouth as your lower halves move in tandem.

She is so tight and so incredibly warm. You continue to pump into her, her slick wet heat engulfing you as you feel the walls of her core beginning to flutter. With determination, you shove your hand between your gyrating bodies, your thumb sliding through soaked folds to massage her clit.

You feel her inner walls clamp around you before she lets out a cry of your name, her nails sink into the back of your head and neck as she comes hard against you. The intense stimulation is too much for you to bear as you follow her over the edge with a grunt.

She continues to keep you close as her breathing begins to mellow out, you sprinkle every inch of bare skin available to you with kisses as she begins to untangle herself from you. Natasha chuckles as she takes in your appearance, your expensive suit is wrinkled beyond repair and your skin is coated in a sheen of sweat. It fills her with a deep sense of satisfaction to have done such a number on you.

Her eyes flick down between her legs, catching sight of the barely visible waistband of your black boxers, straining against your muscular thighs. They are too dull for her taste.

“You know the suit was so sexy on you but I have to say I am not a fan of these underwear.” Natasha says, gaze returning to you and it’s full of mischief.

You look up at her and grin, “Well the next time we fulfill one of our fantasies I promise I’ll buy a new pair of quirky animal boxers. Maybe some polar bears or something.”

She laughed and bit her lip, “Oh, I appreciate the consideration, Detka…” she trails off, lost in thought for a second, “Now tell me more about these fantasies of yours.”

You reach down grasping her left arm, pulling her hand up landing playful nips to the tips of her fingers. “Oh sweetheart, I’ve got so many fantasies revolving around you. Some new ones involving that damn lingerie set. You look so fucking sexy in pink.”

You note the subtle mood shift, the sadness and vulnerability now in Natasha’s eyes, it makes your heart weep.

“Yeah?” She asks tone so hopeful

You knew that the two of you had been stuck in a rut as of late, the monotony of family life not leaving much room for the two of you to nurture your relationship; emotional or sexual. There was a strict schedule for everything concerning the kids and with the long hours you worked, it left a lot of your marriage up in the air. Only really having time for quickies in the shower or watching a movie together at the end of the day. That is if your kids didn’t interrupt the two of you.

When you were young the two of you couldn’t keep your hands off each other and you know that love changes over time. This however was different and unacceptable to you. Natasha was the love of your life, the sexiest woman in the world in your eyes and the fact that she no longer knew that was gut wrenching. As you look up into her eyes, seeing all the love, hope and desire for you there, you know from this moment on you would do anything to make her feel like the strong, sexy and courageous woman you know her to be.

And after tonight, you know that the fire that burns between you two is still there. All it needs is a little coaxing to ignite it and you were damn sure going to keep that fire fed from now on.

You lift your hand up to caress her cheek, “Natasha, I know our relationship has fallen to the wayside a bit since the kids were born but sweetheart you are still so damn sexy to me. I love you so fucking much. And I am so sorry for letting it get this bad.”

“I love you too, baby. Please don’t put all of this on you. I know I haven’t been making our marriage a priority either…I’m sorry for that.” Natasha kisses the corner of your mouth. “It’s a relief that after all this time you still think I’m sexy.” She chuckles, gesturing to herself with contempt. “I know I don’t look like I used too.”

“The fact that you don’t believe that your fucking gorgeous and that I crave you like a person in hell craves ice water is on me.” You implore her to see the truth in your words. “I am going to do everything I can to make us a priority again. I'm done always putting the kids first. You deserve to be loved and fucked to your hearts content.” Your voice holds conviction.

Natasha yanks on your tie pulling you in for a passionate kiss. “Well in that case…maybe we can take advantage of the kids staying with your mom tonight. You can show me just how much you crave me, baby.”

“That’s the best idea I’ve ever heard.” You help Natasha slide back over into the passenger seat, and get your clothes in order. “That being said, when we get home Mrs. Y/L you're putting your wedding ring back on.” You send her a playful glare, as you restart the car. “If I ever see that finger bare again…there will be consequences.”

Natasha giggles, “Consequences huh?...mhmm.. I’d like to experience that but…” She winks at you. “It was definitely a bit of a risk I took, I'll admit. I won’t be taking it again. Now drive, baby.”

It was an exhilarating night for the both of you. And as you head down the road toward your shared home, it feels like the beginning of a brand new adventure.

#natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff #black widow x reader #natasha x you #creative writing #scarlett johansson x you #scarlett johansson x reader

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javierpena-inatacvest · 8 months ago

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Sail Away

Summary: Another nightmare leaves Javi wide awake, forced to wrestle with the consequences of his past as he looks towards his future

Pairing: Husband!Javier Peña x Wife!reader (no use of y/n)

Word Count: 2.6K

Warnings: Heavyyyyy on the angst, PTSD, references to violence/death (from Narcos), panic attack and descriptions of past panic attacks, insomnia, feelings of guilt/shame, mentions of pregnancy/parenthood, comfort, still a happy (enough) ending, post DEA Javi, poor Javi just really needs a hug :(

A/N: We're tryin new things here people!! Fair warning- I feel like this is DRASTICALLY different from the way I normally write (content and style wise) but big sad time, pre-period hormones said it's time to cry 🤷🏼‍♀️ I think a lot about how post-DEA Javi handles thinking about his time in Colombia, and how hard it is for him to talk about, even with the people he knows care about him the most ☹️ I hope this doesn't beat you to death with metaphors, imagery and lack of beta'ing (I can still hear my AP lit teacher screaming SYMBOLISM into the abyss) Trying to emulate a lil @jolapeno on this one (ily my descriptive queen 👑)

It happened again.

You instantly knew from the stark cold of his side of the bed, the empty void where his broad frame should be, his sheets twisted and tangled from where he had fought another round with sleep and lost.

3rd night in a row, the 5th time this week. At this point, it was hard not to keep track.

The cyclical pattern of restless nights, haunted by ghosts of his past that taunted and teased him, cruelly lurking the back of his mind, no matter how hard he begged or pleaded for them to disappear.

Forcing himself to wrestle with his demons in the darkness couldn’t help but feel like insult to injury- the harsh blacks and blues that flooded the sky, drowning out the last glimmer of sunlight as it dipped below the horizon, perfectly mirroring the way his mind so devilishly seemed to paint his thoughts in shades of ebony and cerulean with erratic, angry brushstrokes over the warm yellows and oranges of his new life he had finally learned to embrace.

It only seemed fair that he went to battle with the darkest musings of his mind under the night sky that so cruelly reflected his mood.

You weren’t surprised the first time you found him hunched on the back steps of your porch, head buried in his hands, fingers twitching for a cigarette- the vice he’d sworn to give up after his final return home, a vow that moments like these had made him distinctly regret. You always wondered how despite the stark silence that surrounded him as he stared off into the dark abyss, you could still hear his thoughts screaming at you- crying out for attention, acknowledgement, anything to get someone else to understand what he was hiding inside of his mind that he was too scared to say out loud.

His midnight disappearances came in waves, fading and reappearing like an unpredictable ocean tide that left you wondering when the cool and salty water would crash around your ankles next as you stood at the edge of the shore.

For a while, the seas had been calm, Javi’s body nestled next to yours, his warmth comforting and covering you along with the messy piles of blankets and bedsheets that filled your mattress, the nights being nothing more than drifting to sleep in each other’s arms, haunted dreams harbored at bay.

For the last 5 nights, the tides had shifted. A storm was raging.

The first few nights you let him go- you’d watched him weather this kind of storm before, always insisting it was a journey he was supposed to go on alone, the type of trip you need to make without risking hurting the innocent passengers that were supposed to ride with you.

But as the days came and went, golden rays of vibrant sun shifting to dark and lonely blackness, it felt like you were leaving him out in the abyss without even so much as a life vest, praying for a return you knew would never come unless someone weathered the storm to save him.

“You’re up again.”

It’s a neutral statement, enough to disarm him from the implications you’ve sent yourself on a rescue mission to find him while you settle next to his stoic frame sinking into the porch step.

“And you shouldn’t be.”

Not quite resistance, but certainly not acceptance to you let you come aboard with him. Not yet.

“I was already up anyway. Someone has been a big fan of punching me in my gut at 2 A.M. Hard not to notice when I wake up and your side of the bed is empty for the 5th time this week.”

Both your eyes shift down to the subtle swell of your stomach, barley poking out from under the worn t-shirt you’d stolen from his dresser drawer. You’d never really had a knack for thievery until the past few weeks, claiming that everything was too tight for your growing belly. Despite all his years intertwined with the law, Javi had never had a problem with pardoning you for your violation, happy to let you, his household thief, and your new partner in crime indulge in the habit if it brought you any sort of comfort in your constant uncomfortability of growing a new life inside you.

“Already picking up on her dad’s shit sleeping habit.” He scoffs under his breath, a bitterness in his tone that he thinks he’s somehow managing to inflict years worth of poor choices on his future child, still months away from even making her arrival into the world.

It hurts, watching the pain well in his eyes as he stares off at the stars, glistening in the distance like some sort of unreachable sanctuary, the savior of a temporary distraction. Right now, you wish he’d look at you the same way, but he knows you won’t let him wallow in the all consuming waves of his own self pity like the stars will.

A silent journey to outer space is the easy way out. You aren’t.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” You ask it like it’s a question, like he has a choice in the matter. He knows that you’ll be gentle with him- you have been since the moment you met him- but Christ, he also knows you’re nothing, if not persistent, too.

He sighs, accepting his defeat as his gaze drops from the sky down to the ground, cautiously allowing you to climb aboard with him.

It’s like trying to approach a wounded wild animal- move too fast and you’ll scare him away, leaving him to writhe in even more pain as he tries to flee from you. Move too slow and you leave him to bleed out, alone and afraid.

“I’m fine.” It’s almost humorous how blatant of a lie it is, immediately putting himself on the defensive, like he has any ground to stand on with his claim.

You say nothing, your silence enough to intrigue him as his eyes finally meet yours, the look on his face revealing the truth his words wouldn’t. You try your best to remain neutral, but Javi knows the sadness slowly slipping through your expression, the one you’re trying your best to hide because you’re not the one that’s hurting. Yet, there’s something about seeing you hurt because of him that’s enough to chip away at the wall he’s put up between you two, finally allowing you a crack just wide enough to let you see through to the other side.

“I- I keep having the same dream. Every night, it’s the same.” He says “dream” like he’s letting himself drift off to sleep to all the pleasantries the world has to offer him, waking up to his midnight thoughts refreshed and renewed. Because his dreams aren’t just dreams, his dreams are the most terrifying nightmares the majority people wouldn’t even be capable of imagining, a violent parade of the worst memories his brain can muster.

“What dream?” You ask, as carefully and cautiously as the way you shift yourself closer to him.

“I- It’s- I just- Fuck-”

It’s then you choose to gamble, wagering that he’s let you in enough, your next move won’t startle him, inching yourself closer as your right hand begins to intertwine with his left. He’s resistant at first, but as the familiar warmth of your body grazes across his skin, he begins to let you in, allowing your fingers to gently tangle, anchoring himself in your grasp.

“It’s okay, Javi. I’m here. You can tell me.”

It’s then the bets become less of a reckless gamble, squeezing him just a little tighter, stroking his skin with your thumb and feeling him squeeze back, taking your hand and finally letting you start to lift him out of the eye of the storm.

He still needs the reassurance you won’t leave, that the man his nightmares make him won’t scare you away like they have so many others. An insecurity that distresses him enough to make him ache, despite your compassion.

You’re not gonna scare me away, Javi.

The words still ring in the back of his head when he finds himself like this, remembering the first time you found him on the living room floor of your apartment at 3 A.M., skin tacky and covered in sweat, heart beating so fast he was convinced he was dying, terrified of his mind, and even more terrified you would leave him, letting you find him exposed, like some sort of disgusting, open wound.

He’ll never understand why you showed him so much mercy. In no lifetime will he ever be able to thank you enough that you did.

It still doesn’t make what comes next any easier.

“I just stood there. I just let him- I just let him do it. He was just a fucking kid.”

You can practically hear both your hearts break over the stark silence. Javi’s, because of all the things he’s done, this is the one he’ll never forgive himself for. Yours, for the same reason.

“Javi…”

“I didn’t even try to stop him. He was just a kid. We just- we just fucking left him there. What kind of person does that? I- I spent so long trying to convince myself, trying to- fuck- trying to justify it was okay. That casualties happen when you’re trying to catch a fuckin’ monster. But what if- what if none of it fucking mattered because I was the one who was really the monster.”

It was flowing out of him now, a flash flood crashing through the rest of the brick wall he had built up to defend himself. You can feel him trying to pull his hand away, trying to keep you from getting swept away in the current with him, but it only makes you double down harder.

“You’re not a monster, Javi. What happened back then, it- it did matter. I know it hurts, but it doesn't make you a monster.”

It’s not his admittance of guilt that breaks him- it’s your forgiveness.

He wonders how can stand him, let alone love him. How his past hasn’t left him tainted and useless, like some sort of lame animal with a limp that can’t be cured, its only options left to die or be sent out to pasture, too weak to venture back for help. That you were the only one who wanted to help fix the parts of himself that were the most broken and mangled. That you were the only one who gave him a chance to be healed instead of leaving him for dead.

When his eyes meet your stomach is when the guilt begins to morph into terror. Because years ago, a mother, just like you, was nestled away in the haphazard rows of colorful buildings that lined the streets of Medellín, carrying her unborn son, dreaming about the life she would plan for him.

Javi knows that nowhere in those plans did she account for the pain and heartbreak she would suffer as some asshole DEA agent watched her son’s body become one with the earth while he took a bullet to the brain.

How was he supposed to live with himself when he got a chance to play God- that now, after letting a life disappear, he was allowed to have a hand in creating a new one?

You watch the gears in his brain churn, yearning for an explanation to the unexplainable puzzle he’ll never be able to solve, even though he’s convinced he can. His brain works in logic and reasoning, only making the emotional torment of his past decisions more confusing for him. The same kind of logic that you’re not sure will ever allow him to forgive himself.

“How am I supposed to be a dad? How are you ever gonna trust me? How am I supposed to keep her safe when I’ve done so many terrible fucking things?” Tears begin to flow down his cheeks, each word more ragged and shaky than the last until he can’t fight it any more.

It feels like the entire weight of the world collapsing into your lap as he melts into you, so heavy that there’s nothing that you can do but wrap your arms around him at let him cry and soak the battered fabric of the his stolen t-shirt draped over your top, fisting at the frayed hems.

He can’t pretend anymore, not after he’s shown you all the cards he’s had to lay out on the table. There’s no more facade, no more attempt at a stubborn masquerade to hide his hurt. He’s finally let you climb aboard his ship and take the wheel, trusting that you’ll guide him home to shore where he belongs.

“I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

The way he repeats it, chanting it like a broken prayer, begging for your forgiveness makes you ache. You’ve forgiven him for the sins of his past long ago, yet he still feels the need to plead to you for redemption. You wish there was a way to take it from him, to let him unburden himself from the shame he’s carried for so long and carry it for him, even if just for a little while. To let him see what you see in him, to know that you love him for all of his past, and not just in spite of it. To let him know that the storm he has to weather is a storm you will never let him weather alone. But for now, three words are the best you can do.

“I love you. I love you, Javi.”

And you do. You mean it. With every bone in your body, with every fiber of your being, you mean it. And right now, he may not admit it, but he knows you do, too. Those three words are enough to let him see the shoreline approaching in the distance, to see the light of day beginning to peek its way through the cracks of the night sky, to carry him back home to you.

He says it with his silence, the way his sobs start to slow, replaced with long inhales and exhales, his chest rising and falling against you. He says it with the way he holds you just a little tighter, hand splaying across the swell of your stomach, muttering a promise to himself just loud enough for you to hear.

“I promise I’ll protect you. Both of you. If it’s the last thing I do.”

“I know you will. I will, too. I promise.”

The promise is the last gentle wave that pushes you back to the part of the beach where tides roll gently, forgetting the raging currents they once were in the middle of the ocean. A place where you can safely row your boat ashore without the fear of another dreadful thought creeping up on you and dragging you back out to face torment again.

As you look out in front of you, the sky is no longer laden with heavy shades of black- a pastel sunrise is beginning to creep over the horizon, glistening like some sort of trophy for an underdog fistfight you’d managed to win, even if you’d come out the other side beaten and bruised. It was enough to nudge Javi’s head out of your lap, encouraging him to accept his prize at a game where winners came few and far between.

Tonight, you'd never been more thankful the universe had let Javi come up a winner.

“It’s been a long time since we’ve been up early enough to watch the sunrise.”

“Yeah. It is pretty, isn’t it? Sorry this is the reason you get to see it.”

“As long as I get to be with you, that reason will always be good enough.”

@chaotic-iguana @rhoorl @bbiophiliaa @pertinentpostmortem @angelofsmalldeath-codeine

@pedrobaby @fatima-marisa @beboldbebravethings @poodlebae @kittenlittle24

@3sriracha @jungchloee @perennialdoll247 @prettyinpunk85 @raspberrybesitos

@partyofone3413 @harriedandharassed @pedrohoe04 @theorganasolo

@endlessthxxghts @beware-my-thorns @missladym1981 @milly-louise

@jay-zzle @the-one-with-the-grey-color @persephone-girl @bitchesuntitled

@pedropascallvr @millennial-teenybopper @vee-bees-blog

@hopplessilse @mxtokko @its-nebuleuse @mandoisapunk @msmorningstaarr

@amyispxnk @honeyedmiller @mountainsandmayhem @picketniffler @burningnerdchild

@copperhalfcent @theoraekenslover @bloodyinspirationaldemon @vee-bees-blog

@samgirl4life @pigeonmama @survivingandenduring @itsokbbygrl @javierpena-inatacvestnotifs

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salem-s · 22 days ago

Text

04 ── TEMPORARY TRUCE ── RAFE CAMERON (18+)

SYNOPSIS you absolutely can't stand your roommate's brother, and Rafe can't not take an opportunity to poke fun at you every chance he gets. but when you both accidentally have a jello shot infused with molly, you decide to have a temporary truce and enjoy the night. SERIES MASTERLIST | NEXT PART

WARNINGS language, drug usage (molly), fluff, nudity and suggestive content, mentions of an open wound and blood, getting staples in the head (ooooouch), incorrect medical procedures (yall I am not a doctor). 18+ mdni. please i am not condoning drug use don't take after these idiots for the love of god.

WORD COUNT 11.6k. will there ever be peace.

SONG OF THE CHAPTER nobody new by the marías

The first thing Rafe hears when he re-enters the apartment — hands cupping an unfathomable amount of condoms — is a concerning thud.

It isn't a thud that emulates a shampoo bottle knocking over or even on the off chance that the shower curtain somehow clattered to the floor. It isn't even losing your balance and slamming a palm into the wall to steady yourself kind of noise.

No. It was louder than that. Chaotic. A collapse.

He freezes by the doorway, narrowing his focus to try and hear if anything follows. Usually a fallen object or loud bang in the shower is soon followed by an “I’m okay!” or “Fuck!” that indicates that the sound is an accident, nothing to worry about, a simple miscalculation of a thrown elbow or hip knocking something over.

But nothing follows in the wake.

Rafe says your voice loudly, voice pitching up at the end as he waits for a response, waits for some sort of affirmation that he did not just hear what he thinks he heard.

When silence follows, his feet are moving. Fast.

He reached the bathroom door, wincing at the steam engulfing the bathroom. Blinking once, twice, he says your name again, in warning.

There it is: your voice low and groaning. "Ow."

His heart skips. “Baby, I’m coming in, okay?”

At his words, you give no further indication of if you hear him or not, but frankly, Rafe isn't waiting for anything else before he's carelessly tossing the handful of condoms into the corner and ripping the curtain open, eyes widening and breath catching at the very concerning sight in front of him.

You attempt to sit up on the shower floor, one hand on the ground and the other cradling the front crown of your hand, blood pooling between your fingertips and dripping down the front of your face like a fucking murder scene. You blink blearily, as if you're regaining vision, brows furrowed as your movements are sluggish. There's no doubt you're confused, and he's not even sure if you can see him right now.

Rafe's wasting no time turning the faucet off, quickly fumbling to yank two towels off the rack next to him. He loosely covers one over your body — knowing that you'd probably be significantly mortified if this is the first time he's seeing you naked — and the other pressing firmly onto the wound, gently removing your hand coated in blood down into your lap.

Although, you don't register why he's removing your hand from the wound as you distortedly paw at the towel on your head, attempting to regain some semblance of control over the matter even though you can't really see. You can only make out the figure kneeling outside the tub, looming over you, pressing the towel on your head that feels like a boulder.

"Easy." You hear, and your gut sinks when you realize it's Rafe. "It's alright, you're alright."

His voice sounds like it's underwater, and the ringing in your ears only gets louder the more your eyes blink out the blurriness and begin to pointillize on your surroundings. To ground yourself to reality, your hand curls around his wrist, nearly jolting when you feel the thrumming of his pulse, the irregular rhythm contrasting your own that's too slow, catching up to the speed of things.

The spot on your head throbs in an electrocuting way, however it's drastically unlike the airy, cloud nine type of jolt that you were feeling earlier, but more stabbing, as if lighting is striking over and over and over again in the same area.

When your vision slowly starts to come to, all you can fixate on is the angry, blaring red covering your hand, your arm, the towel loosely covering your body. You wince, panic spiking as you suck in a particularly harsh breath, grabbing his wrist a fraction tighter at the revelation of it all. You're bleeding. A lot.

Then your eyes find Rafe's, who you realize has been talking the entire time.

The ringing in your ears is slowly starting to dissipate as you focus on the way his mouth is moving, trying to decipher the words as you stare very intently. You blink and furrow your brows, the confusion gradually disappearing when you can start making out some of his words.

"-et you up, do you think you can stand for me?"

"Stand?" You murmur back, and you're not even sure if that's what you said as it comes out like an incoherent babble.

But Rafe nods slowly yet firmly nonetheless. "Yes, Star. I'm going to help you stand up. Can you hold this towel against your head?"

You blink slowly once, twice, before whispering what you think resembles a yes, hands pawing up to the towel to press firmly against the wound. Wincing at the contact, you watch as he retracts his hand, hooking that arm behind your back while his other snakes under your bent knees. The touch against your bare skin is a thousand pin pricks accupunturing your nerves, but it doesn't beat the pain throbbing in your head.

Without warning or even a countdown, Rafe is suddenly griiiiipping you tight and hoisting you up into a bridal's carry. The towel that was thrown over your body is bunched around your middle, but that's nearly your concern as you press the head towel against your wound. You shut your eyes, feeling him maneuver out of the bathroom and into your bedroom across the hall.

The contact of your bare ass against your bedspread makes you flinch at the coldness, but Rafe pays no mind to your indifference to the temperature change, instead gently tapping your thighs to get you to meekly open your eyes to look at him.

He's kneeling in front of you, as his gaze darts between your eyes and holds such a seriousness that you've only seen once from him, when you fell and dislocated your shoulder that Halloween and he was there to talk you down. The look should be comical: his brows pinched in worry, eyes glossed with concern, a permanent down-tick in his lips.

"Keep holding the towel, baby," he says gently. "I'm going to put some clothes on you, and then we're leaving, okay?"

Frankly, you don't really register the depth of his words yet nod anyway. You obey as you press the towel firmly on your wound, frowning at the pain and frowning at the way he's frowning at your wince. Yet the sight doesn't last for long because suddenly he's no longer in front of you, instead darting across the room to precariously open drawers. He plucks out a pair of underwear, shorts, a tank, and a zip up hoodie from your closet.

It's almost a relief when he's back kneeling in front of you, starting with the loose tank that he slips up your body from the ankles up, soon hooking under your arms and covering your chest. He makes sure your arms go in one at the time so one hand is always pressed firmly on the towel, which is something you hadn't really noticed he accounted for. Next, he's hooking the underwear under your ankles and shimmying them up your body. Your shorts come after. And the final touch is your zip up snaking up your arms and the flip flops slipping on your feet.

"Good girl," he says quietly, your name following on his lips just after. "We're gonna go now and get you fixed up."

You barely register that Rafe's picking you up again, but you frankly don't seem to mind as you clutch the towel tighter, burying your face in the crevice of his neck as you slowly shut your eyes. His fast pace movement is making you pretty dizzy, so all you can really do is try and focus on his voice spewing out sweet nothings as if it's his day job, focus on his alluring scent, focus on the fact that he's moving so damn fast that he could be supersonic and you'd have no idea.

The bright fluorescent lights are what cause you to blink your eyes open.

The cool-aired three block walk (more like sprint) helped you regain a semblance of your consciousness back, no longer feeling as dizzy as you were before as you start to hear everything normally again. No more ringing. No more underwater voices. No more lulling in and out of distorted babbling.

You're feeling a bit like yourself again. And you wish that you didn't because you're fucking mortified.

The ER is, thankfully, not busy and you're able to be seen right away by an older doctor whose name, honestly, escapes you as she asks you questions on what occurred. Her aide, a young medical student, pipes in occasionally. You feel pretty stupid stumbling over your words, not because of the dizziness that's no longer there or the ridiculously fluffy pink towel you're holding against your head.

No, it's the fact that Rafe Cameron is sitting to your right, gripping your hand like a life-line and answering the doctor's questions like it's a matter of life and death.

Everything you're unable to answer, he's swooping in like some modern-day Superman to fill in the blanks. You were lightheaded, you hit your head on the faucet when you passed out, and apparently you were bleeding and out of it when he arrived. All the parts that he recounts on his side of the story has your face flushing unprecedentedly hot. Such a fucking mood-killer.

You feel like an idiot, especially when the doctor asks you to remove the towel so she can inspect the damage, and everything feels like a million stabbing pains as her hands feel around the crown of your head. You feel even more like an idiot when you squeeze his hand out of comfort, perhaps a little too harshly, but he doesn't even flinch, doesn't complain, and instead gives you one, two, three light squeezes back.

"Ah, yup," she confirms cooly, inspecting the wound as if she's searching for head lice. "You're gonna need staples. Three, maximum."

Her fingers leave your wound and you nearly sight in relief, taking the temporary gauze she handed you to put back on the spot in the meantime. You blink stupidly at her, panic bubbling at the thought of literal stitches in your head from a freak accident. The underwater sense comes back to your hearing, and you don't catch a lick of what she says as you watch her momentarily leave the room, her aide following.

Your gaze lingers on the door for a moment too long, sucking in a breath at the realization of what they're about to do. Staring blankly at the bloodied pink towel in your lap, your mind spirals.

Are they going to drug you up? If they are, are you supposed to tell them you're currently tripping on an ecstacy drug that surely can't be FDA approved since your friend cooked it up in your apartment bathroom three blocks over? Is the process going to fuck up your hair? Is it going to hurt? Can you shower with them in? Will you have to sleep on your non-designated side for months after? Can you wear hats? Is it going to hurt? Are you concussed? Is the sudden dizziness normal? Is it going to hurt? Is it going to hurt? Is it going to hurt?

"Hey." You hear Rafe. "Look at me."

Reluctantly, you peer over at him.

You can't imagine you're looking anything stable right now with your wide, panicked eyes, dried blood sticking uncomfortably on your face, hand nearly shaking in his. The implication nearly makes you laugh, because this is probably the least attractive thing that could've happened at the worst possible timing. You figure that's one quick way on how to lose a hard-on.

"You're going to be fine, Star," Rafe reassures gently, blue eyes swimming with such warmth and affirmation that it nearly takes your breath away. "Took it like a champ."

You don't smile. "Is it going to hurt?"

The waver in your tone makes you want to groan.

Especially when his other hand comes up to cradle your jaw, holding you delicate and fragile as he skims a comforting thumb over your cheekbone. You have half a mind to tell him off, that his hands will get dirty, but truth be told, his touch is closest thing you'll get to comfort, to grounding yourself, so you let him. You let him hold you. You let him indulge on what he's been thinking about for forever.

"It's gonna be a few pinches," he says simply, "then it'll be over."

You frown, especially when he brushes a stray tear from the corner of your eye that you didn't know you had. "Promise?"

Rafe's answer is immediate. "Yes, baby."

Of course this had to happen. Of course you had to ruin this man's ten month long dream because you simply got too impatient. Of course he's the one who found you hurt, again, and had to dress-

Then, your eyes widen for the umpteenth time, heart lurching to your throat at the implication of how your clothes came to be on your body. Obviously, you didn't process it while it was happening because you clearly had bigger things to worry about. But now, as you sit here in front of him, dressed in clothing you did not put on yourself, you can't help but reel in embarrassment.

"Oh my god." You squeeze your eyes shut. "You totally saw me naked."

Your humiliation only grows when he boyishly laughs, the pleasant noise being a mixture of amusement and disbelief. Overlapped with his laughter is the sound of you groaning as you try to rip your hand away from his in a feeble attempt to save your dignity, to not have to hold onto him like a lifeline and cover your face to mask your fucking horrid mortification.

But he doesn't allow you to. Instead, he grips your hand tighter.

"Nope," he says through gleeful laughter. "I didn't even see anything, baby."

You refuse to open your eyes. "You're actually lying."

Rafe only scoffs a laugh, and you can only imagine the giant grin on his face that only forms to your detriment. "Scouts honor."

"We've established you're not a boy scout."

"Star."

"Your word means nothing."

He dramatically gasps. "Nothing?"

"Rafe."

He only responds with your name in a teasing tone, as if he's attempting the world record for how many times he can push your buttons in the span of twenty four hours. And, so far, he's close to — if not already — breaking the record. He is doing it more than ever now that you gave in, you reciprocated feelings you didn't even know that you had, he's had this gleam in his eye that makes him out to look like the happiest person on earth.

You don't know if that makes you want to puke or kiss him again.

Blinking an eye open slowly, your gaze finds his and you wished that you hadn't even taken the leap of faith, because he's staring at you with such softness that it makes your heart lurch. It also doesn't help that he's trying (and failing) to suppress a grin. But not the kind of grin that usually appears when he's teasing you or relishing in your embarrassment, but rather a genuine one.

Because now it's all in the open. He's said his piece, told you about his nearly year-long feelings for you in a way no one has ever liked you before. And you — wordlessly — said your own piece, kissing him as if your life depended on it and craving more and more of him with every second that passes. Not only craving his taste, but simply Rafe. All of him. Body and mind and soul.

That realization crashes over you like a tidal wave.

"Don't take this the wrong way," he says after a moment, softer than you've ever heard him speak. "But you are very, very beautiful."

Ignoring the way your heart practically drops to your gut, you suck in a harsh breath as the air momentarily leaves your lungs. You look for any shroud of doubt, any sliver of teasing in his eyes, but your search comes up short. His bright blues simply stare at you, wait for you to process his words. He's not expecting anything in return, especially when he's been practicing the art of patience in a way he never has. For you.

Your eyes dry up after not blinking for what feels like forever. Blinking once, twice, you're overwhelmed with emotion and stare down at your conjoined hands, attempting to remain stoic but giving away your indifference with your sheepish smile. You try and rack your brain on if anyone has ever said something like that to you before.

"I knew you looked," is all you can say.

Rafe snorts, rubbing an absentminded thumb over your skin. "I'm sorry, baby. Had to dress you."

You hum distantly, mind running amiss as you recount the evening through fragmented memories. All you can really remember is the sheer excitement of getting with him, the anticipation of being with him in a way you never thought you could have him, the realization that he's wanted you for so long. The smile slowly falters from your lips as guilt bubbles up in your chest, avoiding his eyes and settling on his comforting gesture.

"I'm sorry."

You can already imagine the frown on his face at your words.

"What?" His tone is incredulous. "Why are you apologizing?"

Granted, you feel a little stupid having the urge to apologize for everything and nothing at the same time.

You're sitting criss cross in a hospital bed, holding gauze to an open head wound while the guy you've been loathing (loose term) for a year is holding your hand with such delicacy that it makes your heart lurch. You're adorned in clothes that he put on you because you were too out of it to even form a cohesive thought, that being the first time he saw you naked, nonetheless, even though you were right about to shower together and probably do much, much more.

"I definitely killed the mood," you mumble sheepishly, especially when you see his lips twitch in your peripheral. "I didn't... There wasn't... I didn't mean to, like, ruin the night."

Your words are mumble-jumble, you both know it. Although your pathetic excuse at an apology seems to fall upon deaf ears, because he grips your hand a fraction tighter and leans forward in the dingy hospital chair that creaks if you do so much as twitch, entering your line of sight so that you're forced to look at him.

And you do.

There's nothing irritated or angry in his expression. Instead, his eyes glisten with amusement, as if he's containing a million things to say and refraining from preening with joy. This whole thing must feel like one big dream to him, you realize, because now he's (partially) got you right where he's wanted you for so long.

"Star, I've been waiting for you for almost a year," he muses low. "I think I can handle a few more days."

The first part of his sentence hits you so blindly that you barely register the second half.

"Wait, days?" You ask, sitting up a fraction to emphasize your confusion. "Why days? We're not..? When we get home? We're not gonna..?"

You stop your incoherent fumbling at his wide grin, shaking his head at you almost in disbelief that you're expecting anything after what you've just endured. For fuck's sake, you passed out in the shower and cracked your head open, and you're still thinking about fucking him? Surely the dizziness has also made you delusional. But he actually can't get enough of you.

Rafe says your name so ardently. "You have a mild concussion and you're about to get staples in your head. We are not fucking when we get back."

You frown. "We're not?"

"No, baby."

"But..." Your words escape you. "We're not?"

Rafe laughs, clearly amused by your sudden infatuation with him. "When you're better, absolutely."

You reek of desperation. "But I'm better now."

"Star."

"What?"

All he can do is shake his head, beaming at you with such delight that you don't think you've ever seen him smile like this at anyone, let alone in general. He looks so pretty that it makes your heart hurt, thumping uncomfortably in your ribcage. Has he always been this pretty? Surely he hasn't, right? You would've noticed before?

"You're killing me," he murmurs low and amused, almost to himself.

You're about to defend the case further, states your reasons and present your wants and desires as much as you possibly can to change his mind, but the doctor and her aide come back into the room with all the necessary equipment.

"Okay!" She chirps to almost cheer you on. "Ready?"

And that shuts you up almost immediately.

The staples aren't all that bad.

Your dislocated shoulder hurt way more, so you've endured a pain much worse than the staples. Not saying they were pleasant, because, frankly, they weren't. The wound was cleaned, the aide practically held your head together while the doctor did the procedure, and you tried really hard to sit through it like a champ.

Did you cuss? Absolutely. Did you squeeze Rafe's hand so tight that you felt a few bones cracked? Yes, indeed. Did he complain about it? Not in the slightest.

He was great, even. Rafe held your hand the entire time and kept you updated on what was going on: "Alright, Star. First one's done, two more to go, yeah?"

When the last one was finally in, he murmured a quiet, "Good girl" that had your head spinning. You blame the sensation on the literal staples in your head.

Once you're discharged, you and Rafe are walking side by side out of the ER, not without his hand pressing against the small of your back. You aren't sure if the gesture is done out of stability so that you don't pass out on him once again, or just out of sheer possessiveness, but either way you are not complaining about the contact and instead revel in it. At your eased demeanor, he pulls you a fraction closer.

Glimpsing at the time on the clock before leaving, you realize you've both been rolling for about four hours.

The numbers run fresh in your brain. Has it really been that long? Have you really been on your little escapade with him for four hours?

It's felt like eternity yet minutes with him, stretched and pulled thin like the tide. You couldn't believe that, at first, you thought it would be a shit show that you were going through this experience with Rafe Cameron, of all people. But he's proven to you that he cares about you more than he lets on.

Or apparently he does let it on? Because everyone knew of his feelings but you.

"I can hear you thinking."

Rafe's voice lulls you from your restless brain as you slowly stride on the sidewalk, only a block away from your apartment now. It's well into the night: there's some drunken laughter a few blocks away and the distant rumbling of the nearby bar, yet other than that, it's pretty quiet around you. But all you can really focus on is the smell of cologne, his searing hot hand on your back, how his baritone voice seems to echo off the alleyways.

"I just..." You try and find the right words. "Thanks..? For, like, carrying me and all. And for...not letting me bleed out?"

You hate how fucking stupid you sound, and nearly wince at your poor attempt to genuinely thank him for all that he's done for you in the span of a few hours.

He whistles low. "You've gotta stop scarin' me like this, Star. First the shoulder, now the head."

You groan.

"I'm gonna have to smother you in bubble wrap," he says, half joking half serious.

Without even realizing it, you paw at his arm around your back and remove his palm from the base of your spine, interlocking your fingers together in a tooth rotting gesture that nearly makes you puke, especially when he preens amusingly down at you. You do your best to stare straight forward and not give into your peripheral where he's staring right at you. You also try and ignore how fucking nice it feels to be holding his hand, how it grounds you, how it's as though his palm is molded to yours.

Not that you'd ever tell him any of this, though, because then you'll never hear the end of it.

"You're insufferable," is all you can manage.

Rafe hums. "You holding my hand says otherwise."

You only shake your head, scoffing and not trusting your words.

Yet you don't rip your hand away.

Not when you finish the last block of your walk. Not when you enter your building. Not when you make it to your apartment door that he didn't even lock on the hurried way out. Not in a million years, now that you know what it feels like.

Although you pause in front of your bedroom door, darting your gaze between it and the bathroom. You wince, seeing spots of blood in the shower and also remembering the whole reason you wanted to shower in the first place.

"I still..." You trail off. "We didn't even-"

"It's alright," Rafe says, guiding you into the bathroom and sitting you down on the closed toilet seat. "We'll still clean up, okay?"

You hate how understanding he's being, how patient he has been throughout the entire night. Starting with your borderline panic attack when you took the jello-shot to now, practically coddling you and still doting on you when he's done so much for you in the past couple of hours. He's been with you in a way no one else has before, cared for you in a sense that has your stomach churning.

As you watch him intently wash away and scrub down the tub from the prior events, you can't help but feel partially guilty that he's been putting all this work in to not even get lucky tonight. Here he is: on his knees cleaning because you want to use the tub, because you refuse to get into bed without it, because you asked for it.

"Rafe," you say quietly as he finishes getting the blood out with spray, "you don't have to do any of this."

He turns on the faucet, letting the warm water gradually fill up the now-clean tub.

Then, he turns around to face you, eyes shamelessly raking up and down your frame. Rafe takes you in, drinking up your sheepish expression and tired gaze as if he has all the time in the world to do so, as if he's admiring a portrait or looking out onto the skyline.

There's a few moments of this, of him simply staring until you feel a bit shifty under his gaze. You assume this isn't the first time he's kept his eyes on you for a little too long, but this is the first time you're really noticing, taking note of how he always is looking at you in some sort of capacity. Your eyes always left his first, always peering away to the next person or your nails or the soda can on the counter, but you could always feel his eyes still on you.

But now, since you've reciprocated his feelings without even knowing you had them in the first place, your gaze stays on him. You don't shy away from it, even if you squirm a little with the intensity of his bright blues taking in the smoothness of your skin, your cheekbones, the column of your neck.

After what feels like ages, Rafe finally moves, kneeling between your knees and placing his calloused palms on your bare thighs as if they were made to stay there. He skims his hands gently up and down your smooth skin, the contact nearly making you jolt with unfamiliarity yet nostalgia.

Is this really what you've been missing? All those times you physically pushed him away, you were missing out on the warmth yet fire of his touch?

And he doesn't look like he's letting go anytime soon, holding you in place in such a way that makes your spine rattle. Rafe peers up at you as if what he did, what he's been doing for you, is completely casual.

"I know." He shrugs nonchalantly. "I want to."

He wants to.

He wants to clean the tub for you at nearly two in the morning. He wants to wait days until you're better to finally sleep with you, even though he's been waiting for you like an uncharacteristic gentleman. He wants to touch you with every opportunity he has to make up for lost time, to make up for all the times you pushed him away before you really got to understand how nice it is to be touched by him.

He wants to.

You don't have the words. You don't even have the capacities to speak. All you can do is stare at him for a moment, soak in the meaning of what he said, and fight the urge to make him forget about not wanting to sleep with you for the next couple days. But you don't want to do that, not with him, not with Rafe. The Rafe Cameron who dressed you and ran three blocks with you in his arms to the ER. The Rafe Cameron who wordlessly found you the Tiffany lamp you saw once at a flea market and never again. The Rafe Cameron who has been pining over you for nearly eleven months, loving you without even knowing your body at all.

Before you can overthink it, your hands are gently reaching down to lift up his shirt.

Rafe processes it for a beat before biting his lip to suppress a grin, making your life easier by taking his shirt off in one smooth motion. He reciprocates by delicately sliding off your zip-up off your shoulders, letting the sleeves slowly descend down your arms and over your hands. He tosses it carelessly beside him, eyes flicking down to your shoulder where your tank top strap has precariously fallen off your shoulder.

You're sure he doesn't mean to do it so teasingly, but his hand comes up to your bicep to smooth over the strap achingly delicate with a touch so light it makes you shiver, as if you're made of porcelain. His eyes stay there for a moment before darting back up to meet yours, almost wordlessly asking for the permission he so desperately aches for.

Your words don't come.

Instead, you raise your arms over your head.

Rafe wastes no time as his hands come down to the bottom hem of your tank, pushing the material up over your belly, your ribs, pausing just as his fingers meet the swell of your breast. His gaze flickers to your eyes once more, an affirmative: "You sure?"

With a nod from you, he slides the tank over your breasts and slides it up your arms and off your body in an instant.

Shamelessly, he stares at your bare chest that's now eye level to him. The way he practically sighs at the sight of you all natural and real in front of him stamps into your memory, ink running deep in the confinements of your brain to become an image never forgotten. The blown look in his eyes doesn't emulate lust, but rather love, admiration, speechlessness. As if he's face to face with the wonders of the universe and left to study the conceptions of its beauty. He's in awe of you, and you haven't even shown him all of you yet.

You almost jab at him. Almost. But the attempt at teasing him dies in your throat when he leans forward and places chaste kisses over your breasts, sighing through his nose in a way that tickles your cool skin, sighing as if he's been starved of this, as if he's dreamt of this. Knowing the details of his inkling towards you, apparently, for all this time, you know he probably has dreamt of this.

Not a space goes unnoticed, and you learn very quickly that Rafe Cameron has no problem taking his time when he wants to.

Your hands fly to his hair, and a jolt of warmth pools in your core when he lightly groans against your skin.

Noticing the change of pace, Rafe pulls away a fraction, almost restraining himself from letting his inhibitions take over, to remember your physical state and not overwhelm your body with the injuries you sustained earlier. Taking one last (this definitely will not be the last time) good look at your breasts, he leans back to stand, and you feel obligated to mirror his actions as you practically stand chest to chest with him, almost chasing his actions in desperation to have his mouth on you again.

You don't even bother looking up at him to start fumbling with his belt, making him suck in a ragged breath from above you. You can only imagine how many times he's thought of you doing this to him, wanting him back, reciprocating that feeling he's been trying to shove deep, deep down for so long in fear of losing you for good. The notion of him wanting you, needing you, craving you only spurs you on further.

Before you can grip his length or run a palm over his bulge, before you can feel him and touch him for good, Rafe's fingers circle your wrist, stopping your movements.

Your head shoots up, eyes wide. "Wh-?"

"We can't," he says, voice wavering. "Not yet."

God, fuck this savior-protector type bullshit. You need him. Now.

"Rafe."

You albeit whine his name, but at this point your dignity has launched into space to never return, floating aimlessly in the inky void at the mercy of Rafe Cameron.

He nearly looks pained, taking your hand in his so that his fingers have something to fidget with, smoothing over the metal of your rings and the chipping nail polish to ground himself to, to refrain from losing it. And it looks like he's seconds away from doing so.

Here you are: shirtless and begging him (which is something you absolutely, positively, preemptively hate doing, especially for men) to have you in a way that makes you lose all of your credibility. You're practically pleading for him, a guy you never thought you'd have to beg for, and he refuses. He's holding back, that much is obvious.

But you feel fine. You do. Honest.

(Sort of.)

"Not yet, Star," he reiterates gently, coming out cool and calculated as if he's been repeating it in his head like a mantra. "Let's just get clean now and we'll sleep, okay?"

Of course, you frown. "You're being withholding."

Rafe's lips twitch. "I'm being withholding?"

You hate how he's teasing you right now, hate how he relishes in it. You don't know if you want to kiss or slap him. "Yes. I'm literally half-naked here in front of you after you said you liked me for ten months—"

"Eleven—"

"And you're not gonna have me?" You hate how stupid you sound, and you hate that his smile is getting bigger and bigger. "Why?"

You don't even register that one of his hands cradles your jaw, holding you flush against his palm to keep you steady and hold you in place. Embarrassingly, you hadn't noticed you'd been swaying while blinking up at him all doe-eyed, still recovering from the events from earlier despite wishing you weren't.

And he can tell.

Of course he can tell, because he seems to know things about you before you know about them yourself. He knew to bring you your favorite chocolates when he knew you'd be finishing Red Dead Redemption II. When a snowstorm wiped out the power on the whole block, he was barreling in your room before you could even get out of bed to bring you candles. The Halloween night you fell and dislocated your shoulder, you hadn't been answering your phone and he assumed something was up, heading over to your apartment before the incident had even happened.

You aren't sure whether the concept of Rafe Cameron being able to read you like a book is a good or bad thing.

It's leaning towards bad as of right now, because you want nothing more than for him to stop being so careful and type-a for a little while so you can each get what you want, so he can get what he's been waiting so long for, so you can get what you've apparently been craving without even knowing.

But no, it's only Rafe Cameron fashion to elongate something as intensely as possible.

"'Cause your brain's all rattled," Rafe says low and calculated. "And I plan on fucking you stupid, so I gotta wait 'til you're all better, yeah?"

You blink up at him. "What if I'm better now?"

"You can barely stand on your own."

"Semantics."

Rafe cracks a grin. "Baby, if I knew you wanted me this bad I would've done molly with you ages ago."

All you can do is groan, lulling your head forward so that your forehead rests against his chest. His hands — immediately — come to splay across your bare back, and with the contact you're just now remembering that you're utterly shirtless, not that either of you seem to care. When he holds you like this for a while, both of you ignoring how this is the first time in each other's arms, you can't help but think he's right.

He's practically holding you up, your head cloudy from not only the fall but from the drug come down. The longer you spend here, wrapped up in him, the drowsier you become, the more your limbs feel like lead, the more sleep calls to you.

Once the tub is full and warm enough to his liking, Rafe begrudgingly pulls away from you to turn the faucet off, leaving you standing idly as you watch him, taking in the way his muscles flex with certain movements and how the tendons in shoulders shift as he uses his arms. He's practically a walking portrait, a hyperrealistic sculpture come to life, emulating the same beauty as the marble in every defined vein, muscle, beauty mark. It's almost infuriating, really, for him to be doing something as simple as starting a bath, and still have the audacity to look this handsome.

Rafe catches you staring, as if you don't need anymore humiliation tonight.

But he doesn't poke fun, or send you his trademark lopsided grin, or make a lewd comment or flex just to piss you off.

No, he simply stands again, coming back in front of you to place an incredibly intimate kiss on your forehead, just brushing your hairline, before his arms meet solace on your biceps. His hands, previously checking the water temperature, are warm and inviting against your skin, gently rubbing up and down your smoothness in the most endearing way he knows how.

"All good?" He asks, and it's softer than you've ever heard him before.

It throws you for a loop. When has he ever been this soft spoken? Looked at someone this delicately? Held someone without the implications of taking it further?

Your words don't come. Instead you nod.

In an attempt to gain some semblance of independence back, you shimmy your shorts down, opting to leave on your underwear (the same ones he put you in earlier which is a fact you're choosing to ignore), before making your way over to the tub.

Rafe quickly follows suit, mirroring your actions by leaving on his boxers and hovering right behind you, one arm gripping your waist and the other gingerly holding your hand. With a gentleness you've never seen from him, he helps you into the tub, making sure both your feet are planted firmly instead before lowering you into the water.

You sigh at the temperature, a perfect warmth that already seems to settle the dull ache in your bones from all the chaos today involved. Closing your eyes, you feel him settle in behind you, anticipating his touch as you can feel his body heat radiating centimeters from yours against your back.

It's silence for a moment or two, until you hear the water rippling behind you, a warmth spreading up your spine when you feel his hands douse your shoulders in the water, washing your back, shoulders, arms with the soap you like to use (how he knew which one was yours beats you, not that you're complaining). The act is domestic, no doubt, and you can't deny how nice it feels to be scrubbed clean of all outside things, prepped and clean and ready for bed.

You can tell he's taking his time in his care of you.

Rafe's hands linger on your bare skin longer than they should, letting the pads of his thumbs smooth over beauty marks and the hills and ridges of your muscles. His fingers trace up and down your spine, feeling each individual bone as if he's trying to keep count, as if he's trying to memorize the map of your body in ways he's never seen before. The delicacy of his touch is alarmingly inviting, and you can't recall if you've ever been touched quite like this before, like you're special, like you're important, like you mean something.

When he stops washing you, you assume he's washing himself as quickly as he can to satisfy your wishes, but you can't help but quietly whine at the loss of contact. The desperation makes your heart pull, and you really hope he hadn't heard it.

But, of course, he does.

"Miss me already, baby?"

His tone makes you roll your eyes, even though he can't see you. "I can't stand you."

Water trickles around him, most likely raising his arms to wash himself. Part of you wants to turn around and shut up whatever he's about to retort back to you, but when the movements suddenly cease, you're left in the unfathomable silence, the gentle waves gradually stilling.

You frown. "Wh-?"

You don't have time to register what he's doing until he's moving again, leaning forward so his chest is flush to your back and radiating a type of warmth you could only dream a heater could provide in the winter, as his arms come around to wrap around you. Your hands instinctively come up to curl around his wrists, dainty caressing the skin there to hold some sort of ground against his touch, against him caging his arms around you.

The act makes your body slot between his legs, leaning taut against him as he practically pulls you into him. His chin rests on your shoulder, almost nuzzling himself into the soft skin of your neck and holding you there as if you are about to fly away, never to return to earth again.

"Still can't stand me?" He murmurs low and baritone, a volume that only sends a shiver down your spine.

You manage to find your voice. "Nope."

Although the waver gives away your faux indifference, and you hate how you can feel him grin against your skin, knowing your weak spots, knowing what to say to get you to squirm and how to do certain things to get you to succumb to his charm, fall for the eased nonchalance and sickly sweet smirk that has no business making him that much more handsome. It’s baffling to think that a guy like him, a guy who looks like him, has been head over heels for you in the time you’ve spent thinking it could never happen.

Well, his cards are laid out on the table, and frankly you folded your hand in a while ago, so all that's left to reveal is the truth.

“That’s too bad.” His breath tickles your skin. “Because there’s no way you’re getting rid of me.”

You snort. “Is that so?”

“Mhm. Gonna practically haunt you, baby.”

“You basically do that already.”

Rafe laughs boyishly in your ear, but not without peppering a few featherlight kisses against your bare shoulder.

You trace light shapes on his wrists without realizing it. “Does this mean you’re going to be more annoying than before?”

He hums baritone against the column of your neck.

“Obviously.”

Subconsciously, you find yourself leaning back into his mold, pressing yourself against the hard ridges of his chest. Your heart flutters when you feel him hug you a fraction tighter, as if in disbelief he’s even getting to hold you in the first place. After months and months of pushing him away, of denying yourself the pleasantries of learning his touch, you both relish in the sensation of finally knowing what it feels like to hold one another.

You attempt to remain coy.

“Great,” you deadpan, but instead it comes out less like a complaint and more like a promise. "Lucky me."

Of course, he notices, and unconvincingly hums. “You know there’s no need to pretend anymore, right, Star?”

Your heart skips a beat.

You hadn’t even known you were pretending to be anything in the first place. This whole thing sprout in the blink of an eye, and it scares the shit out of you just how much you were repressing this feeling for him. All this time, you thought it was hate, irritation, loathing because you assumed his words were ill intended. You pushed yourself away from the possibility of being with him because of preconceptions of his past behavior, of the way he’d flirt up brick wall if it meant he was entertained.

You assumed that, all this time, him flirting with other girls was in search of his next score. You never thought it would be because of you, that they were attempts to distract himself from something he didn’t think he could have. He was stupidly indulging himself in the repeating cycle of small talk with people to drown out the thoughts that always circled back to you.

Now, as you sit here, Rafe warm and broad against your back as he holds you like a lifeline, you’re overwhelmed that not only he chose you, but you unknowingly chose him, too.

“I suppose not,” you say quietly, softer than you intend.

If he hears you or not, you’d never know because Rafe doesn’t respond. His arms continue to cage you in, pull you taut against his chest, as the scent of your body wash emulating from his forearms fills your nostrils. It’s quiet, as if he’s soaking in your words and the insinuation behind them, perhaps in relief that you inadvertently confirmed your reciprocated feelings for him. He's being going on ten months, or eleven at this point, waiting for those words, waiting for you to come to your senses, waiting for the green light to be able to hold you in the way he yearns to do.

You’re not sure how to take the silence from his end, teetering between letting it simmer between the two of you or offering more of a conversation, perhaps a direct confirmation that you are into him rather than letting him assume through a play-on-words.

"How's your head?" He asks after a few moments, and from the tone of his voice you can tell he's smiling.

Throbbing, actually.

But all this lovey-dovey behavior is turning your brain to mush and distracting you from the pain and exhaustion. You don't want him to worry any more than he already is, though, so you inherently decide to downplay the severity of it, of how even the lights above the sink are a little too bright for your liking. He's done enough for you tonight, and just being here with him is enough.

You settle on the safe answer. "I'm okay."

A feather-light kiss is pressed to your shoulder.

He says your name. A warning.

You suck in a breath. "Really. I am."

Rafe hums, unconvinced. "Are you?"

"Yes."

"You sure?"

A beat. "Yes."

He stills. "You paused."

"Rafe."

Then, he presses a feather-light kiss to your shoulder, a temporary truce to cease the teasing, stop the bullshit, to allow him to help you. "Talk to me."

And you consider it. You assume he's worried out of his mind, and you try and imagine yourself in his shoes: if you walked in a room and discovered him on the ground, disoriented and bleeding, you'd probably have a damn heart attack and — most likely — panic more than a normal person probably would. Putting the scenario into perspective, his apprehension to escalate anything sexually makes total sense, even if it is such a bummer.

After everything you've been through, it would be stupid not to trust him, not to allow him to take care of you and dote on you in ways he's probably dreamed about. Besides, you're in no right mind to keep arguing with yourself on whether or not to let him in.

You choose to. "The light is a little bright."

Another kiss to the back of your neck. "Okay. Is that it?"

No. "Yeah."

Rafe says your name in warning.

Your heart skips a beat at the use of it. "I'm kind of tired."

"Let's go to bed then," he says simply. "I'll get you dried up, yeah?"

The easiness to his tone makes your skin crawl, because he's making it seem like it's no big deal that he's been doing everything for you tonight without so much as a complaint. Isn't he tired of it already? Of you? Jesus, he's not scared off by now? About how high maintenance you are, apparently?

It makes you feel a little ridiculous, a little childish. "You don't have to."

He scoffs, as if that's highly offensive to him. "Star, when are you going to realize that I'm doing all this stuff because I want to, not because I have to?"

Your face burns.

"Been wanting to take care of you for so long," he murmurs against your skin, uttered with such nonchalance as if it doesn't make your heart skip. "Wanna be the only one to do so."

Swallowing thickly, you attempt to try and lighten the stampede in your chest.

"You sure you wanna take on that kind of responsibility? It's a lot," you joke weakly.

But Rafe Cameron, the King of Shooting the Shit, isn't in the mood to play around.

Apparently, not when it comes to you.

"Yes," he says immediately. "I want you, all of you, all to myself."

The possessiveness is daunting, especially when he says it with such certainty that it makes your head spin, and that's not even from the concussion brewing in your brain. The words are like a second nature to him, spilling confessions that have been plaguing his conscience for the betterment of a year, itching to let them see the light of day now that you've reciprocated. He's been sitting on them like a goldmine, the feelings growing more and more unbearable for him to the point where he confessed sitting on a random curb, eating greasy pizza and high off ecstasy.

"Okay," you whisper back before you can stop it. "You have me."

His breath hitches. "I do?"

You're done playing cat and mouse, frankly. "Yes. But don't let it get to your head, Cameron."

You can feel him grinning, clearly not taking your previous sentence very seriously. "I won't."

"I feel you smiling."

"'m not smiling."

"Rafe."

He chuckles boyishly, pulling you impossibly closer. "Okay, fine. Maybe it's gone to my head a little bit." A pause. "A lot. Astronomically."

You roll your eyes.

"But that's besides the point," he continues dismissively. "I have you. Holy shit."

The genuine excitement in his tone makes you snort as you repeat his name again, but this time in warning. Your tone is far from seriousness, more sheepish and stern, as if the concept of him wanting you so fucking bad is one crazy dream you mocked up on a random week night.

"Okay," he blurts, "okay. I'm fine, it's fine. We're gonna dry off and go to bed, okay?"

"Say okay one more time."

"Don't tease me at a time like this. Do you even understand how lucky I am right now?"

Your words die in your throat, all teasing demeanor slowly washing away with the weight of his words, and how genuine he sounds. You've never been sought out like this, yearned for like this, wanted like this. Frankly, it's jarring.

At your silence, he hums again, pleased with your star-strucken-ness and placing yet another chaste kiss against your soft skin. "Let me show you how lucky I am, hm?"

And he does.

Rafe takes his time with you, stretching out the moment of you allowing him to help you for as long as he can.

It starts with warm, nimble fingers wrapping a towel around your chest, drying up any stray droplets with such delicacy that it makes you shiver. You stand practically bare to him as you watch him dry your legs, tummy, arms, chest, neck as if he has all the time in the world. He takes it as a way to feel you, to let his hands touch regions unknown on your body and relishing in the way he gets to map out every dip and curve like an explorer hungry for adventure.

He lets the water drain in the meantime, making sure you are one hundred-percent dried before he's hurriedly drying himself with another towel, not nearly showing himself an ounce of the care he had for you, for your body. It's quick, and before you know it, he's got two large palms splayed on your waist as he guides you back to your room.

The dim lighting is much better than it was in the bathroom, your lamp providing a cozy ambiance that doesn't hurt your head at all. Rafe moves you to the center of your room, fishing through your drawers to pull out your favorite matching pajamas (as to how he knows they're your favorite, you have no idea. Or, if he had just guessed then it is the luckiest guess on planet earth).

With a softness he seems to only have reserved for you, he's pulling the pajama shirt over your head, covering your torso with it before letting the towel fall to pool around your feet.

In an instant, Rafe's hands come to seek refuge on your waist, only adorned with a wet pair of panties that you wore in the bath as some sort of barrier for your dignity. His index fingers hook around the sides, not pulling them down but toying with them for emphasis.

"Want these off, baby?" He asks gently, voice void of any sexual undertones but instead laced with seriousness, as if it's a matter of life and death.

And frankly, you don't really want them on.

So you nod, a bit sheepishly, but he pays it no mind when he's slowly and completely hooking the waistband of your panties around his index fingers, sliding them down over your ass, past your thighs, to pool at your feet. The sensation of being bare to him from the waist down is a newfound vulnerability you didn't even know you could experience, even though you're sure he saw you completely naked not only in the shower when you fell, but after when he dressed you.

But Rafe doesn't make any lewd comments, or ask to taste you, or forget all about his chivalry.

Instead, he shamelessly stares for one, two, three beats before kneeling in front of you, your sleep shorts loosely between his fingers as he opens them at your feet, prompting you to step into them.

"You're beautiful, Star," Rafe praises as he slides your shorts up your legs, making sure they're firmly over your hips before standing. "All good?"

Your brain is mush from everything. The fall. His words. His actions. Everything about the past four hours has absolutely thrown you for a loophole, and if at the beginning of the night you told yourself that you'd end up naked in front of Rafe Cameron not once, but multiple times, you would've laughed in your own face, or grimaced, or cussed yourself out for even allowing him to see such a thing, much less be able to touch you.

But all of that prior resentment is out the window, especially with how he's looking down at you now. His blue eyes are hazed with adoration, gazing as if he's admiring a beautiful portrait, an ancient sculpture chiseled by hand. Warm hands splay on your biceps, rubbing up and down in an act of comfort, waiting for your response, waiting for the green-light to assist in his next task: getting you into bed.

All you do is nod, and Rafe wastes no time moving towards your bed, pulling the comforter back to expose the fresh new sheets, the lavender scent emulating from all the fabric scent beads you like to use in the wash. They're proving its worth in this moment, as your bed has never, ever looked this inviting before.

You slide into bed before he can practically do it himself, wanting to have some sort of independence throughout the night. But the attempt to do so proves fruitless as he hovers of you, bringing the covers up to your chin in a disgustingly endearing gesture that it makes you suppress a teasing grin.

But his face is void of any humor. He's soft. Serious. Fixated on the task at hand.

"Stay here," he says low, even going as far as pointing a finger at you. "No hot showers in the next minute I leave to grab my pajamas, okay?"

You, nuzzled into bed up to your chin, simply preen up at him.

"What if I need to get up for—"

"No." Rafe doesn't even let you finish, nor does he let you indulge in your teasing. "No moving. I'm grabbing my clothes and coming back."

You raise a brow. "Promise?"

Your tone is so sweet it gives him a toothache. All he can do is simply shake his head at you in disbelief, staring at your grinning mummified figure for a moment before leaning down and kissing your forehead so quickly you nearly miss it.

"Promise," he repeats, backing up so he's in the doorway. "Less than a minute. You can even count."

“Sixty, fifty nine…”

At your countdown, Rafe’s moving at lightning speed as he races away, and you truthfully don’t keep counting and simply laugh at his treacherously loud footsteps down the hallway, through the kitchen, and out the front door as if his hair is on fire. You don’t even hear your apartment door shut, and it’s quiet for maybe ten, fifteen seconds before the stomping starts up again.

You snort when he barrels back into your view, clad in a t-shirt (that is backwards, by the way) and a pair of basketball shorts that you’ve seen him lounge around in from time to time. Regardless, he looks great like this: hair mussed and disheveled but not without a bright gleam in his eye, gazing down at you like you’re the prettiest damn thing he’s ever seen.

“What’s my time?” He asks, breathless and beginning to make his way towards your bed.

You feel a little stupid with the blankets up to your chin, arms caged beneath the sheets but beaming nonetheless as he sits down beside you, splaying a palm over your stomach as his indirect yet very direct need of always having to touch you. You’re getting used to it, and can tell you’re already going to crave it.

“Didn’t keep track,” you say softly, not even wanting to keep up the cat and mouse as your impatience grows. “Are you getting in?”

“You didn’t count?” Rafe asks incredulously, ignoring your question. “Baby, that was record breaking stuff.”

You don’t care. “I don’t care. Are you getting in?”

His lips twitch. “Bossy.”

“Rafe.”

“Gimme a minute,” he says, eyes shamelessly staring at you. “I wanna look.”

You give him about five seconds flat of his ogling. “Okay, you looked. Now get in.”

He laughs boyishly, smiling so fucking pretty that it hurts as he reaches towards the dresser, flicking your Tiffany lamp off (the one he scoured the entire city to find for you, by the way). In the darkness, he slowly crawls over you onto the other side of the bed, flipping the sheets back so he can collapse next to you.

The bed rocks with the force of it as he audaciously sighs, slithering his body fully under the covers as if he was made to lay here. Goosebumps litter your skin when you feel his cool hands snake around your waist, pulling you from your mummified position to taut against his body, and you can’t deny how nice the added warmth is, especially when he positions you so you’re chest to chest with him, face in the crook of his neck as his hands splay wide and smooth under your shirt. He's careful not to brush the spot on your head flush with three staples, instead placing a chaste kiss near the cleaned wound as his own form of an apology (that was nowhere near his fault).

His heart is racing. You can feel it. You’re sure yours is too, caught between a rock and a hard place as you lay here with him right now, clinging to the guy you thought you hated.

Rafe says your name gently.

Your heart skips as you hum in response.

"Promise me something," he says quietly.

You blink in the darkness. "Okay."

It takes him a few moments to find his words, to let his preposition lay thick in the air to prolong the tension. You're unsure how to grasp his tone, as you've never really heard his voice go that soft before, so low and vulnerable. His hands still against your back, almost in apprehension, as if he's so focused on finding the right words that he forgets he's holding you, too.

"I don't want you to think..." He starts slow, trailing off when it doesn't come out right. "Star, I'm serious about you. I have been for a while."

The breath leaves your lungs.

"I know that seems scary and sudden for you," he continues, his thumbs finding their rhythm again and tracing light circles against your skin, almost as a way to ground himself. "I don't want you to feel pressured, or anything, or feel like you have to be doing all of this because of that."

You frown against his neck. "Rafe-"

"I know," he murmurs, almost sheepishly. "I know. I just... I don't want you to wake up tomorrow and feel like you're stuck."

If possible, you frown further. Yet, this time, you don't try and interrupt and simply let him find his words, figuring out what he's trying to say to you right now (even if it ultimately breaks your heart that he thinks you could be having doubts).

He lets out a long breath. "Promise me, if you feel like that in the morning, you'll tell me." His heart is racing against you. "I'll be alright either way, okay?"

The entire spiel sets a pit of dread in your gut.

Does he really think you'll back out on him? Tease the possibility of a relationship on a fish hook and dangle it in front of him just to pull away every time he reaches? Pretend to reciprocate his feelings to make him feel better? To indulge his nearly year-long fantasy of being with you. Does he think you to be that cruel?

"Okay," you find yourself saying, queasy from all the aching in your heart. "I won't feel like that, but okay."

You swear you can hear him smile. "Just checkin' in."

You still feel yourself frowning. "I meant what I said earlier." At his silence, you continue for clarification. "You have me."

Rafe takes a long time to respond, and for a little while, you begin to think he's fallen asleep, lulled by the feeling of your heartbeat against him and your fingers tracing shapes across his chest. All you can hear is the steady inhale, exhale through his nose, the sensation tickling your hairline with every breath, as you take his silence as contemplation or affirmation of his greatest suspicions.

You feel yourself slowly start to doze off, soothed by the warmth of his embrace and the fan in the corner of the room emitted a low, white noise. When he turned it on and, more important, how he knew you liked it on when you sleep beats you, but the gesture makes it easier to drift closer to peace, to the sense of relaxation you've been thinking about for hours.

But his voice almost startles you.

"I have you," he repeats, almost monotonous like a mantra, as if he's been replaying those words in his head ever since you said them.

Groggily, you hum and attempt to nuzzle further into his embrace. "Mhm. Don't let it get to your head."

You can practically hear him grinning.

"Sounds good, Star."

"'M serious," you mumble, and it more-so comes out as an incoherent babble. "Ego's too big. Gonna fill up with air 'n float away."

He snorts, the vibration tickling your cheek. "That so?"

All you can do is make a noise that seems like an affirmation, eyes heavy and shut. You honestly can't even tell if you're actually awake right now, bones weighing down into the mattress and muscles aching from the long night you endured, head throbbing less now that you've been in his arms.

"Know so." You're not even sure he can understand you. "Not allowed to be a prick when you're in my bed."

The laugh he emits nearly jolts you awake, chest bumping into yours at the action. You emit a low groan in protest, but he barely pays it any mind. As a matter of fact, he pulls you a fraction closer than before, engulfed completely by his arms, scent, everything.

"You got rules now, baby?"

You nearly whine at his continued talking. "Not your baby."

His laughter transitions to a low hum, unconvinced. "You kind of are, now."

The buttery words turn your mind to mush, and you hate how you smile at the insinuation behind them, the possessiveness, the singularity of the notion that you're his, only his, no one else's.

"Yeah, whatever," you murmur, yet your attempt to remain indifferent fails as you can't stop grinning sleepily. "I'm sleeping now."

"Okay, baby. Good night."

"Sleeping."

Rafe emits a low sound, emulating contention as it's obvious that he's beaming in the darkness, smiling at nothing he can see but everything he can feel. It's blossoming out of control, blooming faster than dandelions in the springtime and spreading wider than weeds. You're here in his arms, holding him back as if you've been searching for the right person to do it with all your life, and he couldn't be happier. He doesn't even know if he'll be able to sleep.

Your breaths slowly even out, as your tracing patterns on his chest gradually slowing as he feels your hands limp against him. It's obvious you've fallen asleep, and his chest swells with pride at the notion that you feel safe enough with him to sleep with him, to let your guard down and let him in like he's practically been begging for for what feels like forever.

"Love you, Star," Rafe drones low, knowing the safety of his secret is still strong with the confirmation that you're asleep.

He's felt it for a long time, not really understand what that feeling was until it was uncontrollable, until you were all he could think about in everything he did throughout his day. It scared the shit out of him, naturally, but soon leaned into the emotion instead of running from it, especially when Sarah noticed it from a mile away and backed him into a corner to interrogate him about it. (You'd looked so pretty that day she questioned him, so obviously he couldn't stop staring at you. Clearly, his actions weren't subtle enough.)

One day, he'll tell you. He's sure of it.

Especially now that you've stopped running away from his touch, now staring back at him when your eyes meet instead of instantly peering away and allowing yourself to open up to him. It's as if this day was a far off dream for him, something he never thought could happen in his lifetime, because he'd hold out on you forever if there was even the slightest chance that you'd give him a shot.

Now, as you lay here in his arms, he lets out a shaky breath. He feels as if he can finally rest, he can allow himself to have this, to not let his mind run rampant on the sliver of a possibility that you're not in it as much as he is.

Rafe figures he can deal with that hypothetical in the morning.

And the final image in his mind is of you, glimpses of you throughout the night in the apartment, under the purple hues in the club, in the moonlight on the curb, in the pool light reflection illuminating your face, in the hospital bed looking to him as a lifeline, tucked under your pretty sheets and peering up at him with a softness he's never seen before.

With that picture, sleep has never come faster.

notes and a splash of rafe pov. one more chapt to go!

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