bonnie-the-butcher

[bonnie-the-butcher]

Rip Tide | Chapter XVII

[ MDNI ] [ word count: 11.257 ] [ Masterlist ] 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬: Canonverse/Canon-Divergent; Dark! Content; NSFW; Strong Language; Cheating; Drug Use; Mentions of overdose; Some shades of Munchausen syndrome from dear old Rafe; Manipulation; Toxic, obsessive behaviour; Stalking; Violence; DUBCON/NONCON; My writing is really pretentious and English is not my first language, so please feel free to call me out in whichever grammar mistakes you might find find.

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | You and JJ have always been in each other's orbit. He's your brother’s best friend, the guy you've known your entire life. He was kind, protective, familiar. You never meant for the two of you to start hooking up. And you never meant for it to last so long. But when this boy you thought you'd come to know like the back of your hand turns out to be no better than the men he'd warned you about, you find yourself in the sights of the guy he hates most, regardless of wether you want that or not.

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“All of them”

The words land like a gunshot. It rips clean across the ribs, tearing straight through you.

You don’t think. Don’t breathe. Don’t even register the way your hands clutch at him, at his arms, his shoulders, the heat of his skin burning through your fingers like he’s already slipping away.

He smiles.

A lazy, lopsided thing, teeth barely showing, eyes hooded, unfocused, lost. Like he’s drifting. Like the tide has already pulled him under, and you’re just standing there, watching him sink.

No.

Your breath hitches, sharp, jagged, a blade caught in your throat. You shake him harder, dragging him forward, forcing his weight onto you. He slumps against your shoulder, heavy, boneless, pliant, laughing and mumbling incoherently about your skin, your perfume, your hair, like he isn’t dying against you.

Your pulse hammers.

His head lolls against your shoulder, breath warm and damp against your skin, his chest rising in shallow, uneven movements.

Barry moves. You feel him behind you, the shift of weight, the static tension crackling in the air as he steps closer. – Tell me he isn’t doing this bullshit again.

His voice is sharp, cutting, but Rafe doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t react.

Doesn’t even seem to understand the question.

Your hands fist into the fabric of his shirt, trembling. – Rafe. – His name tastes wrong on your tongue. Bitter, broken. You try again, shaking him, gripping his face, forcing him to look at you. – How many? How many pills did you take?

His lips part. A breath. A whisper.

– I dunno… – Your stomach drops. His head tilts against your shoulder, heavy, his body curling inward, like he’s folding into you.

Like you’re something safe.

Like you’re something he can disappear into.

Barry curses, sharp and loud, the sound snapping through the air like a whip. You barely hear him. Barely register the way he steps forward, the way his presence presses in, suffocating, a storm rolling in too fast, too strong.

His hand fists into Rafe’s shirt, yanking him back, forcing him upright.

Rafe groans, a soft, breathy sound, his brows drawing together like he’s only just realizing what’s happening as his hands reach for you to hold him.

– What the fuck is your problem?! – Barry snaps, shaking him once, hard. – What the fuck did you do?!

Rafe blinks slowly. Drunk on whatever chemical haze is keeping him from feeling the weight of his own body. His lips twitch. A smile.

– I just— I was bored. – He grins, then frowns, his eyes unfocused, blinking too much, moving too little. – And it hurts. My arm hurts. My chest hurts. Everything hurts.

Your throat tightens.

Something cold slithers through your chest, settles there, heavy, unbearable.

Rafe exhales, long and slow, his body swaying like he might just tip over.

Like the weight of him is too much.

Like he’s already halfway gone.

Barry’s grip tightens.

Your breath stutters.

And the realization crashes over you, hard, unrelenting—

You have minutes.

Maybe less.

Your hands shake as they grip his face, his skin burning under your palms, slick with sweat. His breath is shallow, uneven, his pupils too wide, too dark, swallowing that radioactive blue of his irisis whole.

You try to keep your voice steady, but it comes out ragged. – Rafe, what did you take?

He blinks, slow, heavy-lidded, his body tilting against yours like he can’t keep himself upright. – ‘S fine, baby… don’t—don’t worry ‘bout it…

Barry growls. – Answer the fucking question, Cameron!

Rafe flinches, the barest twitch of his fingers against your side. He reaches for you, frowning, groaning, a plea lost in his mouth. He can barely make himself coherent.

Your heart clenches.

You try again, softer. – Rafe, please. What was it?

A breath.

A beat.

Then—

– P—painkillers… They gave me those at the hospital, okay? They—they were the ones that told me to take it.

The words are slurred, slipping past his lips like they barely mean anything.

It hits you like ice water.

You have no idea what it means.

But you feel Barry stiffen beside you. His fingers tighten around the bottle, eyes darting between the label and Rafe’s barely-conscious form. – How many?

Nothing.

Just a breath, too shallow, too soft.

You reach for him, harder this time, and his good hand wraps around your wrist, loose, careless. – How many, Rafe?

– I dunno, baby… A lot.

Barry swears.

Loud. Sharp. The kind of curse that feels like a crack in the foundation.

Your eyes snap back to Rafe. – How long ago? How long after I left?

Rafe exhales.

Something slow, foggy, barely aware.

Your grip tightens on his arms. – Rafe, focus. How long ago did you take them?

He hums.

Like you just asked him something small, something unimportant.

Barry is already moving, already shifting to stand, already cursing under his breath—

Then Rafe murmurs, barely above a whisper. – Like… twenty minutes later? Maybe more… you didn't put me to sleep— He whines. – I was trying to. But— my, my shoulder was killing me.

Your stomach flips.

Barry stops cold.

His entire body goes rigid.

He curses again, sharp, violent, almost manic, shoving a hand through his hair. – How long ago did you leave, sweetheart? When did you get out?

Your breath hitches. – Half past five? Like fifteen minutes after I called you.

Barry rushes to get his phone, he fumbles around with it, cursing, raging, huffing. His head snaps to you. – You hung up at 5h10. If you left fifteen minutes after that we still have time.

You blink. – What?

Barry grabs your wrist. Tight. Grounding. His voice is steel. – If it’s been less than an hour, we might still be able to get him to puke it up before it fully absorbs.

Your stomach churns.

Rafe shifts against you, breath hitching, a groggy, confused sound slipping from his throat.

Barry crouches down again, gripping Rafe’s chin, forcing him to look up. – You listening, motherfucker? You’re gonna throw this shit up, and you’re gonna do it now.

Rafe just laughs.

Soft. Dazed. Almost dreamy. – And— And what? You’re gonna make me?

Barry exhales sharply through his nose.

His grip tightens. – You bet your fucking ass, you fucking psychopath—

– Bee! – You swallow hard. – He’s already fucking dying and you’re grabbing him like that, what are you thinking?!

– Yeah, Bee— Rafe grins, that cold mocking laughter leaving him even through the haze. – You gotta treat me well when she’s here.

– I should leave you to fucking die. – He growls, but he’s shaking, his hands twitching against Rafe’s shirt.

– You already did— You already did that once didn’t you, Barry?

He looks at Rafe, then at you, almost shoving the boy into your arms. – I ain’t gonna fucking do this shit— I can’t— I can’t fucking do this!

– NO! – Your hands move on instinct, sliding to the back of Rafe’s neck, fingers pressing into his skin, but when you reach out to grab at Barry you feel a rage burning through you that you haven’t had in years. – You are not fucking leaving me to deal with this alone! Not again.

– Sweetheart—

– I don't wanna fucking hear it, Barry! You’re not going anywhere! Help me out! – He’s frozen on the spot, looking at you. His eyes full of fear. – You either help me do this or I swear to God, Bee, I'm never gonna look at you again!

Barry doesn’t move.

Not at first.

His jaw clenches, breath pulling sharp, shoulders squared like he’s bracing for something worse.

And for a split second, you think he might actually leave.

That he might run away again.

That he might force you to go through this alone.

But then his hands flex.

His throat bobs.

And his face twists into something furious, something ugly, something terrified.

– Fuck! – He spits the word like it physically pains him, raking a hand through his hair. Then he’s moving, shoving past you, dragging Rafe upright by the collar of his shirt. – Fine! Fine! I'll help you! But don’t expect me to do the fucking work! If he chokes—

– He’s not gonna fucking choke! – You snap, but your voice is too tight, too raw, too close to breaking.

Rafe just laughs.

Soft. Slow. That same dreamy, disconnected hum as his head lolls back, eyes barely open, the ghost of a smirk curling at his lips.

– I told you, baby… I told you he's not worth it. He doesn’t even care about helping yo—

– Shut up, Rafe! Shut up! Just get up!

Your stomach twists.

Your grip tightens.

Barry scoffs, but doesn’t complain about hauling him forward, barely keeping his dead weight from slipping through his fingers. He curses again, dragging Rafe toward the bathroom, muttering something under his breath that you don’t fully catch.

You don’t ask.

You just follow.

Because you can feel it— The way Rafe’s body is slipping, the way his breath is hitching, the way his laughter is fading.

The minutes are running out.

Barry shoves the bathroom door open so hard it nearly slams off the hinges. You stumble in after him, Rafe’s full weight collapsing between you both.

His head rolls forward.

His breathing staggers.

Barry stumbles back, shaking, leaning Rafe’s full weight on you.

– Keep his head up. 

– Sweetheart— I'm not— He stutters, his hands shake. You hold onto Rafe, your hands tight around his middle, and Barry almost stumbles back again, bracing the wall as if it will save him. – I can’t— I don't know how to do this.

Your heart lurches.

Your hands fly to Rafe’s chest, gripping tight. – Just— Just keep his head up. – You plead, pulling Rafe to kneel beside you, before the toilet. – Keep his head up. That’s all you have to do. Bee. Bee, look at me! – You pull his hand, you hold him tight. His eyes are teary when he looks at you again. – You just have to hold his head up. That’s all you have to do. It’s gonna be fine.

Barry’s hands shake.

Not from rage this time. Not from frustration.

From fear.

You can see it—see the way it flickers behind his eyes, see the way it makes his breath stutter, see the way his fingers twitch at his sides like he’s about to bolt.

Like he wants to run.

Like he can’t do this.

But he has to.

– Bee. – Your voice wavers, just slightly, but you don’t let it break. You tighten your grip on Rafe, feeling the sluggish, unresponsive weight of him in your arms, his body folding inward, his breath coming too slow, too shallow. – Please.

Barry swallows hard.

A sharp inhale. A flex of his fingers.

And he moves.

He drops to his knees beside you,, pressing his hands to the sides of Rafe’s head, keeping him upright even as his body slumps.

– I swear to fucking God, Cameron, – Barry growls, his voice lower now, steadier, but no less pissed. – If you fucking die on me, I’m dragging your ass back from hell just to kill you myself.

Rafe huffs out something that might be a laugh, but it barely registers before his body lurches forward.

You act on instinct.

You slip one hand under his chest, the other gripping his jaw, forcing his head down over the toilet.

His breath stutters. His body tenses, fights it, tries to pull back—stupid, stubborn rich kid pride.

You don’t have time for it.

You don’t give him the time to doubt.

Your fingers shake as they curl under Rafe’s jaw, pressing into the damp heat of his skin, opening his mouth. His breath stutters. His body twitches. But he doesn’t move.

Doesn’t fight.

Doesn’t try.

He looks at you as your fingers slide into his mouth, barely blue eyes dazed, staring at you as if this is some grand gesture of romance and not a desperate attempt to pull him back from death’s door. 

He jerks. A sharp, instinctive recoil, but Barry’s grip on his head tightens, forcing him still.

– Fucking quiet! – Barry snaps, voice tight, barely contained. – Just shut the fuck up and puke!

Rafe gags.

His whole body spasms, a deep, shuddering retch tearing through him, violent, involuntary. His hands fly to your wrist, weak but desperate, trying to shove you away, trying to stop this.

You don’t let him.

You press deeper, feel the way his throat convulses under you.

And then—

He heaves.

The sound is sharp, ragged, stomach-turning. His entire body lurches forward, spasming with the force of it, his nails digging into your arm, his breath hitching, choking, shuddering—

And then it comes up.

A mess of bile and half-dissolved pills splattering against porcelain.

Your stomach twists.

It’s so much.

Barry swears.

Rafe gasps, body convulsing again, another deep, gut-wrenching gag forcing more out of him. His fingers are still locked around your wrist, grip trembling, barely there. You wrap your free arm around his back.

– That’s it, Rafe. – Your voice shakes, but you push through it. – That’s it, keep going. Get it out.

Another retch. Another wave of pills and stomach acid hitting ceramic, staining white with something dark and wrong.

You force yourself to watch.

To make sure.

To know.

His breath stumbles again, body sagging against the toilet, too limp, too weak, his chest heaving, his pulse a rapid, frantic thing beneath your fingers.

It doesn’t take long before he collapses.

Fully. Completely. His whole body folding into yours, his forehead pressing to your shoulder, his arms slack at his sides.

The silence that follows is suffocating.

Barry swears, low and quiet. His fingers press to Rafe’s neck, searching, waiting.

You can’t breathe.

Your pulse is pounding, your hands still locked around him, still holding him up, still feeling the slight, tremulous rise and fall of his chest.

Barry exhales.

Relieved.

Resigned.

Your head drops forward.

Your grip tightens.

Your fingers are still buried in his hair, still holding him, still feeling the way his body trembles against yours.

Barry sighs, tipping his head back, scrubbing a rough hand over his face.

Your hands still won’t let go.

You barely register the way your right hand flits over to his chest, dipping beneath the collar of his shirt so you can feel his heartbeat, just as you did that first time —that actually was the second— he almost overdosed in front of you.

His heartbeat is erratic.

But it slows, eventually, laboriously.

He curls into your arms, nuzzling into the crook of your neck, his arms still lax with the effort it took for him to put that all out. 

Morbid curiosity gets the best of you.

You look in.

At the bile, the pills.

Barely a trace of food was in his system before he gulped those down. 

You wonder what kind of horror his body must be going through to try to recover from that.

Your stomach twists.

The bile reeks, sour and sharp, clinging to the air like something rotting. You tear your eyes away, swallowing against the nausea curling at the back of your throat as you flush, closing the lid like it will somehow end this chapter of your life forever.

Rafe shudders against you.

A slow, involuntary tremor, like his body is still trying to process what just happened, like the last remnants of adrenaline and poison are still warring in his bloodstream. His breath is slow but shaky, his chest pressing weakly against your palm with every uneven inhale.

You don’t let go.

You can’t.

You don’t think about the Rafe you knew less than an hour ago. The delusional Rafe that pulled you around like a toy, that wanted to force feelings upon you, the Rafe that stalked you, that grabbed you, that kissed you even when you struggled, even when you said no.

All you see is a boy.

A stupid one.

A reckless one.

A harmless one.

You want to protect him, despite yourself. 

You can’t handle the thought of him dying on you.

Your fingers press firmer against his sternum, counting each fragile, stuttering beat beneath your touch. Your other hand still cradles the back of his head, tangled in sweat-damp hair, keeping him there, keeping him steady.

His weight is crushing, boneless and slack, but you hold him up.

Barry doesn’t move.

Not for a long time.

Just leans against the doorframe, head tipped back, jaw clenched, the fluorescent light overhead turning his expression into something hollowed out, something worn.

Then, finally—

A slow inhale.

A sharp exhale.

– Fuck.

You don’t respond.

You just blink down at Rafe, still curled into you, barely conscious, barely here. His skin is pale, a sickly sheen of sweat making his shirt cling to his ribs. His arms stay limp, hands twitching just slightly, fingers barely brushing against your leg where they rest.

His lips part.

His voice is barely a whisper.

– Tired, baby…

Your throat tightens.

You shift, adjusting him, supporting more of his weight as his body slumps further.

– I know.

Your voice is quiet, softer than it should be.

Barry scoffs, sharp and bitter, pushing off the wall, pacing once before raking a hand through his hair. – The fuck are we supposed to do now?

You exhale, slow and unsteady.

– We get him to bed. Lay him on his side. Hope he doesn’t die.

Barry lets out a dry laugh, humorless. – Are you serious?

You look up, meeting his gaze.

Dark. Tense.

Scared.

– He’s not dead, Bee. – Your voice is soft, your gaze even softer. – The worst is already over.

Your fingers brush over Rafe’s pulse again.

Still there.

Still alive.

Barry shakes his head. His hands flex at his sides, restless.

– You should let this piece of shit rot right there on the floor.

Rafe hums something low, something incoherent, his forehead pressing deeper into your collarbone like he can hear Barry, like he understands.

Like he’s expecting it.

You sigh, shifting under his weight, feeling the exhaustion seep into your own limbs, heavy, bone-deep.

– Can you help me get him up?

Barry doesn’t move.

Just looks at you.

Expression unreadable.

– You’re better than me, sweetheart. – He hums, but it isn't fond. It’s almost frustrated. – He doesn’t deserve this shit.

You don’t know how to answer.

You just hold Rafe tighter.

Your legs ache as you shift, muscles tight, stiff, like you’ve been crouched there for hours instead of minutes. But you don’t hesitate.

You brace yourself, shifting Rafe’s weight, trying to haul him up with you. He’s dead weight, heavy, unresponsive, every part of him slack against you even as his eyes open and close, even as his hands move on you absentmindedly.

Your body screams from exhaustion, from estrangement, from disconnect. But you keep pushing, keep lifting, your fingers digging into his ribs, his shoulder, trying to force his limbs to cooperate.

Barry grumbles.

He eyes Rafe with something like resentment, something that’s cold. Mumbles something under his breath that you don’t bother listening to. A huff. A sharp exhale. A begrudging fine, sweetheart, leaving his lips before he’s suddenly there, his hands slotting under Rafe’s arm, gripping, hauling.

You nearly stumble from the relief of it.

– He’s heavier than he looks, – Barry mutters, adjusting his grip.

– Yeah, – you huff, shifting Rafe against you. – Tell me about it.

Rafe groans, low and quiet, his head rolling against your shoulder, breath warm and slow.

Barry curses. – If he throws up on me, I swear to God—

– I’ll clean it up. – You sigh, tired. – Just help me get him there.

Together, somehow, you half-carry, half-drag him to the bedroom, his feet barely catching against the floor, his arms hanging, the effort making your muscles burn.

Your chest heaves.

Barry is muttering under his breath the whole time, strings of Jesus Christ, this fucking guy and we should’ve just left him in the damn tub and this is why I don’t do charity work.

But his hands are steady.

And neither of you let go.

You shift Rafe onto his side, laying a pillow beside his back.

You can see his eyes moving over you, his hands moving, trying to reach, but his body doesn’t let him. You don’t make a move to meet him in the middle. Your heart aches, but you have no intention of laying next to him ever again. Not after what he told you.

“You don't know how much it took for me not to fuck you right there”

A shiver runs through you.

Barry sits down on the edge of the bed, a heavy sigh leaving him as he pulls you towards him, hands falling over his shoulders, around his back.

Barry exhales sharply, hands lifting to grip your wrists, pressing your arms tighter against him. His breath is warm where it ghosts over your collarbone, his body tense, muscles tight with something unspoken, something uneasy.

You can still feel Rafe watching.

Not fully aware. Not fully there. But searching.

His fingers twitch against the sheets, his breath stuttering slightly as his glassy eyes try to track your movements, try to follow you even when his body won’t cooperate.

Your throat tightens.

You don’t look at him.

Instead, you focus on Barry, the weight of him under your hands, the way his body feels beneath your hands—solid, steady, real. Not a ghost of something dangerous. Not a reminder of hands that held you too tight, of a voice that whispered things you don’t want to remember.

– I'm not… – He mumbles, eyes drifting to meet yours and snapping shut in sudden, as if he was scared to look. – I fucking hate this shit.

The words are heavy. 

A confession.

You don't know what exactly it is that he is admitting to hate, but you feel how shakily he exhales against you. How his hands twitch as he holds you tighter. How he buries his face into you.

Hess at his wit's end.

You haven’t seen it often, but you can tell.

The tension buzzes under his skin, tight like a live wire.

Barry sighs again, his head tipping back slightly, letting himself sink into you. He seems exhausted. As if the moment had stripped him raw. His grip on your wrists loosens, but only slightly, almost unconsciously, fingers brushing over your pulse, feeling the frantic thrum beneath your skin.

His voice is low, heavy, careful.

– You good?

You swallow hard.

Your hands tighten, just slightly, just enough that you know he feels it.

– No.

Barry huffs a laugh, but there’s no humor in it. His fingers flex over your skin, pressing into you like he’s anchoring himself, like he’s trying to convince himself that you’re both still here.

That this whole night hasn’t just swallowed you whole.

You exhale slowly, tilting your head forward, pressing your chin lightly against his hair, eyes slipping shut.

You feel drained.

Like your body isn’t yours. Like you left some part of yourself back there, crouched over Rafe, forcing him to expel every terrible thing he tried to bury inside himself —You can’t even imagine how he must feel.

You peek at him from beneath your lashes.

He's already staring. His blown out eyes tinged with an annoyed sort of confusion, something cold and hollow.

You shift.

Barry holds you tighter, humming. Not quite a response, not quite anything. Just a low, steady vibration against your skin, something soothing even when everything else feels like it’s unraveling.

A sharp breath from the bed makes your stomach clench.

Rafe’s lashes flutter, his expression slack, exhausted. His hand twitches weakly against the sheets, barely able to lift, barely able to reach. His lips part slightly, but the words don’t come right away.

– Baby… – He murmurs. Low, pitiful.

Your entire body locks up.

Barry’s fingers twitch where they rest over your pulse.

Rafe’s voice is wrecked, almost childlike in its delirium, in its desperation, and you hate the way it makes something curl low in your chest, something twisted and aching and familiar.

Barry tenses against you.

His breath pulls in slow.

Controlled.

But you can feel the shift.

The way his body coils, the way his muscles tighten, the way his fingers flex against your wrists like he’s already preparing to pull you away.

Like he knows what comes next.

Rafe breathes out your name. Barely a whisper. Barely there. Like a plea. Like a prayer. Like he’s already losing it again.

Your heart stumbles.

Barry’s grip hardens.

The air is thick.

Heavy. Suffocating.

Your pulse pounds against Barry’s grip, against the sudden stillness pressing into the space between you, between him, between Rafe.

Rafe—who is still trying to reach. Who is still looking at you with those unfocused, hazy eyes, barely holding on, barely aware, but still searching. Still wanting.

Your throat tightens.

Barry feels it.

You know he does.

His grip on your wrists is ironclad now, locking you against him, keeping you here, like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers the way you always do.

His voice is low, rough, barely a growl. – Don’t.

You freeze.

Your breath catches.

Rafe makes a soft, pained noise, something broken, something raw, something that sounds like please.

– Don’t fucking pay attention to this jackass. – His voice is a razor’s edge, slicing through the suffocating silence. – He did this shit on purpose, I'm telling you.

You flinch.

Because you know Barry might be right.

But you still care about what’s going on with Rafe.

Because no matter how much you want to walk away, no matter how much you swear you won’t get pulled back under— You always care.

Your hands shake. Your fingers twitch against Barry’s back. 

His voice drops lower, softer, but no less dangerous. – He doesn’t deserve it, sweetheart. – Barry turns slightly, just enough to force your gaze back to him, his thumb brushing over your pulse, steady, grounding.

His eyes search yours, sharp, knowing.

And for a second, you think he might say something else—

But just then, Rafe moves. Just barely. Just enough to startle you. Just enough for your eyes to snap back to him. 

Barry curses under his breath.

Rafe’s fingers twitch again, like he’s still trying to reach you, still trying to hold on. His mouth parts, breath slow, uneven, wrecked. His voice is barely a whisper. – Baby, please…

Your entire body goes rigid.

Barry yanks you back.

Hard.

Quick.

Like he knew you were going to break. And when you stumble into his chest, breath shuddering, hands fisting into his shirt, Barry doesn’t let go.

Not this time.

His eyes are heavy still, when he looks at you, but there’s a depth there that you're not often faced with. It unsettles you for a moment, before he sighs. – Where are we gonna sleep, huh? He’s here on our fucking bed. Where are we sleeping?

The use of our gives you pause. 

Your eyes drift over the comforter, a cheap, thin fabric you bought with him one time your father made you go buy new sheets. You brought over two of the three pillows that are now permanent fixtures. The blanket draped over the opposite corner was a patchwork you’d given him one winter when he was complaining about the lack of insulation in the trailer. 

Most of the things on this bed were once yours.

But you would never refer to this as your bed. Much less our bed.

Barry’s grip on you tightens.

Just slightly.

Just enough for you to feel it, to register it, to know that he’s still waiting for an answer.

But your mind is stuck. Caught on the our.

It takes you a moment to consider it.

Because he’s right —in one way or another, this is your bed. In ways you never meant for it to be. In ways you never noticed. The pillows, the sheets, the blanket—little pieces of you, woven into the fabric of him.

You don’t know why your throat is dry.

You glance at him, at the sharp line of his jaw, the furrow in his brow, the way his eyes won’t meet yours now. Like maybe he shouldn’t have said it. Like maybe he didn’t even mean to.

Barry exhales sharply, shaking his head.

– Forget it. – His voice is tight. Clipped. He jerks his chin toward Rafe, still sprawled out, still barely there. – We’ll get him out later, he can sleep on the fucking couch.

You hesitate.

Rafe moves again.

A slow shift, a sluggish turn, a weak hand gripping at the sheets like he’s searching for something. For you.

His eyes crack open, barely focused, barely aware, but the second they find your hand— He exhales. Soft. Relieved.

His fingers curl into the comforter, pulling it toward his chest. Holding it.

Your stomach twists.

Barry notices.

His entire body tenses.

And before you can stop him—before you can even think—he grabs your wrist. Firm. Final. And starts pulling you out of the room.

Barry doesn’t look back.

Doesn’t hesitate.

Doesn’t ask.

He just pulls.

You stumble after him, pulse still hammering, still rattling against the inside of your ribs like something trying to break free.

Rafe makes a sound—soft, distant, barely coherent.

Like a plea. Like a whimper.

But Barry doesn’t stop.

His grip is firm, unrelenting, dragging you out into the dim hallway, the door slamming shut behind you with a sharp click.

It’s quiet.

Too quiet.

Just the two of you now, standing there in the dark, breathing heavy, neither willing to break the silence first.

Barry exhales. Long. Slow. Controlled.

His fingers loosen around your wrist, but they don’t let go. Not fully.

He knocks the lightswitch on, and falls on the couch and throws the blanket on the ground with something like a groan, something tired, something angry, something that’s at its wit’s end.

You step closer carefully, feeling an all too familiar hesitation bubble up your chest as the floorboards creak, sharp and cruel, like you’re walking on eggshells.

Men at the brink of anger have never been kind to you —Your father, John, JJ, Mr. Carrera. All of them were cautionary tales— You have more than enough experience with them to know not to say anything, not to call out his name, not to reach out, not to initiate anything lest you end up thrown on the floor with a bruise forming on your eye. 

– Sweetheart, – He sighs, a plea. You remain still. – I'm sorry, okay? I just— I need— His hands flex before they clench. Frustrated. Your ears perk for any sign of anger, but re's as still as a stone, staring at the ground before he mumbles— Can you just come here?

You tilt your head.

He's looking at you.

And you’re frozen there, waiting for him to get whatever it is that he needs to say out of his chest, when he suddenly tugs you forward, into him, his head landing on your lap as you fall, seated, over the arm of the couch. 

He shakes his head, the dark trenches of his hair rustling against the fabric of your clothes frantically, almost compulsively, in a desperate denial that’s drenched in an exhausted sort of frustration you’ve experienced more times that you can count. – I’m fucking tired, sweetheart. – His voice breaks, fingers digging into your legs, the same way you dug into the ground after JJ nearly killed you, as if he were fighting not to slide right off the edge of the earth. – I’m so fucking tired. I'm tired of Rafe’s shit. I’m tired of working. I’m tired of people. I’m tired of this fucking island. I’m tired of living here. I’m tired of just fucking living at all! I can’t fucking do this shit! I can’t do this!

Your breath catches.

Not because of the sharpness in his voice, or the way it breaks around the edges like something splintering under too much weight. But because of his hands. Of the way they clutch at you. The way his fingers curl into the fabric of your jeans, digging in, gripping like you’re the only thing keeping him from slipping into the void of whatever it is that he’s barely keeping at bay.

Like you are the edge of the cliff, and he’s already hanging off of it.

Your body is rigid. Muscles still locked in that same hesitation that formed through years of knowing better, of not touching, of not interfering, of waiting for the explosion so you can survive it.

But Barry doesn’t explode.

He just shakes.

He shakes like something that’s crumbling, a building without foundations. His breath is ragged, shallow, his whole body curling into you like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, like he just needs something to hold on to.

His forehead presses against your stomach, his arms tight around your thighs, locking you there, with him, in this.

You should move. You should say something. But your mouth is dry. Your hands hover, unsure, frozen in that same learned caution.

Men don’t want comfort when they’re like this, they want to hurt something, they want to lash out, they want to make sure you know your place. The calm, the shaking, the crying, that’s only supposed to come after the beating —A big show of remorse, a non-apology, a subtle, not exactly victimizing way of shifting the blame onto you, before they beg for comfort, before they take it from you while you're stunned.

But Barry doesn’t move to hurt you.

He just clings, and shakes, and holds you tighter, whispering your name in a plea as if he’s praying for salvation, as if he’s begging for relief.

A breath stumbles out of you.

Your fingers twitch.

And then, finally—

You touch him.

Carefully. Lightly. The tips of your fingers ghosting over his shoulders, the back of his neck, skimming the now damp strands of his hair. But it’s like you’re touching a non-newtonian fluid. He’s solid when you’re tense, but as soon as you touch him gently, he turns liquid. He melts on you, cries, clings, touching every part of you he can reach.

Barry exhales.

Shudders.

His grip tightens.

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t plead, he doesn’t murmur, he doesn’t pray. But you feel his lips part against you. His voice comes out small. Almost helpless. – I don’t wanna do this anymore, sweetheart. I don’t want this life. I don’t wanna do this shit anymore.

Your throat tightens.

You’ve seen Barry break down a fair share of times, but not like this.

He’s always exhausted. He barely sleeps, he barely eats, he’s always moving. But he never complains about it unless it’s pillowtalk. Unless he wants to be held. Unless he wants to be treated softly.

So you do.

Your hands move without thinking.

Sliding into his hair, over his shoulders, tracing the tense lines of his back.

Slow. Soft.

The way you would cradle something fragile.

It’s almost jarring the way he sinks into it, because in a way it feels like you’re petting a shark.

He’s smooth, but he’s reckless. He’s soft, but he’s all too strong, all too powerful. And you want him calm, but in the back of your mind, your thoughts push your actions forward more in fear of what he’d look like when he’s angry. And it’s even more shocking, that he does actually seem to calm down. Barry—who’s always grumbling, always pushing forward, always meeting the world teeth-first—is now curling into you. Pressing his face into your stomach like he can hide from all of it. Like he wants to.

So you let him.

Your fingers slip into his hair, smoothing through those dark, soft curls, down the back of his neck, feeling the way he shivers under your touch. The way his breath hitches, hands tightening over your thighs, gripping the fabric of your jeans like he’s bracing himself.

You whisper.

Soft. Steady. The way you would for a child stirring from a nightmare. – I know, Bee.

Barry shakes his head, burrowing closer.

Like that’s not enough.

Like he needs more.

His voice comes out hoarse, worn, like it’s been scraped raw. – I fucking hate this place, sweetheart.

– I know.��

Barry shudders. 

His hands slip up.

Over your knees, over your sides, fisting into your shirt, pulling you closer, pulling you down until you’re next to him, until he can almost lay over you. You barely register the movement before his forehead presses higher, into your ribs, his nose against the fabric of your shirt, his breath coming in slow, uneven gasps. – I hate it here. I hate it.

– We'll get out. – You whisper. His fingers flex. His arms tighten. It’s almost laughable. This tank of a man curling up on your lap like some needy rottweiler. Holding onto you like you’re the last real thing in his world. – I don't know how, I don’t  know when, but we're not gonna stay here forever, okay? We're just passing by. That’s all. 

Barry breathes you in. Slow. Deep. Like he’s trying to absorb this moment, consume it, make it a part of him. Like he thinks you might disappear if he doesn’t. His fingers stay curled in your shirt, gripping tight, holding you closer, like he’s afraid you might move, like he needs to anchor himself to you just to keep from slipping into whatever abyss is waiting for him.

You’ve never seen him like this.

Barry—who never asks for anything, who never shows when he needs something, who would rather drown than admit he can’t keep himself afloat—is pressing himself against you like he’s trying to crawl inside your ribs.

Like he thinks that might make it better. Like he’s needed this for years.

You wonder how long he spent trying to hold himself together.

How many nights he spent alone, curling in on himself, willing his body to be smaller, to take up less space. How many times he swallowed his pain, buried it deep, refused to let it out because he knew there was no one there to catch it.

And you think of the Barry you met —A kid sitting alone in a supermarket, waiting for a mother that would never return. A kid who tensed under every touch, who recoiled at softness, who flinched like love was something that burned. A kid who only ever let his guard down when he was drunk or angry—when he had no choice but to spill over. 

And then you think of the Barry you know now.

The one who always meets you with a hug. Who lets his shoulders drop, lets himself breathe when you’re near. Who speaks now—maybe not always in full sentences, maybe not always in words, but in looks, in sighs, in the steady weight of his arm thrown around you like a tether. The one who trusts you. Who needs you. Who's there. Really there.

You never realized just how much things had changed.

How, little by little, the walls lowered. How many silent concessions were made, how many quiet moments built up between you, until one day, without even noticing— You’re not only friends, you’re this mutualism. A symbiosis of trust, mutual benefit.

Barry has always been your best friend. Your only solace. Your safe haven.

But never like this.

Never in a way that meant he wasn’t just letting you have his back to bail him out, to fix things, to get him out of trouble. But because he wanted you there. Because he needed this. 

Not just your hands pulling him out of the fire. But your arms, your warmth, holding him.

Or maybe he has.

Maybe you’ve been like this for longer than you realized. Maybe he’s always needed you. And you were just still staring at that same mask he was wearing when you met him, when he was trying to get you to see what was beyond.

– You promise? – His voice is low, small, but it’s almost hopeful.

– Yeah, Bee. I promise you. I'll make some money, you'll make your own. We’ll be out of here before you know it, okay?

He breathes in.

He exhales.

He holds you tighter. – You promised.

It takes you a moment.

He's calmer now, but he's still buried in you, he's still curled up on you like a kid.

– I'm not taking it back, I swear to you. Hand on the bible. – You put your hand on his head, and he laughs, almost as if startled. But he relaxes all the more.

– You promised. – He repeats. As if it’s a comfort.

You should say something.

You should crack a joke, should pull away, should shift like he does whenever these moments turn into something you both know it shouldn’t. But you don’t.

You just let him stay.

You keep holding him, without thinking, tracing slow, absentminded circles over his shoulders, down his spine, the way you might soothe a dog after a storm.

He exhales.

Shudders. His grip tightens, then loosens. Now he’s laying on you. His body thrown over yours, warm, lax, still, as you lean back on the couch cushions, holding him like this was always how it’s been.

– I’m tired, sweetheart. – He repeats. His voice is barely a breath, low and quiet, like he’s already half-asleep. But there’s none of the frustration, none of the desperation there was in his tone before. It’s not a cry, and it’s not a confession, it’s something comfortable, almost a request.

– Go to sleep, Bee. – You say, and he hums, shaking his head against you, almost as if he’s nuzzling in. – What's wrong? You need something else? – You feel him move, shifting until he’s looking at you, leaning into your hand as you wipe the last tear trails off his face. – You hungry?

He chuckles, soft and breathy over your chest, and lays his head down again. – Starving.

You shift, hands still pressed against his shoulders as you slide off from under him. Barry grumbles, an arm still taught around your waist, pulling you back. – It’s fine, we can eat tomorrow.

– You’ll sleep better on a full stomach. – He grumbles again, shaking his head. – I don’t wanna hear it. Lay back. Sleep a little. I’ll bring you some when it’s ready.

Barry groans, burying his face into your stomach, arms still locked around your waist, heavy and warm, refusing to let you go. – You’re a pain in my ass, sweetheart.

You roll your eyes, brushing a hand through his hair, feeling the way he melts into it, the way his grip slackens just slightly under your touch. – Yeah, yeah. And you’ll starve without me, so move.

He huffs, but finally his arms loosen. You shift again, slipping out from under him, ignoring the way his body hesitates before letting you go.

Barry sprawls against the cushions, one arm thrown over his face, the other still half-reaching, even while half-asleep. You stand, stretch, breathe, and glance at him once more. At the way his chest rises and falls, at the way his fingers twitch like he’s already dreaming.

You try not to think of the other person in the house as you step into the kitchen.

The stove light hums, casting everything in a dim, yellow glow before you switch on the light. You reach for the cabinets, fingers brushing over the ingredients, already prepping.

You soak the beans first. Washing the vegetables, chopping the onions, cutting the meat, prepping the seasoning.

It comes together easily.

Carne asada, roast vegetables, beans. Simple. Easy. Quick.

It seemed like a good choice beforehand. But you're standing before the counter, watching everything come together, and you realize you'll have to face Rafe eventually.

You can’t put him on hold forever. Especially not now, that he almost died again.

You catch yourself listening in for his breathing every so often. Barry’s trailer is small, barely a wall between the kitchen and the room. You can hear him moving. Shifting. You can hear him groan.

You plate the food carefully, setting everything in place, arranging it without thinking. A habit. A distraction. Anything to keep your hands busy as you breathe, slow and steady, trying to push past the weight in your chest.

You listen.

Barry’s breathing is deep now, even. The kind of sleep that comes when exhaustion finally wins. He’s safe. He’s warm. He’s okay.

Rafe is another story.

Your fingers tighten around the edge of the plate as you glance toward the hallway. The light in his room is still on. You know he hasn’t slept.

You should go.

But you don’t move.

You just stand there, feeling the heat of the plate in your hands, the way it seeps through the ceramic, warming your skin. You don’t know what you’ll find when you step inside that room.

Rafe could be fine.

Or he could be pacing. Fidgeting. Coming down from whatever storm was in his head before he crashed and burned through those pills. He could be sitting there, jaw clenched, knuckles white, barely holding himself together. Or maybe he’s waiting. 

Waiting for you to stop avoiding him.

Waiting so he can sink his teeth into you again.

You take a breath, sharp, quick. Shake your head. Move.

The floor creaks as you step toward his door, and you hate that you hesitate before knocking. Before pushing it open. Before stepping into that space, not knowing if you’ll be met with gratitude or something else entirely.

You don’t want to see the worst of him tonight. You don’t want to see the weight of everything that’s already too much. But you also can’t leave him alone.

So you push the door open, just slightly, just enough to slip inside.

And Rafe is there.

Sitting at the edge of the bed, one foot tapping against the floor, hands braced on his knees. Tense. Tired. Something unreadable in his face as he looks up at you, as his eyes flicker to the plate in your hands, as his lips part. – Thought you gave up on me, baby. – His voice is gravelly, low, coarse, almost gone. The silence stretches between you, thick and heavy before he speaks again. – But you always come back.

You shift.

He smiles, and you step back slightly as he reaches for the plate in your hand.

His fingers brush against yours as he takes the plate, lingering just long enough to make it deliberate. The smirk on his face doesn’t quite reach his eyes. They’re still a little unfocused, still hazy from the pills, but there’s something else there too. Something sharper. Calculated.

You don’t sit. You don’t move closer. You just watch as he stares at the food, tilting the plate slightly like he’s considering whether or not he actually wants it.

– You scared me, y'know? – He murmurs. The words are soft, almost fragile. They should mean something. They should sound like they mean something.

But they don’t.

Your jaw tightens. – You scared yourself.

Rafe laughs, breathy, barely there. – Yeah, – He sighs, shifting on the bed. – Yeah, I did. – He sets the plate aside without taking a bite, then looks back at you, head tilting slightly, eyes dark under the dim light. – But you saved me, didn’t you? – His eyes gleam. – Again. You keep doing that.

His smile widens, the gleam in his eye shifting into something familiar. Something sharp. Something you don't fully know. – You keep doing that because you love me, too.

– Rafe,

– Shh. – He leans closer, smiling with the sort of mischief a child has when they’re about to trick someone. – It's— It's okay baby. You don't have to say anything right now.

You don’t answer.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands loose between them. His foot is still tapping against the floor. Slow. Rhythmic. Like he’s waiting for something.

– I thought, – He says, voice dipping, drawing you in despite yourself, – y’know, for a second there, before you got the shit out of my system—I thought I was gone. – He shakes his head, licking his lips, like he’s recalling something tragic, something gut-wrenching, but it's hard to believe it when he can’t stop smiling. – It was— He exhales sharply, fingers gripping his knee. – God, it was terrifying, baby. I was so scared.

You don’t miss the way his voice lilts at the end, the way he almost smiles through it. The way his hand lifts slightly, like he’s expecting you to take it.

Like he’s waiting for you to fold.

You inhale slowly. Exhale even slower.

He watches.

Then he shifts, hands gripping the edge of the mattress as he leans in, just a little.

– You have to eat, Rafe.

His lips twitch. 

He huffs a small, amused sound, eyes flickering over your face, searching, probing. – You’re mean. – He chuckles.

– And you’re full of shit.

That makes him grin.

It’s small. Crooked. Lazy in a way that would be charming if you didn’t know better.

Then he reaches out, fingers just grazing your wrist before you pull away.

His grin falters.

But only for a second.

Then he exhales, long and slow, dragging a hand through his hair before falling back against the mattress. His head lolls to the side as he watches you, tapping his fingers against his stomach.

– You always come back to me.

It’s not gratitude. It’s not relief.

It’s certainty.

And it makes something curl, tight and uneasy, in your chest.

– Eat the food and go to sleep, Rafe.

You say, already turning to the door. But you only make it two steps before he slams into you.

You squeal, pressed against the door, him leaning his whole body on yours as if he hadn’t almost died, as if he weren't barely able to open his eyes less than an hour ago. – I told you not to run away from me! – He growls, frowns, looks at you as if you’re hurting him. 

His hands press against the door on either side of you, caging you in. His body is warm—too warm. Like he’s still burning through the remnants of whatever was in his system. Like he’s still wired, still desperate for something to anchor him.

– Rafe!—What—What are you doing?!

You stare at him, your breath caught in your throat. His chest rises and falls too quickly, like he’s trying to steady himself but can’t. Like he doesn’t want to.

– I told you not to run away from me. Stop running away from me. – His voice is rough, thick with something that might be frustration, might be desperation, might be something else entirely. His jaw clenches, his fingers curling into fists against the door.

You swallow hard. – I wasn’t running!

Rafe laughs, but it’s short, humorless. His head tilts, eyes flickering over your face, searching for something, digging for it. – Yeah, you were! You were! You were running back to Barry. – He looks away, biting the inside of his cheek, but he only moved closer. – I’m telling you he isn’t worth it and you're not listening to me. You're not.

– Let go, Rafe.

His hand moves, slow, deliberate, brushing against your arm before curling around your wrist. Holding, not squeezing. Not yet.

– You don’t have to be scared, baby, – He murmurs, as if you hadn't said anything before. His thumb skims the inside of your wrist, soft, almost reverent. – I’d never hurt you. I'm not Barry. I’m not JJ. I keep telling you this, but you’re still not listening!

You know better than to believe that.

Not because it’s a lie, but because Rafe believes it.

Because hurting you wouldn’t feel like hurting you to him. Not if he could convince himself it was love.

Your pulse kicks against his fingers, and his gaze drops to it, watching. Feeling. His grip tightens just slightly, just enough to make you shift.

His smile returns.

Slow. Sickly sweet.

– See? – He whispers. – You don’t really wanna go.

– You're insane!

– You’re the one who's driving me insane! You’re wasting your time! Don't you see that?! You can comfort him all he wants. He's never gonna love you! Never! He never did!

Rafe’s voice cracks, just slightly, just enough to make your stomach twist. His grip on your wrist tightens again, like he’s trying to hold onto something slipping through his fingers.

His breath is hot against your face, too close, too much.

– I love you, – He says, almost frantic. – I do. – His other hand lifts, fingertips skimming your jaw, tilting your chin up, forcing you to see him, to see the raw, desperate thing in his eyes. – And you— He exhales sharply, shaking his head. – You keep looking for it in people who don’t fucking deserve you, when I'm right here! – His voice softens, but his grip doesn’t. – I deserve you. I waited fucking years to have you. You're mine.

Your stomach knots, something cold curling around your ribs.

– No, – You whisper.

His nostrils flare. His jaw twitches.

Then his hand leaves your wrist, only to press flat against the door beside your head, caging you in completely.

– You don’t mean that, – He says, quieter now. It’s almost sweet, almost coaxing—like he’s trying to convince himself as much as you.

– Rafe.

– You don’t, – He insists. His fingers brush your waist, featherlight, barely there, but it makes you flinch anyway. His lips twitch. – I know you don’t, baby. I know you don't. Don't worry. You’re saying this because you’re angry. – Your heart slams against your ribs. – You’re just scared. – His palm smooths over your waist now, slow, lingering, like he’s trying to soothe you. – I can show you.

You turn your head before he can close the distance, your breath hitching as his lips brush the corner of your jaw instead. Rafe freezes for a second, like he’s waiting for you to change your mind, for you to give in.

When you don’t, his hand tightens on your waist.

– Why are you fighting me? – His voice is soft, almost wounded. But there’s something else beneath it—something sharp, something angry. – You like it, baby. I like it. You always like it when I kiss you, why do you keep fighting it?!

You press your palms against his chest, pushing, but he doesn’t move.

– Stop!

His fingers dig in just slightly, frustration flickering in his eyes. – Why?

– Because you're scaring me, Rafe! – you snap, trying to keep your voice steady, but your pulse is hammering, and he can feel it. – I just fucking met you! I don't know anything about you! Now you're— You’re telling me that you’ve been watching me for years, that you— Rafe!—Stop it!

He exhales sharply, jaw clenching. Then, just as suddenly as he grabbed you, he lets go.

Your breath stumbles in your throat as he steps back, running a hand through his hair, pacing once, twice. His movements are jittery, restless, his body still coming down from the pills. Then he stops. Looks at you.

And smiles.

Not the lazy, crooked grin from before. Not the smirk that makes your stomach flip in ways you hate.

– What are you talking about? – Your stomach drops. – You know me. You know me like the palm of your hand. You know me better than anyone.

– Rafe—

– No, no. I know you too, baby. I know you’re always downplaying the things you do, that you think you don’t deserve compliments, that you don’t think you deserve love. But you do. You do! And you know me. That day, in the kitchen, baby— He chuckles, smiling bright, dazed, like this is the single most beautiful moment of his life. He rushes onto you, his bad hand drifting over your shoulders, his good hand squeezing your arm. – I knew we were meant to be right there. I knew it. You read me like a book. You did. You knew everything. Everything I would like, everything I didn't. Because you know me. You know me in your bones.

His touch is everywhere—cloying, suffocating, creeping over your skin like ivy. His fingers trail down your arms, slow, reverent, and when you tense, his grip tightens just enough to make you still.

– See? – Rafe murmurs, tilting his head, eyes flickering between yours. His thumb strokes your wrist, light and slow, pressing against the pulse point. Feeling it. Feeling you. – You feel it too. We’re meant to be!

Your breath stutters.

– I—

– You just get scared, – He interrupts, nodding, as if he’s already decided how you feel, how you must feel. – That’s okay, baby. I told you. I’d never hurt you.

Your throat constricts.

Not because it’s a lie, but because he believes it.

Because, in his head, this isn’t hurting you.

His hands skim up, pressing over your shoulders, your neck, the sides of your face—trapping you, holding you still. You can feel his breath on your lips, can smell the remnants of whatever he took earlier, something chemical, something sharp.

– You don’t have to say it yet, – He whispers, thumbs tracing along your jaw. His voice dips, drawing you in despite yourself. – I know it’s scary. I know I’m scary sometimes, but I don’t mean to be, baby. It’s just— He exhales, pressing his forehead to yours, his grip tightening. – You don’t know what it’s like to want something for so long and finally have it.

You flinch. – Rafe—

His breath is ragged now, his grip burning against your skin, his pupils so dark they swallow you whole. – You don’t get it, – He murmurs, voice low, shaking. – You don’t know what it did to me. – His thumbs stroke slow, lazy circles against your arms, but his touch isn’t soothing—it’s starved. – Every night, every fucking night, they'd just rip into me. My dad. And Rose, and Sarah, and you fucking brother and his pogue friends. Everybody. Everybody did. Nobody cared. Nobody would even fucking look twice if I was dying in front of them— His breath stumbles. – And then you did. You did and you loved me. The things you said to me, baby. That I shouldn't hurt myself like that. That I— That I didn’t deserve it. That I was too good for it. 

His hands slide to your waist, fingers curling in your shirt, pulling, like he needs to feel something, like he’s seconds away from crawling inside your skin.

– I’d turn over, press my face into the pillow, bite it, just so I wouldn’t scream. – His voice drops to a rasp. – So I wouldn’t fucking cry. So I wouldn’t put a bullet in my fucking head and end it there.

– Rafe—

– And then you held me. You made it all stop. You just— You shut it all out. – His head tilts, and the ghost of a smile curves his lips, slow, indulgent, like he’s savoring the memory of his own suffering. – I slept so good that night. I wasn’t even thinking about the speedball, or Kelce, or Topper, or my dad. I wasn’t thinking about anything. Just about you. How you were holding me. I’d pull the blankets over my head, pretend you were there with me like that night. I’d wrap them so tight around me I could barely breathe. Because that’s all I fucking want. – His forehead presses against yours, his breath hot, damp. – You. Holding me. Touching me. Fuck— Just touch me baby. Please, I need you to hold me. Touch me.

His fingers curl at the nape of your neck, just enough to make your breath hitch. They brush against your windpipe. You freeze.

You can’t die like this.

You won’t die like this. 

So you touch him. 

Your arms fall around his waist, trying to contain the shaking.

His smile widens.

– I need you so bad I think I'm gonna die.

He exhales sharply, a shudder rolling through him, and buries his face into the crook of your neck. – But now you’re here. – He whispers, his nose brushing yours. – You’re here. You're here and you're making it quiet, Just like I knew you would.

His hands move before you can stop them—one curling around your wrist, the other pressing flat against your back. Warm. Heavy. Unshakable.

– You owe me this, – He breathes, voice raw, desperate. – After everything. Just—just lay down. Just for a second, baby. Please.

You shake your head, twisting in his grip, but he barely budges. His fingers dig into your spine, firm but not bruising. Not yet.

– I—Rafe, I can’t—

– Yes, you can. – He exhales sharply, his forehead falling to your shoulder, the weight of him sudden, crushing. – Please.

He’s shaking now, his body wracked with something that looks too much like grief, like exhaustion so deep it’s sinking into his bones.

– You don’t get it. – His voice cracks. – I'm tired of feeling empty. I'm tired of sleeping alone. I’m so fucking tired.

His knees buckle, and you stumble, barely catching yourself before he drags you down with him. His arms lock around you, caging you, keeping you pressed against his chest as he sinks onto the bed.

His head tips back, eyes fluttering shut.

– Just lay on me, – He murmurs, pulling you closer, his fingers trailing up, up, slipping into your hair, stroking, soothing, coaxing. – Just for a second. Just—please, baby, I can’t do this anymore.

You freeze.

Because you know what this is.

And you don’t know what happens then.

So you go still.

And that’s all the permission he needs.

His body goes slack beneath you, his breath evening out, his fingers still in your hair.

– You’re so warm, – He whispers. – So fucking warm.

A shiver runs down your spine.

His arms twitch, restless, pulling you in one second, shifting the next, like he can’t decide how he wants you—only that he needs you closer. His breath is hot, frantic against your temple, his chest rising and falling too fast beneath your cheek.

– You don’t know what it was like, – He murmurs, shaking his head, his nose brushing against your hair, inhaling deeply like he’s starving for you. – Laying there, staring at the ceiling, knowing we should be together, knowing you should be there, holding me, but being too fucking scared.

His grip tightens, fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt, pressing you deeper into him like he’s trying to fuse you together. He shifts, exhaling sharply, then laughs—soft, breathless, almost delirious.

– After my dad tore me apart for the hundredth time. After Sarah got away with everything. After JJ— He stops, his jaw clenching, his whole body going rigid for a second before he exhales, lets it go. Keeps holding you.

His hands start moving again, gliding over your back, up your arms, tracing you, learning you like he hasn’t already memorized every inch.

– I’d get in bed, – He continues, voice rasping, barely above a whisper. – Bury my face in the pillow and pretend it was you. Pretend you were there, whispering how good I am, how much you love me, how you’d never leave me.

He shifts again, presses his forehead into your shoulder, breathes you in like you’re oxygen. His fingers twitch against your thigh before tightening, holding, claiming.

– Some nights, I’d pull the covers over me. Pretend it was you. That you were laying on me, breathing against my neck, making me safe. – His grip tenses, body curling in, pulling you with him.

– You make it stop, – He breathes, like a confession, like a prayer. – The noise, the shit in my head, the— He swallows hard, shifting again, pressing his lips against your temple, lingering, murmuring against your skin. – Everything.

He exhales shakily, his entire body trembling with it, then laughs again, dazed and wrecked and yours.

His breath shudders against your cheek, warm and damp, every exhale tinged with something desperate, something ruined. His fingers keep moving, restless, needing—dragging slow, feverish paths down your spine, over your ribs, gripping, releasing, gripping again like he can’t stand the thought of letting you go.

His head tilts, nuzzling into the curve of your neck, inhaling, holding his breath like he wants to keep you inside his lungs. His fingers curl around your wrist, pressing your palm against his chest, against the frantic, skipping rhythm of his heart.

– You feel that? – He murmurs, his voice unraveling, his grip tightening. – You do that to me. You always have. And I— He exhales, his whole body trembling, shifting, pulling you impossibly closer.  His lips ghost along your skin, not kissing, just close enough to tease. To make you feel the heat of him, the need.

A shudder rolls through him, violent, like the memory hurts. His hands slide higher, up your arms, over your shoulders, trembling as they settle on either side of your face. His thumbs brush your cheekbones, reverent, aching.

– I’d close my eyes and feel your fingers in my hair, – He breathes, tilting his head, brushing his nose against yours, so close, too close. – Soft. The way I always wanted. The way I need.

His breath stutters, and he laughs—wrecked, breathless, barely holding on.

– But you weren’t there, – He murmurs, voice shaking. – You weren’t there.

And then he’s kissing you.

It’s slow at first—painfully slow—his lips pressing against yours like he’s trying to memorize it, like he’s trying to make up for every single night he spent wanting.

Then his hands slip lower, gripping, pulling, claiming, and suddenly it isn’t slow anymore.

His breath stutters as he kisses you, a whimper slipping past his lips—small, desperate, like he’s starving for you, like he’s finally tasting something he’s spent years craving. His hands won’t stay still. One grips the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair, the other pressing firm against the small of your back, locking you against him. Like if he holds you tight enough, you won’t slip away. Like if he lets go, you might disappear.

You’re shaking. He can feel it.

But he doesn’t stop.

He sighs against your mouth, deep and shuddering, like you’re air, like you’re the first breath after drowning. His nose nudges against yours, his lips trailing lower, brushing your cheek, your jaw, your throat. Not kissing, not really. Just breathing you in.

– I knew you’d feel like this, – He whispers, voice wrecked. – Knew you’d fit me like this. Perfect. Like you were made for me. You were made for me.

His lips press against your pulse. He groans, like the racing beat beneath his mouth is something sacred. Like it belongs to him.

– You’re mine, – He murmurs, nuzzling closer, arms tightening. – Mine. Say it.

You swallow hard, your hands pressing against his chest, trying to push him back. He doesn't budge.

– Rafe, – You whisper, voice shaking. – I have to—

His grip only tightens. – No.

His voice cracks. Just slightly. But then he laughs—soft, breathless, his lips curving against your throat.

– You're not going anywhere now. – His head tilts, his nose dragging up the side of your neck, slow, savoring. His fingers tighten in your hair. – You can’t.

His breath shudders, his arms winding tighter around you, his body practically shaking with the force of holding back.

– You think I could just let you go after everything? After all those nights? – His voice drops lower, almost a whisper, almost tender. – After lying alone in that fucking house, thinking about you while my father— His breath hitches. – While Sarah—

His jaw clenches. His hands flex against your skin.

– You don’t get to leave me, – He whispers. – You don’t. I know you don’t want to. You can’t leave.

His lips brush against your temple, a kiss too soft for how hard he’s holding you.

His fingers slide lower, gripping your waist. Holding. Keeping.

– I’ll be good, – He breathes against your skin, like a promise, like a plea. – I swear, baby, I’ll be so fucking good. Just—just stay.

His arms tighten. His breath shudders.– Just stay.

@chatgtfo @bitterdotcom @xmayankax @bluethperson @coralblue35 @myluvingera @munsoncultedits @the-bitch-who-binges @im-julessssss @redkarmakai @hwaaholic @sydkneez @sassyvilliantrope @vampiriito @sassybearfire @matildalittlefreak @sunsetkiss333

[bonnie-the-butcher]

Rip Tide | Chapter XVI

[ MDNI ] [ word count: 9.261 ] [ Masterlist ] 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬: Canonverse/Canon-Divergent; Dark! Content; NSFW; Strong Language; Cheating; Drug Use; Mentions of overdose; Some shades of Munchausen syndrome from dear old Rafe; Manipulation; Toxic, obsessive behaviour; Stalking; Violence; DUBCON/NONCON; My writing is really pretentious and English is not my first language, so please feel free to call me out in whichever grammar mistakes you might find find.

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | You and JJ have always been in each other's orbit. He's your brother’s best friend, the guy you've known your entire life. He was kind, protective, familiar. You never meant for the two of you to start hooking up. And you never meant for it to last so long. But when this boy you thought you'd come to know like the back of your hand turns out to be no better than the men he'd warned you about, you find yourself in the sights of the guy he hates most, regardless of wether you want that or not.

HAD MY FIRST DAY AT UNI YESRTEDAY YALL!I'm so sorry that I'm now just posting once a week instead of every 3 days, but Uni Prep had me in a frenzy, lmao. I'm gonna try my best to keep up with the posting schedule for you guys' sakes because seeing you like this is literally my therapy. Likes, asks, reblogs, and comments are always greatly appreciated! Thank you in advance for reading <3

The wind screams past your ears.

Your fingers are clenched so tightly around the throttle that they ache, the roar of the bike's engine rattling through your bones. Cold air whips against your skin, sharp and punishing, your hair flying wild behind you, your breath coming in short, uneven gasps.

Your heart is still pounding, slamming, against your ribcage at a speed more punishing than the one you’re driving at.

You shouldn’t be driving this fast.

You know you shouldn’t be driving this fast.

Your stomach lurches at the thought—JJ’s hands on the bike, the reckless speed, the way he took those turns just to scare you. The memory hits you, sharp and brutal—the screech of metal, the asphalt rushing up to meet you, the burn of terror that rose up your throat as the bike scraped against the pavement.

You should have learned your lesson —You should be driving slowly. But you can still feel Rafe’s hands on you. You still hear his voice, soft, certain, suffocating.

"I know you love me.""You’ll learn.""We’re meant to be."

Your stomach turns violently.

The moment plays over and over in your mind, tangled up in itself, looping like a nightmare you can’t wake up from. His breath against your skin, the way he grabbed you, kissed you, forced you still. The way he spoke about that night, about your skirt, about something from three fucking years ago—something you don’t even remember.

That’s what horrifies you the most.

That he does remember.

Because he’s been thinking about it, obsessing over it, building his own fantasy out of this memory.

This memory that you don't even have.

He’s been letting you play at getting to know him for a week. Letting you cling to the slivers of information he gives you, trying to piece him together, while he’s known you, analyzed you, thought about you, been around you for YEARS.

You press harder on the gas.

Shoreline rushes up too quick, too bright, too loud. The street lights blur into the flickering neon signs, into the colors of the setting sun that smear together like paint across the sky. Your eyes dart, searching, frantic, you barely see. The speed is too much, the light is too much, the sounds are too much, everything inside you rages, raves, roars, as if you’re being consumed by a vortex that’s settled inside your brain and is destroying everything around it.

Until—

Barry.

You recognize him immediately, the posture, the carelessness, even without seeing his face. His head is in his hands, a cigarette burning between his fingers, the glow of it flickering with every slow inhale. His elbows rest on his knees, his whole body slumped forward, exhaling in a long, steady breath.

You cut the engine.

The moment he hears it, he’s up.

Barry moves fast, his head snapping up, eyes immediately locking onto yours. He’s already moving toward you before you even get both feet on the ground, already talking, already scolding—

How the fuck did you get here so fast— Whe— where's your helmet—?

But you don’t let him finish.

Your body moves before your mind does—you’re running, running into him, your arms wrapping around his torso as if he were a lifeline. 

Your fingers fist into the fabric of his shirt, face burying into his chest, the warmth of him seeping through your skin, his scent wrapping around you like something steady, something solid.

You feel him freeze for a second. Like he doesn’t understand. Like this is something new. – What— Sweetheart, what happened?

You shake your head, still buried in his embrace, still clinging to him like he's the only thing keeping you on the ground. – I hate this bike. – You mumble, the first excuse that comes to mind. – I hate the moron that invented a bike, I hate you for having a bike and I don't wanna ride a bike ever again.

He laughs, relaxes.

His arms tighten around you.

His hand slides up, pressing against the back of your head, steady, grounding. His other hand curls around your waist, fingers pressing firm, protective. His breath is slow and steady, even as his heart pounds beneath your cheek.

Neither of you say anything for a moment. 

Barry holds you. Solid. Grounded. Real. But inside, you’re still moving.

The speed is still dragging at your sides. The road is still rushing past you, blurring at the edges, folding in on itself like a wave crashing over your head.

And Rafe—

Rafe is still there.

You feel shaken loose, untethered. You’ve stepped off the bike but haven’t stopped moving. You’re still hurtling forward at full speed, no breaks, but there’s no road beneath you anymore.

His voice.

His hands.

His grip.

Barry shifts. You feel it—the slight flex of his fingers against your back, the slow, careful breath he exhales against your hair.

– Sweetheart, – His voice is softer now, quieter. Like he can feel it. Like he can tell you’re still buzzing, barely keeping it together. His hand drags slow, deliberate, up and down your back. He's trying to soothe you, but it’s not working. – It’s just the speed. You went too fast. You’re gonna be okay. Just breathe.

You try.

But the air feels too thick, too heavy. And it catches in the way down your lungs like Rafe’s hands are still tight around your windpipe, like he’s still blocking the way.

You squeeze your eyes shut, pressing your face deeper into his chest.

He's warm —You try to focus on that, on the warmth of him. On the way he holds you like a straightjacket.

He's here.

You're here.

Away from Rafe.

Out of his grip.

Out of danger.

Barry sighs, long and slow, his chin dipping slightly, his arms wrapping a little tighter—like he’s letting you hold on as much as you need.

You wish it were enough.

You wish it could just pull the feeling out of you.

But Rafe’s voice still lingers.

You move your head, and when your ears rustle through the fabric of Barry’s shirt, and you swear you can hear Rafe’s laughter in it.

A shudder rolls through you.

Barry feels it.

His grip tightens instantly.

– Hey. – His voice is firmer now, edged with something sharper, something protective. – Are you sure it’s just the bike?

You just nod your head again.

You can’t talk about this.

Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

Barry exhales, long and slow, like he’s trying to steady himself as much as you. His fingers press against your waist, curling slightly, keeping you in place, steady, solid.

You burrow closer. The warmth of him, you try to remind yourself. Focus on that. On the smoke and the menthol and the burn of something headier that wraps around you like a shield, like something solid, something that won’t crumble under your touch.

Barry shifts. Just slightly. – Sweetheart. – His voice is quiet. Not teasing. Not scolding. Soft. Careful. – You're shaking.

Your throat feels tight. 

Your fingers curl into his shirt.

You don’t know how to answer.

Because what are you supposed to say? You can’t tell him the truth. You can't tell him that you can still feel Rafe's hands on you. That his voice is still echoing in your head, that his grip still lingers around you as if it were carved into your skin, that you feel like you’re suffocating in your own body?

You shake your head again, a sharp, desperate movement, and Barry feels it.

His grip tightens.

Barry shifts again, just barely, just enough that you feel it—the flex of his fingers, the way his chest rises against yours, the way he exhales, slow and heavy.

But he doesn’t let go.

And for a moment, you think he relaxes into it, that he holds you as if he’s just trying to ground himself on you as well.

He clears his throat. Stiffens the slightest bit.

– You’re still shaking. – He tries again. Softer this time, but it doesn’t last. – Are you crying? What—Sweetheart, what's going on?

You shake your head, swallowing hard, clutching him even tighter. The fear is still there, still pressing against your ribs, still sitting heavy in your throat.

– The bike, – You mumble against his chest. – I thought I was gonna die. It's— Your voice drifts, cold, gone. The words come out before you can stop them. – It’s like he's right here. Like we're—

Barry stiffens immediately, his expression shifting from worry to rage. His arms tighten around you, breath going sharper, faster, like he’s trying to hold back a reaction.

You feel his jaw twitch where it rests against your head. – He ain’t gonna get to you again, okay? – Your heart stumbles. Your pulse spikes. You swish the words around in your mind, trying to believe it. You let the gravel of his voice comfort you, echo around you, and it's warm, his arms are tight, and the ache in your bones is almost forgotten. – JJ ain’t gonna try any of that shit with you, not when I’m here. I promise.

JJ.

It almost confuses you, because there’s so much shit going on, it takes you a moment to remember what it was exactly that JJ did to piss Barry off. You nearly forgot that he almost killed you— You barely remember the way he acted, the way he threw you on the bike, the way he spat at you like he wanted you to bleed.

All you remember is how small he looked when it was over —How he sat there, next to you, hunched over, voice hoarse, begging. How he crumbled, pathetic and groveling, when he realized that you were not gonna relent.

But none of it matters.

Not anymore.

It's not JJ’s hands you feel anymore. 

It's Rafe's.

The way he grabbed you, like you were nothing, like you were a thing.

The things he said to you.

Barry’s grip tightens, his arms wrapping around you even closer – Hey— His voice drops lower, quieter. His comforting voice. His calm-her-down voice. – It’s okay. I got you. He ain't gonna try that again. You're gonna have to get back on that thing, though, sweetheart. – He dips his head lower, his breath warm against your temple, his voice even softer now, steady, grounding. – I’ll take you back home. We’ll go slow, yeah?

You freeze.

The fear comes crashing back, sharp and suffocating, pressing against your ribs, clawing up your throat. – No! – You say it too fast. Too firm.

Barry pulls back slightly. Not letting go. Not pushing. Just enough to see your face, to search your expression, to figure out what the fuck is going on.

His brows draw together.

His hand tightens.

His eyes narrow.

– Sweetheart—

You don’t let him. Barry has a way of jumping to conclusions, and this conclusion is so obvious that you fear a second of rationalization will get him to the truth. – There’s a grocery store around the corner. I just passed it. We need to go shopping anyway, Bee. Let’s just get it over with, please.

You just need some time.

A distraction.

You’ll buy the things to make a decent meal—something to sink your focus into, something to keep your hands busy and your mind preoccupied until you have to look Rafe in the eye again. By then, there’ll be dishes to wash, leftovers to put away, a mess to clean. 

You’ll have an excuse to keep moving, to keep yourself from having to talk to Rafe face-to-face.

When that’s done you’ll all go to sleep and you'll only actually have to face him in the morning.

Crisis averted.

You can deal with this, but only if you don’t actually have to face it. – C'mon. Let’s go there, I'll figure out something to make for us.

You pull on him, turning, but he locks you in place.

Barry hesitates, lips pressing together like he’s weighing whether to say something. He exhales, almost sheepish, as if he were embarrassed. – I ain’t got money on me right now.

You blink, momentarily thrown off.

– That’s fine, – You say, brushing it off with a wave of your hand. – I’m the one paying.

Barry scoffs immediately, almost flinching like the suggestion physically pained him. – No. No— no you’re not.

– Bee— You start, but he’s already shaking his head, gaze flicking away like the conversation is beneath him.

– You’re not paying for my food.

– I'm making food for both of us. – You try, softer this time. – The last check from the Wreck just cleared. And now that I’m not splitting the bills with someone, I can afford to spend more on groceries.

Barry’s expression shifts, the casual defiance slipping just slightly. His jaw tightens, brows pulling together in a deep furrow.

There’s another scoff, but this one feels off—less dismissive, more unsettled. His grip on you loosens as if he'd let go, but his shoulders don’t relax and his arms are still around you, tense, but grounding. He’s staring at you now, like he’s trying to decipher something he didn’t realize he needed to.

– What the hell do you mean you’re paying bills? – His voice is sharper this time, laced with something like offense. – Why would you pay any bills at my place?

Your stomach drops.

Oh.

Of course. A place to crash, not a home.

The thought comes quick, instinctive, like a splinter working its way under your skin. You nod fast, pulling back to save face before he has the chance to walk it back, before guilt can make him soften the edges of what he just said.

– Yeah, – You clear your throat, looking away. – I just meant—I’m looking around already. You know I’ll figure something out soon.

Barry’s frown deepens. His fingers flex against your arms. – What? No—That ain’t— His grip tightens again, like the idea of you leaving has only just registered. Like he’s trying to hold onto it before you slip away. – You ain’t figuring anything out, – He says, almost angry. – You’re staying! Sweetheart, it’s our place. My house is your house. That's how it's always been, and that's how it's gonna stay.

Your breath catches.

He says it so simply. So easily. Like it’s never even been a question.

Your fingers curl slightly into the fabric of his shirt, grounding yourself. The knot in your chest loosens, the weight of that sinking feeling lifting just enough for you to breathe again.

– Then what—? – You exhale sharply, still trying to catch up. – I can’t stay at your house and not pay bills. You’re not even gonna let me pay for groceries?

That offended expression flashes over Barry's face again, and now he steps away, laughing. – What, you think I’m a bitch, like your brother? That I’m gonna let you waste your money on this shit like you ain’t paying for me to do nothing? – He scoffs, cold, reprehensive. – That's not me, sweetheart. I'm not letting you provide shit like I'm your kid.

– Jesus, Barry. It's not like I’m not offering to be your sugar mommy. I just wanna buy groceries. I can’t eat the food at your house.

He raises a brow, a ghost of a grin on his lips. – What? It ain’t gourmet enough for you?

– Exactly. – You feel yourself smile, the weight in your chest easing the slightest bit. – I am a lady, Bee. And cup noodles are just depressing, I can’t let you eat like that. If I’m staying at your house—

– You are. 

– Well, then you’re gonna be eating what I’m eating. And I’m not eating fucking cup noodles. I’m making us actual food. 

Barry scoffs, tilting his head at you. – What, so I gotta eat your fancy Kook shit now? Do I gotta move to figure eight too? Start wearing polos and talking like I got a concussion?

You roll your eyes, the laughter falling from your lips before you can stop it. – Just cause I work for kooks, it doesn’t mean I cook like one.

– Sounds like the same thing to me. – He scoffs. – Do rich people even cook at all? I thought that was the reason you had a job to begin with. That they can’t do anything for themselves.

– Thank God for that. The Camerons are paying me almost three times what I got at the Wreck. I'm not getting that payout at any restaurant in the state.

He chuckles, scratching his head. – Maybe I should break the pipes at their place, they'd probably get me more than what I'm getting paid to hustle.

“Hustle” You don't comment on that.

– You’re already getting paid twice the minimum wage a week just to provide merchandise to their junkie son, aren’t you? Think you can do better than that?

Barry makes a face. – I’m not the one babysitting him, am I?

It hits you like a slap in the face.

You swallow thickly, looking away, and change the subject. – What was the last vegetable you ate, Bee?

Barry makes a face, immediately suspicious. – Why you askin’ me trick questions?

– The only thing I know about your eating habits is that your favorite thing is grits and that you eat like a raccoon. I need to know what I'm working with here.

– You gonna private chef me now? – He chuckles, smiling stupidly as he drags a hand through his hair. – Gonna wear a maid outfit too?

– Name one vegetable you ate before I smack your head in the pavement.

Barry laughs, humming, dragging it out way too long, like he’s deep in thought.

Finally, he snaps his fingers.

– Potatoes. Had some french fries just last week.

You blink, unamused. – That doesn't count.

– The fuck you mean they don’t count? They grow outta the ground, don’t they?

– Mushrooms grow out of the ground too, I don’t see you scarfing those down.

Barry grins, tilting his head at you. – You cookin' mushrooms?

You cross your arms. – Maybe.

– Then I’ll eat 'em.

You narrow your eyes. – Just like that?

He shrugs. – Yeah. If you make 'em, I’ll eat 'em.

Barry’s looking at you now, really looking at you, like he’s only just realized how close you still are, how your fingers are still curled into the fabric of his shirt, how you’re still clinging to this conversation like it’s the only thing keeping you steady.

His gaze flickers—down, then back up.

– Sweetheart—

You don’t let him finish.

– We should get ice cream, – You say, forcing the lightness back into your voice, into the space between you. – I think I deserve ice cream after almost dying on that stupid bike.

Barry lets the moment pass. Lets you have it. 

He snorts. – Now who's eatin’ like a raccoon?

You grin, tugging him toward the store. – I’m a refined raccoon. It’s different.

He laughs, shaking his head as he lets you pull him along. – Yeah, alright, sweetheart. Whatever you say. – He groans, stretches, throwing an arm around your back. – It better be some dinner if Rafe fucking Cameron is gonna be there when we’re back. – He groans, stretches, pulling you along as he steps towards the grocery store.

Your chest tightens at the mention— You do your best not to show it. You try to keep it down. Push it down. Because if it surfaces, it’ll consume you. You won’t be able to pull yourself out of it.

You can’t.

Not now.

Not here.

Because Barry knows you too well. Because he’s already suspicious. Because if you freeze, if you flinch, if you so much as breathe wrong—he’ll catch it. – Let’s not talk about that. – You pull him along. – You know what? I should make some steak, – You say, too quickly, too light. It’s not fair how easy it is to pretend that everything is fine. – You like steak, don’t you?

Barry hums. Relaxed. Unaware.

– I’d never turn down a steak. 

– Hard to imagine you turning anything down.  

Barry feigns a gasp, chuckling. – You think I’m easy like that, do you? 

– I know you are. Slut. – You shoulder him softly, and he gasps again, pushing you back. – Skirt steak and roast potatoes, then, since you like them so much. – You say. – I’ll throw some broccoli and carrots in the mix, so you remember what other vegetables look like. Some charro beans. How's that sound?

Barry glances at you, something unreadable in his eyes. – Like more than I deserve.

– Well Bee, you get nothing but the five star treatment when you’re with me. – Barry goes quiet for half a second, his smile absent-minded. You push forward before he can think too hard about it. – Besides, if I cook something good, maybe you’ll be too full to beat Rafe up. – The name is bitter, the memory even more so, but you smile nonetheless, your leg brushing against his as you walk. – Please don’t, by the way. He is my boss.

Barry's expression sours immediately. – Yeah, he is also a rich jerk-off who does nothing but piss me off. Who owes me a fuck-ton of money. Who took the bike he left me as fucking collateral and dipped. The least I could fucking do is beat him up.

– I'm begging you. I'm not saying he doesn't deserve it— He does. – Barry laughs, you try to bite back your feelings. – But please. Please. Don't beat him up. Not here. Not now.

He eyes you for a moment. Quiet, frustrated. He bites the inside of his cheek, shaking his head. – I won’t. But don't forget that he deserves it. Sweetheart, you could make a fuckin’ ribeye and cover it in gold, and it still ain’t gonna fix whatever the hell is wrong with that guy.

– You never know. – You mull on his unintended insult for a second, wishing you had kept your mouth shut. – Food is powerful.

Barry snorts. Tension gone. Subject changed

He side-eyes you, smirking, the gold tooth catching the last dying rays of sun before you’re both consumed by the artificial lights bleeding from the store. – Yeah? If it’s powerful then why hasn’t it fixed my life yet?

– Because you keep eating gas station burritos instead of my cooking.

Barry laughs, loud, unrestrained, shaking his head as he nudges you forward, leading you into the store. – Your brother ate your food his whole life and he’s still a bum, though.

– Ouch. – You laugh. – You’re the jerk-off. I should let you starve.

– You won’t, you love me too much. – He squeezes your side, looking across the store. – I’ll go get the beef. Skirt, right?

– Yeah. Or flank, whatever’s cheaper.

He nods, squeezing your waist one last time before wandering off. It’s colder now, and you feel the air conditioning biting into you as you drift down the isles, throwing this or that thing in the shopping basket.

The air inside the store is too cold, too bright, too artificial. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, washing everything in a pale, almost sterile glow. The faint hum of pop music drifts from the speakers, clashing against the quiet murmur of late-evening shoppers, the slow beeping of cash registers, the rustle of plastic bags.

Your fingers tighten around the shopping basket, the plastic biting into your palm.

Steak. Potatoes. Broccoli. Carrots.

You move automatically, grabbing, searching, tossing things inside.

But now that Barry's gone, your brain takes the silence as a license to keep tormenting you.

The memories loop.

Rafe's hands. 

His shallow breath.

His eyes, not blown out, but frantic.

The way his hands curled around your wrist, tight, unyielding. The certainty in his voice, the delusion of his words.

You blink hard, shake your head.

Milk.

You need to find the milk, the beans, the onions.

It’s easier to think about things you can control. Easier to think about the cooking.

Soak the beans. Sauté the onions. Brown the beef.

You reach for soke shallots, cheaper and in season, scanning them thoroughly. You should sautee them in butter. You should think about something other than the person waiting for you at Barry’s place.

You hear your name. 

The voice is soft. Uneven. Familiar.

– I’m here, Bee. – You call, the words leave absentmindedly. You keep looking through the onions, the garlic, the fresh peppers. He puts his hand on your back, warm, casual. – That was quick. What’s wrong? They out of flank?

Your body reacts before your brain does.

You turn. You smile  instinctively. 

But it’s not Barry that is standing there next to you.

It’s JJ.

Blue eyes boring into yours, shoulders tense, head ducked slightly like he’s bracing for impact, like he's waiting for you to turn around and leave. Looking at you like he already knows he doesn’t deserve to be there.

The air shifts.

The cold seeps in deeper.

Your stomach twists as you look at him.

The bruises on his face have gotten darker. Where before there was mostly yellow blotches and hues of purple, now he’s full-on black and blue, a blue as dark as the shirt he’s wearing. – I look bad, huh? – He chuckles awkwardly, and his fingers twitch against your back, briefly fisting the fabric of your top in his hand. – You know I’m not Barry’s biggest fan, but I gotta give it to him, he’s got one hell of a right hook. 

That awkward laugh falls from his lips again, his shoulders tensing, his free hand squeezing tightly around the handle of a six pack.

You don’t know what to say.

If you even should say anything.

He doesn’t give you the time. 

If there’s one thing JJ can’t handle it’s silence, especially when he’s fucked up. – What are you doing here? I mean, not that you can’t be here— you are, and you can—I’m glad you’re here. I— You don’t come to Shoreline often, that’s what I mean. – He rambles, staring, gripping, shifting restlessly on his feet. – You’re— shopping? What are you cooking? Flank, right? What is it? Carne asada?

You just stare.

For a second, it’s like your brain lags, stutters, refuses to process what’s happening.

The last time you saw JJ, he was pleading, bargaining, breaking down in that police station.

Now he’s here, standing in front of you, babbling, shifting around, looking at you as if it were nothing, as if this were a casual conversation between two people who have no stakes in each other's lives.

You blink. 

Your fingers tighten around the shopping basket.

– I— You stop. Shake your head. – It’s nothing.

You regret speaking as soon as you do, because JJ relaxes immediately, he breathes in deeper, he almost smiles. Latching onto the slightest response as if it will redeem him.

– Come on, – He says, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly. – You don’t cook ‘nothing.’ You’re too much of a perfectionist for that. What is it? Something fancy? Something— He swallows. Tries to sound casual. – Something for Barry?

Your stomach twists.

You should lie. 

You should say no.

But your silence answers for you.

JJ’s jaw tics. His fingers flex against the six-pack.

– I figured you were staying with him. – His voice is lighter than it should be. Like he’s forcing himself to pretend this isn’t a big deal. Like he’s trying not to sound hurt. Like he doesn’t realize he’s the reason you don’t have anywhere else to go. – You could’ve— He tsks, looking over his shoulder, then back at you. – You could’ve done better than that. You could’ve stayed with me.

The urge to laugh bubbles up unexpectedly.

He says it as if he wasn’t the one that forced you out of your house. As if he hadn’t told you never to come back. 

He’s trying his best to act like he hasn’t done anything. Because JJ has never been able to sit with what he’s done.

He doesn’t think about what comes after. 

He doesn’t think about how his actions affect people.

He just moves. Reacts. Regrets.

Now, he’s standing in front of you, waiting for you to fix this for him, as if he wasn’t the one who broke it in the first place.

He wants you to forget.

But you just exhale slowly, steadying yourself.

To tell him it’s fine.

To tell him you forgive him.

To make it easy.

– I’m leaving now.

His face falls. – Baby, wait— He pleads. But you’re already turning, already walking, already done with this conversation before it can even begin.

JJ grabs your arm.

Not rough. Not like Rafe. But desperate.

His fingers curl around your wrist, warm, pleading, shaking just slightly. – Just—just talk to me. Please. Please, just talk to me. – The façade is gone. Not a trace of the hal-hazard casual mask he had on before,  just this pitiful, pathetic look in his eyes as he looks at you.

You already know where this is going.

– JJ—

– I fucked up, okay? – He talks over you, voice rushed, frantic, scrambling for something to hold onto. It’d almost surprise you that he would admit it, if you didn’t know that he was gonna take it back and make it your fault at some point. – I know I fucked up. I know I ruined it. I know I was being a dick, I know I was— I was out of line, but, you gotta believe me, I— I didn’t mean to—I was just angry, fuck I was so angry—Because I can’t—I can’t think when it comes to you, okay?! You drive me insane. I— I don’t know what’s going on with me.

You inhale slowly. 

You don’t let yourself look at him. 

You scan the aisles instead. Because you know Barry’s gotta be looking around for you.

And if he sees JJ’s hand around your arm— If he sees JJ gripping your wrist, yanking you back, getting in your face— That’ll be the end of it.

He won’t let that go.

And you know damn well neither of them can afford another visit to the police station.

– Let go of me. – You say, your voice soft, softer than he deserves.

– Just listen to me— just for a minute— His grip tightens slightly as you try to pull away, and he tugs you forward, hard. – I hate this. I hate it when you do this to me. You won’t even look at me. Just talk to me—

– Talk to you about what?! – The words leave you before you can stop them. You know you shouldn’t say anything. You know you should just let him suffocate in the silence, think about what he’s done until it actually drives him insane. But you can’t. Because the only thing JJ is actually good at is eroding at your patience. – What the fuck do you want me to talk about, JJ?! You nearly killed me, you kicked me out of my house, you tried to get me fired, what’s next? Is there anything in my life you’re not willing to ruin? Maybe that’s why you’re talking to me. Maybe you saw me with Barry and decided that I should just not have friends as well as a place to live, as well as a brother. That I just shouldn’t have anything at all.

His breath catches.

He flinches like you just hit him.

Like he suddenly, finally, understands how bad he fucked up.

But you’re not stupid enough to believe he actually did. Because you and him have been through this before, and yet you’re still here. – That’s not—Baby, I just—

– What?! What, JJ?! You just what?!

– I just want you with me. – He pleads. His voice low, his eyes burning into your with a desperation you haven’t seen in months. 

But it rings hollow, because he’s been this way before and that didn’t stop him from going out of his way to fuck with you again.

– You want me with you? – You scoff. – So you tried to kill me and kicked me out of my place? That’s a method I haven’t heard before.

He swallows, his jaw ticks, and he sways on his feet, pulling away the slightest bit before he leans back in, dragging you closer. – You don’t get it. I don’t— He breathes, heaves, his eyes dark. – I don’t want you with anybody. I just want you with me. Just with me. Not with Barry. Not with Rafe. Not even with John B. I don’t— I don’t want you around them.

You laugh before you can stop yourself. – Oh, that’s the reason. You want to ruin my life because you don’t want me near my best friend, my boss’ son or my actual brother?! That’s what you’re going with?

– DON’T— His voice raises, he stops himself, holding you tighter, looking at you with something almost feral in his eyes. – Don’t play dumb. Don’t act like that’s just what they are to you, because you know it’s not. You know.

– Excuse me?!

– Stop it. Stop doing this. Stop playing with me.

– You’re the one who’s fucking playing JJ. I get it that you’d think that Barry or Rafe are something more to me, because you’ve been never been friends with a girl— sorry, let me rephrase that— you’ve never been near a girl without thinking about fucking her. But my brother?! You’re that fucking twisted that you think my brother wants something more with me?

For a moment, JJ doesn’t say anything.

His grip is still firm, but he doesn’t yank you again. Doesn’t try to pull you closer.

He just stares.

There’s something unhinged in his eyes—wide, unblinking, mouth parted slightly like he wants to say something but doesn’t know how. Like his mind is moving too fast for his lips to catch up.

Then his head shakes, slow and disbelieving. He exhales sharply, through his nose, like he’s biting back something ugly.

– You don’t get it. – His voice is quieter now, but no less dangerous. – You never fucking get this, do you?

A flicker of something ugly coils in your stomach.

– No, JJ. You don’t get it. – You shake your head, frustration bubbling over. – I’m done. I’m done playing these fucking games with you. Whatever you think you have to say, whatever excuse you’re about to pull out of your ass—I don’t care.

JJ stiffens, like the words physically hit him.

You rip your wrist free. But he doesn’t let you go far.

JJ breathes hard.

His fingers dig into your wrist, not painfully, but firm enough that you know—he’s not letting go.

His chest rises and falls too quickly, his lips part like he wants to say something, but nothing comes out.

Because he knows he fucked up.

Because he knows he’s losing you.

Because he doesn’t know how to stop it.

– Baby—

– No, – You snap. Lower. Sharper. – You don’t get to stand here and act like I’m the one playing games when you’re the one who’s been fucking with my life like it’s a fucking joke. Let go of me!

JJ flinches, but he still doesn’t let go.

– You don’t get it, – He mutters. His head shakes, his grip tightening. – I can’t— I can’t see you with them, okay? I can’t fucking do it. It makes me— He stops. Breathes. Jaw clenched so tight you think his teeth might break. – You don’t understand what it does to me.

– What it does to you? – You let out a bitter laugh, jerking your arm, but he won’t let go. – What about what you did to me, JJ? Or does that not fucking matter to you?

– It does! – He almost shouts, stepping closer. Too close. – You think I don’t think about it? You think I don’t hate myself for it? I don’t wanna hurt you— You scoff, and he grabs your other hand, – I don't! And I’m sorry I did that, okay?! I just—

He exhales sharply, like he’s about to unravel.

His voice drops. Lower. Darker.

– I can’t lose you, okay?! But you keep trying to run from me, and every time you do, you run straight into them. – He says it like it's a crime. Like you’re somehow betraying him or going behind his back by trying to find comfort in someone who isn't a psychopath who'll try to crash a bike with you on it when you don't do what he wants. – You do. And you don't even ask yourself what it does to me. You don't even care.

Your stomach flips.

It's actually terrifying just how quickly he managed to make him trying to ruin you into something that is somehow your fault.

It's cold.

And it's painful.

And you know that feeling better than you usually do. Because that's exactly what curled around your windpipe when Rafe started unraveling. Exactly what buzzed around your mind before he said those things to you.

Your heart lurches, you feel it knock against your ribcage and fall back, painful, agonizing, and you try to pull away. But JJ holds on.

– Let me go, JJ, – You say, voice low, final. – Let me go.

JJ tightens his grip.

Not painful, not quite—but enough.

Enough that you can’t pull away. Enough that you can feel the tension coiling inside him, shaking, barely contained.

– You’re not listening to me! Just stop running!

Your stomach turns.

You’ve heard this before.

Not in JJ’s voice, not in his frantic, desperate rasp—but in Rafe’s. The same words. The same twisting of reality. That same sharp-edged entitlement. That same certainty that you’re the one in the wrong, that you’re the one who’s not getting it.

The same cold grip.

The same curling dread before the storm.

Your breath hitches.

You try to pull away again, harder this time, sharper— But JJ won’t let go.

– Baby, please—

– Let. Me. Go.

His grip trembles, stutters. He keeps pulling you in, keeps digging his fingers into you. You try to turn away, try to wrangle your wrist from his grip.

But you barely have the time.

– What the fuck is this? – The words slice through the aisle like a blade. Low. Cold. Dangerous.

You don’t have to turn.

You don’t have to see him to know.

Because Barry found you first. – What? One black eye isn’t enough, you want another one?  

JJ stumbles.

Barry yanks him back hard, fast, so suddenly that JJ barely has time to catch his balance.

Your wrist is still caught in JJ’s grip, and for a split second, you’re pulled forward with him—

Until Barry sees it.

Until Barry sees that JJ is still holding onto you.

Barry’s breath goes slow. Even. Controlled.

But his eyes are lethal. – Let go of her before I break your fucking hand.

JJ doesn’t move.

Doesn’t drop your wrist.

Doesn’t listen. – We’re talking here, man.

Barry’s nostrils flare. His jaw tenses. His shoulders square. – No. You were talking. Now you're going!

You barely have time to react—Barry’s hand shoots out, clamping down on JJ’s wrist, so tight he actually lets go.

The moment JJ’s grip slackens, you rip your arm free, stumbling back.

JJ barely registers it.

Now he’s face-to-face with Barry.

And Barry is pushing him back, forcing space between you, pressing into his chest, making sure JJ has no choice but to look at him.

– What the fuck do you think you’re doing? – Barry’s voice is low, even, seething. JJ swallows hard. His jaw ticks. – You were fucking grabbing her. 

Barry steps forward.

JJ steps back, he looks at you. – You’re gonna let him talk to me like that? We were—

Barry laughs, but it's bitter, a rattle, like the sound of a gun loading. – Were what? You were talking, she was trying to get away from you, there’s a name for that isn't there? Assault.

– Oh, you wanna talk to me about crime?! – JJ shoves at his chest, but Barry barely budges. – If I called the cops right now I bet—

– You're calling the cops?! I bet they'd love to hear about you breaking into my house and stealing my money.

– Your drug money? – JJ laughs.

Barry rushes.

You pull him back at the last second, his hand fisted at his side. – Leave this alone.

He looks at you, irritation clear as day on his face. – This psycho is—

– Leaving. – You interrupt. – We’re leaving. Please. Let's go home.

– Home? Where’s that, huh, Y/n? – JJ growls. His eyes as dark as the bruises on his face. – Barry’s place? How long do you think that’s gonna last?!

– I’m neither leeching off of her money or trying to kill her on a bike, so probably longer than whatever it would with you. 

JJ rushes, grabbing at his shirt as Barry laughs. You shove him back at the last second, wedging yourself between them before this turns into something worse.

JJ barely moves.

But it’s enough.

His hands fist into Barry’s shirt, knuckles going white, breath ragged, body coiled like a spring.

Barry just grins.

That same infuriating, smug, taunting grin.

– What’s wrong, Maybank? – He drawls, voice low, lazy, full of venom. – You don't like the truth, is that it?!

JJ jerks forward again.

You push harder. – Stop it! Just fucking stop this already.

His chest heaves.

His fingers twitch.

For a second, you think he might actually swing.

Then, slowly, painfully, his hands unclench.

His breathing is erratic. Unsteady.

His eyes are wild. Dark. Hurt. Like he wants to break something. Like he wants to break himself.

He rasps out your name. His jaw ticks, clenches, loosens again. – You don’t have to do this. You know you don’t. I don't even know why you’re doing this.

You inhale sharply.

– Shut up. Just leave this alone, go away! – Your voice comes out tighter, sharper.

– You don’t belong with him. And you know you don’t. You're just trying to piss me off.

Your stomach twists.

Because there it is.

That final, desperate grasp.

The same twisted logic, the same certainty, the same delusion you saw in Rafe. 

You don’t let him take it further.

You turn.

You leave.

You pull Barry with you before he can turn to swing at JJ, your grip firm, unyielding

Your head spins.

You barely register paying for the groceries.

Barely feel the cold press of plastic bags in your hands.

And then, suddenly—

You’re standing before the bike again.

The store is a distant building, bright white lights bleeding from the wide glass panels, covering the surrounding asphalt in an artificial snowstorm of light. You look away from it, fearing JJ will walk out, try to come back, and Barry’s eyes meet yours.

Dark, warm, worried.

He’s holding your wrist as he pulls the helmet from the top box and puts the bags in. – Sweetheart. – He pulls at you softly, holding out the helmet. – Say something. I’m getting worried.

– Huh?

– You haven’t said a word. Look— I'm telling you that piece of shit isn't gonna get to you again, okay? I'm promising you.

You breathe out, rub your eyes, sit down. 

He leans the helmet on your lap, looking at you closely, the apprehension evident on his face. – This isn't something you can promise me, Bee. – The words are heavy, as heavy as your chest feels. – I'm the one who's playing stupid games and winning stupid prizes. This isn't your responsibility. You already do too much for me.

Barry frowns.

His grip on your wrist tightens, just slightly, just enough. Like he’s trying to pull you back to him.

– Don’t say shit like that.

You let out a breath, staring at the pavement.

– It's the truth.0 I’m the one who keeps letting them back in. I'm a fucking idiot. You told me a thousand times that they were fucked up and I didn't listen to you. Now I'm paying the toll.

Barry goes dead silent.

For a moment, you think he’s gonna laugh. You can't imagine something he'd like better than being able to say “I told you so”.

But he crouches down in front of you.

Right there, in the middle of the parking lot.

Balancing on the balls of his feet, forearms braced against his knees, his head tilted up so you can’t avoid looking at him.

– You did that out of loyalty, I can’t exactly give you a hard time about that. – He hums, twisting the fabric of the blue top between your fingers, as if to comfort himself. – I'll be honest, I don't know why you even bothered to be loyal to that piece of shit, why you kept worrying about him. I don't know. But I'm not gonna sit here and talk your ear off about JJ, or your brother and their bullshit when I know that we're only here right now because you keep forgiving me as well.

– That’s different. You deserved it. They didn't.

– I didn’t deserve it. – He hums, grinning dumbly. – You just love me too much not to.

– Ha-ha.

You don’t know what to say.

Because you don’t know what to do with that.

You don’t know how to take it, how to hold it, how to believe it. Barry sighs, shakes his head, and leans forward.

Slow. 

Easy.

His arms brace against your thighs. His hands anchor against your knees.

– You listen to me, okay sweetheart? – He murmurs, voice warm, grounding. You nod. Barely. – Now that you're gonna be cooking me fancy meals and cleaning up my place ain’t nobody takin’ you from me. – He laughs. – Not JJ, not Rafe, not your dumbass brother, not the cops, the FBI, the fuckin’ interpol, whatever. Nobody. – His head tilts, gold tooth catching the light as he smirks, just barely. – It’s just too easy a life to give up. And if I gotta break a few noses to make that clear, well— He shrugs. – Then that’s just what’s gotta be done.

Your chest shakes with something halfway between a laugh and a sigh.

Barry grins.

– There she is.

You roll your eyes, nudging at his shoulder. He doesn’t budge. – You’re a drama queen.

– Yeah, and? You love me anyway.

He winks, obnoxious, teasing, and you push the helmet back into his hands.

Barry pats your leg, a light tap just above your knee, before pushing himself up to stand.

– Alright, c’mon, – He mutters, slipping the helmet over his head. – Get on upright. 

You huff a laugh, shaking your head, but you listen. You slide onto the bike, shifting slightly until you’re settled, until your body remembers how to sit, how to balance, how to breathe.

Barry climbs on in front of you, his hands moving with practiced ease, turning the key, revving the engine, fixing the side view mirrors—

It dawns on you then.

You're not going home. Home to Barry’s place, where you can cook in peace and go to sleep as if the world isn't crumbling around you.

You're going home to Rafe.

Your heart sinks.

The noise hits you first —The low, steady purr of the bike beneath you, vibrating through your body, the way it lunges, the way the speed slams on you, as if the world around you didn't want you to go.

Your fingers grip at his shirt.

Not playful. Not teasing.

Tight. Frozen.

Barry notices immediately.

He tilts his head slightly, just enough for his voice to reach you—low, quiet, warm over his shoulder.

– He ain’t gonna do nothing, sweetheart. Don't worry.

Your breath catches.

For a second—just a second—you wonder if he’s reading your mind. If he can feel the exact moment you realize where you’re going. As if he can see it in your body, in the way your fingers tremble slightly against his ribs, in the way your breath stutters in your chest.

Because you’re not just thinking about the bike.

You’re thinking about Rafe.

About going back.

About walking into that house and seeing him again.

Your pulse pounds.

Your hands curl tighter around the fabric of Barry's clothes, desperate for something to ground you.

Something moves slightly from the corner of your eye. You barely register it at first. The world blurs slightly as the bike rolls forward, the hum of the engine taking over your senses.

JJ. 

Standing by the doors of the store, watching you.

Watching you leave.

His eyes gleam strangely. With something dark. Something heavy. 

That’s who Barry was talking about. 

He doesn’t give JJ the time to fuck around.

The bike moves, quickly, unlike Barry promised.

But the speed of it is nothing compared to the speed at which your mind races —You close your eyes, trying to focus on the feel of Barry’s shirt beneath your fingers, on the wind the hushes around your ears as the bike moves, on the buzz of moving cars, moving people, on the distant echoes of the ocean crashing on the shore. 

But it’s to no avail.

The feeling of  Barry’s shirt wraps around your hand until it turns into the same grip Rafe had on you, the same grip that JJ had. The wind turns into a whisper, the whisper of Rafe’s delusions in your ear, of JJ’s practiced bullshit. The moving cars, the people, the ocean mix into the cacophony of noises that surge and sink back into your mind.

Your balance wavers.

Your eyes peek open.

The rushing ground beneath calls to you.

You hold on tighter.

Tighter.

Barry’s hands meet your arms every time he hits a red light. 

He whispers something or another every so often, and you either hum or laugh according to his tone. But you don’t hear it, his words. They whizz, fracturing with the wind, lost within the barrier, visor of his helmet, the road that keeps rushing forward to meet you.

You don’t register it when the bike stops at last.

But you open your eyes to see the trailer there, and you almost think you’re having a nightmare.

You don’t move.

Not at first.

The engine cuts off, the deep, steady rumble disappearing beneath the weight in your chest.

Barry shifts slightly in front of you.

His hands leave the handlebars, reach for your arms, still wrapped around him, brush over your wrists, light and grounding. – Sweetheart? – His voice is softer now. Barely above a murmur. Checking in. Feeling you out.

Your fingers are still curled into his shirt.

Too tight. Too frozen.

You force yourself to breathe.

The air is thicker now.

Heavy. Close. Suffocating.

The sound of the ocean isn’t distant anymore.

It’s right there, crashing against the shore, against your ribs, pulling you under.

– I know you like holding me, but we have to go. C’mon. I'm starving.

Barry pats your knee, light, careful, like he knows not to spook you.

You nod.

Loosen your grip.

Uncurl your fingers. Force yourself to let go.

And then, slowly, stiffly, you slide off the bike.

Your knees feel weak.

Your stomach turns.

And for a second—just a second—you wonder if you might collapse right there in the sand.

Barry is already off the bike, already stepping in front of you, already pressing a hand to your waist, steadying you before you can fall.

– Sweetheart—

– I’m fine.

You aren’t.

Barry narrows his eyes, but he doesn’t stop you, he just watches you. His fingers stay put. Firm. Warm. Like he’s not quite convinced you won’t slip away.

You’re not either.

You drag your feet as he pulls you towards the door, and it seems to loom closer, larger, taller with every step. You hand him the keys, and he takes them slowly, eyeing you carefully before he takes the shopping bags from your hands.

The door creaks open, a screech that needles through the silence, sharp as any blade. 

You step inside before him.

And Barry follows.

The air inside the trailer is warm, stale, suffocating. You smell the acrid scent of sweat, the tang of restlessness suffocated within the closed windows. But Barry doesn’t seem to notice. He shakes his head, scoffing, tossing the keys onto the corner table with a clatter. 

Your eyes catch on Rafe, sock-covered feet thrown over the arm of the couch, shifting, moving. But he doesn’t stand up.

– Long day, huh, Country Club? – His voice is sharp-edged, mocking. – Bet you had a real rough time sittin’ on your ass. – Rafe doesn’t answer. Barry rolls his eyes. – Fuckin’ useless, – He mutters under his breath, already moving toward the kitchen, already unbagging groceries like Rafe isn’t even there.

You don’t move.

Something isn’t right.

Your gaze flickers toward the couch.

Rafe is still laying there. Still. Too still.

His eyes are open, half-lidded, staring at the unmoving ceiling fan as if it’s the most interesting thing in the world. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t turn his head. Doesn’t react.

Your stomach tightens.

Barry keeps grumbling, rummaging through the bags. – Broccoli, sweetheart? – A scoff. – Jesus. Even you can’t make this taste decent.

You barely hear him.

At first you couldn’t bear the idea of being in the same house as Rafe, now you can barely tear your eyes off him. Off the restless, random movements he makes, almost like spasms. His good hand clenching and unclenching, hanging off the couch.

– Rafe?

Your voice comes out softer than you mean it to.

But he still doesn’t respond, not with words, anyway.

You hear a groan, the shift of fabric, the creak of the couch.

But whatever it is that Rafe mumbles is lost in the noises Barry makes from the kitchen, on the howling on the wind outside, banging against the windows.

Your pulse quickens.

You take a step closer, but your feet shift backwards almost on instinct. The fear pulling you back. So instead you call out to him. – Rafe? Are you awake?

Nothing.

You step closer, the dread seeping through your bones as you trudge forward.

The floor creaks beneath your weight, but Rafe doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t react.

He’s draped in the same blanket you gave him, the fabric bunched around his shoulders, half-hazardly thrown over him, clinging to the damp sheen of sweat slicking his skin.

His chest rises and falls. Shallow. Too shallow. His lips part, then close. Mumbling.

But no sound comes out.

Something is wrong. Something is very wrong.

Barry’s still behind you, still unloading groceries, huffing and murmuring under his breath— But you don’t hear him anymore. Your pulse is too loud, too sharp, too deafening in your ears.

Your eyes fall to Rafe’s hand, his broken hand. Under the cast that braces his broken bones, his fingers are arduously clenched around a bottle. An orange bottle.

Your heart stops.

You rush forward.

Dropping to your knees beside the couch, grab his wrist, shake him— Rafe! – You shake him again, frantic now. Nothing. – Rafe!

You pry the bottle from his fingers. Feel the few remaining pills rattle against plastic. Almost empty.

Rafe is barely there.

He murmurs.

A low, slurred noise, barely audible, almost swallowed by the thick, suffocating silence.

He giggles.

A breathy, distant thing.

Like he’s not even here.

Like he doesn’t even know where he is.

– Fuck. – Your hands grip his shoulders, shaking him harder. – Rafe, wake up!

His body sways.

His head lolls back slightly, like it’s too heavy for his neck.

– Sweetheart, what’s going on?

You curse under your breath, shifting, moving fast, sliding an arm under his back to pull him up—

Rafe gives you the slightest movement. His hand drifts up your side.

Slow.

Fingertips dragging over fabric, over skin, barely there but still lingering.

You freeze.

His breath catches.

His eyes—unfocused, glassy, blown out—stare right through you. – Baby… – He hums, low, gravely, as if his throat is thick. – You’re back… – He giggles, dazed. – I knew you’d come back to me. I knew you weren’t gonna leave me here alone.

– What were you thinking, Rafe?! How many of these fucking pills did you take?! – Your voice barely makes it past your throat.

He laughs.

Just laughs.

Soft. Detached.

Your heart stutters.

– A—All of them.

@chatgtfo @bitterdotcom @xmayankax @bluethperson @coralblue35 @myluvingera @munsoncultedits @the-bitch-who-binges @im-julessssss @redkarmakai @hwaaholic @sydkneez @sassyvilliantrope @vampiriito @sassybearfire @matildalittlefreak @sunsetkiss333

[bonnie-the-butcher]

Rip Tide | Chapter XV

[ MDNI ] [ word count: 9.482 ] [ Masterlist ] 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬: Canonverse/Canon-Divergent; Dark! Content; NSFW; Strong Language; Cheating; Drug Use; Mentions of overdose; Some shades of Munchausen syndrome from dear old Rafe; Manipulation; Toxic, obsessive behaviour; Stalking; Violence; DUBCON/NONCON; My writing is really pretentious and English is not my first language, so please feel free to call me out in whichever grammar mistakes you might find find.

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | You and JJ have always been in each other's orbit. He's your brother’s best friend, the guy you've known your entire life. He was kind, protective, familiar. You never meant for the two of you to start hooking up. And you never meant for it to last so long. But when this boy you thought you'd come to know like the back of your hand turns out to be no better than the men he'd warned you about, you find yourself in the sights of the guy he hates most, regardless of wether you want that or not.

A very Delulu Rafe for yall's viewing pleasure. Likes, asks, reblogs, and comments are always greatly appreciated! Thank you in advance for reading <3

You’re frozen in place.

His arms are locked around you, his whole body wracked with sobs so violent you’re almost frightened by them. 

You hold him back, your heart heavy, but your eyes stay fixed on the bike. His bike. Barry’s bike.

And though Rafe’s state unnerves you, your head spins at the thought of Bee—alone somewhere, spiraling, because someone stole the one thing he never lets out of his sight— Your fingers itch to pick up the phone again and call him, tranquilize him, tell him that the bike is here and safe, and that you’ll be there to pick him up soon enough.

But you can’t move.

You don’t want to.

Because you genuinely think Rafe might break if you let him go.

He still grips Barry’s helmet in his good hand as he pulls you in with it, his movements sending faint waves of smoke and menthol—the scent of Bee, of home, of something steadier than this—drifting between you.

Your lips part, arms tightening around him just enough that he relaxes into it. – How—Rafe, how did you get here? How did you drive like this— You could have crashed!

Your fingers ghost over his shoulder. His left one. The broken one. You can’t bring yourself to press any harder, not when he seems to be in enough pain as it is. But Rafe burrows in deeper and, almost as if demanding more of your touch, he brings his splint arm to yours and pulls it tighter around him. – He— He left me there. – He stutters, still hidden in your embrace.

– What?

– My dad! – His voice is as shaken as he is. Cracked, unstable. – He left me alone at the fucking station— He just— Just turned his back on me and left! – The image waltzes through your mind: Rafe, broken, bruised, with death still clinging to him, standing alone on the pavement as his father leaves him behind. You hold him tighter. – That piece of shit could have killed me! – He cries. – Baby, you didn’t see the car— It was totaled! The fucking�� the door, my door, it—It was digging into my side, it could’ve—

You shush him as the words fade, lost in a fit of sobs. Your lips press against his hair as his face shifts over you, nosing along your skin, breathing in desperately, as if he’d been deprived of air.

The sobs shake him, wreck him.

There’s nothing else you can do but hold him. Nothing useful you can say. 

So you don’t.

You stand there in silence and let him cry as much as he needs to, wrapping around him like the cast around his arm, keeping him enclosed in this tight, too-tight, bind, trying to hold him together by force alone.

His sobs quiet slowly, but his breathing stays uneven, still pressed against your skin. You can feel the heat of it—quick, shallow, trembling. His whole body is shaking, his grip unrelenting.

For a moment, neither of you move.

Then, his fingers tighten around your arm, like he’s reminding himself that you’re here, that he’s not alone, that you didn’t leave too. – You didn’t see it, – He whispers again, smaller this time, as if he’s trying to convince himself instead of you. – You didn’t see what he fucking did, baby. The car was ruined!

– Rafe…

His name barely leaves your lips before he moves closer.

You feel the tension in his body slowly giving way, melting into something exhausted, desperate, clinging. His forehead presses against the side of your neck, and suddenly, it’s like he’s breathing you in, like he needs the scent of you, the feel of you, to remind himself he’s still here.

Your throat tightens.

His breath hitches against your skin, sharp, sudden, uneven. For a second, you think he’s going to speak again—say something, explain something, beg for something—but the words never come.

Instead, his grip tightens.

His good hand fists in your top, pulling you closer like it's a reflex, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. His splinted arm is still hooked around yours, his fingers curled weakly around your arm, and his forehead pressed against the crook of your neck like he’s trying to disappear inside of you.

And you let him.

You let him because you don’t know what else to do. You let him because if you move, if you step away, he might shatter right in front of you.

– Baby, – He whispers again, raw and painful, like he’s drowning, it sends guilt flaring in your chest.

Your throat tightens.

– I’m so sorry, Rafe. – You murmur, uselessly. Because it’s the only thing you can say. Because anything else would only make it worse. 

Then, so quietly, so brokenly, you almost don’t catch it, he whispers— He doesn’t love me.

Your heart drops.

His voice is hoarse, wrecked, barely more than a breath.

It’s the kind of tone someone only uses when they finally believe it. When they’ve tried so hard to pretend otherwise, for so long, that the truth feels like a knife to the ribs. 

That the idea of ever having believed it, hoped for it, thought of it is agonising.

You don’t remember when you had this realization about you and your own father, but you feel that ache, that all too present and all too empty ache burning through you as it burns through Rafe. And you exhale, shakily, your arms tightening around him on instinct. 

His resignation hurts you all the more, because you know that though there was never hope for you, Rafe and his father aren't yet completely lost. – He does. – You plead, and you mean it, or at least you think you might. – I know it's hard to see, Rafe, but he does love you.

He shakes his head against you.

– No, he doesn’t, – He rasps, like he’s arguing with himself now. 

– Rafe, he cares—

He doesn’t let you finish. – You don’t get it. He never did. He never fucking did.

Your fingers twitch against his back, the powerlessness overwhelming you.

Because you know this can be fixed, but you don’t know how to fix it.

You can’t fix it.

His whole body shudders, and suddenly he’s clutching you harder, closer, like he’s trying to crawl inside your skin, like it’s the only place left that he can feel safe. And you want, desperately, for him to feel safe, to feel that you’re there for him. But you can’t parent him.

You can’t protect him.

And, though your concern is true, there’s something strange in this.

Something that makes you feel uneasy, unsafe yourself.

You push the feeling down, despite yourself, holding him tight, as tight as you can hold him without making his injuries worse.

And then, softly, almost like a confession, he whispers:

– But you do. You love me.

The words slam into you. 

You freeze. 

He says it so easily, so matter-of-factly, as if it’s just… the truth. As if he’s already convinced himself of it.

Your head shakes on instinct, your body rejecting the words before you can even process them completely. – No, Rafe, I— Your voice comes out smaller than you mean for it to. Because suddenly, it’s too much. Suddenly, that part of you that was uneasy jumps, and everything pieces together: The way he clings, the way he buries himself in you, the way his body is shaking, but his grip is unrelenting— The way he says it as of it’s a fact, as if it’s something that’s been true forever, as if it’s something he’s always known.

You don’t know how to answer.

You don’t even know if you’re supposed to.

You’re not sure if it’ll make it worse.

But before you can say anything, before you even have the chance to think—

His breath stutters, and he pulls back just enough to look at you.

And suddenly, he’s too close. His forehead nearly brushes yours, his eyes searching your face, his good hand still tangled in the fabric of your shirt. 

You don’t know what to do.

You don’t know what to say.

He’s looking at you like you’re the only thing keeping him together, like you’re the last solid thing in this world, like if he lets go, he’ll fall apart completely.

And he laughs.

A ragged, broken thing, wet with tears, shaking through his whole body. And he repeats it, breathless, wretched. – You do. You love me. You love me.

He says it in relief, as if he's just discovered that whatever’s broken in him is something you can fix.

But you don’t know how to fix that.

You can’t fix that.

You can’t fix him.

You're not a cast. 

You’re not a doctor. 

You’re not a therapist. 

You can’t do anything about his pain.

You can’t even love him.

You just met him! —Your mind screams, already counting the days, the short few days you've known him. How little it should matter on a rational scale. How he should never, ever, impose that on you, much less in such short a time.

But you don’t say those things.

And you almost feel guilty for thinking them.

Your lips part, but no words come out.

You don’t want to say them. Not now. Not when it’s the last thing he needs to hear.

So, just for a minute, you let him be heavy.

You let him breathe.

You let him settle into the way your arms tighten around him. His heartbeat pounds against your ribs—frantic, uneven—until, eventually, gradually, it starts to slow.

And yet he’s still saying it.

Buried in your embrace, his lips move against your skin, and he keeps saying it.

And you let him. – You love me. You do. You do.

Your stomach sinks.

– You're not—You're gonna be alright, Rafe, – You murmur, barely above a whisper. Rafe exhales, a sound that’s half a sigh, half a hum. – You need to rest. – His fingers twitch against your back, but he doesn’t argue. – You’re too hurt for this, right now. You— You’ll feel better after you’re rested.

His grip loosens this time. Not completely. Just enough.

You pull back first. Slowly. Carefully.

His brows furrow, his eyes fixed on your skin, on the tattoo, where his lips had just been resting—like he might fight it, like he’s not ready to let go just yet.

But he doesn’t stop you.

You reach for his good wrist, curling your fingers around it, guiding him toward the bike. – Come on, let’s go. – Your voice is soft. Careful. Measured. Like you're talking to a child. – Where are the keys?

Rafe shakes his head. – No. No. I don’t— Baby, I don’t wanna go home. – His grip on you tightens, his breath hitching, fingers twisting into the fabric of your top, desperate. – I don’t wanna go home. I don’t wanna see him.

– Rafe— You try, but he doesn’t let you finish.

He shakes his head frantically, his hands tugging at you, clinging, pleading.

You hold his face.

Your thumbs brush over his damp skin, over the tear tracks still fresh on his cheeks.

You try to wipe them away.

You try to steady him.

You try to bring him back.

– We’re not going there, okay? – You murmur. – We’re not gonna see Ward. We’re not going to your place.

He blinks rapidly, his hands still shaking as they grip your wrists.

– Then where? – He breathes. – Why can't we just go to— why can't we just go to sleep on your bed? Why— Why can't we just stay here?

His voice cracks. His head is still shaking slightly, bangs falling into his eyes, even as you hold him steady, even as he holds onto you like you could disappear at any minute.

– Because Sarah’s coming. And John—John B. JJ and Pope and—and Kie. – His jaw tenses. – We don’t want that— Your stomach twists. You want to chastise yourself for saying it. As if there is a we, as if there could ever be we with you and Rafe. But when you look at him, his eyes are gleaming. – We— I don’t want that.

He nods, immediately, that panic in his voice fully gone. – Okay. – He murmurs, dazed, his eyes hazy with a mist of something warm, something crazy, something you don’t want to linger on. – Okay. Let’s go.

Rafe doesn’t ask where you’re taking him.

He just nods.

Wordlessly, he pulls what you assume are the spare keys of this bike from his pocket and drops them into your waiting palm. You watch him as you turn toward the bike, his hands never leaving you, still wrapped around your arm, your top, your hip. You watch the way he’s still staring at you, still trying to piece together whatever just happened between you two.

Your fingers tremble slightly as you lift the top-box, pulling out the second helmet.

They tremble even more as you fasten Barry’s helmet onto his head, your heart sinking as the scent fans over you again.

Later. You tell yourself. As soon as he’s calm, I’ll call Barry.

But you don’t know when he’ll be calm. 

If he’s gonna be calm at all.

You let out a slow breath, forcing yourself to remember the little you know about driving a motorcycle. Trying to push everything else aside.

You focus on the road ahead.

On the ground beneath you.

On this path you've trailed a thousand times.

You drive slow.

Not because you want to—because you have to.

Because you don’t know enough about driving a motorcycle to do anything else. Because every turn, every shift in weight, every slight press of the throttle demands all of your focus. Because every time you blink, you feel the speed dragging past you as if it’d rip you off the seat, like it did with JJ.

You’re glad for the odd red light, even as your feet tremble slightly when you rest them steady on the ground. But even when you’re still, Rafe clings to you like you’re flying.

His arms are locked around your waist, unrelenting, even with the duffel bag wedged between you, heavy on his lap. Even with it physically separating you, he clings to you anyway. 

And he doesn’t let go.

Not when the road smooths out.

Not when you slow even further.

Not when the trailer comes into view.

Not until you stop, the kickstand settling on the ground beneath you with a firm, final sound.

And even then, it takes him a second.

You pull the helmet off your head, but you breathe no easier for it. You’re glad it’s over, hoping you won’t have to ride a motorcycle ever again, but Rafe flinches into you, squeezing you in his hold as soon as you move.

– Rafe. – You say it softly, afraid to startle him. But he doesn’t move. – C'mon, let's go inside.

His grip tightens before it loosens, fingers twitching like they don’t want to let go.

Carefully, you reach for his helmet, sliding it off gently, setting it aside, watching as his gaze stays glued to you. His eyes are glassy, still. His face red, his lips bitten. But he looks much calmer, the tear trails barely apparent, dry, against his skin.

You stand, grab the duffel bag, shifting its weight onto your shoulder. But when you take the first step toward the trailer his fingers wrap around your wrist. The movement sudden, a desperate reflex. 

Like a Venus fly trap, it closes around you before you have time to think. 

It’s tight, tighter than it has to be. And it startles you.

You just stand there, waiting, wrist still caught in his hold, until he finally pulls himself up.

Even then he doesn’t let go.

His eyes cling to you, as if he’s taking note of every movement, every breath. The heat of his hand sears through your skin, tight, damp, calloused. But you don't move. His brows furrow slightly when you pull out the key Barry gave you this morning, the expression on his face almost judging as you let yourself in, pulling him with you.

But whatever is going through his head, he doesn’t say it.

He doesn’t say anything for a while.

Not until you sit him down on the couch, helping him kick off his shoes.

– Why are we here? – His voice is low, a little slurred, exhaustion pulling at the edges. The knit between his brows is still there, softer now, when you look up at him. – I don’t wanna see Barry. – His words are flat, sluggish, but something in his eyes flickers, sharp. – He almost killed me too.

Your brow lifts slightly, but you don’t say what you’re thinking— That he was the one who mixed coke and Xanax, that Barry wasn’t the reason he almost died— he was. You school your expression back to neutrality before meeting his eyes again.

– He's the reason you’re alive right now, Rafe. You would’ve died if he didn’t know what to do.

A sharp exhale leaves him.

– No. I would’ve died if you left me there. – His fingers twitch against his knee. – Which you didn’t. He did.

You inhale, the memory surging through before you can stop it.

His blown out eyes. 

The tremble running through his body.

The sinking, horrified realization that you had no idea how to help him. That he would die there, in your arms. 

In your panic, you didn’t account for how much worse it would’ve been if Barry hadn’t been there. But you remember so clearly, the relief that washed over you when the charcoal purge began to show results. When he shot back to life, when he wretched, when he spoke.

It didn’t take you long to realize that relief was owed to Barry.

– Barry was the one that got me the things to wash the drugs out of your system. – You say, the memory still clinging to you.

– Yeah, and then he promptly fucked off! I was sitting there, dying on you and he fucking left!

You breathe in again. – I would have stayed with you either way, Rafe. Even if he wasn’t there to begin with. The difference is, if he hadn’t been there to tell me what to do, I would’ve been there to see you die from an overdose. Not to see you well again.

He’s shaking his head before you even finish, with that bitter laugh still on his lips. – He did fuck all—

– He still saved your life. – The retort is ready in his mouth, but you cut him off before he even starts. – Let’s not talk about this, Rafe. Please. The last thing you need right now is to stress yourself out. – Your voice stays even, steady, but he doesn’t like it.

His jaw twitches, his knee bounces, his fingers drum against his thigh—but he doesn’t argue. Not out loud. Not yet.

You push off your knees to stand, reaching for the blanket draped over the couch.

– Where are you going?

It’s softer this time. Sadder. No sign of the sharp, bitter annoyance he had only a moment before.

You sigh. – It gets really cold in here when the sun goes down. I’m just gonna grab you a blanket.

A pause. A breath. Then—barely above a whisper— You don’t wanna be near me?

Your hands still, brows drawing together. 

It's absurd.

It's ridiculous.

You don’t know how he shifts between moods so quickly, how he can say things like that seriously, with a straight face. – W–What?! Why would you say that?

– Just asking. – His head tilts back, eyes fluttering shut for a moment, but his fingers twitch—restless, needing. – It’s like you can’t wait to get away from me.

– Rafe, – You inhale, slow and steady, though your thoughts are anything but. – You know that’s not what I’m doing. 

He hums, but doesn’t sound convinced.

His hand wraps around your wrist before you can drape the fabric over him, pulling you closer.

– Can you sit with me for a minute? – It’s so quiet now, so careful, like he’s afraid  you’ll slip right through his fingers if he speaks too loud. His hand tightens around yours, his grip warm, insistent, pressing your palm against his chest. You feel the unsteady drum of his heartbeat pulsing quietly beneath the heel of your palm, and you remember holding him there, after he nearly died, trying to will yourself to realize he was alive.

You pull your hand back, pushing him to lay down. – You need to rest, Rafe.

– I’ll rest if you stay. – He tugs at you before you can move too much, his forehead dropping against your shoulder, breath brushing your collarbone, curling into you like it’s instinct. Like he doesn’t even have to think about it. Like he’s done it a thousand times before. His fingers slide from your wrist to your waist, curling in tight. – I slept so good when you laid with me yesterday, baby. So good.

You don’t want to remember that.

Laying there, under him with his words echoing in your mind. Leaving, sneaking out like a criminal. Praying that he was asleep every time you had to return.

The feeling clings to you as you shake your head. – You were sick. Probably hadn't slept very well before.

– I never do. – He mumbles, his grip is like quicksand. You’re quiet, trying your best not to move, but you can feel the slow pull of him around you, dragging you down. – I never dream, I wake up too much, and I always wake up tired. But not yesterday. – He hums. You're closer than you realized you were, his arms wrapped around you completely. – I slept so good, baby. And I slept all day. I even dreamed.

It's like an endorsement, almost a compliment, but you don’t really know what he's getting at. – It might have been the fever, Rafe. You did have a temperature.

He shakes his head. Soft, quiet. And he ends up nuzzling against you, almost unconsciously, until he's holding you tight enough that it's getting hard to breathe. – It was you. – He murmurs, voice thick, certain. 

Your breath catches.

– Rafe—

– I never dream, – He says, cutting you off like he knows what you’re about to do—like he knows you’re about to brush him off, push him away, try to put space between yourself and this moment. His grip tightens, just enough that you feel the start of pain, the pressure of his fingertips against his skin. Like a threat. His fingers slide against the fabric of your shirt, curling into your waist, steadying himself—or maybe steadying you.

His breath is warm against your skin, words creeping into the hollow of your throat, sinking into you, trapping you there.

– I never sleep through the night. I wake up too much, I— He exhales sharply, and it shudders through his whole body, shaking against yours. – It's like being half-awake y’know? But not when you were there. Not when I could feel you.

– You were sick, Rafe. – You try again, quieter this time, softer, measured. It barely crosses your mind that he seems to have gotten well awfully quick. – Sick and exhausted. If the fever didn't knock you out, I'm sure that the amount of Tylenol you took might have.

He shakes his head again. More insistent this time. His forehead presses against your shoulder, deeper, firmer, his voice slipping between the cracks of your resolve, whisper-soft, careful, certain.

– It was you. – He repeats, leaving you no space to question him. His fingers shift, dragging slightly up your side—not enough to push you, not enough to startle you, just enough that you feel it. Just enough that it lingers, that it brands itself into your skin.

He exhales again, slower this time, like he’s finally breathing, like he can finally let himself settle.

Then—soft, raw, a whisper so quiet you almost miss it— I dreamed of you. – He hums. – Before you came up to see me. Before you took care of me. It was like molly, baby— He laughs, low, almost absentminded. – I swear it felt like molly. My whole body was light. Like I was floating. Like I was— He laughs again, but it's darker this time, tinged with something else. – tingling.

You don’t say anything.

You don’t want to ask.

He shifts.

His lips brush against your jaw, barely there, not quite a kiss but close enough to burn.

– You make it quiet, – He whispers, his breath warm against your neck. – You—even in my dream— He exhales sharply, suddenly, as if it’s a relief to say it. – I don’t feel like this when I’m not with you. – His lips press to your skin now before he laughs, the outline of his smile forming against your collarbone, his teeth only barely brushing you, just enough to let you know it's there. – This light. It's like my brain is empty. Like— like it’s okay to just be.

You don’t respond, you don’t know how to. But your body does, even if quietly: The feeling doesn’t even bother to sneak up on you, it springs suddenly from the center of your chest— heavy, aching, breathless. You feel the need to coil in, to clutch your chest, to curl forward, but you can’t. Because it paralyzes you— Dread.

It flutters down your spine, like a flame consuming paper, and it settles in your ribs, pulling the bones within itself until it hardens. 

Your hands shake.

Your head spins.

You want to run. You want to shove him away. You want to curl into yourself, wrap yourself in your own arms and let it fade.

But you don’t give it the time.

You push it down before it settles any further, forcing your mind away. Not now. Not now. Not now.

You think of Barry. You think of how you need to get Rafe down, how you need to talk to Barry, how you need to get to him before he does something stupid, before he puts a target on someone’s back.

The feeling is still there, and it still aches, but you ignore it, hoping that’ll make it go away.

– Rafe, – You murmur, voice careful, even, like you’re not drowning with the weight of him. – You need to sleep.

He hums, lazy and warm, already pressing deeper against you. – Yeah, I do. – His grip tightens at your waist, his body shifting like he’s pulling you with him.

And he does.

Like a bag of stones tied around your middle, he sinks, and pulls you down with him.

He lays back against the couch not even hesitating, not even asking, just moving you as if you're an object he can just move around at will, as if you're something that belongs to him. As if whatever it is that he’s pulling you into isn’t gonna drown you, even if you’re already gasping for air.

Your breath stutters as his good hand slips against your back, pressing, anchoring, holding you over him like you’re something to be kept, to be guarded. – Put me to sleep, baby. Tuck me in.

His eyes are hazy when he looks at you. Soft and unfocused, dark in the dim light.

You swallow hard.

Your fingers twitch against his chest, then drag up, feather-light, brushing against his broken wrist.

– I don’t wanna hurt you. – You say quickly, the excuse coming so easy, so smooth, you almost believe it yourself.

Rafe makes a sound—something between a scoff and a groan. His head tips back, eyes fluttering shut, like he’s frustrated, like you’re ruining something. – Baby—

You don’t let him finish.

You kiss him —Quick. Thoughtless. The first thing that comes to mind.

It’s not soft. It’s not slow. It's not a choice. But you let it linger, enough that you feel him react.

His lips are warm, parted in surprise for all of a second before he exhales sharply through his nose, and his fingers twitch against your waist, just barely, just enough.

You pull back just as fast.

The taste of him lingers.

He stares at you.

Something dark gleams behind his gaze, something satisfied, something pleased.

He doesn’t say anything else as you stand, leaving him there, eyes still fixed on you, still lingering, breathlessly, over your face, your body, your hands, your phone. – What are you doing baby? – The words leave him in a stumble, almost in shock. – Come back.

– I’ll be right back, okay?

– What— Baby? – You don’t give him the time to argue before you make a turn for the bathroom, closing the door behind you.

You're pressed against the door, sharply aware of the broken lock, your hand still tight around the handle, and you fumble around with your left hand, scrolling through the contacts until you find him.

You’re praying now.

Praying he hasn’t beat some random person up because he thought they had something to do with it. Praying that he hasn’t broken anything in a fit of rage. Praying that he just picks up the fucking phone already.

The line barely rings once before—

– Sweetheart— What the fuck— Barry’s voice is sharp, furious, cutting through the line like a live wire. – Some piece of shit just fucking stole my bike, man, I swear to fucking God—I don’t know who the fuck he think he is, but I'm gonna gut this motherfucker—

– Bee—

—I leave it for two seconds, two fucking seconds, and some dickhead thinks—

– Barry—

—He don't know who the fuck he's messing with— I swear to fucking God, sweetheart, you better not tell me to calm down cause—

– It was Rafe. – Silence. You hear his breath across the line, heaving, thoughtless, suddenly gone. The anger shifting into confusion. – He took your —well, his bike— He's here. At your place.

– What?!

You exhale, pressing the heel of your hand against your forehead. Your reflection not half as jumbled as you feel. – It was Rafe, – You repeat, steady, measured, trying to keep the conversation stable before it spirals. – He took the bike. He came here. The bike is fine, by the way. It's not scratched, it's not broken. It's just the way you left it.

– The bike— He stutters, scoffs. – Sweetheart, you think I care about the fucking bike?! What the fuck is he doing at our place?!

You can hear it. The way his breath tightens, the way something in his mind clicks, the way all that anger shifts into something else.

You can’t see him, but the expression comes so clearly to you then: the furrow of his brows, the way his lips wrap around words that don’t come out, the way he shakes his head maniacally.

You can feel the anger through the line.

His voice suddenly drops, lower, serious, edged with something dark. – What’s going on? Are you okay? Did he do anything? Is he high? I swear to fucking God, sweetheart, if that piece of shit is high—

– Barry, it’s—

– Did he do anything to you? Did he hurt you?!

– No. – You say it quick, firm. – He's just—he was just upset, alright? He's fine. It's fine. I’m fine.

You cringe at yourself. “He's fine” What does that matter to Barry? He doesn’t care. You open your mouth, thinking of reeling it back, of saying something else, but you’re met with silence.

A kind of silence you know very well.

Barry doesn’t believe you.

You can hear it, in the way he exhales through his nose, sharp, frustrated, as if you’re a kid caught in a lie. – Sweetheart—

You cut in before he can start rambling – I’m coming to get you. Tell me where you are.

He laughs, disbelieving. – What do you mean you're coming to get me? You can't drive a bike!

You open your mouth to argue, the retort already sitting at the tip of your tongue, but just as you part your lips you hear a knock.

Soft. Almost hesitant.

The door creaks open before you even say anything.

Your grip tightens, and you lean it against the sink. You can hear Barry, the echo of his voice as you lower the phone, the call still on.

Rafe stands in the doorway, his body heavy with exhaustion, his eyes hazy, dark, searching yours. His fingers curl loosely against the frame like he needs to steady himself, like he can barely stand.

And his voice is thick when he speaks, low and quiet, like something sticky, something sickly sweet. – What’re you doing? – He asks. It’s not accusing. It’s not demanding. It’s almost whining. – You keep running from me. What— what's going on?

His voice is thick, sticky with exhaustion, but there’s something else curling under it—something needy, something that pulls.

You grip the phone tighter.

– I'm just talking to Barry, – You murmur, your stomach dropping, your voice careful. You're not even sure what you're being so careful about. – Everything's fine, Rafe. Go lie down.

He frowns.

It’s small at first, barely noticeable, just the slightest twitch of his brows— But then it lingers. Settles.

Annoyance.

Like something about what you just said doesn’t sit right with him. – Barry? – He repeats, slower this time, like he doesn’t like the way the name feels in his mouth.

His fingers tighten against the doorframe.

You swallow. – Yeah. You did take his bike.

Rafe exhales through his nose. A little sharp. A little off. His lips press together. You know that look.

His fingers flex against the doorframe, quick, thoughtless, frustrated.

– S’not even his bike. – He mumbles. It’s quiet. Almost as if he's talking to himself. But he still eyes you, his brows furrowed, his lips pursed in something like a pout. – It's mine. I left it with him, but the bike is mine.

You hear the ghost of a commotion from Barry's end, a string of curses, maybe a scoff.

You blink at him.

– Rafe—

His frown deepens, the sulk setting in. Digging in. His fingers drum against the wood, slow, deliberate, as his gaze flickers—phone, you, phone, you.

– Why are you even talking to him? – It’s childish in a way that should make this whole thing feel stupid, but instead it just pulls tighter around you. Because his voice is still thick, still cloying, still sticking to your skin like something you’ll never be able to wash off.

Your fingers tighten against the sink.

– I'm gonna go pick him up.

His brows furrow, his lips parting like he’s about to argue— But then his gaze flicks to the phone again.

And something shifts.

– Hang up. – It’s soft. Simple. A request, not a command. But it makes your stomach twist anyway. Because his eyes don’t leave yours as he says it, his fingers curl against the doorframe tighter, for all the softness in his voice, there’s something wrong under it.

– No. Rafe, go lie down, okay? It's fine.

– Why do you even have to go? Can't he get here on his own? – His voice climbs higher, just slightly, frustration burning at the edges, barely there. But you've known enough men to know that they can swing from mild irritation to outright rage faster than your eye can flick. And you freeze. Looking at him, quietly, not sure of what to do.

You tilt your head and look down —Another one of your mother’s tricks. Her favorite way to make someone feel bad about raising their voice to her— Rafe stills, looking at you carefully. – He can get here on his own. That’s all I’m saying. It’s late to be riding around alone, why would you go out right now?

– It won’t take me long. –  You exhale slowly, keeping your voice quiet, sweet. – I’ll go straight there and back. – You pick the phone back up. – Just tell me where you are, Bee.

Barry doesn’t answer right away.

The line is quiet.

You can almost hear him thinking, the way his jaw tightens, the way he’s probably running scenarios through his head.

A sharp breath. A reluctant sigh. – Near Shoreline. By the lot. Don’t bring him, sweetheart. I know how long it’ll take you to get here. I’m waiting for you.

Your fingers tighten around the phone. – Okay. I’m just heading out.

– Careful. – Barry warns, the edge of annoyance already bleeding through his tone.

You don’t get another word out before Rafe scoffs. – Why can’t he just get the bus? What, he doesn’t have legs or something?

Silence. Barry reacts exactly how you expect him to. – What the fuck did he just say?! – Barry’s voice is sharp, biting, all that earlier restraint snapping in an instant.

You don’t look at Rafe.

You won’t.

– Bee—

– No, no, no, don’t fucking ‘Bee’ me right now— The words come fast, heated, like a lit fuse burning too close. – Tell me he didn’t just say that shit. Tell me I’m fucking hearing things.

Rafe exhales through his nose, tilting his head, looking at you with something slow and amused burning in his eyes. His fingers flex against the doorframe again, looser this time, like this whole thing is suddenly entertaining to him. – I mean, does he?

You stiffen, raising a brow. – Rafe.

His lips twitch, a barely-there smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. He’s amused, but he isn’t happy. There’s still something angry behind his expression. – I’m just saying, baby. He’s a big boy, right? He can get himself home.

– Just—stop, – You mutter, voice low, trying to push forward, trying to not let this turn into something bigger. But it already is.

– Sweetheart, – Barry bites out, voice rough, dangerous. – Put me on speaker.

Rafe scoffs, the previous softness of his voice suddenly vanishing. – Oh, I can hear you just fine—

– No, no—I’m heading out. I’m heading out right now. Stay with your phone. I’ll be there in a minute, okay? Bye. – Barry still tries to argue, his words coming through in rapid-fire before you hang up.

Rafe stands before you, his arms crossed, that same conflicting expression clear as day on his face. – Baby,

– I’m heading out. It won’t be long. 

You walk around him, your mind moving as quickly as you, but even still, you’re not quicker than Rafe. His good hand wraps around your arm, pulling you back.

Not hard.

Not tight.

But firm.

Enough to stop you.

– Stop running from me! – The amusement is gone, buried. 

You force a breath.

– I’m not running from you Rafe. Barry's all alone there. I have to go.

His fingers twitch against your skin.

– Feels like you are. – His voice dips lower, tired, needy. But there’s a tick on his jaw that keeps you on your toes. – You keep doing that. We’re here, and we’re fine, and I know you wanna stay as much as I want you to, but you keep fucking running!

You shake your head, trying to pull away, but his grip tightens. Just slightly. Just enough.

– Rafe—

– It’s always someone else. You can never just let yourself enjoy your time with me, even when I know you want to. It’s your brother. Then it’s JJ. Then it’s Kareem. Then it’s Barry— He stops, laughing bitterly. – It’s always Barry though, isn’t it? – He scoffs, the sound is cold, sharp, humorless. – You’re always going to him.

Your stomach twists. – That’s not what I’m doing—

– Yeah, it is! – He shouts, his head tilting, that amused, irritated look still clinging to his face. – You’d rather go drive to fucking Shoreline to pick up him than stay here with me. What, you like him more than me or something?

Your brows furrow.

The answer is obvious. 

Barry’s been your best friend since you were twelve and he was fifteen. You’d known him for the better part of your life. Of course you like him more than someone you just met.

So why does it feel like you can’t say it? – That’s not what this is about, Rafe.

– Mm. – He hums low, dragging you closer without even thinking about it. – It is, though.

– Rafe, I have to go.

He blinks at you. Then, his lips part, brows furrowing like you just said something that genuinely confused him. – Do you? – His grip stays firm. He pulls you even closer, until you’re close enough that his breath fans warmly against your cheek. – You know what I think? I think you’re scared of what you feel for me. 

You bite back the scoff that threatens to leave your lips. – I beg your pardon?

His grip doesn’t tighten, doesn’t pull, doesn’t force—but he doesn’t let go.

– You keep running, baby, – He murmurs, voice dropping lower, almost soothing, almost gentle, like he’s comforting you. – Every time we get close, every time it starts feeling real— you run to someone else. Because you’re scared.

– Rafe—

– It’s okay, – He cuts in smoothly, nodding like he’s just realized something life-changing. His broken hand moves up, brushing a piece of hair from your face. – I get it, now. I didn't before, but I do know. It’s scary, isn’t it? When you left with JJ that night I was so fucking angry, y’know? It just didn’t make sense to me why you'd wanna spend time with that fucking nutjob. But it’s so clear to me now. That you love me. That you’re just scared of admitting it.

Your pulse jumps. Your head shakes on impulse, uncontrollably. – Rafe—

– I get it. I get it, baby. Because I feel it too. Fuck, I’m crazy about you. Crazy. Actually insane. – His eyes are burning into yours now, something unshakable behind them. – But I’m not scared of it anymore, okay? I'm a proactive type of person. I know what I want. I know what this is. And I know you feel it too. – His fingers trail down your arm, slow, light, tracing you like he’s memorizing you. – You’re just not ready to admit it yet.

His voice is soft. Patient. Like he’s forgiving you, when you didn't even do anything wrong.

Like he’s waiting for you to finally understand.

Your jaw clenches. You can’t stop shaking your head, as if you’re denying that this is happening, as if it could make it suddenly turn back to normal. – There’s nothing to admit, Rafe.

His lips twitch with that same almost-smile. – You do that. – He chuckles, pointing at your face. – When you lie. You won’t stop shaking your head. Like your body is rejecting it. It’s okay, baby. I’m not mad. I can't be. You’re too cute. Even when you’re lying, you’re so fucking cute. – He says again, that awful, calm, patronizing reassurance dripping from his voice. – You don’t have to say it. I know it’s hard for you.

– Rafe—

– You get all stiff when you’re in your feelings. – His fingers press lightly against your arm, like he’s demonstrating it, like he’s proving a point. – You don’t even notice, but I do. You get quiet. You try to act all normal, like nothing’s happening. – He exhales slowly, shaking his head, like this is something he’s studied, something he’s memorized. – But I see it, baby. I always see it. I always see you. – Your pulse jumps, your voice solid, stuck in your throat. – You’re scared.

– I’m not scared of you, Rafe. – You say it like a mantra. More to yourself than to him.

– I didn’t say you were. –  His grip loosens—but only so his hand can slide down, catching your fingers, lacing his through yours. – And you don’t have to be. I’m not John B. I’m not JJ. You think I didn’t see him yesterday? The way he grabbed you? The way he pulled you onto my bike? I did. JJ’s a fucking psychopath, okay? He’s insane. And I’m not like him. That’s why you’re not scared of me. Because you know this. Deep down. You know I won’t hurt you like he does. But you’ve never felt like this before, have you? That’s why you’re scared of this, of this feeling. – His eyes flicker between yours, searching, certain. – But you don’t have to be.

He lifts your joined hands, presses them against his chest— And you feel it, the racing, uneven thud of his heartbeat beneath your palm.

– See? – His lips part slightly, breath shaky, his voice softer now, almost sickly with this delusional sincerity. – You see what you do to me?

You pull back, your body moving on nothing but instinct, but he doesn’t allow you much. His good hand is still entwined with yours, still holding you to him. He gives you an inch, just enough to put space between you two, but no more than that.

– I have to go. – Your voice wavers, just slightly, just barely, but it’s enough. – Please, just—just let go of me, okay?

Rafe laughs.

It’s low, deep, a quiet chuckle that rumbles through his chest, and you feel it vibrate against your palm as he presses your hand tighter into him.

– It’s okay, baby. – His voice is so fond, so soothing, like he’s talking you down from something, like he’s reassuring you. – You’ll learn. Eventually, you’ll learn. You’ll learn you don’t have to run from me. That I’m right here, right where you need me. That I can wait. – His fingers trail slowly along your side, his grip never fully loosening, just shifting, just lingering. – I’m the only one that’ll make you feel like this.

Your breath catches.

– I know what you feel, baby. – His heartbeat thuds against your palm, fast and uneven, but his touch is steady, his grip firm. – Because I feel it too. I tried to run from this for so long, baby. So long. You can't even imagine.

You swallow, your throat tight, your skin buzzing under his touch, painful, electric, a shock that goes on forever, a breathless pain you can't escape. 

– Rafe—

– It's okay. – He shakes his head slightly, tilting it just enough that his forehead nearly brushes yours. – You don’t have to explain it to me.

His other hand moves—slow, careful—his fingers ghosting up your arm, skimming your shoulder, the touch barely there, like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

Like he’s done it before.

Like he’s done it a thousand times in his head.

– I already know. You don’t have to be scared, baby, – He murmurs, and the way he says it makes something cold creep up your spine. 

– Rafe—

– I mean, I get it. – His lips twitch, like this is some inside joke between the two of you. – It’s big. It’s intense. It freaks you out, doesn’t it? – His thumb brushes over your wrist, right where your pulse is racing, and he smiles. – I can feel it, you know? You don't realize it yet, you keep pushing it down, but I know how you feel about me. That’s why you keep running.

You exhale sharply, your head still shaking, your pulse roaring in your ears.

– I’m not running.

– You are.

– Rafe—

– It’s okay. – He says it again, and he looks at you, like you're this scrawny kitten, hissing out of fear. You always thought you preferred pity over loathing. Always wondered whether the overly honorable people of the world only hated pity because they've never felt what true hatred was like. But Rafe's sympathy is almost repulsive, somehow making you feel even smaller. – I told you baby, I get it. You’ve never had anything real before. You don’t know how to handle it. It's okay.

You stiffen.

– That’s not true.

– It isn’t? – He laughs, his hand tightening around your wrist, just slightly. – Be honest with me, baby. What, you think you and Barry were ever serious? That he didn't talk about you like you were some random bitch he could fuck on a Thursday night? – He says it just to hurt you. And it does. But not for the reason that he thinks. – He doesn't care about you! He never did! You're just a thing to him! But not for me! I care about you!

– Rafe—

His eyes are feverish, something dark flashing through them as he leans in. Possessiveness. – No one’s ever made you feel like this before, have they? – He smiles, completely convinced your baffled silence is affirmation. – It’s different with me, isn’t it?

– That’s not—

– It’s okay, baby. It’s supposed to be different. It's different when it's meant to be. 

Your stomach drops.

Something in his eyes shifts, and his shoulders drop, like he's just confessed something, like he’s finally put it out there.

– Rafe.

– You think I haven’t been watching you?

The words slam into you.

Your breath hitches.

Your whole body freezes.

But Rafe just smiles.

– I see you, baby. – His fingers trail up your arm, barely skimming the fabric of your top. – I’ve always seen you.

Your skin prickles.

– Rafe—

– You saved me before. – He hums, the glimmer in his eye so warm, so bright, you think you're staring at a flame. – I know you don't remember. But you did. You saved my life. Right here. – He pats the couch behind him, leaning on it, pulling you against him with such ease your body freezes all over again. – Barry’s birthday, remember? You were wearing your pretty little blue pleated skirt, carrying around that cake for people to write on with frosting.

– That was three years ago, Rafe.

He doesn't even listen. – Kelce’s got me some weird speedball thing. Fucked me up. I swear I could feel my fucking cells dying in me, one by one. – His eyes fill with tears, his hands shake. – I was sitting here, dying, fucking gasping on this couch and nobody did a fucking thing. Nobody. Not Topper, not Kelce, not Barry. Not even the bitch I brought over with me, she didn't do anything. But you did. You did.

– Rafe—

– You sat here with me, drunk off your fucking mind, and gave me water, you let me cry, let me hold you, stroked my hair like you do. Calmed me down. You slept right here. – He pulls you into his chest, and you yelp, but he doesn't hear you. It’s like he's in a daze. – Right here. Right on my chest. Curled up next to me like some bunny, shit, you were so fucking cute, and it was driving me fucking insane.

He leans in, taking a fistful of your ass as he noses at your neck, inhaling you like a feen.

– Stop it!

– Bouncing around next to me. That tiny little skirt riding up— His eyes roll back, breath coming out heavy, shallow, desperate. You feel his teeth graze your skin as you struggle, pushing him away. – fuck baby, you don't know how much it took for me not to fuck you right there.

Your whole body locks up.

Your stomach drops.

– Rafe—!

His breath is hot against your neck, wet, his lips brushing, his teeth grazing, his fingers tightening over your ass, digging in like he’s claiming you.

Like he already has.

– You were so fucking sweet to me, baby, – He groans, his voice low, rough, thick with something deep, something primal. – Holding me, stroking my hair, whispering to me like you fucking meant it.

– I didn’t— Rafe! I was out of my mind!

– Shhh. – His other hand drags up, his palm flattening against your back, spreading wide, pressing, holding you closer. – You did, baby. You did. You just don’t remember. You didn’t have to do it. – His lips graze your ear, his voice soft, low, like he’s confessing something sacred. – Nobody else did. Nobody else cared. But you did.

His fingers dig in, his body pressing, his breath coming faster, heavier, like he’s dizzy on the memory, like it’s drugging him all over again.

– You didn’t even know me, and you saved my life. You saved my life like it was nothing.

– Let go of me, Rafe!

– You saved me. You did. And you keep doing it. You do— Baby, you’re perfect. – The words come off in a gasp, breathy, dazed, like he can’t believe this is actually happening. – I spent three years trying to tell myself that I was only fucked up about you because you're crazy fucking hot. Because you’re nice. Because you’re good. Because you're smart. And because your food is so fucking good— Fuck. It really is amazing— He chuckles, light, airy, a single tear rolling down his face. Like this is the height of romance. – But it's not just that. It's not. I spent years running from it. Running from you. But I couldn’t get away from you, baby. I couldn’t. And then you saved me again. And I knew we were meant to be.

His breath is shaky, his grip tight, his whole body warm and heavy against yours like he’s melting into you.

You struggle, pushing at his chest, but he barely moves, barely even registers it.

His eyes are shining, wet, soft, like this is the greatest love story ever told.

Like this is his moment.

– You don’t get it yet, baby. – His hands slide, his fingers gripping, pressing, holding like he’s physically keeping you in place. – But you will. You will because you're already mine, right? – He grabs you, lifts you, his teeth grazing your windpipe so suddenly you feel your life slip right through your fingers.

Your pulse slams in your throat.

You push yourself out of his hold, stumbling back, but he grabs you again, holding you from behind, his face buried in the crook of your neck, biting at your tattoo as he laughs.

– Let go of me, Rafe!

He chuckles again, like this is funny, like this is cute, like you’re just playing hard to get. – I’ll let you go, baby. – His grip tightens—just for a second, just enough to make sure you feel it before he lets it ease up again. – I will. – His lips curl, his eyes dark, knowing. – After you kiss me.

Your stomach drops.

– Stop it—

– Don’t even deny it. You don’t have to. – His head tilts, eyes burning into yours, his grip warm and firm against your waist. – You don’t have to pretend. I know you like it.

– Rafe—

– I know you do, baby. – He exhales slowly, his eyes glazing over like he’s already lost in the memory, like he’s already feeling it again. – The way you kissed me this morning, the way you put this top on just for me, the way you put Sarah in her place, fuck, baby— The words escape him like a hiss, his breath shaky, his pupils blown wide with something hazy, something starved. – You can’t even deny it. You can’t. But, fuck, the way you kissed me… –  His fingers dig into your hip, twitching slightly, like he’s reliving it, like he’s sinking into it all over again. – That was all the proof I needed. We're meant to be. We are.

He doesn’t wait.

He takes.

His lips crash against yours, heat pouring from his body, from his grip, from the way he pulls you in, inescapable like gravity itself.

You struggle.

Your hands press against his chest, pushing, but he’s so damn strong, even with one hand splinted and broken, even with his body heavy with pain killers.

You push, but he doesn’t budge.

He just groans, low and rough, like he likes the fight, like he likes the way you press against him, like it only makes him want more.

– Mm, baby—

His grip tightens, his fingers spreading over your back, securing you, holding you, pinning you against him as his lips move hungrily, desperately, like he’s trying to devour every sound, every breath, every single piece of you.

His body burns against yours, his chest rising and falling fast, his broken wrist completely forgotten as he holds you with everything he has.

You try to turn your head, try to pull back, but his hand slides up, fingers curling at the back of your neck, keeping you there.

– Don’t fight me, – He murmurs against your lips, voice thick, drugged on the feeling of you. – You don’t have to fight me, baby. Just relax.

You don't.

You twist, trying to pull away, but Rafe chuckles, his lips dragging against your jaw, down to the corner of your mouth, his breath hot against your skin.

– You always do this, – He mutters, like this is so familiar, like this is something he’s already mapped out in his head a thousand times. – You always struggle, but you always come back. That's love.

You push harder, your hands pressing against his chest, but all it does is make him tighten his grip, his fingers pressing into your waist, holding you in place.

– You feel it, don’t you? You love me.

His lips find yours again, his teeth tugging at your bottom lip, his breath shaking as his body presses closer, closer, closer.

– It’s okay. – His voice is so soft, so sure, like he’s comforting you, like he’s calming you down from something that’s only happening in his own head. – You don’t have to run.

His lips move deeper, his fingers skimming under the hem of your top, his body pulling you into him, like he’s claiming you, like he’s marking you, like he needs to seal this moment into his skin.

His eyes open, and he stares down at the top, groaning, grinning, grabbing at the fabric. – You’re mine, baby.

You wrench yourself away.

Rafe follows.

You grab the keys.

You open the door.

You lean against the doorframe, breathing hard, your lips burning, your heartbeat slamming against your ribs.

Rafe just leans back, grinning, smug, satisfied, eyes dark and heavy-lidded, his lips red and swollen.

– Don’t miss me too much, baby. – His voice is thick, lazy, like he’s already settled into the idea that you’ll be back. – I’ll be waiting for you right here when you come back, okay?

@chatgtfo @bitterdotcom @xmayankax @bluethperson @coralblue35 @myluvingera @munsoncultedits @the-bitch-who-binges @im-julessssss @redkarmakai @hwaaholic @sydkneez @sassyvilliantrope @vampiriito @sassybearfire @matildalittlefreak @sunsetkiss333

[bonnie-the-butcher]

Rip Tide | Chapter XIV

[ MDNI ] [ word count: 9.280 ] [ Masterlist ] 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬: Canonverse/Canon-Divergent; Dark! Content; NSFW; Strong Language; Cheating; Drug Use; Mentions of overdose; Some shades of Munchausen syndrome from dear old Rafe; Manipulation; Toxic, obsessive behaviour; Stalking; Violence; DUBCON/NONCON; My writing is really pretentious and English is not my first language, so please feel free to call me out in whichever grammar mistakes you might find find.

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | You and JJ have always been in each other's orbit. He's your brother’s best friend, the guy you've known your entire life. He was kind, protective, familiar. You never meant for the two of you to start hooking up. And you never meant for it to last so long. But when this boy you thought you'd come to know like the back of your hand turns out to be no better than the men he'd warned you about, you find yourself in the sights of the guy he hates most, regardless of wether you want that or not.

Likes, asks, reblogs, and comments are always greatly appreciated! Thank you in advance for reading <3

You don’t remember the bus ride.

You don’t remember getting off the bus, you don't remember stepping through the station doors, and you don't remember the cold blast of air conditioning hitting your skin.

You’re here.

You know you are.

But it barely feels like it.

The moment you step foot in the precinct, something else hits you, and you’re sure that this won’t go over well. There’s people all over the place, running like headless chickens under the violently bright lights, pushing past both officers and civilians, as if a tragedy had just occurred.

Your heart sinks, beating at a speed that only panic can bring it to, and you only narrowly avoid colliding with other people as your feet rapidly tread the familiar path to Sheriff Peterkin’s office.

It's only John. You tell yourself. He fucked up again, they called me over here for bail. Nothing’s wrong. Everything’s fine. Everything’s fine. 

But you don’t believe it. 

Within the fear you’re feeling, all your thoughts feel off, untrue, as if the words that echo in your mind are the jumbled leftovers of someone else’s internal monologue, all mismatched fears and incoherent paranoias.

There was an ambulance outside, you suddenly recall. Its doors open, a single paramedic sitting within, his legs dangling over the ground as he toyed at his phone, mumbling frantically into the speaker. You pass another on your way, this one much more composed, resolute, almost angry.

You don’t know what to think.

You don’t want to be relieved in fear that if something bad truly happened, then the disconnect between your past calm and the dread that might hit you will send you spiraling into something you won’t be able to pull yourself from again.

It’s like a deja vu.

Suddenly, it’s your seventeenth birthday again, and you’re coming into the station to ID a body they think it’s your dad’s— The paramedics sit outside, talking to each other like nothing’s happening. You’re wearing a shirt that belonged to him, and sandals you stole from his friends’ daughter, standing before Peterkin and the pity on face, as you hold your phone in your hand, praying that John won’t call to ask what you’re doing.

She puts her hands on your shoulder and guides you to a little room at the end of the hall.

The body on the table lays like a stone, the coroner standing guard over it like a sentinel, his eyes fixed on you with the coldness of glacier as he opens the bag.

Discolored skin, bloated flesh, a beard that’s only been barely cleaned of the blood spilling from the cut up mouth. A row of toothless gums gape at you, darkened, the blood dry but the lips still glazed over. “That’s not my father,” You say, and you don’t know if you’re crying from mourning or from relief. You hear the words bouncing against the walls of your skull, but when they pull the zipper closed on the body bag, it’s John’s face disappearing under the plastic.

You stumble, and your heart stops painfully before kicking right back to the break-neck speed of before.

Your hands are shaking as you clutch your bag tighter, vision fraying at the edges, and you hold onto the wall for a moment before walking again.

Peterkin’s door is only an arm’s length away when something else startles you, and your feet stumble again as you recoil. Someone’s voice cuts through the air, sharp, urgent. It takes you a moment to realize that this person shouted your name.

You flinch before you even see him, before you process the way he’s already half-risen from his seat, fighting against Pope’s grip on his arm.

JJ.

Your eyes scan over him quickly. He has a split brow, apart from the bruises that Barry left on him. His breath is frantic, but he doesn’t seem like he’s grieving. He’s not crying. And for a half a beat, your heart calms down.

– Just—Just listen to me, okay? Look— This was an accident. It wasn’t our fault. We didn’t do anything. – His voice is pleading, his face wrecked with something painful —guilt, regret, maybe worry— you can’t read him, your eyes focused on the blood of his split brow, still fresh over the settling watercolor of black and blue that paints his skin. His eyes try to find yours, glassy, desperate. – It wasn’t our fault. – He repeats, taking a step towards you, hands up like a beggar. – We didn’t do anything.

Pope pulls at him again, trying to get him to sit down. His jaw is set, he doesn’t seem hurt, but the twinge of disapproval he sends JJ gives you pause. Kie is there too, rigid, tense, arms crossed tightly over her chest, but she doesn’t look at you, she just sits there, staring at the floor.

JJ calls your name again, extends a hand, beckoning you to come over, like the needs you near. 

You don't move. Your feet are rooted on the ground and your heart is racing. Your mouth opens, but you don’t recognize the voice that comes out. – What did he do? What did you do? Where is he?

– We didn’t do anything. – He pleads.

– Didn’t do anything?! – Another voice. Louder. Angry. Your eyes dart towards the person, but you meet two. From further into the hall, Kelce and Topper are standing next to an officer, the blond boy facing the cop as Kelce stares right at JJ. – You didn’t do anything?! You could have fucking killed us! 

JJ’s eyes don’t stray from yours. – Just listen no me—

– You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me! – Kelce’s laughter is edged with contempt. – Listen to what? You psychopaths ram your piece of shit car into us for almost a mile and I’m supposed to buy that it was a mistake?

– A mile? What— JJ, what did you—

– Baby, I swear we didn’t do anything, they tried to run us off the road and we—

– We tried to run you off the road?! Are you fucking high?!

– You were screaming at us! – JJ growls, rage surging through him. Pope finally stands up, his own anger clear on his face as he tries to push JJ back to his seat, but the blonde boy only wrenches away again, looking at you. – They were trying to make us crash!

– What did you just fucking say?!

Your mind tunes out JJ’s response, spinning. They shout over one another, back and forth, words tangling together into an incomprehensible mess of rage and self-righteousness that you can’t even begin to process.

Your head is splitting.

Your breath is shallow.

And then—

A hand on your shoulder.

– Routledge. – Peterkin’s hand rests on you, that strange, almost artificial look on her face. She’s still as a statue, looking at you as if you’re a puzzle, something for her to solve. – Come on in.

You weren’t ready for the touch.

Your stomach drops before your brain catches up.

You turn. Slowly. Out of body.

And you see them.

Ward. John. Rafe.

Waiting.

She pulls you in until you move, closing the door behind you with an uncanny calm. All you hear are the muffled remnants of the chaos outside and the sound of your own pulse. 

John is there, your hands reach for him before you can stop yourself, on his shoulder, his arm, his face, as if confirming he's there. 

He's alive.

It's not a dream.

You pull away as if his touch had burned you. You’re close enough to the door that a single step back has you pressed against it.

Your hands are trembling.

– You could have told me what was happening.  

You only realized it was you who said it after Peterkin briefly pauses to look at you.

– Sorry, Routledge?

– You could have told me what was happening. – You're still shaking, but it's not from worry anymore. – Do you have any idea of what I was thinking? You call me in here, refuse to answer any of my questions, talking like the second tower is coming down and when I get here there’s a fucking ambulance parked outside!

– Don’t curse at me.

– I THOUGHT HE WAS DEAD, PETERKIN! I thought my brother was dead! And that’s exactly what you wanted, too! Isn’t it?!

– Look, Routledge, I understand you’re worried but let’s calm—

– DON’T!— You cut yourself off, hands on your temples. – Don’t tell me to calm down, please.

– I’m trying to help you out here, Routledge.

– You’re trying to fuck with me, is what you’re doing. You can tell me to come ID a body over the phone, you can tell me that you need me to sign the papers for my father’s death over the phone, you can tell me, as you have done many times before, that he was detained for this or that crime. What was I supposed to think, when you refused to tell me what was going on?!

John cuts in. – You’re overreacting.

– If I need an inmate's opinion on how to properly express my feelings I'll send a letter to Timothy Leary. At least he has a degree, the only thing you have to show for is an orange jumpsuit.

– What did you just—

– You wanna talk shit? Get someone else to pay for bail every time you fuck up. In the meantime, you can sit your ass down and keep your mouth shut. 

John’s face twists, fury flashing in his eyes, but before he say anything else, Peterkin’s voice cuts through the air like a whip.

– Enough. – Her voice reaps the momentum from you. – If you two want to bicker like children, do it somewhere else. You’re in a police station.

A sharp silence follows.

John is still fuming, still gripping the arms of his chair, still seething like he might say something else.

But you don’t care.

You don’t look at him. Your anger is still focused on Peterkin, that rage that feels like an edgeless life, pointed but unthreatening, until it boils over. – Well, are you gonna tell me what happened or do you have any mind games to get out of your chest beforehand?

– Don't you talk to me like that!

– How else do you expect the girl to talk to you after you made her believe her brother was dead, Sheriff? – Your eyes flick towards Ward, the last person you would expect to back you up. His eyes move slowly, between her and you. His face taken by an expression so calm it almost feels unnatural.

Peterkin’s jaw tightens.

Her eyes flick to Ward, then back to you.

– I didn’t make her believe anything. – She says it slowly, controlled, but her fingers press just a little too hard against the desk.

– No? – Ward’s brows lift slightly, his tone light, almost teasing, and it comes so clearly to you then, because its the same face Rafe makes when he’s about to do something reckless. – Then what exactly would you call it?

Peterkin exhales, pressing her lips together before turning her gaze fully on you.

– Your brother and his friend— She glances at John, then at the door, like she can still hear JJ’s shouting. —decided to use their vehicle as a weapon. I assume you already pieced that together.

Your pulse skips.

John shifts beside you. – We were defending ourselves, – He mutters, but Peterkin doesn’t even acknowledge him.

Her focus stays on you. – That means reckless endangerment, destruction of property, possible assault charges—depending on what the Camerons want to pursue.

Your stomach turns.

You’re waiting for Ward to jump in, to press the issue, to demand the worst punishment possible.

But he doesn’t.

He leans forward, forearms resting on the table.

– I’m willing to be reasonable about this.

You blink.

Peterkin does too. 

Rafe does a double take, the first sound he makes is a sound of outrage.

– You are? – Your voice coincides with Peterkin’s, both of you unable to hide your confusion.

Ward nods, shifting slightly. He looks at you when he speaks next. – What John did was reckless, yes. But he's young. He has a younger sister to look after.

– Look after? – Rafe scoffs, a bitter noise, so similar to the one his father made earlier today, like the warning sound of a rattlesnake. – This psychopath? Oh, yeah. He’s looking after her for sure. – He reaches for your arm, tugging so suddenly you nearly double over. – Look how well he’s been taking care of her these last few days.

– Let go of her, Rafe! Get your hands off of her!

– What?! You jealous I might be bruising her instead of you? You can’t handle that, can you, you sick fuck?!

John lunges.

He doesn’t think. He doesn’t stop.

His chair scrapes violently against the floor, hands already grabbing for Rafe, the heat of his rage flaring so fast, so violently, that you barely have time to process it.

But your body moves before your brain does. Your hands slam against his chest. Hard.

He stumbles back into his seat.

– Sit. Down.

His eyes widen. Not in shock. Not in fear. In something else. – He just said—

– Sit the fuck down, John B. I’m not playing with you.

The room is dead silent.

John is breathing hard, chest rising and falling rapidly as you step back.

Rafe is smiling. Smug. Triumphant. Like you’ve just proven his fucking point.

Your stomach twists.

Because you know exactly what he’s about to say before he even says it. – You see this shit? Can’t even talk to him wrong and he’s already jumping to fucking beat someone up!

Peterkin shoots Rafe a warning glance.

– That’s enough! – She growls. – This isn’t a boxing ring. This isn’t a school playground. You want to fight? Do it after!

But Rafe’s not done. He laughs, shaking his head, and Ward steps towards him, pulling him back onto his chair. – Would you stop acting like a child for a minute?!

His jaw tightens, his fingers drumming aggressively against his knee, eyes blazing with disbelief. – Dad, are you fucking kidding me?

– Language, Rafe! 

– No, fuck that, – Rafe snaps, his voice low, shaking with something dark. He leans forward, his knuckles pressing into the desk. – John B could’ve killed me. Killed us. Topper and Kelce too. And you’re sitting here acting like he’s some poor fucking kid just trying to take care of his baby sister when the only thing he does is fuck her up!

He laughs, sharp, bitter.

Your stomach twists violently. – Don’t do this right now, Rafe.

– Tell me I’m wrong. – He sits back, looking at you with those wide eyes, almost playing at innocence,  but the tick in his jaw is as dangerous as any car crash. 

The room stills.

You feel Ward watching you, but your eyes are locked onto Rafe.

You don’t know what to say. Because he’s right. But that doesn’t mean he should be saying it.

Ward exhales slowly, deliberate. – I get that you’re angry, son. But this isn’t about anger. It’s about fairness.

– Fairness? – Rafe’s voice practically drips with disbelief. – And what exactly is fair about him walking out of here with a slap on the wrist?

Ward tilts his head slightly, watching him, measuring him. – Be reasonable, son.

Rafe’s voice is a growl. – How the fuck am I supposed to be reasonable when this piece of shit just tried to kill me?! Look at me! – Rafe slowly, deliberately, raises his left hand. His fingers are stiff, the skin bruised and swollen, his wrist wrapped in a temporary splint. His right arm doesn’t move at all. Because it can’t. He turns to you suddenly, his eyes desperate. – Look at what he did to me! – He tilts his head slightly, watching your face, measuring your reaction. – You see this? – His voice is low, gravelly, almost affectionate. – You see what he did to me? That was supposed to be you.

The words land like a gunshot.

– You think he wouldn’t do this to you? – Rafe’s voice drops even lower, almost gentle now, almost pitying. – You think he won’t put his hands on you the second you stop being useful to him? That he’ll keep just grabbing without beating forever?

Your brother seethes. – Shut the fuck up, Rafe!

But Rafe ignores him, moving towards you. Slow. Sharp. Dangerous.

– Tell me I’m wrong. – He begs, quiet, almost frantic. – You know I'm not. You know it.

The words land like a knife between your ribs. John is breathing hard beside you, hands clenched into white-knuckled fists. – I’m fucking warning you, Rafe!

But Rafe doesn’t care. He doesn’t even look at him. He’s still watching you. Still measuring you. – Baby, please. – Your stomach twists. It’s so quiet. So gentle. So sincere. But his eyes are anything but. There’s a glint to that unnatural blue, a glint that’s almost satisfied. – He’s not gonna stop. You know that. Maybe he hasn’t hit you yet, maybe he still thinks he needs you, but what happens when he doesn’t? What happens when you stop bending over backwards for him? When you stop cleaning up his messes? When you stop taking care of him?

John shoves forward again, but Ward’s hand flies out, stopping him.

– I swear to fucking God, Rafe—

– Baby, – He whispers, quiet, but the word carries an intimacy that’s almost foreign, as if he’s whispering your name, or something beyond your name, the name of an alter ego that only he sees. – He’s already using you! Why do you think he called you here?! – Rafe snaps, suddenly, the 180 degree shift from plea to violence sending you stumbling back. His injured wrist twitches. Like he’s reminding you it’s broken. Like he’s reminding you that this could be you. You feel your pulse hammering in your throat, in your ears, behind your eyes. And Rafe sees it.

He sees it, you know he does. – You’re better than this. – He’s closer now, and his voice cracks—not with anger, but with something far worse. – Better than this fucking lunatic.

John lunges.

And this time you don’t stop him.

You don’t move. You don’t flinch. You just watch.

John throws himself over Rafe, the two of them colliding violently, crashing down together.

Rafe’s back slams into the floor. His head cracks against the chair leg. A grunt—sharp, pained, breathless. John is on him in an instant. And Rafe fights back. Even with only one working hand, even with his wrist still in a splint, he still swings, claws, thrashes, snarls.

For a second you don’t think he feels the pain at all. 

You don’t think he cares.

He’s too angry. Too fucking thrilled that John finally snapped.

Peterkin stutters beside you, words caught between shock and outrage. Ward takes a step back, his fists clenching, his mouth parting—

But neither of them move.

Neither of them do anything.

Not until you do.

Not until you step forward, grab John by the hair of his nape, and yank him back.

Not until you shove him down, back into his seat, hard enough that the chair groans beneath him.

His chest is heaving, his knuckles battered, shaking, curling into fists again—

And Rafe is laughing.

He stays on the floor, head tipped back, breathing ragged, grinning through split lips and bruised skin. Like he just won.

Like this was never about the fight—

It was about getting John to throw the first punch.

You let it happen.

And you would again.

– Jesus Christ, – Peterkin breathes. She’s already moving toward them, toward you, but Ward holds a hand up.

Calm. Measured.

Like this is only a minor inconvenience.

– I believe we’ve all made our points quite clearly, Sheriff. – There’s a twinge of emotion in his voice. It slips before he can stop it. Anger. – We’re not pressing charges.

Your pulse races, you turn to him so fast you almost get whiplash, because you can hear Rafe’s rage before he even murmurs it. And his eyes are already on you. His jaw set, the amusement, the cold, the glint in his eye, all of it gone.

– You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.

– Get up Rafe.

– Fuck off, dad. I’m pressing charges. I’m an adult I can—

– I’m not telling you again!

– He nearly fucking KILLED me, dad! Does that shit not matter to you?! 

Ward doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even look at him. He just grabs Rafe’s arm and yanks him to his feet.

It’s rough. Too rough.

Rafe stumbles forward, nearly crashing into his father’s chest, and for a second he freezes.

His breath stutters.

His good hand fists at his side.

And you see it—

The barest flicker of something else. Something ugly. Something helpless. Something that only lasts a second before he swallows it down, before it calcifies back into anger.

– You’re unbelievable. – He breathes.

Ward lets go of him like it's nothing.

Like he’s nothing.

And Rafe shoves past him, shoves past you, shoves past Peterkin. The door slams behind him, hard enough that the fame shakes, and the four of you are left there, in the silence. The tense, cold, unbearable silence of whatever it was that just happened before your eyes.

– Mr. Cameron—

Peterkin starts, but she doesn’t finish. Ward raises one hand, sinking his face into the other, massaging his temples with a heavy breath. – Don’t. – Is all he says. For a moment you’re all waiting again, your hand resting still on your brother’s shoulder, frozen, as his heartbeat falls back into a normal pace. – Miss Routledge, I’ll see you again tomorrow. – He makes a move towards the door, but stops again. – If you could talk to Rafe, make him—

He trails off.

You’re not sure what exactly he wants you to do, calm him, plead with him, make him think this is somehow better than whatever else he planned to do. But you nod, and nonetheless, you tell him: – Yes, sir.

His eyes remain on yours for a moment, then he nods too, and the door closes behind him.

– I thought you were a chef, – John says, his tone as petulant as his expression. – Not a babysitter.

You don’t dignify his words with an answer.

Clutching your purse to your side, you turn your attention to Peterkin, who’s standing at the edge of her desk, still staring at the door. – What now, Sheriff? 

She takes a moment to look away from the door, but when she does, she’s scanning you. You feel her eyes linger on your arms, on John’s hand, still tight around your wrist, around your neck. – You can go, John B. I need to talk to your sister for a minute.

– Anything you’re telling her you can say to me.

She smiles, laughs, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. – Get out of my office before I have you removed. – She warns. – This is your third strike, by the way. Next time you’re detained, she won’t be able to bail you out.

He seems shocked for a moment, his lips part, and close again, gaze drifting towards you as if he’s expecting you to say something, to have his back.

You don’t.

– Don’t make me tell you twice.

He blinks, confused, but does as he’s told. His hand brushing your arm quietly as he stands. – We'll talk outside.

Silence engulfs you once again as the door closes behind him.

– Sit.

Peterkin doesn’t look at you when she says it.

She’s still watching the door, her fingers tapping lightly against the edge of her desk, lips pressed together like she’s thinking —really thinking— about something she’s not saying out loud.

– I'd rather not. But thank you, Sheriff.

She exhales slowly, finally shifting her gaze back to you, and for the first time today, you’re not sure what she’s about to say.

– Suit yourself. – There's an edge to her words. Something like amusement. Something you've come to know much better after meeting Ward Cameron. – That was quite the show, – She muses, almost idly, the tap of her fingers the only sound between you for a minute. – Do you always find yourself in the middle of the Camerons’ problems?

You stiffen, raising your eyes, a quiet, humorless laugh escaping you. – How many episodes of NYPD Blue did you have to watch to get the finger-tapping down?

– I asked you a question.

– An irrelevant question. I work for the Camerons, I'm sure you gathered that, so, what’s the problem here?

– I’m just trying to get to know you, Routledge. 

You laugh again. – If you want a date, you'll have to wait a while. I'm not of age just yet.

She smiles, ignoring your teasing. – Your brother is always around here, and you're cleaning up his messes, his friend's messes too, and that boy's, Barry, right? – She hums, sitting back on her chair. You don't answer, tilting your head. – But still, it's like I don't know you at all.

Her eyes flick over you —your bruises, the faint red mark on your wrist where John grabbed you, the wrinkles in your top from Rafe’s earlier grip.

– If you wanna get to know me so bad, maybe you should stop talking in circles.

Peterkin laughs, a soft rumble that echoes around you both as she leans back on her chair, the light of the morning just beginning to stream through the slits of her windows. 

You're not sure whether its genuine or if she's just a good actress, but you fake a smile nonetheless.

– It's funny, y'know. – She shakes her head, still laughing. – I keep forgetting you’re your mother's daughter. Even though the two of you are exactly the same.

The words sting you.

Peterkin knows they would. But the questions sit at the tip of your tongue, like they do every time someone mentions her. How was she? Are we that similar? Do we look alike?

You don't know why you want to ask.

You've never heard anyone say one good thing about her. To her face or to her back.

– She liked her boys a little bad, too. Just like you do. – The woman says, as if she could hear you thinking. – Only she wasn't the one cleaning up the messes, no. She was the one getting them into it.

– Like your daughter, then? – You ask. Peterkin's smile falters for a moment. – I know how to play dirty too, Sheriff. So if you're looking to get something out of me by talking about my mother, I suggest you rethink your approach.

She's quiet for a minute.

– I'm not trying to get anything from you, girl. We're just talking.

– So I can go then?

She's quiet again.

– It’s a free country, miss Routledge. – You step towards the door, reaching for the handle, but then, just as always, the moment you twist it open, she speaks again. – Does he always call you that? – Peterkin almost seems amused. – Does he make it a point to stretch it out every single time he says it, too? – You don't look at her, but you don't move either. – That’s what he used to call your mother too. Did you know that?

– Probably had something to do with the fact that that was her name, right? Or maybe I'm missing some vital clue here.

– He was real fond of her. Bailed her out a bunch of times. Every time she got in trouble, there was Ward to save her ass. – She pauses for longer then, and steps up, nearing you. – Like you and that boy, JJ. Does your brother know you two are so close?

– You monitoring my friends now?

She laughs again, the sound like a bullet. – Is that what you call it?

– It's what your daughter called it. They used to be real close. And then one day, they took a trip to Charlotte, stayed there a couple of hours, came back looking like they'd been to a funeral, and never spoke again. Funny that. 

You twist the handle again, but just as the door open, Peterkin slams it closed. – Don't you talk to me like that!

– Rules for me and not for thee? Thought you were better than this, Sheriff.

– I'm the one trying to help you here, Routledge! 

– How?! – Your patience is gone. Drained. And you feel a surge of rage that's all too familiar as you look her in the eye. – By blackmailing me with little fun facts about my mom? It might come off as a shock to you, Peterkin, but I don’t need to know anything else about her. I know what I need. She's gone. You know she's gone. And you know she was not a good mother. You were the one who broke the case, remember?! But you weren’t a Sheriff back then were you? No. You got that promotion right off of my broken bones. Never got the chance to congratulate you, did I? I was too busy bleeding out.

Peterkin’s face darkens.

The fake amusement, the carefully measured patience, the knowing jabs, gone. – Watch yourself. – She warns. Her voice is low. Calm. The kind of calm your mother showed you before she started up again.

Before she did what she did best —hurt you.

You don’t back down, because it's the only thing you could ever do with your mother. You meet her stare, shoulders squared, mouth set, pulse hammering, and swallow your tears.

She shakes her head, exhales sharply through her nose.

– I’ve seen girls like you before, – She says, the anger in her voice almost pitying. Almost. – Too sharp for their own good. Too mouthy. Think they’re playing the game when they don’t even know what the game is. – Her head tilts, slow, deliberate. – You think Ward Cameron is your friend? That Rafe is? You think you’re gonna play the same games you play with that poor little idiot JJ, and your friend, the drug dealer? You think he’s gonna protect you? That any of them are?

You don’t answer.

Peterkin steps closer.

– Let me tell you something, miss Routledge. – Her voice drops lower. – You know a lot of men, don't you? You've gotten around. – You laugh, bitter, but she doesn’t stop there. – You ever seen a man let go of something he thinks belongs to him?

The room is dead silent.

You swallow.

Your throat is dry.

– You think you’re free? – Peterkin whispers, almost taunting. – You ain’t even close.

She leans back, watching you.

She lets the words hang between you, stretching the silence out until it feels like a weight.

– You can go.

And this time, she doesn’t stop you.

You don’t even register the sound of the door closing behind you.

Not at first.

The moment you step outside, something cracks.

It's small. Invisible to everyone but you.

But you feel it.

You feel it in the way your breath catches, in the way your shoulders shake, in the way your hands clench and unclench uselessly at your sides, like they don’t know what to do with themselves.

It was just words.

Just words.

But they sit in your chest like a stone.

You exhale sharply, trying to steady yourself, trying to ground yourself, but the ground feels off. Like it’s shifting beneath you, tilting under the weight of everything you’ve been pretending isn’t there.

And then—

A voice.

A presence.

A reminder that you’re not alone.

You don’t know who sees you first.

You don’t care.

Because they’re all there.

Ward and Rafe, standing by the steps, watching.

John, JJ, Pope, Kie, Sarah—all of them in the hallway, caught mid-conversation, watching.

You know what they see.

Your face.

Your hands.

The barely-there sheen of tears in your eyes, threatening to spill before you even realize they’re there.

You move.

Quickly.

Before anyone can say anything, before anyone can step closer, before anyone can ask.

You push forward, barely thinking, barely breathing, moving down the steps so fast the station around you is a blur.

Your fingers are already reaching.

Pocket. Box. Lighter. Cigarette.

You shove it between your lips, flick the lighter open, but your hands are still shaking, and it takes you a couple tries before the flame catches, a flutter of smoke floating around you, heavy and thoughtless like the beat of your heart.

You inhale like it’ll save you.

Like it’ll fix whatever is clawing at your throat, sitting heavy in your chest, making it impossible to breathe.

But of course, it doesn’t.

Peterkin was cruel, but that doesn’t mean she wasn’t right. 

All your life you’ve been hoping someone will save you, ease the burden off your shoulders, pull you out of the depths you keep being thrown back into. But not only does that person never come, the ones that do always seem to kick you back down when you’re standing.

You should have learned the lesson from your mother —Three years of age, and people already looked away from the bruises, ignored the crying, pretended not to hear the screams.

Peterkin got to you too late, when she was already leaving.

When she had no more blood to take from you.

But you didn’t learn the lesson, and it came back to bite you with your father.

Then your brother.

Then the other kids at school.

Then the ones you thought that were your friends.

And at last you were all alone, you and Barry, who bailed at every opportunity, who broke your heart again and again, and who, till this day, you could never part from.

No matter how much you thought you learned, history always repeated itself.

It was already coming back to you.

Because you hear the familiar steps before he calls your name, before he's reaching for you.

JJ moves too fast.

Drops down next to you like he’s forgotten everything. Like he’s forgotten what he did to you just days ago. Like he's forgotten that he nearly killed you. Like he's forgotten he told you he never wanted to see you again.

His hands hover—over your knee, your arm, your wrist. Hesitating. Wanting to touch. Wanting you to let him.

Like nothing’s changed.

Like he didn’t kick you out.

Like he didn’t turn his back on you.

But he catches himself.

Clears his throat.

His face is wracked with guilt, you see it from the corner of your eye as you look ahead. That same boyish, reckless thing he does when he’s trying to pretend nothing’s wrong.

When he’s trying to get back on your good side.

When he’s trying to make you forget.

– Baby, – His palm presses against your thigh, warm, grounding. Like he’s offering something. Like he’s trying to fix things with just a touch. His knuckles are bruised. His palm is calloused.

Your cigarette trembles between your fingers.

You should tell him to fuck off.

But that’s exactly what he wants. He wants you to give him something, something he can twist and turn until he's the victim, until he can get you back. So you don't say anything. You just stare at the pavement, silent.

JJ hates silence.

– You’re good, right? Peterkin didn't— I mean, you look good. Like, really good.

He’s overcompensating.

His hand squeezes your thigh, he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. He’s just desperate to keep touching you, because it makes him feel like this isn’t nothing, that you’re doing it for him.

– You shouldn’t worry about her. Peterkin, I mean. She likes to get into people's heads. It's like, her favorite sport or something.

You exhale, the smoke billowing away from his face, still hanging between you.

– You know, I was thinking, – He says, voice light, too light, like he’s hoping you’ll play along. – Maybe we should just go home after this, right? Rest. I'm tired, really tired— I, I couldn’t sleep right, so— I could drive you. John B’s going with Sarah anyway, Kie's probably gonna drive Pope. – He's looking at you, his breathing heavy, his knee bouncing. He's getting anxious. – You should rest too, baby. – His hand drifts over your back, you have to fight the urge to recoil. – You looked so pale when you came in, so dizzy. I thought you were gonna faint. I'll take care of you, you know that, right? – His breath fans over your shoulder, eyes wandering over your face. – Do you feel any better? You— You look better.

It unnerves you.

Discomforts you.

You don’t know what to do. You should get up, leave him talking to himself, but that would give him an excuse to chase you, and you know you can't outrun him.

– They fired you, right?  – You blink. Slow. JJ’s still watching you, still too fucking close, still with his hand on your thigh, and something flickers in his face. Relief. It’s quick. Barely there. But you see it. And you know what it is. He thinks you’re done with the Camerons. He thinks that you have nowhere else to go, so he can get you to come home. – Don’t— Don't worry about that, okay? I know it seems like a lot now, but you'll get another job, just like you did before.

You don’t answer.

You don’t move.

You just breathe, the cigarette burning between your fingers, your stomach twisting tight.

Footsteps echo behind the two of you.

Sharp. Angry.

Then a voice.

– She wasn’t fired, were you Y/n? – He laughs, you can hear the rest of them coming behind him, Pope's eyes meet yours through the glass, and he lowers them immediately. Embarrassed. – No, her boyfriend made sure he had his favorite servant close at all times.

JJ tenses. He looks between you and John, hesitant. 

You look up at your brother, his hands shaking at his sides, restless. He doesn’t stop moving for a moment, looking all over, at you, at the ground, at the pavement behind you. JJ’s hand is gone. Like he already knows he has to put distance between you.

You stare at John, your cigarette burning down between your fingers, the taste of nicotine heavy on your tongue. 

You don’t say anything.

Not at first.

You just stare at him, waiting for him to dig his own grave. Because you know he will. John isn’t the type to sit in silence. He needs you to react, and when you don’t, he gets restless.

– You’re really staying, huh? – His voice is sharp, his lip curled like the words taste foul on his tongue. – Gonna keep playing house with Rafe now? You like it that much? That much that you'd leave me in the dust?

You inhale slowly. Exhale even slower.

John’s eyes flick to the cigarette in your hand, like he might slap it out of your fingers. He doesn’t.

– You’re a fucking joke, you know that, Y/n? – He scoffs, voice dripping with something that sounds like betrayal. – I mean, what, is it fun for you? Cooking for him? Cleaning for him? Fucking him?

JJ shifts beside you. Uncomfortable. And for a moment, it seems like he might step in.

But he doesn’t.

Because he knows.

He knows your brother. He knows that he's not letting go until he tires himself out. So he just stands there, quiet, shifting, trying not to look at you.

– Rafe’s fucking laughing at you. – His voice is mean, cutting. – That’s all this is to him, okay? You think he gives a fuck about you? You think he looks at you and sees anything but a game? – He takes a step closer. His hands curl into fists at his sides, his voice turning softer, pleading now. – You know I’m right.

The weight in your chest tightens.

Your cigarette is all but burned down now, the smoke trailing from your fingers.

And still you don’t look at him.

You don’t move.

John exhales sharply through his nose, running a hand over his face, over his hair, back around his neck. He's shaking, all over the place, and when he speaks again, his voice is tight, like he’s forcing himself to stay calm.

Like he’s forcing himself not to shake you.

– You’re really just gonna sit there and ignore me?

Silence.

Your cigarette is out. Just a dead filter between your fingers. But you don’t flick it away.

You don’t move.

John scoffs. – Fine. Stay with him. Stay with them. See where it fucking gets you.

JJ shifts beside you again, but John’s already turning away. Already moving. Already shaking his head like he’s the one who should be disappointed.

He stops.

Turns back.

Because he can’t help himself.

– You like being someone’s fucking babysitter that much? That's much you need the attention? – He throws over his shoulder, voice laced with scorn. With venom. – I don’t know why I thought you were better than that. But I guess it makes sense. Your mom liked them rich too, didn't she? 

You blink.

You breathe.

You stand.

Slow. Deliberate.

John doesn’t move.

JJ does.

He tenses beside you, his hands twitching at his sides, his lips parting like he’s about to say something.

But you don’t give him the chance.

You step forward.

Closer to John.

Close enough that you can see the way his jaw clenches, the way his throat bobs as he swallows, the way he braces, blinking rapidly, his breathing unsteady.

Like he knows what’s coming, like he thinks you'll beat him up.

You won't give him the satisfaction.

– You should be on your fucking knees thanking God you won't be sitting in jail cell for the rest of your life.

John blinks.

Stares.

You tilt your head slightly, watching him.

– You think I’m the fucking embarrassment? – Your voice is quiet, almost thoughtful. – You think me working a job, paying my own bills, making my own fucking way is the problem? Meanwhile, you tried to kill a guy just now?

John’s jaw tightens.

– He fucking deserved it, okay? – You scoff, and he stutters. – He did, okay?! You weren't there, you didn't hear him!

You laugh.

Short. Sharp. Bitter.

– Try saying that in court. See how it holds up.

His fingers twitch. His shoulders rise, his breathing gets heavier, and for one brief second, you think he might lunge at you like he did Rafe.

But he doesn’t.

Because he knows.

He knows you won’t stop him this time.

So he just stands there.

Fuming. Silent.

– I’ll get my things out of the house. – You hum, low, calm. You see him stutter, his eyes widen, his feet shift, back and forth, like he doesn’t know what to do. – I’ll get out of your sight then. Don't worry about seeing me again.

You see him flinch before you turn, as if it was the last thing he expected to hear from your lips.

The door behind him is open, his friends standing at the door, looking at you the same way. Painfully, wretchedly, like they can’t bear to look and can’t bear to look away.

He says your name, and it lands like an afterthought. Like he’s only now realizing he should have called it sooner.

You feel your own heart beat against your ribs, against your skin, against the weight of everything you don’t let yourself acknowledge. 

John is still standing, his jaw tight, his eyes darting all over your face like he’s not sure whether to be pissed or just confused. You can see the questions on his lips, the disbelief, the hurt, the indignation—like he’s just now realizing that, for once, you’re not on his side.

– Where— Where are you going?

You don’t answer.

You don’t look at him. Because you know what he wants. He wants you to play the role you always do. He wants you to tell him you believe him, that you’ve got his back. He wants you to put everything else to the side, everything he did to you, everything he told you, every way in which he hurt you, and comfort him, be on his side, because John has never had to prove a damn thing. Because he’s never thought he had to.

JJ doesn’t let it go, though. He steps closer. Too close.

– Baby, – He whispers, close enough that only you can hear. – Don't— Don’t do this, okay? It's your house, your things. You— Why are you going?

He's already reaching.

His hand brushes your arm first, but it’s not like before. It’s not light, it’s not teasing, it’s not hungry or warm or comforting. It’s something else.

Something desperate.

Like he’s holding onto you the same way he used to, the way he used to fit into you, like he’s looking for some proof that you’re still his, that your arms still belong to him, that you’d still pull him in.

He looks like he’s on the verge of something. His fingers graze your wrist. Like he wants to hold it, like he’s about to, but he hesitates. The night before is still fresh in his mind, it’s still real in his mind, and even through his usual recklessness, through his guilt, through the desperation bleeding through his voice—he knows. He knows there are some lines he can’t cross with you anymore.

So he doesn’t.

But you feel it, anyway. – Why— Why are you leaving?

– What kind of a fucking question is that? 

– Please, don't—

– You told me to leave. You told me to get out of my own house, you told me that I was a traitor and a whore, that I didn't belong there, that you didn't need me. I'm just following orders.

John looks between JJ and you, their expressions grievous, solemn. – That's not— JJ begins, his eyes teary. – I didn't mean that. I was angry, I know that—

– John let you do it. – You look at him. – Didn’t you, John? You're fine with JJ almost killing me on that bike, you're fine with me sleeping on the street, you're fine with someone calling me a whore, you're fine with having someone else humiliate me. Right?

– I don’t— He starts, but he doesn’t finish. His voice trails off, lost in a stutter.

– I'm sure you don’t. Nothing is ever your fault, John. You want me out of your life? Fine. But you can't have it both ways. Be an adult for once in your life and fucking own it.

John remains quiet, his hands still shaking, his eyes filled with tears.

He calls your name again, but you don’t want to hear him. You don’t want him near. You turn on your heel before he can grab you, and you don’t stop walking until you’re at the bus stop again.

Peterkin was right.

You are your mother’s daughter.

Leaving like that, throwing people’s words back at their faces like a teenager, that’s exactly the thing she did best, or at least so people tell you.

The thought pierces through the haze in your head, sharp enough that it stops you in your tracks, makes you falter mid-step, the air heavy in your lungs. You sit down, sink onto the curb and pretend to just be waiting, pretend this is just a day like any other.

But you can’t.

Because you can hear Peterkin again. Her voice like the smooth click of a safety coming off, her words landing on you with perfect, practiced weight.

"He called her exactly that. He was really fond of her. Bailed her out a thousand times."

It shouldn’t mean anything. It shouldn’t have stayed with you like this. It shouldn’t have latched onto your ribs like a living thing, twisting, growing, taking up space. But it does. And you can’t help but feel like an impostor.

People always say that to you, especially when they want to hurt you. That you’re your mother’s daughter, that the two of you are one and the same. And you can’t help but wonder if you’re some second rate version of her, barely filling these shoes you don’t even know you’re standing in, the specter of her presence in everyone else’s life.

Your brother.

Your father.

The Sheriff.

And now Ward.

The thought haunts you, you think about it all the way back to the Chateau, this idea that you’ve been inadvertently living a life that once was hers, with the people that belonged to her. Because everybody did belong to her, everybody except for you.

Now you can’t catch your reflection on the window without feeling like it doesn’t belong to you either. Because she’s there, looking at you, judging you, laughing at you, even though she was never there. Will never be there. Never wanted to be there. Regardless of how desperately you’d wished for it, in the quiet of the night, when even her worse batterings seemed like a kiss in comparison to your father’s cruelty, or the cruelty of the kids in the school yard.

You get “home” with the feeling that you never belonged there in the first place.

JJ’s words ring true, at last.

The air is thick inside the Chateau. Heavy. It smells like salt and old wood, like damp laundry left out too long, like something burnt that no one bothered to clean up, because of course, John didn’t. 

Your hands are steady now.

You think that’s almost worse.

There was a time when coming home used to bring relief. But this place hasn't been yours for a long time now, has it?

Not really.

The bedroom is exactly as you left it. Clothes draped over the back of the chair, your shoes kicked under the bed, a pile of books stacked on the nightstand, an old jacket of your dad’s thrown over the desk. The posters on the walls are the same ones you’ve had since middle school, their edges curling from the humidity. Your closet barely even creaks when you pull it open.

And inside—

It’s so empty.

The realization slams into you like a physical thing.

You never had much to begin with, but it looks even worse all gathered like this: a couple of shirts folded into your duffel, a few pairs of shorts, two pair of shoes. A handful of books. Your dad’s old clothes, faded and a little too big, but they used to smell like him, so you held onto them. You don’t even think about leaving them behind. You shove them in the bag with the rest, jaw set tight.

It doesn’t take long to pack. It doesn’t take long at all. And somehow, that’s the worst part.

John doesn’t burst in after you, JJ doesn’t either. Nobody does. Maybe they don’t even realize you’re already gone. Maybe they think you’re still standing at the bus stop. 

Maybe they think you’ll come back.

You know they’re wrong, and maybe, for the first time, they do too.

You look at the duffel bag, barely filled. There’s nothing else to take, because nothing else is yours.

Everything that’s left behind is theirs. Everything you fought so hard to keep is suddenly so meaningless. The clothes, the trinkets, the bed you once thought of as yours, the walls that have never really belonged to you.

The box —The thought occurs to you like a storm.

It’s tucked away under your bed, out of sight but never quite out of mind. You drop to your knees and reach for it, fingers shaking again, breath uneven. When you pull it out, dust clings to the edges of it, the cardboard soft, the lid slightly bent from how many times you’ve opened it before, looking for something, anything, that could make you understand her.

Your mother is gone, you remind yourself. But that doesn’t mean she ever left you. 

This is how you’ve buried her, what a shame. No candles or kisses, nobody to say any words.

Your throat tightens. So does your chest.

The lid opens with barely a sound.

Faded polaroids —Her, in all of them. Her lovers, in most. The few friends she had, left with the rest. Crumpled receipts, from beauty stores and fancy labels. A necklace you’d found under your bed one day, the chain long broken, the locket empty, no picture inside. A handful of letters other people wrote for her. The gold bracelet she left on your nightstand before she left.

You don’t know why you’re crying until you feel it, the burn at the back of your throat, the sting in your eyes.

Maybe it’s the past twenty-four hours. Maybe it’s exhaustion.

Maybe it’s something else.

Maybe Peterkin was right.

Maybe you are your mother’s daughter, despite the fact she hasn't been your mother in years.

You stare down at the bracelet, the way the gold gleams in the dull light of the bedroom, like the embers of a fireplace that had long gone cold. It’s scratched, delicate and cool, not as pretty as it was one day, the same as her, and you press your lips together as you slip it onto your wrist.

Your phone buzzes again, and you wipe your tears on instinct before you pick it up, burying that box at the end of the bag, closing it, like a casket. The last true thing of a life that was never yours.

How ironic it is, that it too, belonged to your mother.

– Hey bee.

– You okay, sweetheart? It's five, right? Should I go pick you up? – His voice is warm, distant. You feel like you're watching a hearth from within a blizzard. It's a comfort, but one that's so far away you can barely imagine it. – We can go to the store right now, if you want.

– My work usually ends at eight.

– Eight PM?! – He gasps.

You could just see his expression right in front of you, the frown on his face, the way his lips hang open. You could almost smile. – Work is hell, Bee.

– Sweetheart, I know kids in sweatshops that have better hours.

You laugh, incredulous. – I left earlier today. I'm at my pl— You stop, biting your tongue. – At my brother’s. Picking up my things.

Barry's quiet for a moment, you hear the growl of a motorcycle far away from his line. His phone scrapes against his skin, as if he's tightening his grip on it. – Is he there?

– No, Bee. I don’t know where he is.

– Stay in your room. I'll be right there.

– Are you home?

There's a pause. – What?

– Are you home? 

– No.

– Go straight home then, Bee. I'm already on my way. I'll see you later.

You hang up, barely listening to the last few hushed words lost within the grumble of his voice, and you're left to watch the site of the burial: Your empty room. Your now bare bed. The posters still on the walls, watching you emptily.

It's like a haunted house.

You don’t bother to look again before you leave. You don’t need yet another living, breathing, still existing thing to haunt you. But you leave the door open, so that they'll see you're gone.

Because you are your mother's daughter.

You don’t clean anything up, but you take a couple boxes of cigarettes from the counter and shove them in your purse.

Because you’re your brother’s sister.

You close the screen door and leave the wooden one open, leaving the one pair of shoes you never use sitting there on the shoe rack, where it's been for years, because you know you won’t come back for it.

Because you’re your father’s daughter, too.

But you step out onto the grass and there's someone waiting for you. The red and yellow paint on the bike —Rafe’s bike, the one that had been with Barry, the one JJ dragged you on— the first thing you notice.

His left hand, still on the splinter, trembles. And his eyes, those radioactive blue eyes, are filled with tears that spill long before he rushes to you, burying his face in the crook of your neck, before you can even say his name.

– Rafe?

@chatgtfo @bitterdotcom @xmayankax @bluethperson @coralblue35 @myluvingera @munsoncultedits @the-bitch-who-binges @im-julessssss @redkarmakai @hwaaholic @sydkneez @sassyvilliantrope @vampiriito @sassybearfire @matildalittlefreak

[bonnie-the-butcher]

Rip Tide | Chapter XIII

[ MDNI ] [ word count: 11.247 ] [ Masterlist ] 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬: Canonverse/Canon-Divergent; Dark! Content; NSFW; Strong Language; Cheating; Drug Use; Mentions of overdose; Some shades of Munchausen syndrome from dear old Rafe; Manipulation; Toxic, obsessive behaviour; Stalking; Violence; DUBCON/NONCON; My writing is really pretentious and English is not my first language, so please feel free to call me out in whichever grammar mistakes you might find find.

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | You and JJ have always been in each other's orbit. He's your brother’s best friend, the guy you've known your entire life. He was kind, protective, familiar. You never meant for the two of you to start hooking up. And you never meant for it to last so long. But when this boy you thought you'd come to know like the back of your hand turns out to be no better than the men he'd warned you about, you find yourself in the sights of the guy he hates most, regardless of wether you want that or not.

My boss is a nepo man-baby who has not a lick of self-awareness in him so I'll apologize in advance if the rich people hate is stronger in this one. Likes, asks, reblogs, and comments are always greatly appreciated! Thank you in advance for reading <3

A part of you never fully understood moral crises as a concept. 

Though you were no stranger to self-hatred, it always seemed foreign that something fair could feel wrong enough to unravel a person, to send them spiraling into existential dread so profound that they began to question their entire moral compass —the parameter by which they defined their worth as a human being.

So when you woke up that morning, the sun still far from rising, your head splitting from the remnants of last night’s drinking, and your chest squeezed tight with something you couldn’t yet name, you were confused, to say the least.

You moved, attempting to stand, only to be pulled back by the weight of an arm draped over your waist.

Barry’s arm.

Around your naked waist.

You look down, moving slowly as the mattress beneath you moulds to the shape of your body, and realize that you’re on his bed.

Again.

The weight in your chest solidifies into something heavier, something you recognize all too well —Guilt.

It wasn’t the first time you felt like this. 

You’d been sleeping with your brother’s best friend for months before this moment, and every time, you found yourself wondering whether your lapses in judgment were signs of an unraveling mind or just the consequence of grief you hadn’t even begun to process.

But this time, it was different.

This wasn’t just you —avoidant attacher you, your mother’s daughter you— breaking down in self-loathing after having sex, like you did, every time it happened. This time, your conscience hit you like a ton of bricks.

Because this wasn't just some drunken mistake.

You remember last night.

You were conscious.

You remember kissing Barry, already guilty, already knowing you were using him to distract yourself from the things you weren’t ready to face —that whatever fractured thing you once called family was now gone, irreversibly lost to you.

You remember hiding your face in the crook of his neck, swallowing tears as you got on top of him, desperate for something, anything, to make you forget the night before. You remember his hands on you, grounding, steady, something close to safe—but even that memory sours when you let yourself recall why you’re there in the first place.

Because you also remember before that.

You look down to see new bruises forming around your arms, remembering the iron grip JJ had around you, his unchecked anger, his recklessness almost getting you killed. You remember the bike ride, the raw terror, your nails digging into the mattress just as they’d dug into his skin, the aftershocks of a brush with death still rumbling through you.

You remember John—John B— and realizing just how little you matter to him. 

And you remember Barry.

The way he drove you to that bar, even after he explicitly told you he was taking you home, so you wouldn’t be breaking your own heart over and over until it killed you, so you wouldn’t self-destruct. 

And yet—here you were.

You swallow hard, staring at the ceiling, at the peeling paint, at the cracks running along the plaster like veins, trying to steady the breath rattling in your chest. The weight of last night settled over you in layers—guilt, exhaustion, something darker beneath it all, something that felt too much like mourning.

Because this was mourning, wasn’t it?

Even if you couldn’t name it, even if you refused to.

You had lost something. A version of your life that—however much an illusion, a lie you told yourself again and again to make that draining existence bearable—was still yours. And now it wasn’t. Now, you were outside of it, looking in, knowing you could never go back.

You press your palms against your eyes, willing yourself to stop thinking, to stop feeling. But your mind betrays you, conjuring up everything you had left behind in that house. Your clothes, your books, your pictures, your past, your whole life. Everything you had fought to hold together, however precariously, was still there, still waiting for you, lingering in the rooms you had once called home.

And here you were. In Barry’s bed. Having to search through the lost-and-found drawer of clothes his past hookups left behind just to find something to wear to work.

The thought makes something twist in your stomach, sharp and bitter.

You shouldn’t be the one going through this.

You did things right.

You worked. You sacrificed. You held everything together when no one else would. When John was too fractured to understand the weight of your father’s absence, you carried it for him, even though you’re the younger sibling, even though he should be the one taking care of you. You bent over backwards, strung yourself thin, barely balanced work and school and the endless responsibility of making sure he was okay, while he disregarded that all, not working, already graduated, uncaring of your grief, as you made sure that he had something stable to hold onto. And now?

Now, you’re the one in exile. 

You’re the one sleeping in someone else’s bed, shaking with grief and guilt, scrounging through clothes that don’t belong to you, wondering how the hell you ended up here.

How is that fair?

John has done everything you’ve done and worse. He’s lied, he’s stolen, he’s run off without a second thought, leaving you behind to pick up the pieces. And yet he is still there. He still gets to call that house his home. Like JJ, who has left a trail of destruction wider than the island itself, and still has people who will defend him, who will fight for him, who will let him back in.

While you are the one forced to shrink, to leave, to suffer, while they get to sit in the ruins of the life you built for them, unscathed. While they convince themselves that you are the problem.

Like you were never meant to matter.

And now they’ve taken everything from you.

And they still think they are the ones who have been wronged.

You sigh, sitting up carefully, already fighting tears as you peel the sheets back and move. Barry shifts beside you, exhaling something low and unintelligible, but he doesn't wake. You glance at him briefly, at the mess of his hair, at the bruised knuckles resting against the pillow, at the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest —You want to be thankful, and you are, but there’s something that doesn’t sit quite right about him taking you to a bar and plying you with alcohol at the lowest moment of your life. You know it wasn’t right to let him kiss you, let him reward himself for comforting you, for helping you, by taking you again. And maybe it’s the resentment in you speaking, but you almost feel taken advantage of.

Your eyes shift away from him as if the sight had burned you, and you stand up, feeling the full scope of your bad decisions —the drinking, the fighting, the sleeping with someone who has heavy enough hands as it is— take form in an ache that permeates your entire body, almost sending you back down.

You catch yourself on the nightstand, picking up your jeans, forgotten on the ground beside the marina shirt Barry had been wearing. You search for your underwear, avoiding the pieces of your dignity that are scattered across the ground as you retrieve them.

– A little early for clean-up duty, don’t you think? – The hum startles you, husky, still riddled with sleep, and you clutch your clothes to your chest as he leans his head on his hand, covering himself with the sheets. – Tryna get some brownie points now that I’m your new roommate, sweetheart?

You hate that about him.

That he has it in him to be charming even while half-asleep. That he always smiles like the world is devoid of problems even when everything is falling apart. That he manages to make you not hate him even when you really should.

It's infuriating.

– Are you that unfamiliar with cleaning up that just the sound of it wakes you up? – You sigh, and he chuckles, low and careless, looking at you from the cloud of sleep that still floats over his head.

– Shit, maybe. Gonna have to get a grip on that now that I’m living with a neat-freak, huh?

– Oh yeah, Barry. Your days of peace are over.

He grins, not even registering your tone. – It’s early, though. Even for you. – He looks between you and the empty space beside him, a silent request. – C’mon. The mess can wait.

– It's fine, Bee. I have to get ready anyway.

A quiet scoff leaves his lips. – For what? The six AM shift?

– I have to be there at seven today. – He makes a noise of disapproval, expression shifting into something like outrage. – Mr. Cameron has this laundry list of requests for breakfast. And it’s Kareem’s day off, so I have to do the prep.

– Kareem’s the other cook? – You nod, folding his clothes and leaving them on the chair as he stands up, reaching for the wardrobe behind you. – Two whole ass chefs just to make three meals a day. And here I was thinking these people couldn’t get any more ridiculous.

– I'd be out of a job if they weren't. – You mumble, and he hands you a fresh towel. – Kooks are gonna Kook, I guess. 

– You betcha. – Barry gets a hold of your arm before you can go to the bathroom, a strange sympathy in his eyes. – You sure you don’t wanna sleep another while? You need the rest, especially since…

You don’t know what’s worse, him trailing off without actually saying it or making it clear just how horrible of a situation you were in. – Since I’ve been disowned?

– Since your birthday is coming up. – He corrects, laughing easily. It takes you a moment to process his words, and the doubt must have been clear on your face, since he nods over to a calendar glued to the back of his door. – Only a week from now, sweetheart. Feel any wiser yet?

You blink at the date, staring at the numbers like they belong to someone else.

Your birthday.

Your eighteenth birthday.

It doesn’t feel like it’s in a week. It doesn’t feel like anything at all.

You never had the chance to expect much from birthdays. Most years, it passed like any other day, save for a half-hearted “oh, yeah” from John if someone else reminded him. But at least it was still yours. Even if it went unnoticed. Even if it meant nothing to anyone else.

Now, it doesn’t even belong to you.

It feels like another thing lost in the wreckage.

You’d convinced yourself that it was supposed to mean something this time around. That since you were finally gonna be an adult, this one should mark the start of something new, something bigger, something better. You’d talked about it with JJ, and Pope, and Kie. Going to Charlotte, having a roadtrip, maybe buying cigarettes with your real ID for the first time around.

The thought feels foreign, muddled. As if it’d belonged to someone else.

Because there won’t be any candles, no off-key singing, no cheap gas station cupcakes hastily picked up at the last second.

Just you. And Barry. And a room that isn’t yours, in a life you didn’t choose, putting on someone else’s clothes to go to a job that also doesn’t belong to you.

You exhale sharply, shaking it off before it can settle.

Maybe it’s better this way. Maybe now you don’t have to pretend it ever mattered.

Barry watches you carefully, waiting for a reaction, but you don’t give him one. You just reach for the towel in his hand, force a smirk, and roll your eyes. – Oh yeah. I bet I look much wiser too, hungover and all.

Barry laughs, eyes lingering on the calendar as if he’s looking at something special. – We should do something, y’know. I still remember the party you threw for me when I turned eighteen.

The thought of it makes you wince. 

You’d saved money for months. One of Barry’s other friends came through with the drugs, you bought a couple of kegs, made him a cake and had everybody he knew write the stupidest things on it with frosting. What you remembered of it was fine, but you don’t remember much of it at all, only that the two of you had slept together that night as well. – If I drink that much ever again liver failure will be the least of my problems. – You chuckle. – It’s fine, Bee. There’s no family to invite, it’s gonna be a day like any other.

– Hey, I’m family. Ain’t that what I’m here for?

– What kind of family is family you fuck?

He grins, pretending to ponder for a second. – The good kind?

– And yet you called JJ “Alabama”. – You laugh. – I’m gonna shower, you go back to sleep, okay?

– You don’t want company? – You can hear the smile on his face as you turn around.

– No thanks, I plan on leaving the bathroom some time within the next three hours. – His laughter accompanies you down the hall, still lingering lowly as you close the door behind you.

You don’t bother looking in the mirror.

It’s not just the hangover, or the exhaustion, or the bruises that make your body ache in ways it shouldn’t. It’s the feeling that if you do—if you really look at yourself—you won’t see you anymore. Just the wreckage. Just the aftermath of another night spent unraveling.

So you don’t.

You step into the shower before the weight of your own reflection can settle. The water is hot, almost scalding, and for once, you’re grateful. The heater at home had been broken for months because John never cared enough to actually follow through with his promise to fix it. You’d gotten used to cold showers, to bracing yourself against the chill, to starting every morning with a shiver.

Now, the heat seeps into your skin, loosens the tension in your shoulders, makes it feel—just for a second—like something is being undone. Like something is melting.

But it doesn’t wash the bruises away.

It doesn’t erase the fingerprints around your wrists, the darkened smudges along your arms, the imprint of hands around your hips. It doesn’t stop your mind from conjuring the feeling of JJ’s grip, Barry’s hands, the weight of it all pressing down, sinking in, refusing to leave.

You press your forehead against the tile, eyes shut, letting the water drown out the noise in your head.

It’s fine. It’s just another day.

When the heat becomes too much, you shut the water off and step out, wrapping yourself in the towel before reaching for the pile of clothes. Your jeans, your underwear, the borrowed top. 

The fabric feels unfamiliar—worn-in but not yours, carrying traces of someone else’s perfume, someone else’s presence.

It’s simple, but nice, a little more 2000s-y than what you would usually wear, with a low neckline, that isn’t low enough to be scandalous and a little too camisole-y to actually look like a going out top. The powder blue fabric looks pretty enough against your skin that you don’t even have it in you to be annoyed at the fact it leaves your bra straps showing.

You’re gonna be cooking all day, you shouldn’t be worried about what you’re wearing.

You sigh, pulling the top over your head.

By the time you make it to the kitchen Barry is standing at the counter, attempting to make coffee. The scene is almost comical—him, squinting at the ancient coffee maker like it’s personally offended him, a bag of grounds torn open beside his hand.

You lean against the doorway, crossing your arms.

– Please tell me you didn’t just set the coffee pot on fire.

Barry turns, eyebrows raised, entirely unbothered. – It’s fine.

You glance pointedly at the plume of smoke curling up from the machine. – Bee.

He waves a hand, grinning. – Okay, mostly fine.

You shake your head, stepping forward to rescue whatever’s left of the coffee. – Jesus Christ. – You chuckle, looking through the cupboards. – You have a moka pot in here somewhere, don— Here. I’ll make us some coffee.

– I was trying to be nice, – He sighs, but doesn’t argue. – You like coffee, right? You always make it when I’m hungover.

You pause for half a second, hands hovering over the powder – Yeah. Thanks, Bee. – You say, voice softer than you meant it to be. – But you don’t need to do that, you’re already my landlord, you don’t have to be a brewist too. – Barry just smirks, sitting down and watching you, sleep still clear on his face. – You take yours with milk right? I’ll warm that up—

– No, there uhm, there’s no milk. – He says, almost bashful. – I haven’t gone grocery shopping yet.

– It’s fine. Add that to the list too. You can text me what you need, I’ll go grocery shopping this afternoon.

Barry makes a face, shifting in his seat as  he leans a hand on your arm. – Don’t— Don’t spend your money on this, okay? It’s fine.

– Yeah it is, cause it’s not my money. It’s Cameron money. They leave us a card for food shopping, we can sneak in some essentials, free of charge. Don’t worry about it.

He laughs, standing to get the cups as you take the pot from the fire. – Thank God for these rich fucks. You milk ‘em as much as you can, sweetheart. – His eyes linger on you for a moment as he sips from his mug. – That’s a nice shirt. – You smile, sipping from your own coffee. – Ain’t that a little too dressy for work though?

– Dressy? It’s just a top.

– I’m just saying. – He takes your arm, looking at the watch. – We should be going already.

– Oh, I’ll take the bus. And don’t argue. Your bike’s still at the bar, and the bus station is much, much closer. 

Barry grabs his keys from the counter, tossing them once in his hand – You sure? We’l walk to the River Styx together, it’ll take half the time it takes the bus.

– I’m fine, Bee. You drink your coffee. – You roll your eyes, grabbing your bag from the floor. – Plus, how will I enjoy your services as a chauffeur later if someone crashes against you because you’re driving half-asleep?

He exhales through his nose, unconvinced, but doesn’t argue. Just steps in front of you as you reach for the door, close enough that you catch the familiar scent of his cigarettes, the faint trace of you still on his skin, on his shirt —your shirt.

His hand brushes your shoulder as he reaches past you, fingers ghosting over the strap of your top. The keys in his grip skim lightly against your collarbone as he adjusts the fabric.

He presses the house keys into your hand, mumbling something about making copies later as he takes the empty coffee cup from your other hand, moving through the motions with the same absentminded ease he does everything else.

You mumble a quick thanks before stepping outside, but when you glance back, just to say see you later, his eyes are already on you.

Steady. Lingering.

There’s something on his mind, something you can’t quite get a read on, but it vanishes the second he raises his hand to wave you goodbye, the careless ease of his smile taking over that flicker of something else, but not erasing it.

The door shuts, and whatever it was—if it was anything at all—disappears with it.

You think about it all the way to the Cameron House. You’re still thinking about it as you push the door open to meet the empty, hollow kitchen, still bathed in the half-light of the early morning. 

You go through the motions: put away your things, wash your hands, check the list of reminders Kareem left for you. But you feel hollow yourself, a husk of what you once were in the daylight, just like the house you stand in.

The kitchen hums with silence, still untouched by the chaos that will inevitably unfold later in the day. You let the quiet settle over you like a second skin, trying to sink into it, to focus.

You check the list again. Hollandaise. Eggs Benedict. Toast golden, but not crunchy. Bacon, one side only—the fat can’t be too wrinkled.

Your hands move on autopilot, reaching for the ingredients, setting the pan on the stove, measuring out the butter, the egg yolks, the lemon juice. You fall into the rhythm, but your body still feels off, still feels like it’s moving at half-speed, like some part of you is lagging behind, still standing at Barry’s doorway, still thinking about—

You shake it off, glancing at the clock. 7:12.

You whisk the hollandaise, slow and careful, watching the sauce thicken with each pass of the spoon. The water for the poached eggs bubbles, waiting. You butter the toast, flipping it at just the right moment to get that perfect golden shade—light, delicate, nothing too crisp. The bacon sizzles on one side, untouched on the other.

Everything has to be exact. —You can’t afford any mistakes with Mr. Cameron. Not now.

Your mind keeps racing —Your things, back at home. Your bedroom, still a mess. The laundry you were supposed to do today, sitting untouched in the baskets. Your hands itch, lost in the movement, yet still restless— all the things you didn’t do coming back to haunt you.

You exhale sharply, pushing the thoughts aside. Focus. 7:36.

You plate the eggs, layering them neatly over the toast, pouring the hollandaise in a careful stream. The espresso machine hisses to life, filling the air with something warm, something bitter.

The coffee drips slow. You tap your fingers against the counter, eyes flicking back to the watch. 7:41.

You press your lips together, shaking your head. It’s fine. It’s just another part of the routine.

7:59.

The house is still quiet, still asleep. But from behind Ward’s office door, you hear the hum of the fan, the scrape of his chair against the wooden floor, the slow exhale of breath through his nose—measured, thoughtful. You wait there, the tray heavy in your hands, feeling as though you’re knocking on Satan’s door.

A chill creeps up your spine as his voice comes through the wood, low and indifferent. – Come in.

You step inside, unease settling in your bones as you set the tray down on the edge of his desk with careful hands. He almost seems surprised to see you.

– Good morning, Mr. Cameron.

He hums, setting his papers aside, leaning back in his chair. His eyes don’t leave you.

– Good to know you remembered to bring it up, Miss Routledge.

– You asked me to, sir.

A low laugh escapes him, but it's cold and hollow, like that first warning movement a rattlesnake makes when you step on the wrong spot.

– That’s not enough for most people. – Your eyes meet the ice of his as he lifts the coffee from the tray, something dark flickering at the corners of his expression. – It’s not enough for my son, that’s for sure.

His eyes move towards you again, expectant.

Ward’s hand ghosts over the edge of the tray, back and forth, as he watches you plate the food. 

– I don’t have any kids of my own, sir, – You say, keeping your voice level. You don’t know why he wants you to say something, but he keeps looking at you, almost inquisitively, measuring every little expression that crosses your face. – But I’ve been babysitting since I was old enough to walk. The cleverest kids are always the ones that seem to do everything they can to disobey you.

Something shifts in his face as he tilts his head. The movement cold and cryptic, like every expression he’s ever worn.

– It’s hard to think of a child disobeying you, Routledge. – His voice is even. Almost idle. But there’s something beneath it, something pointed. You’re not sure you want to know. – Tell me, – He continues, – how did you handle these ‘clever kids’?

You hesitate, but the answer comes quickly, instinctively.

– The bad thing about being clever is that you want everybody around you to think you’re clever, too. That’s why they don’t follow orders—they think it means you see them as stupid, and they can’t handle that.

He chuckles, crossing his arms, considering.

– Interesting take.

– With kids, everything is about validation, – You continue. – If you make them believe they’re the ones choosing to do what you want, and they think you’re only praising them because you’re impressed, they’ll do it. Even when you don’t ask.

– The praise here being the important part?

You nod, unable to hold his gaze for too long—yet still feeling it on you.

– Rafe's right when he says that everybody likes a little flattery. It's just that everyone likes it in a different way.

Ward leans in on his chair and takes a bite of the toast, eyes finally closing—just for a second, the only moment where he isn’t watching you. But you don't have time to feel relief, as his gaze finds you just as soon as his eyes open again.

He’s still chewing when he leans back. – Very well then, Miss Routledge. – You search the weight of his tone, trying to read between the lines. But you can’t, he doesn’t give you the time. – Off you go.

You take the empty tray from the desk, nodding.

– Enjoy your breakfast, sir.

– Oh, I will. – The laugh that follows is quiet. Not like a warning rattle this time, but like the sound a snake makes after it’s struck. – I will.

You don’t realize how tightly you’ve been gripping the tray until you step into the hallway, until the door to Ward’s office clicks shut behind you and your fingers finally loosen. The weight of it shifts, pressing against your palms in a way that makes your skin prickle.

His voice still echoes in your mind.

"It’s hard to think of a child disobeying you, Routledge."

You still don’t know what he meant. 

Flattery? Mockery? Knowing? Something else entirely?

You exhale through your nose, forcing your shoulders to roll back, to shake off the feeling creeping up your spine.

It’s fine.

It was just breakfast. Just another interaction with a man who enjoys making people squirm, who speaks in riddles because he likes watching you try to solve them.

And yet—

"Oh, I will."

The way he said it. The way his voice dipped just slightly, there was something else beneath the words.

You step into the kitchen, setting the tray down with a little more force than necessary, the sound sharp against the silence. You press your hands against the counter, reaching for the cigarettes in your pocket, for the lighter you took from Barry's place.

– Rough morning?

The lighter clatters to the floor. 

The voice startles you.

Sarah is perched on the kitchen counter, legs crossed, picking at the hem of a shirt that definitely does not belong to her.

Your stomach tightens, a flutter of irritation rising from your chest.

– An ambush, huh? Classy. What can I do for you, Sarah?

– You can talk to him. – The scoff leaves your lips before you can think to stop it. And you keep laughing, a bitter taste in your mouth as you turn away, grab the lighter, turn your back. – I don’t know why you think this is so funny, Y/n.

– Oh, I bet you don’t. – Your hands move without thinking. Too caught up in the audacity of it all, you move from the fridge, to the counter to the pantry, grabbing all the things you know Sarah has for breakfast. The things you used to make for her, before she threw it all away. – I just bet that you’re completely unaware of just how hilarious it is that you are the one asking me to talk. 

– You’re being ridiculous, okay? – She thunders, hopping off the counter, her sandals whistling against the marble floor as she nears you, all but shouting, an inch away from your face. – Both of you are! You know that you went too far working here, and he knows that he went too far letting JJ kick you out, so why don’t you just say it already and apologize?!

– Apologize?! I should apologize because he kicked me out of my own fucking house?!

– He didn’t kick you—

– You’re right Sarah, there’s a world of difference:  For him to kick me out he’d actually have to grow a pair of balls and be a fucking adult about it. Which he isn’t! Point taken!

– You are so immature! Just talk to him!

– TALK TO HIM ABOUT WHAT?! I’ve said it all! On my knees, in tears, and he still didn’t fucking listen to me! He doesn’t care about me, he never did! And neither do you!

– Oh yeah! Shift the blame to distract from your mistakes. That’s so much easier than actually being accountable for the things you did and saying sorry.

–And exactly what should I be sorry about?! Huh? – She looks at you, completely still, rolling her eyes, knowing she has no argument to counter. – About working to support him? About wanting to hang out with my friends?

– Rafe isn’t your friend.

Yiu laugh before you can stop yourself.– You could’ve fooled me.

Sarah’s face falls. – Excuse me?!

– I said “could’ve fooled me”. Rafe’s been nothing but good to me since we met. He comforted me when I got fired, he got me this job so I wouldn’t starve. He’s helped me out every day since that one, and he keeps doing it. Shit, he treats me much better than any of you!

– You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, Y/n.

– And you don’t know anything about me, Sarah. You don’t know anything about John. You don’t know anything about this life you’re pretending to live.

– What did you just say to—

- I mean, interrupting me at work? Trying to strongarm me into talking to a grown ass man who clearly doesn’t wanna hear shit from me? Exactly what do you want me to say?! Should I go up to the guy that’s bullied me my whole life, that used my money to pay for his stupid little parties in the boneyard and the even stupider illegal shit he does all the time, and tell him what?! “Oh, hey! I’m so sorry that I needed to get a different job to pay our bills! My bad! Next time your friend Kie is bored enough with her suburban life that she actually feels the need to get me fired, I’ll be sure to warn you in advance!” 

– Oh, woe is you! You know very well you didn’t need to come here to work again! You could've gotten a job literally anywhere else! – She screams at your face, her breath fanning against your skin, close, too close, but your hands don’t falter. You keep working without looking at her, your voice not even wavering anymore.

– Oh! Yeah, right! Because that’s so easy, right Sarah? I could just bound down the street, knock on the first door I saw and get a job on a silver platter! It’s not like getting a job that pays a decent wage and contributes to the career I want is hard! It’s not like it takes time, sometimes months, months in which the bills that are already late would pile on because John never bothers to pay them. It’s not like John, the only adult in this situation, could get in trouble with the law for not paying those bills. Because you know what? Money isn’t real. Money doesn’t matter to me. Money is just this magical little thing that drops on my lap every month free of charge like your daddy’s allowance!

She all but gasps, as if what you said was some outrage. – Are you really gonna bring this back to “pogues and kooks”? Really? You’re so predictable!

– You’re right! I should’ve just been born in a family that actually gives a fuck about me, maybe then I could look down upon them and pretend I’m on some high moral ground because I’m sleeping with the lower class. That’d be unpredictable, huh? 

– You did not just—

– You’re right. I'm misinterpreting the situation. How rude of me. You actually don't just look down upon your entire family while you're slumming it at my place, you also waste all the things that I spend my hard-earned money on, and then come back here to tell everyone how much better than them you are. My bad, Sarah.

– I can’t believe you. 

– Well, tough fucking luck. You want something to believe in? Attend a church. I don’t have the time to sit here and twist my words until they’re out of touch enough to make sense in your privileged little mind, okay? I can’t lounge in a house I don’t pay for, eating food I didn’t buy and pretending to be something I’m not—

– Unlike me?

– Exactly. – The word leaves your mouth like a bullet. Her lips part, like she might have something to say, but you don’t give her the chance. You step back, just slightly, the food you've been making for her done and plated before you, the hierarchy of this argument more than clear.

But you've let yourself be walked all over way too many times to let this go.

It doesn't matter to you that she's your boss’ daughter. That she's a rich kid, that she thinks she owns you even if she pretends she does not— None of it matters.

Because your eyes meet hers again, and for the first time since you two fell out, you're not letting her off with a slap on the wrist.

– You think you’re standing on solid ground, Sarah, you think you get to tell me what’s right and wrong because you’ve convinced yourself that you’re better than the other kooks just because you hang around a couple pogues? You're not one of us. And this— Your fingers brush over the fabric of her shirt, John's shirt, over the bracelet around her arm you know that John gave her, over all the things she uses as a costume to pretend she isn't exactly the thing she so hypocritically pretends she isn't. – This act? This jungle fever thing? Whatever the fuck it is that you think you’re doing, it doesn’t make you a pogue. It's an insult. To me. To John. To your family. To you.

Sarah’s jaw tightens.

– You wanna sit here and pretend? Get on your high horse and ignore the fact that you're part of the problem? Fine. You can do whatever you want, Sarah. You always did. But don't expect me to give you any brownie points for using the proletariat costume, because you know damn well that you could live just fine without having to work a day in your life.

The words land like a strike.

Not loud. Not shouted. But harsh all the same.

– I’m tired of you and Kie pretending you know anything about this life. You wanna know this life? You wanna have the right to talk shit about rich people? Here’s an idea: get a job. Get a job in which people like you can come into your place of work, interfering with the single thing keeping you from living on the streets, demanding explanations for things that don’t concern them, and then come back to me. But you won’t do that, will you? Because what you like is being able to cosplay poverty and then come back to your million dollar mansion at the end of the day. Your lifestyle is a fraud, Sarah. Don’t make this my problem. 

She stares at you the same way she used to do back when you were friends.

When she needed your help with homework, when she needed you to lie to a teacher as to why she wasn’t in class, when she needed you to put her name at the end of a seminar she didn’t write so that she wouldn’t be stuck with an F —The “poor me, I’m so irresponsible” look. Sarah and John were masters at it, but people have been looking at you like that your entire life. Asking you to take responsibilities you shouldn’t have to handle because they were too busy doing things they knew they shouldn’t do. 

You’re at your wit’s end.

You have been for a long time now. – Ooh, what’s that? Is it the seventh grade again? You think you can bat your little eyes at me and I’ll be the one apologizing for the shit you’ve put me through, again? – The words filter through your lips like straight venom, sickly sweet and double-edged. A trick you’ve learned from her. – I’m not your lap dog anymore, Sarah. You can’t lead me on and then screw me over, like you used to. You’ve got John B for that. So take your breakfast, go eat it in any of the thousand dining rooms you have in this house, and leave me alone.

You’re holding the plate up to her, waiting for her to do right by you for once in her life. But she doesn’t. Sarah keeps looking at you like you’re the bad guy. Because people like her cannot conceive of the idea of not being in the right.

Her lips part, pursed with the sour taste of whatever it is that's waltzing through her mind.

– I'm your boss, too. – She says, bitterly, childishly. – I can fire you if I want. You can’t talk to me like that, Y/n.

You don’t even get the chance to scoff.

– She can, actually. – The voice comes from the other side of the kitchen. Rafe, of course, is leaning against the doorway, half-dressed, arms crossed, with the smuggest look on his face. – And you’re not gonna fire her, Sarah. Not unless you want me to tell dad about you John B fucking on his boat.

Rafe’s eyes meet yours right then, a boyish smile flashing across his face before he looks back at his sister, thoroughly amused.

Sarah’s face twists, anger flaring in the way her lips part, in the way her breath stutters—caught between disbelief and pure, boiling rage.

– You’re disgusting.

Rafe laughs.

Not a chuckle. Not a scoff. A full-bodied laugh, like this is the funniest thing he’s ever heard.

– Oh, come on, – He drawls, shifting against the doorframe, arms still crossed, that smug grin widening. – You’re just mad cause I beat you to it. You wanted to play the ‘I can ruin your life’ card, and turns out? I’m holding a better hand.

– Fuck you, Rafe.

His laughter is loud, genuine. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him enjoy himself so much. – Clearly you're the only one here who's not fucking, Sarah.

Sarah looks like she might actually lunge at him.

Her fists clench at her sides, her shoulders heaving, her jaw tight enough that it looks like she physically has to stop herself from swinging at him.

– You're fucking disgusting.

– Says the person threatening someone's job just because she told you some truths about yourself. Get off your high horse.

– You don’t even care about her, – She spits, shaking her head. – You’re just doing this to fuck with me. Like you always do.

Rafe exhales a sharp, amused breath, tilting his head. His gaze flickers toward you for half a second—just long enough to see that you’re still not stopping him.

And when he gathers you aren’t, he grins.

– That what you think? – His voice is all mockery, slow-burning cruelty, his eyes flicking back to Sarah with something sharper in them now. – That’s so typical, Sarah. You think the world revolves around you.

Sarah’s glare deepens.

– Oh, fuck off, Rafe.

– Nah, let’s talk about it, – He continues, stepping closer, voice going low, venomous. – Let’s talk about how you’re nothing but a stupid little spoiled girl who throws a tantrum every time someone doesn’t kiss your ass.

Sarah’s hands ball to fists.

But Rafe is thriving. He barely stutters.

– You think you’re different? – He scoffs. – You think you’re better than every other rich bitch in this town? You think slumming it with your little Pogue boyfriend makes you special? – His laugh is sharp, mean, cutting through the tension like a blade. – You��re just like dad, Sarah.

Sarah flinches.

Actually flinches.

But Rafe isn’t done.

– You're always on this high and mighty act, pretending you're better than everyone. But as soon as someone doesn't bend over backwards to do what you want, you jump right back to threatening people's jobs, like the spoiled little girl you are. – He leans in, eyes flashing. – You’re not a pogue, Sarah. Dad might have worked his way up, but you? All you do is leech off of people. Just like John B.

Sarah moves before she thinks.

Her nails dig into his shirt as she lunges, knocking him back a step, swinging at him, snarling, completely losing control—

But you are already there.

You don’t hesitate. You don’t even think.

Your hands clamp onto Sarah’s arms, pulling her back before she can actually land a hit, dragging her away from him, holding her back.

– Stop it! – You snap, grip tightening as she thrashes against you, her breath ragged, furious. But you don’t let go. – Get out already. Here, take your plate and fuck off! You’ve done enough.

Rafe watches it all happen, eyes gleaming, completely and utterly pleased. 

Sarah is seething. Shaking.

– Tsk, tsk, – He murmurs, straightening his shirt, brushing off absolutely nothing. His smirk is slow, smug, thrilled. – So violent, Sarah. Are you gonna try to bruise her too? You and John B really are a match made in hell, huh?

Sarah jerks forward, still trying to get to him, but your hold doesn’t budge. 

– Get out, Sarah. I'm not playing with you.

– You two deserve each other. – She spits, pushing the plate off your hand. It shatters on the ground, food splattering all over.

Rafe actually giggles at that. – Aww, someone’s getting grumpy! – He shouts as she storms off, slamming the door behind her like a petulant child. 

He’s still smiling when he looks back at you.

You lean down, reaching for the shards of a porcelain plate that probably cost you half of your monthly salary, but Rafe moves to stop you, and you have to stop him in turn. – Don’t— Don’t! You’re barefoot, Rafe. You’re gonna cut yourself.

He laughs again, that same boyish look flashing bright and easy through his eyes.

Your hands barely brush his chest, trying to guide him away from the mess of razor-sharp edges and microscopic shards, but he only takes your hand, pulling you closer, smiling so damn bright as he pulls you into him, arms wrapping around your waist like it was meant to be. – You're so worried about me, huh?

– Rafe.

– It's fine, baby. – He kisses your cheek, that toothy grin peeking through as he presses his lips against your skin once, then again, and again. – I like it. I like you. God, I really like you.

– That's really lovely, Rafe, but I—

– Kiss me, c'mon. – He leans in before you can even answer, humming lowly. – C’mon, baby. I know you want it.

You push at his chest, glad for his unusual joy, yet unable to feel it for him. – Let me clean this up first, okay? Sit on the counter. Can you do that for me?

He obeys immediately, chuckling lowly, his fingers brushing the fabric of your top slowly as he watches you pick up the pieces and wipe the floor clean. – That was really hot, y'know?

Your laughter comes out a scoff, and you exhale sharply, shoving what's left of your breakfast prep on the sink, scrubbing at it harder than necessary.

Rafe hums behind you, completely unbothered, naked feet slapping against the now dangerless ground as if you didn’t just pull his sister off of him minutes ago.

He’s leaning against the counter beside you, watching you, grinning like a fool, arms crossed loosely over his chest—his entire body language so easy, so relaxed it’s almost irritating.

– Come on, baby, – He murmurs, stepping closer, fingers ghosting over your spine. – You’re just gonna ignore me after that?

– Rafe.

His hands find your waist, thumbs pressing in slightly, a touch so possessive, so natural it nearly knocks the air out of your lungs.

– No, seriously, – He continues, grinning against the side of your head, like he can’t help himself, like just being near you is the best thing that’s ever happened to him. – That was, like, the hottest thing anyone has ever done for me. You wanna do it again? Maybe next time you can hit her for me. Fuck, I'd love it if you could do that.

You sigh, twisting in his grip to look at him, raising a brow. – You’re insufferable.

– Oh yeah.

He’s so close.

Too close.

His fingers trail down, brushing lightly over the curve of your hip, lingering at the hem of your shirt, like he’s considering slipping under.

– Don’t even think about it.

– Shh, – He smiles, brushing his nose against your cheek, so soft, so devastatingly sweet. His hands tighten slightly on your waist, pulling you closer, pressing against you in a way that should be overwhelming, but the warmth of his palms comforts you, even as it wanders aimlessly. – Just a minute, – He whispers, pleading, cloying, clingy, burying his face in your neck. – Perfect Sarah was just knocked down a peg by my newbie, okay? Let me enjoy this one.

– ‘Your newbie’, Rafe? You talk about me like I'm a dog.

He laughs, hands heavy around you, around the fabric of your top, the sides of his hands brushing the naked skin beneath. – You were like a pitbull, though. My faithful little pitbull named cupcake.

– That's not funny.

– It is a little. – He hums. – C’mon, I'll let you bite me if you want.

You laugh, and he does too, holding you so close, so close, you can feel his heartbeat on your back.

You should push him away. 

But you don’t. 

You keep washing dishes as he pulls you even closer, clinging thoughtlessly like it's only natural, like it’s only right. – They do that, huh? – You hum, and it's bitter, but Rafe's hold tightens around you like it's the sweetest thing in the world. – The golden children. You tell them something they don't like one damn time and suddenly it's like the end of the world.

– Fuck them, baby. – He whispers. Lips moving against the crook of your neck, the ghost of a smile still lingering there. – Fuck them. Family disappointments like us are much fucking better.

You don’t answer.

You don’t laugh this time.

Because the words sink into you —You are the trouble child, the family disappointment. But you don’t know that Rafe is. Yeah, he's reckless, he's troubled. He's the black sheep. But disappointment implies that he's been given up on, and though Ward doesn’t understand him, he's certainly still trying.

You set the last dish on the rack, wipe your hands on a towel, and pull away from him.

Rafe makes a small noise of protest, his grip tightening instinctively, like he’s not ready to let you go yet—but you slip free anyway, your hand in his, even as you turn your back on him, reaching for the pack of cigarettes you left on the counter.

– Gonna take a break, – You mumble. – Be right back.

You don’t wait for his response.

You just push open the back door, and step outside. Your fingers stutter slightly as you light the cigarette, the flame flickering in your unsteady hands as you hold the tobacco to it, watching the edge burn.

You take a long drag, tilting your head back, staring at the sky, at the shifting clouds, at nothing in particular—

But the feeling doesn’t go away.

You think about Ward, about how he mentions Rafe at every chance he gets, and you're almost envious of how large a space he takes up in his father's mind.

The weight lingers.

It always does.

Because Rafe can say fuck them, like it’s easy, like being the family disappointment is almost a compliment, even if it's not.

It’s never been.

And no matter how much you tell yourself you’re fine with it, that you’re past it, that you’re not still that kid trying to be enough for a father who never wanted you and a brother who never saw you—

The feeling still settles deep in your chest.

Still claws at the back of your throat.

Still hurts in the same place where the nicotine warms you. It still weighs despite the numbness that rises with the smoke.

You take another slow drag, exhaling through your nose, closing your eyes.

And then the door creaks open behind you.

You don’t turn.

You don’t have to.

You already know who it is.

Footsteps. A pause. The shift of fabric as he leans against the doorframe, watching you.

– You’re mad at me.

Rafe’s voice is soft, almost hesitant, like he doesn’t quite know how to navigate this version of you.

You don’t blame him. You don’t know either.

You let out a short breath, shaking your head. – How could I ever be mad at you? – You say, and your voice is lighter. You reach for his hand and he holds it up to you as if you’re offering a lifeline. – You’re a peach, Rafe. Sweet.

A beat of silence.

He steps closer.

– You’re mad at something, – He presses, voice quieter now, watching the way your hands move over his as you do the same.

You don’t answer at first. And his words mix up with the smoke, light and gray, warm and cold at the same time. – C’mere. – You tell him, pulling him closer, brushing the hair away from his face with the same hand he's holding.

He takes another step. You can see the hesitation fluttering away from his face. He leans in, his breath brushing your skin, but you hold him back before he can kiss you. – My lips are bitter right now.

He tilts his head and takes the cigarette from you with a smile, taking a quiet drag, his shoulders easing the slightest bit. 

His pupils are larger when he looks at you again. – Mine too. 

It's charming. 

Enough that you don’t expect it.

Enough that it makes you smile.

You reach for him, fingers brushing along the side of his face, the curve of his jaw, soft, lingering, in a way that makes something flicker in his expression—something warm, something raw, something startled.

You laugh, leaning in before he has the time to do so, smiling into his lips as he melts over you.

The warmth of the cigarette in his hand brushes your leg, and you see it fall to the ground, half-smoked, as he pulls you into him.

Your hands tangle in his hair, around his neck, about his shoulders. 

You know you shouldn’t. You know what you’re doing is wrong. That you've done the same thing just some hours before, and that using affection to distract from your problems has gotten no healthier in the span of a night.

But you don’t have it in you to care.

Because you've done what's right and it's gotten you nowhere —You’re always the one fixing things that others break, so what does it matter if it breaks now or later on? You'll be the one who has to do it regardless.

– Baby, – He whispers, dazed, reverent, like it’s the only word he knows anymore. His hands are pulling at you every time you slow down, every time you take a breath. Like you’re abandoning him every time you so much as shift in his hold.

You hum, tilting your head slightly, brushing your nose against his, soft, teasing. Rafe follows the movement like he’s chasing a fix. – What's wrong, Rafe?

– Pay attention to me. – He whines, and it's so clingy, so perfectly pathetic, that you pull him in again, laughing as you follow suit, mind clear of every other thought.

His lips find yours again, searching, impatient, his hands pressing into you, fingers flexing, tightening, like he’s afraid you might change your mind.

And for once—

You don’t.

You let him have it.

Let him pull you flush against him, his warmth seeping into your skin, his touch dragging along the curve of your waist, your ribs, the space between your shoulder blades. And even as he’s lost in you, his hand still covers the tattoo on your collarbone.

So you let him kiss you like he needs it to breathe, like he’s never been kissed quite like this before, like he doesn’t know what to do with himself now that you’re finally letting him in. Fully, completely, without hang-ups.

And when you sigh softly against his mouth, when your fingers slide into his hair, tugging, grounding him—

He groans.

Low, guttural, like the sound has been sitting in his chest for years, waiting to be pulled out of him.

His hands wander, cling, pull, searching you like he’ll die otherwise. Like he doesn’t know what he’ll do if you let go.

Like he doesn’t think you’ll stay.

But you do.

For now.

For just a little longer.

He has you pressed against the wall, hands traveling up and down your thighs, over your hips, around your ass.

– Fuck, – He mutters, nosing at your jaw, licking over the skin, sucking just slightly before letting up. His fingers tighten on your hips, dragging you closer, pressing you against the wall like he physically can’t handle how much he wants you. – You had to have known, baby, – He whispers, voice gravelly, raw, breaking at the edges.

– Huh?

His hands skim over your ribs, curl under the fabric, press against your stomach like he’s trying to feel every breath you take.

– This top, – He exhales, mouth trailing down, lips grazing the exposed skin of your neck, hand still lingering above your collarbone. – This fucking top, – He repeats, voice dark, feverish, wrecked. – You put this on for me.

It’s not a question.

You laugh, amused at the absurdity of it, at the way he says it like it's a fact.

– Don't pretend. – He laughs too, but it's darker. Still feverish. – You fucking knew blue was my favorite color.

His grin is sharp, smug, so pleased with himself—but his hands tell a different story.

Because they’re almost shaking.

They’re clinging.

They’re tracing your skin like he doesn’t know what he’ll do if you pull away.

– Wanted to drive me fucking insane, didn’t you? – He whispers, hot, breathless, desperate as he noses at your throat again. – Wanted me thinking about you all fucking day—

He laughs, hoarse, breathless, like he’s already lost his grip on himself completely.

– Well, guess what, baby? – His fingers tighten, dig in, press into bare skin like he needs something to hold onto. – You win. I’m already fucking gone for you.

It's almost sweet, but there’s something darker in his voice. Something lower, rougher, like it’s coming from the pit of his stomach.

His hands tighten on your waist.

– You fucking love making me like this, don’t you? – He breathes, pressing you back against the counter, holding you there, eyes dark, unfocused, locked on you like he’s trying to burn the image into his brain. – You’re a tease.

– Rafe, – You sigh, pressing your hands against his chest, trying to push him away the slightest bit—but he doesn’t budge.

If anything, he presses closer.

– What? – He grins against your neck, nosing at the curve of it, his hands sliding up your sides, curling over your ribs, feeling every inch of you under the fabric of that stupid top he’s obsessed with.

– I've got things to do. – You mutter, but he barely lets you get a breath in. The words are almost lost against his lips.

– Yeah, you have me to do. – His voice is serious, completely deadpan, barely smiling even as you laugh. – You're always fucking working. – He whines, voice lower now, rougher, more impatient, like he’s getting frustrated with you, with himself, with how bad he fucking wants this. – I've got shit to do, too, y'know? I'm going out with Topper and Kelce right now.

You scoff. – Sounds really demanding.

– It is. God knows they don't get off my dick about it.

– How rude of them.

The irony flies over his head. – Mm-hmm. You could come.

You chuckle, pushing his hair back, content at how he melts into it. – Leave my job and go?

– You ain't gonna work much longer today. My dad's taking Sarah and Wheezie to the country club right now, and they’re gonna have dinner at the Wreck or something.

– Even so. I can’t really leave.

– C'mon. I'll be good. – He nods against your skin, hands sliding lower, squeezing at your waist, gripping at you like he’s trying to ground himself. – I’ll be so fucking good to you, baby. Just gimme a chance.

You laugh, tilting your head to glare at him, but his expression is so hungry now, so overwhelmed, so fucking consumed that it throws you off completely.

– You are so full of shit, Rafe.

– Yeah? – He grins, but his breathing is heavier now, his grip is tighter, his body is pressing closer.

– You did wear this for me, though, – He murmurs, mouth trailing down your jaw smiling smugly, teeth scraping lightly, breathing against your skin like he’s barely restraining himself. – You look so fucking hot in this, too. Don't you wanna show off a little? – His fingers press into your waist, fisting the fabric of your shirt, pulling slightly, like he wants to tear it off of you. – You wanna act all tough, but I know you, baby.

– Rafe—

– Nah, I know you. – His hands slide up, gripping at your ribs, brushing against the curve of your chest, like he’s memorizing you through the fabric.

– I told you blue was my favorite color, and now you’re walking around looking like this? – His laugh is dark, hoarse, almost wrecked. – You fucking knew what you were doing, didn’t you?

– Oh yeah. – You chuckle. – I live to drive you mad, Rafe.

The irony flies over his head again, his lips meeting yours with the same heat as he lifts you. 

His mouth is back on your neck, his fingers curling tighter in your shirt, his entire body pressed up against yours like he needs to feel all of you at once.

– Baby, c’mon. – You mumble, and he sighs against your throat, pressing you closer to him. – I have to go back to work.

– Fuck, call me baby again. – Rafe’s voice is low, strained, muffled against your throat as he presses another open-mouthed kiss there, his breath shaky, uneven, like he needs this more than air itself.

– Rafe—

– No, say it. C'mon, baby please. – His grip tightens, pressing you higher against his waist, pinning you between him and the wall like he’s trying to keep you there forever. – Say it again.

You laugh, shoving at his chest, but he just grins, lazily nipping at your jaw, dragging his mouth along your skin, completely ignoring the fact that you’re trying to put distance between you.

– Rafe, baby. – He all but purrs against your skin. – I need to go back to work.

– And I need to keep touching you.

His hands grip tighter, curl under your thighs, drag up your sides, like he’s mapping you out, trying to commit every inch of you to memory. 

– You can be as sweet as you want, Rafe— He raises his brow, pretending to glare at you. – Sorry. You can be as sweet as you want, baby. I still have to go. – You press your palm against his cheek, tilting his face up, forcing him to meet your eyes.

His pupils are blown, his lips swollen, his breathing is all over the place, and he looks at you like you just tore the world apart and handed it back to him in pieces.

And still—

He doesn’t let go.

– Don’t look at me like that. – You murmur, rolling your eyes, but softer now. Rafe smirks, tilting his head, watching your mouth like he’s still hungry for it. – You are impossible.

– And you, – He whispers, grinning, – Are so fucking hot in this top.

You shove at his face, laughing despite yourself, but he doesn’t move far, just grins wider, lips brushing against your jaw again, against your cheek, stealing another kiss before you can stop him. – Rafe—

– Okay, okay, – He laughs, finally setting you down, but his hands still linger on your waist, fingers squeezing slightly, like he still doesn’t want to let go. – But you’re coming with me next time. 

– Sure I am.

– And you’re wearing that top. 

– Whatever you say. – You turn toward the door, ready to shove him out before he can try anything else, but his hand curls around your wrist.

He pulls you back in, stealing one last kiss, slower this time, softer, deeper, like he’s savoring it. When he pulls away, he’s smirking, but his eyes are dark, hazy, still completely wrecked over you.

– I’m leaving now, – He mutters, but makes no move to actually do so.

– You better. – You warn, nudging him toward the door, shoving him toward it when he still doesn’t move.

And when he finally stumbles back, laughing, barely catching himself before hitting the doorway—

He grins at you, smug, flushed, completely, devastatingly gone.

– See you later, baby.

And God help you, you don’t correct him. You hear his steps echoing across the kitchen. You hear the door knock closed, and there’s still something light, tingly, lingering within your chest as you step in and get back to work.

The pain is gone, you don’t even wonder.

And you think about how distracting yourself might actually be good for you as you plan out a lunch and a dinner, despite what Rafe said.

He knocks on the back window as he leaves, giving you that same sharp smile as he waves goodbye, dressed up in a polo that’s the same blue as your top, car keys in hand. 

The warmth is still there, lingering, buzzing under your skin, as you see him step away.

You don’t even question it.

You just exhale, shake your head, and turn back to the counter, back to cleaning up, back to work. Your hands move without thinking, pulling down ingredients, planning out the next meal.

A whole hour passes.

And you think Rafe might be right. Maybe the house will be empty for the rest of the day. Maybe you can actually relax for a while. You pull on the pen and paper at the counter, trying to think of something nice and simple to make for you and Barry when you get home.

– Taking a break, miss Routledge?

Your entire body locks up.

Your stomach drops.

Your hands are still over the counter, fingers tightening slightly around the pen.

You didn’t hear him come in.

You didn’t feel him.

But when you turn—

Ward is already there.

Standing by the entrance of the kitchen.

Watching you.

– Did I startle you? – He laughs, stepping closer. Holding the empty breakfast plates in his hand. – I didn’t mean to.

– I didn’t hear you coming at all. You could’ve rung for me, I’d bring the plates down for you, sir.

His posture is relaxed, casual, unreadable. But there’s something too deliberate, too patient, too careful in the way he’s standing, in the way his eyes flick over your face before settling on your hands. – It’s no bother. I wanted an excuse to see how you keep this kitchen. Much better than Kareem does, apparently. He leaves a mess all over the place, only starts cleaning up before he goes. It’s not a good habit. – His hands drift over the counter, and he stands beside you, looking between your eyes and the piece of paper in your hand. – Writing down a recipe?

– Shopping list. There’s some things missing for the lunch prep. Why, did you want anything specific?

He stops just short of the counter, eyes sharp, watching you with an interest that doesn’t feel casual at all. – No. Actually, you don’t have to make anything for lunch. Or dinner. I’m taking the girls to the Country Club. It’s a beautiful day for golfing.

– It sure is. Would you like me to prepare anything for when you return? A snack, maybe a dessert?

His eyes linger on you for a moment, but you’re really sure what he’s looking at. Whether he’s looking at your arms, at the faint, fading bruises; at the wrinkles Rafe left on your top as he grabbed and pulled at you like a toy; or at something else entirely, is unclear. But he gives you a smile at some point, and it just barely reaches his eyes. – Were you a disobedient child, Miss Routledge?

The question sends a chill down your spine.

– Sorry?

– You’re clever. – He says finally, but it doesn’t really sound like a compliment. – You anticipate my needs. I like that about you.

– Thank you sir, but I’m just doing my job.

– And you do it well. – He hums. – Indeed you do. You can go home if you want, Miss Routledge. I was going to tell you to clean up, but clearly, you’ve anticipated that as well.

– Yes, sir. – Your breath is caught. Your grip on the pen is too tight. You feel like he might jump on you if you say something wrong. – Any requests for tomorrow?

He smiles again, and this time the lines form around his eyes, deeper, more genuine, yet still all too cold. – No. I’m sure I’ll like whatever you have planned. – He gives you one last smile, standing at the door. Something else in his face, in his posture, that you can’t quite catch. – That’s a nice shirt you’re wearing. Blue looks very nice on you, Routledge.

He doesn’t even give you the time to say anything else before he goes, leaving you to your doubts, all alone in this kitchen that suddenly feels colder.

It takes you a moment to fully come back to your senses, and maybe the half-assed smoke break has left your nicotine cravings to haunt you, but you’re almost rushing to the door as you gather your things.

You don’t realize how fast you’re walking until the house has fully disappeared behind you. You don’t realize where you’re going until you look up and see the bus stop.

It’s muscle memory, instinct, a habit formed over years of just going—of putting one foot in front of the other and figuring it out later.

Your hands are cold.

You should’ve called Barry.

But you didn’t even think to.

You inhale sharply, rubbing your arms—

And your phone rings.

The sudden vibration makes you jump.

You fumble for it, barely sparing the screen a glance before swiping to answer.

– Hello?

There's a pause. A beat of silence that stretches just a second too long.

– Miss… Routledge? – The voice is steady. Firm. Familiar in a way that makes your stomach knot. – This is Sheriff Peterkin. We need you to come down to the station.

@chatgtfo @bitterdotcom @xmayankax @bluethperson @coralblue35 @myluvingera @munsoncultedits @the-bitch-who-binges @im-julessssss @redkarmakai @hwaaholic @sydkneez @sassyvilliantrope @vampiriito @sassybearfire

[bonnie-the-butcher]

I'm sorry to all my followers who definitely do not give a fuck about my Brokeback mountain ass fanfiction, but this is LITERALLY Bob Dylan in a complete unknown.

This man was YEARNING for Johnny Cash. He was fumbling around on the guitar and sobbing to sad songs and maladaptive daydreams he was making about Johnny Cash. He wanted this cookie BAD, ya'll.

[bonnie-the-butcher]

Rip Tide | Chapter XII

[ MDNI ] [ word count: 8.179 ] [ Masterlist ] 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬: Canonverse/Canon-Divergent; Dark! Content; NSFW; Strong Language; Cheating; Drug Use; Mentions of overdose; Some shades of Munchausen syndrome from dear old Rafe; Manipulation; Toxic, obsessive behaviour; Stalking; Violence; DUBCON/NONCON; My writing is really pretentious and English is not my first language, so please feel free to call me out in whichever grammar mistakes you might find find.

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | You and JJ have always been in each other's orbit. He's your brother’s best friend, the guy you've known your entire life. He was kind, protective, familiar. You never meant for the two of you to start hooking up. And you never meant for it to last so long. But when this boy you thought you'd come to know like the back of your hand turns out to be no better than the men he'd warned you about, you find yourself in the sights of the guy he hates most, regardless of wether you want that or not.

I will never be able to top that Cain and Abel paragraph. Please mourn for my writing career. Likes, asks, reblogs, and comments are always greatly appreciated! Thank you in advance for reading <3

You can feel the vice grip of JJ’s hand pressing against your veins, your pulse thundering against him, growing faster with every failed attempt to wring yourself away.

– JJ, – You gasp, trying to twist yourself out of his hold, pulling, wringing, fruitlessly. He yanks you forward before you can finish, dragging you toward the bike.

Your breath catches.

– JJ, let go of me, you’re hurting me—

– Get on the bike. – He doesn’t yell it. His voice is tight, barely restrained, the kind of anger that isn’t meant to be loud—it’s meant to be a warning.

You shake your head, twisting against his hold. – You can’t drive like— You can’t— I can’t just leave—

– Yes, you can. – His grip tightens. – You will.

He’s pulling, and you’re fighting it—your heels digging into the pavement, the weight of your body thrown back, hand grasping at the grass like it can hold you back. You try to wrench your wrist free, but he’s so much stronger than you like this, fueled by something dark, barely controlled.

– Stop it! Please, just fucking stop it, JJ! What are you doing?! – Your voice cracks, desperate. – You’re acting crazy, just—let me go!

He doesn’t. Not for a second. His hand tightens, impossibly, against your arm and he tugs you forward with all his force until you crash against him, barely on your feet, your knees shaking.

– JJ—

– I swear to fucking God, – He growls, his voice a rumble something familiar, painfully so, something that makes your stomach turn. – if I have to tell you again—

You shake your head, thoughtlessly, maniacally. You can’t control the movement.

You don’t know what he’ll do if you refuse.

And that’s the problem.

Because neither does he.

JJ isn’t thinking. He isn’t here.

He’s someone else entirely. His mind is a blur. Whoever this person is, standing before you, wants nothing but to hurt you.

Your heart hammers as the reality sets in.

You could fight. But he'd beat you. You could hope for help. But there’s no one around to stop him. You could scream, but what good would it do if no one’s there to hear you?

And if you don’t do what he says?

He won’t leave.

Not until you get on that bike.

Barry’s bike.

Barry. 

Your heart stops.

Where is Barry? What did JJ do to him? Why didn’t he answer your calls? Did he take something else? Did he leave him, alone, somewhere, with nowhere else to go?

And if he doesn’t leave, if he keeps shouting like this, keeps grabbing you, demanding you go with him—

It’ll be worse.

So much worse.

Your job. Your safety. This sliver of security you're already clinging to by the skin fingernails.

You just barely escaped being fired. JJ isn’t above making a scene to teach you a lesson. He doesn’t care how much he hurts you when he’s like this.

The words get caught in your throat. You force yourself to swallow them down, along with everything else you want to say.

Your hands tremble as you reach for the seat.

JJ exhales like he’s been holding his breath. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t talk to you, doesn’t let go of his anger. Just swings his leg over the bike and nods toward the seat behind him. – Get on.

You hesitate, taking a step back without even thinking, like your body won't let you do this, and he snaps—one hand darting out, grabbing your wrist again, tugging you forward so violently you stumble.

Your stomach lurches.

You don’t want to do this.

But what choice do you have?

You climb onto the bike, your legs barely steady, your arms wrapped around him because you have nothing else to hold on to.

JJ barely gives you time to breathe before he guns it. The engine revs, roaring like a vicious animal. The bike lurches forward before you’re even ready. Your grip slips. Your balance wavers. For a split second, you’re weightless.

You slam against JJ’s back, your arms snapping around his waist on instinct, clinging tight as the bike rockets forward, faster than it should, faster than it ever should.

– JJ—!

The wind rips the word from your mouth.

Streetlights flash by in violent streaks of gold and red. The world blurs at the edges, sharp and endless and cruel, like you’ve been thrown into a nightmare that won’t stop shifting.

JJ doesn’t slow down. He doesn’t breathe. His body is tense, coiled too tight, a wire pulled so thin it can feel the incoming snap. His grip on the handlebars is white-knuckled, his back rigid beneath your grip.

The bike swerves.

Your stomach drops.

The road bends, but JJ doesn’t. He takes the turn too sharp, too recklessly, the tires skidding for half a second. Your whole body tilts, your knee nearly scraping asphalt.

You whimper, pressing yourself closer, fingers desperate as they grasp his clothes, knuckles aching from how hard you’re holding on.

– JJ—slow down!

He doesn’t.

The engine growls louder, vibrating beneath you, rattling in your bones, shaking in your chest like a second heartbeat.

He flies past a red light, too fast, too close, too dangerous.

A car blares its horn—loud, long, furious.

You choke on a scream, your whole body bracing for impact, for the crash, for the pain—

But nothing comes. Only the phantom of an accident growing within you, coiling inside your chest, tightening, painfully, building up a fear that already has you frozen, praying, waiting for death.

Terror crawls up your throat, sharp and cold.

– JJ, please, –  You gasp, voice cracking. – Please—just stop.

For a moment, you think he won’t.

For a moment, you think he’ll ride forever, until the world ends, until you both crash and burn.

Then, finally—finally—he eases off the throttle.

Not much.

Just enough to breathe again.

Just enough to make you realize you were barely breathing at all.

Your pulse roars in your ears.

The wind still slashes at your skin, the tires still groan against the pavement, but the speed—the nightmare speed—has lessened.

Your fingers ache from gripping too tight. Your lungs burn from holding back screams.

And just then, just when you feel the burn in your throat, your lungs, your eyes, retreat, when your arms loosen the slightest bit, when you nearly relax, he sinks his foot on the gas, and suddenly you’re going faster than you ever were.

You can’t contain the scream this time— It surges through you like a bullet, and it ends halfway through, your voice dying in your chest, having used up the little breath you had— you’re choking again. You can’t think.

Your mind rushes, your hands cling, tears falling from you before you can even register them.

But JJ doesn’t slow down.

Even as the streets turn to dirt. Even as the road twists into something precarious, dangerous, unforgiving.

The pavement is cracked, riddled with potholes, with gaping wounds in the asphalt that could send you both flying if he miscalculates even once.

But he doesn’t care.

He flies down the path like he’s untouchable, like the Cut itself will bend to his will, like there’s no chance he could crash.

But you could.

You watch the ground loom ever closer with every turn he makes, asphalt slashing against the metal of the bike like a blade.

Your bones rattle with every jolt, your stomach lurches as the tires stumble over loose gravel, and you can barely think past the fear.

The bike jerks to a halt before your house so suddenly that you don’t even realize it stopped at first.

And you’re falling.

You don’t know whether you jumped or were thrown off.

Your feet hit the ground, but your legs don’t hold.

Your knees collapse into the dirt.

Your hands reach out, clutching the earth beneath you like it’s the only solid thing left in the world.

You gasp, dragging air into your lungs like you’ve been drowning for miles.

The ground is solid. Rough. Real.

But it slips through your fingers, and you can’t hold yourself steady.

You try to focus on the feeling of grit beneath your nails, the sting of pebbles digging into your skin.

Anything to remind yourself that you’re not moving anymore.

But you still feel it.

The phantom pull of the road. The momentum still dragging at your bones. The way your body still thinks you’re going too fast, too fast, too fast—

Somewhere in the haze, you hear voices.

Barry. John. Shouting. Arguing.

You squeeze your eyes shut, press your fingers harder into the dirt, try to remind yourself that you’re here. That you’re on the ground.

That you’re not crashing.

But God, it still feels like you are —Your hands shake so badly you can barely hold the dirt within your fingers. You breathe, gasping, trying to get air, but it’s stuck against your hiccups, against the sobs you don’t even have the strength to choke down— You’re crying. The air is still whizzing past you, sharp, so sharp you can feel it dragging you back, the ground looming closer, your bones nothing but glass.

– There you fucking are. Was it fun? You had your little fucking joyride?! – The voice echoes out from beyond, like you’re stuck, sinking into the air, towards the pavement, and they’re watching you from above.

It's Barry, you realize.

His voice cuts through the haze, loud and livid, sharp enough to hurt. And something inside you thrums. That stupid part of yourself, the part that always hopes someone will help you.

You want to run to him. You want him to see you, to hold you —solid, real, safe— you want something against you, something that isn’t this void that clings to you, this feeling that you’re a moment away from the worst pain you’ll ever feel.

But you can’t stand.

You can’t look at him.

You can’t do anything.

Your hands are still pressed into the dirt, your chest heaving, your body still bracing for impact that never came.

Because it still feels like you’re falling.

And you are.

You’re on the ground, but you’re not. You can’t stand. You can’t move. You can’t breathe.

Something is gonna crash against you. Something sharp. Something that’ll hurt you.

You’ve been beaten enough times to know this feeling, the gasping, aching anticipation of the whip coming down, that split second before someone hits you, before the ground jolts you, before something in you breaks.

Your whole body shakes—not just from fear, not just from the cold, from the void, but from the ache of knowing something worse is coming. You know it's coming. And you know you won’t come out of this unscathed.

Barry stops.

Mid-step, mid-swing, mid-word—he stops.

Because he sees you.

He sees you on the ground.

He sees you pale, trembling, sobbing.

And just like that, his anger vanishes.

He says something, his breath caught in his throat as his steps quicken, as he rushes towards you, having completely forgotten the rest.

His boots crunch against the gravel, loud and reckless and looming. You can’t even help but flinch. Your body jolts backwards, away from him, and you’re crawling again, recoiling until he’s dropping to his knees beside you, reaching out but not touching.

Like he’s done so many times.

And you’re there, this broken stray, cowering in the corner, shaking, shaking so bad you can’t even reach for him like you want.

– Sweetheart, – He murmurs, low, gentle in a way that makes you feel all the more pathetic. – Look at me.

You can’t.

You squeeze your eyes shut, shaking your head, curling tighter into yourself, fingers digging into the dirt as if you could disappear into it.

Barry swears under his breath. His hand resting so softly against your shoulder that he too is almost startled by how you flinch.

He stills.

His hand is barely touching you, barely even there, and yet your whole body flinches—hard, like he struck you instead— like a dog, waiting for a boot in the ribs. 

His breath hitches.

– Shit, – He exhales, barely a whisper. Slowly, carefully, he puts his hand on yout back. You don’t move.

You stay there, curled tight, fingers buried in the dirt, shaking, shaking, shaking.

He steadies the rest of his hand against your skin. And you don’t move. Because this is familiar. He’s done this before.

This isn’t new.

Barry swears again, softer this time, and then —very slowly— he moves again. His knees drag through the dirt, his other hand rests on your side.

Not grabbing. Not pulling. Just... offering.

A slow, steady pressure against your back. A grounding weight. A reminder.

You shudder.

Your body is still caught in the past, still bracing for a hit that isn’t coming, still waiting for the moment of impact.

But it doesn’t come.

Just warmth.

Just Barry.

Again.

Nothing’s coming. You have to tell yourself. It’s over. You're okay.

But you don’t believe it. Not fully.

– Sweetheart, – He tries again, voice lower now, still gentle but almost frustrated. Your heart catches. And you feel that guilt blooming in you again. Because he’s had to do this before. Because he’s had to pick up the pieces of you from the ground plenty of times before. You want to kick yourself. You don’t deserve this. You almost flinch away. But his hold tightens, the slightest bit. Grounding. Like he’s afraid to scare you away. –  You’re okay. You’re okay. Just relax. You're okay.

You’re okay.

You don’t move.

Not until he presses a little firmer. Not until his fingers brush your ribs, not holding, not forcing, just... there. Until he pulls at you, softly, not like JJ did. 

Barry doesn’t hesitate.

His arms wrap around you, firm and solid, pulling you in, gathering you up, shielding you from the air itself. The second you feel his grip tighten, you break. A sob wracks through you, sharp and choked, as your hands claw at his shirt, gripping, gripping, gripping.

You cling like you’re afraid he’ll disappear.

Like you’re still moving too fast, and he’s just barely keeping you grounded.

Barry holds you tighter. – You’re okay. – He repeats.

Something's coming. Steps behind him. You see the outline of someone, legs walking towards the two of you, but when you move, he holds you tighter. Arms bracing your back like a straightjacket, keeping you from yourself. Keeping you sane.

– You’re okay. – Is the only thing he says. And he keeps saying it, again and again, until the words echo in your mind, bouncing against the walls of your skull, less and less frantic until you can say it. 

You believe him.

Just for a second.

Just long enough to stop falling.

But your name resounds again from behind you. Once, a second time, then you feel that same hand that grabbed you sink into your arm again, trying to pull you back. – Get up! – JJ shouts, nails sinking into your shoulders as he grabs you.

Barry pushes him away.

Shoves him.

You hear the stutter in JJ’s steps as he stumbles back, sinking further into his arms like a child. – What the fuck did you do, huh? What the fuck did you do to her, JJ?!

– Get up and fucking look at me. – He keeps pulling at you, calling your name, his hand burrowing into your flesh. You want to stand, you want to push him away, but you cower. And Barry does it for you.

He shoves JJ again, hard enough that you feel the struggle between them. – She ain’t gotta listen to a word you say, psycho! What the fuck is your problem?!

JJ laughs—sharp, bitter, like it’s the funniest fucking thing in the world.

– Course you’d hide behind him, – He spits, his voice mocking, cruel. – That’s all you ever fucking do. Hide.

Barry tenses.

You feel it.

The way his muscles coil, the way his grip shifts, ready to push back, to swing, to end this.

But JJ doesn’t care.

He doesn’t even look at Barry.

He’s still looking at you.

You can feel his eyes burning holes into your back as you pull back from Barry. You can feel the rage emanating off of him.

– You got nothing to say now? – JJ presses, stepping closer. – Nothing at all? You usually talk such big game, baby. Now you can't even look me in the eye?!

Barry moves first.

– Back the fuck up.

It’s not a warning.

It’s a command.

– Why? Are you worried she’s too close to stab me in the back again? The way I see it, she’s in the perfect position to do that to you, man!

You pull back from Barry, hands still clinging to his shirt as you turn to look at JJ, but Barry doesn’t let go, not as JJ’s gaze finally flicks to him, smirking, scoffing. Not as he pulls you to your feet again, tearing you away from your friend like you're nothing but a thing he can take.

– You feel good? – JJ’s voice is low, furious, barely held together, as his hands sink into you. – Feel real fucking good going behind everyone’s back? Working for Rafe? That do it for you? 

Your chest tightens.

– Stop it—

– You got your little job, right? – JJ barrels over your words, stepping closer, looming, his breath hot, sharp, filled with venom. – That what you’re calling it now? Fucking us all over for a paycheck? Maybe that isn’t it though, maybe you’re the one who’s getting fucked, huh?

John bristles from the porch, his voice low, tense. – JJ.

– Nah. She knows what she’s doing, right? Did you tell your brother how Rafe was all over you in that parking lot, calling you baby and shit?! That dignified, hard-working girl act you put up really paid off huh? You really had us all fooled! – John doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t move, he doesn’t call JJ out, he just stands there. – Feel fulfilled now? Now that you managed to tick off every fucking form of betrayal in the book? Because you got me fucked up!

Barry’s done.

– She ain’t got you fucked up, man. That’s exactly what you are. Are you serious right now? – Barry snaps, voice rough with disbelief. – You wanna talk about her fucking up? You—you who does nothing but fuck up?!

– Nobody is fucking talking to you, bro.

– Ain’t nobody around here your “bro”, JJ. Thank God, too. Weren’t your parents siblings or whatever? That’d explain why you only got half a fucking brain.

– Shut the fuck u—

– Oh, Alabama over here’s mad! – Barry scoffs, a quick, sharp sound drained of anything even close to humor. – That’s actually hilarious. That some bum like you would feel like you have the right to call anyone out on what they do or don’t do for work. You sit here, lounging for free in this house she pays for, doing jack shit with your fucking life like the trailer trash your ass is—but she’s the bad guy for working? Is that how long it’s been since you had a job, JJ? That you can’t fathom the possibility of someone making money without selling themselves?

JJ laughs.

Not real. Not amused.

Just dangerous.

Like he’s already decided how this ends.

– That’s cute, – He murmurs, nodding slowly, like it’s all some joke he’s humoring. – That’s real fucking cute. You’re gonna add anything to this conversation, or is your dog doing all the talking for you today?

Barry chuckles. Dry and low, so low you can barely hear it. – Dog? You run around sniffing John B’s ass all day and night like you’re in heat or something, but I’m the one who’s a dog? Shit, I ain’t see a bitch around here but you, JJ.

JJ lunges. His fist swings through the air, quick and violent, but before he can even touch Barry, he uppercuts him in the stomach.

JJ tumbles back, his hands still on you, tearing at you, grabbing, ripping, pulling— but his grip doesn’t stand the pain Barry caused him, and he falters.

Barry reacts instantly.

He grabs his arm, shoves him off of you, pivots —his knuckles slam into JJ’s temple.

The sound is sickening: A dull, thudding crack of bone on bone. JJ’s head snaps sideways. His body stumbles, tilting, collapsing.

But Barry doesn’t stop.

He’s on him before he hits the ground, tackling him hard, sending them both crashing into the dirt.

JJ barely has time to react before Barry’s fist connects again.

And again.

And again.

A hit to the jaw—JJ spits blood.

A hit to the cheekbone—his head slams back against the ground.

Barry is relentless.

You call his name, your heart racing, the blood searing your vision like a burning bush, but he doesn’t listen.

His teeth are bared, his muscles coiled and shaking, his body moving on pure fury, on the weight of everything JJ has said, everything he’s done. The years he’s spent hating him for you, the months he’s been hating JJ for the stupid shit he pulled and the problem’s he’s caused him.

He’s beating him to a fucking pulp.

JJ groans. A sharp, wet, broken sound, choked by the blood in his mouth.

His fist swings again—

And that’s when you move.

You throw yourself forward, grabbing Barry’s arm, yanking, clawing, trying to drag him off—

– Stop it! You’re gonna kill him! Stop it! – Your voice cracks, weak, your attempts useless even as your brother joins you, trying to pull them apart, but Barry keeps swinging.

His breathing hard, shaking, still staring down at JJ, moving despite your grip and John’s, like he wants to break something permanent. Like just bruising him isn’t enough.

Like he’s one more hit away from doing it.

You pull harder, hands gripping his clothes, his arm, anything you can reach.

Barry jerks against your hold, laughing, spitting at JJ—then finally, he lets you drag him back.

His breathing is ragged, wild, unhinged.

JJ groans, coughing. His face is already swelling, blood smeared across his cheek.

Your stomach twists.

You reach for him before you can think, hands hovering over his face, over the bruises already forming.

– JJ, – You breathe, shaking. – Jesus fucking Christ.

He's a mess. Blood, flesh, face. You can barely make one thing out from the other. Barely see the damage.

Your hands brush the bloodied hair out of his face, an instinctive motion, just so you can see where the cuts ends and the swelling begins. And for a moment, he almost seems like he’ll let you.

JJ's eyes part, moving though your face as you look at him, and he breathes in deep. He sighs. 

A familiar sound. 

Relief. 

Relief that it's over.

You reach again, just barely ghosting your hands over his temple, where Barry hit him first. But his eyes widen, something in them shifting, cold, cruel. 

And he shoves you away.

Hard. 

Hard enough that you stumble back as well.

Hard enough that Barry notices.

You hear him tear himself away from John's grip, rushing past you, but you grab him just in time. – Please, please Barry. Stop it. Just stop it. Don't do this right now.

Barry is still trembling, breath wild, erratic, hands twitching like he’s one second away from lunging all over again.

You feel it, the anger rolling off him in waves, the way his body keeps trying to pull forward, like something feral inside him hasn’t had enough.

You grip his wrist tighter. – Please, – You whisper. – Please, Barry. Just stop it. Don’t do this right now.

Barry’s teeth grind together. His breath is sharp, ragged, dangerous.

But he listens.

JJ doesn’t.

John helps him sit up, a steadying hand on his back, but the second JJ is upright, breathing, aware again—he’s talking. Talking, insulting, tearing into you like it’s the only thing keeping him conscious.

– You’re gonna let him? – His voice is hoarse, broken, but still filled with venom. – This piece of shit does nothing but get you in trouble but— He spits blood onto the dirt, wipes his mouth, shaking his head. – You’re just gonna let him do whatever he wants?

Your stomach twists.

– JJ—

– I shouldn’t be surprised. – His head snaps up. Eyes blazing, furious, wild. – You let it happen, – He snarls. – You always let it happen, You don’t give a fuck about us. Don’t fucking act like you do. You stood there and fucking— He gestures to himself, to the mess Barry made of him, to his swollen face, to the blood dripping onto his collar. – And you fucking let him do it.

– What the fuck are you gonna do about it, then, tough guy? – Barry laughs, his hands trembling. 

JJ’s muscles snap tight.

You push Barry back again, more frantic now, shaking, pleading, but he doesn’t listen. 

Your hands tremble.

JJ pushes himself up fully now, John’s grip still firm on his shoulder, holding him steady. But it doesn’t matter. 

Because JJ is not steady.

Not at all.

– You ain’t gonna say anything, huh? – He breathes, voice cold, sharp, shaking. – You play the tough girl act very well for someone who’s such a bitch.

Barry tenses again. His laugh is the crack of a whip as he pushes past you, you have to shove at him just so he won’t rush in and punch him again. 

John’s holding JJ back, his face wrecked with something almost sad. Almost worried. – Let go of me. – Barry groans, the impatience growing in his voice. – Let go of me sweetheart, this motherfucker needs to be put in his place.

– Let it go, Bee.

– Let it go?! – He does a double take, looking at you as if you’d grown a second head. – Let it go? He just called you a—

– I heard it. Please, this is enough. You nearly killed him. You won. – You grip his arm tighter. His breath comes out heavy, perplexed. – Just let it go, please.

John’s voice is a murmur behind you, whatever it is that he says to his friend doesn’t reach you, but you know it isn’t working, because the outrage on JJ’s face doesn’t budge. – JJ—

– You’re a fucking traitor. – He spits your name out along with the blood, your brother still trying to pull him back with all he’s got. – You are. You’re a traitor and a whore!

It punches through you.

JJ stumbles forward, closer, swaying but still standing.

– You don’t belong here, – He seethes. – Get the fuck out.

Your heart stops.

You blink at him, your breath snagging in your throat.

This is your house. Your home. He can’t—he can’t just tell you to—

– Get out. – It’s louder this time, meaner, angrier, like it’s his right to say it, like he actually has the power to take something else from you. – Since you’re so happy to be Rafe’s free use slut, go ahead and do it on your own! We don’t fucking need you!

Your lips part. – This is my house, – But your voice is a sliver of what it once was. You’re not looking at JJ. You barely hear his words, but your brother is standing there, completely still. His arms suddenly lax around the other boy. – This is my house! – Louder, firmer, but just as useless.

– I don’t think it is. – JJ laughs. He’s looking back at your brother now, too. Because he knows John isn’t gonna say anything. He knows it just as well as you do. – Your name isn’t John Routledge. That’s the name on the deed, isn’t it? And it’s not yours.

– John. – You’re pleading again. The gray-green of your brother’s eyes gaping at you emptily, thoughtlessly, as if he’s gone into shock. – Say something, John. This is my house too!

He doesn’t say anything.

Just stares.

– Say something!

You don’t know how many times you’ve done this.

How many times you’ve stood there, practically on your knees, begging him to act like a brother. To act like he cares about you. To act as if he’d loved you for a single moment of his life.

You don’t know how many times you’ve gotten this exact response.

The blank stare.

The guilty face.

That look in his eye that tells you just how much he doesn’t have it in him to pretend, even for a moment, that you’re less than the stupid girl who, for whatever reason, has done everything in your power to keep him afloat.

– John. – His name comes out hoarse, quiet. A whisper. A prayer. A plea.

His eyes never waver from yours, he keeps looking, keeps standing there, and though his face is cracked with guilt, there is no shame. Nothing that would make him act on it.

Maybe there’s just nothing there.

No fire. No anger. No defense. No loyalty.

Just the look you’ve seen a thousand fucking times before.

You don’t know why you still beg. You don’t know why you still believe. 

You are pleading with a ghost.

John doesn’t move. He just looks at you. Like he’s already decided. Like this is already done.

And it is. 

But it wasn’t done with the fight, or the cursing, or the blood, not even the way JJ turns, tossing the keys to the bike onto the ground, storming off like he’s the one who was wronged. Not when you see the way John hesitates for half a second, looking at you like he wants to say something, like he wants to take it back, like he wants to undo what’s already done—

Not even when he follows him, turning his back on you like it’s so simple, so natural, like it was always meant to be.

It ended years ago.

Maybe it never even began.

Maybe you're the only fool alive who ever believed you were his sister.

The night cracks open.

The silence presses in.

You're stuck inside your body, inside your head, inside all the memories that claw their way back into you like rusted nails.

You are twelve years old, standing behind John, watching through the schoolyard fence as JJ and the others shove you into the dirt.

"Ain’t she your sister?" someone asks.

John laughs with them.

"Nah, man. I don’t know her."

You are fifteen, standing in the living room, your hands trembling at your sides as your father slams you against the wall.

John is at the end of the hall.

Watching.

Silent.

Your father’s voice is thunder in your ears.

"You think you’re smart, huh? You think I don’t know it was you?"

But it wasn’t you. It was John.

And he lets it happen anyway.

You are seventeen, standing in this very yard, watching your brother walk away from you again.

Just like he always does.

Just like he always will.

Because John —the John you thought you knew, the John that sobbed in your arms for months every night your father didn't come home, the John who wouldn't eat unless you fed him, who wouldn't sleep unless you held him, wouldn't leave the house unless you were close enough that he could grab you, was never there. John, the boy, John, the brother. He's only ever existed as far as he needed you. And now he doesn’t— is not there. 

He's John B.

The star student, the popular kid. That boy that was always too good to hang around some mongrel like you.

And this is what John B does.

This is what he’s always done.

He doesn’t protect you.

He doesn't defend you.

He doesn’t choose you.

Every time you’ve asked God whether you were your brother’s keeper, you felt the weight of every living soul around you say no —You closed your eyes, and you were Abel, lying, stupidly, on the ground you just tilled as he stood behind you with a stone, ready to crush you. You were Remus, laying bricks with your back turned as he came to slay you. You were Osiris, walking thoughtlessly into a coffin he’s made to bury you, fully believing that he wanted nothing but to see you well— Because for every life you’ve shared, he’s killed you, and still somehow convinced you to pray that you’re still siblings in the next.

You don’t remember when your hands started shaking.

Or when your knees lost their strength.

Or when your breath began coming too fast, too shallow, not enough, never enough.

All you know is that the world tilts.

And you sway.

And you break.

And you cry.

You reach out—for something, anything—but there’s nothing to hold onto.

Nothing but empty space where your brother used to be, where the two of you used to play, where you once believed you could be something like brother and sister.

The sky blurs. The trees waver. The ground rushes toward you.

But before you can collapse, before you can even feel yourself falling, Barry catches you.

He's solid. Real.

Not like John. —You shake your head, mentally scratching that concept from your conscience— Not like John B. 

– Hey—hey—look at me. – Barry’s hands grip your arms, tight, steady. His eyes search your face, his chest rising and falling like he’s just run a mile. – C'mon. Breathe.

You press your hands against his chest, against something solid, something unshaking, something that won’t disappear the moment you close your eyes.

And finally you do breathe. But the wound is still gaping. Still bleeding. And John B is already gone. The door slams closed, leaving you to rot in the silence, bathed by the flickering light of the porch; the one you asked him to change for a lightbulb you bought weeks ago, and is still sitting, forgotten on his nightstand.

Barry smooths the tears away from your face, like he used to do when you came to him after a fight with your father, like he’s done for every heartbreak since. – Let’s go home. – He whispers, his hands still cupping your face. The plastic of his keys—Rafe’s keys— pressed against your jaw. – C’mon, let me take you home.

– It's gone, Bee.

– It's not.

– He kicked me out, I can’t come back. It's gone.

– It’s not, it isn’t, don’t fucking say that—don’t ever say that again. – His grip on you tightens, the muscles of his hand flexing against your skin, quick, so quick, you barely brace yourself when he makes you stand in front of him. – That piece of shit isn’t your home. This place? This fucking dump you lived in? This isn’t your home. I’m your home, okay? And you’re mine, and you’re not staying here to keep breaking your own heart over and over again. Let's go.

– Barry—

– I don’t wanna hear it. – He's firm. He's angry. Your chest weighs heavy, still forever afraid of any sign of anger, even when it’s not directed to you. But he holds you, and he looks at you, really looks at you, and he repeats. – Let’s go, okay? I’m taking you to my place, and I don’t wanna hear you complaining. 

– Okay.

– C’mon. 

Barry’s hands are firm, unshaking, steady, and you barely feel them as he guides you toward the bike. Everything is distant, muted, like you’re watching yourself move from somewhere outside your own body. A conscience beyond your own. 

You let him press the helmet onto your head, let him buckle it under your chin with a flick of his fingers. And you watch the way he moves.

His hands are still clenched as he tosses your purse, discarded over the ground, on your lap. He looks over his shoulders, at the closed door, with his jaw clenched, and every so often he shakes his head, frowning, outraged by a thought you can’t hear, can't know.

You don’t remember climbing onto the bike.

You barely register the way Barry grips your hands, pulling them around his waist, but he doesn’t say anything. Not the usual "Hold on, sweetheart," he always says like it’s second nature, not any of the stupid comments he makes whenever you ride with him. His movements are brisk, borderline impatient, but not careless, never careless. He kicks the bike to life, the engine shuddering through your bones as it hums beneath you, the heat of the exhaust jostling against the scrapes on your legs.

Then, you’re moving.

Not fast. Not yet.

But even at this speed, the wind presses against you, makes you feel untethered, unsteady, fragile in a way you haven’t let yourself acknowledge until now. You close your eyes and grip him tight, focusing on the smell of the helmet, breathing it  in, the smoke of his cigarettes, the shoddy menthol of his nicotine gum, and something grounding, something real. 

Your fingers find the fabric of his shirt —your shirt— the old marina shirt that belonged to your dad, the one you were wearing that day with him and Rafe, when everything went to shit. It’s crumpled, but it feels nice, still tender from the fabric softener you used for that last wash.

You feel the moment he registers it, the way you grip him, trying to distract yourself—the way his muscles tense slightly, the way his hands shift against the handles, grip tightening, the moment of hesitation before he sighs through his nose and settles.

He drives slower than usual.

Not slow, but slow enough that you can tell.

Slow enough that it’s not Barry’s usual recklessness, his usual need to prove something.

Slow enough that he’s paying attention.

You don’t know how long you ride like that.

Maybe minutes. Maybe hours. Maybe a whole fucking lifetime.

Everything is blurred, stretched thin, bleeding together like a half-forgotten dream, and you let it wash over you, let the hum of the engine drown out the roar in your head, let the road carry you somewhere, anywhere that isn’t here, that isn’t now.

You don’t notice when he turns onto the familiar back roads.

You don’t notice the flickering neon light, the cracked pavement, the darkened windows.

You don’t notice where you are at all.

Not until he kills the engine.

Not until the silence crashes over you, sharp and final. Not until you hear the low creak of his kickstand settling, the way he shifts slightly beneath your hands, pulling off his helmet, running a hand through his hair before glancing over his shoulder.

Not until you look up.

And the sign is right there, right above you.

The River Styx.

Your stomach drops.

But Barry doesn’t say anything, his fingers brush over your wrist, still taught around his waist, and he pats his other hand over your knee. – C'mon.

You just stare at the sign, the neon glow casting strange shadows across the pavement, the weight of everything pressing down on you all over again.

You should have known.

Of course he’d bring you here.

Because where else would you go?

Where else is there to go?

Barry swings his leg off the bike, tossing the helmet onto the seat, shaking his head like he’s already exhausted by whatever is going on in his own head. He exhales sharply, running a hand over his jaw, then gestures toward the door.

– Come on, sweetheart, it's about time this day fucking ends. 

You swallow hard, unmoving.

His brows pull together slightly, like he’s trying to be patient, like he’s trying to find the right thing to say, but Barry isn’t built for patience, for softness, for comfort in the way people expect it.

So instead, he sighs, takes a step closer, and reaches for your wrist, fingers curling around it, not pulling, just holding. – You promised. – He says, but this time it actually is softer, kinder, nearly patient. – Now, we can go back if you want, but then the deal is over, and you'll have to sleep on the pull-out couch.

You scoff, still looking at the sign, but you feel your arm relax under his touch. – You suck.

– Not just yet, I’m still sober. – He winks, smiling half-heartedly as he pulls you to the door.

Finnean, the owner’s son, grins the moment he sees you, arms crossed over the bar, his too-many tattoos peeking out from what should have been the sleeves of this dirty wife-beater he’s wearing, the gold tooth in his smile catching the dim light. – Well, well. Look who finally crawled outta the grave.

– You thought we were dead? – Barry hums, unamused, knocking twice against the counter as he slides onto the stool, pulling you beside him. 

Finnean laughs, more a scoff than anything as he places two cups before you. – D’you ever hear the expression ‘only the good die young’? Good ain’t the case for you two. I was actually leaning towards your ass finally getting detained.

– Why? Your brothers need a lil company? Maybe sweetheart can go to see them. – Barry pats your leg, smiling, tight and taught, none of the usual ease on him. – What’d you say, jailbait?

– You can go all you like, sweets. I’m just not sure you’d come back.

– You’re a peach, Finn. – He smiles at you, green eyes flashing with something you don’t want to understand as he turns his back and grabs something.

– And you’re a plump, little red cherry. – He shakes his head, setting the glass down in front of you with a wink before tossing something onto the bar. – I could just pop you in my mouth.

A bowl of bright red maraschino cherries sits before you. Your heart stumbles, a smile actually forming on your face.

Barry grins, nudging them closer. – Knew that’d cheer you up. – His shoulder brushes yours as he pulls your stool closer, watching you eat. – We weren’t in jail or nothing, but this one just got out of house arrest.

– That brother you’re always talking about? – He asks Barry, already throwing his head back, laughing, reaching for the bourbon before Barry even asks. – That explains it. – You stop for a moment, aching again.

Was it so obvious? – Does it? – You murmur, and Finnean gives you a look.

– You disappear for months, and when you finally show up, you look like someone dragged you through hell backwards. – He nods at Barry. – He looks ready to start swinging on the first motherfucker who blinks at him wrong.

– That’s just his face, – You say dryly, eating so you don’t have to look at them.

Barry just snorts, shoving your shoulder lightly. – Ain’t you a charmer? – He takes a cherry from your hand, still chewing it as he downs his cup. – Hit me again.

– You tryna meet God or something? – Barry chuckles at your words, this time more genuine. The smile lingers as Finn pours more bourbon into his glass, sliding another over to you.

– Holler when you get tired of this loser, okay sweetheart? – He winks, that same old joke he always says, grinning as he slides on over to another customer. – Finn will love you long time.

You breathe out slowly, your lungs still burning as you reach for the glass.

You’re tired of thinking about John.

Tired of mourning someone who was never there to begin with.

Maybe Barry had a point with the whole drinking your sorrows away thing. He’d been doing it for years, already. Started drinking just after his father was finally arrested for good.

And hey, if it worked for him…

You bring the glass to your lips, feeling your friend’s eyes on you as the liquid runs down your throat like straight gasoline. He chuckles, patting you in the back.

The first drink burns.

The second warms.

By the third, you’re floating.

The night bleeds away with every time you glimpse the bottom of your cup staring down at you.

Time slips through your fingers, lost in the clink of glasses, the sharp burn of bourbon, the sticky sweetness of cherries.

But though your thoughts slow, the ache never leaves you.

Barry loosens, even as you remain a little melancholy, all warmth beside you, his voice low in your ear, teasing, coaxing laughter from you with every sarcastic remark, every quiet joke. He tips the bottle, refilling your glass before you can even think to ask.

Your chest clenches.

The songs in the background rise, fall, twist into something familiar.

Somewhere between the fourth drink and the sixth, you’re singing along, voice tangled with Barry’s, both of you yelling out the lyrics, slurring through the old Irish verses, laughter shaking through you as the whole bar joins in.

You don’t remember when Finnean slid the bottle of homemade moonshine across the counter, just that Barry caught it with a smirk, tucking it under his arm before pulling you off the stool.

His hands are already on you, already guiding, already pressing against your waist.

You stumble, laughing, pushing him back. – You can’t fucking drive like this, dumbass.

Barry grumbles, rolling his eyes, but you grab his arm and pull.

So you walk.

Through the streets of the Cut, the night air cool against your flushed skin, your voices loud, singing through the empty roads from your empty chest. Barry spins you at one point, pulling you into his arms, making you laugh, and you linger a moment longer than you should, his arms still around you when you finally pull away, palms burning hot through the fabric of your shirt as he walks behind you.

By the time you reach his trailer, your legs ache, your chest hurts from laughing, and your head is woozy.

His trailer is dark, not a single light on as he pulls you towards it, hands searching your sides, his chest pressed against your back. His fingers rest at the small of your waist, loose, familiar, something closer to instinct than thought.

He’s closer than he should be, you know he is, but you don’t push him away.

Maybe it’s the drinking.

Maybe it’s the way the night has stripped you raw, leaving nothing but exposed nerve endings and memories that won’t stay buried.

Or maybe it’s just him.

The warmth of him.

The familiarity of him.

The fact that he’s still here despite the fact you’re down in the dumps.

But the way he's looking at you now isn't new. It's far too familiar.

His lips part slightly when he turns you, his head tilting, eyes flicking between your mouth and the mess of your hair, the flush of your skin, the shape of you standing so fucking close to him you could feel the shape of your body moulding to his.

He leans in, breath fanning against you like a dragon’s, warm, cutting, almost inviting you to be bitten. You turn just in time, his lips landing on your cheek, warm and soft, and way too eager. – You know we never stop once we start. – You mumble, your back brushing the railing as he pulls you up the stairs.

Barry’s lips twitch. His fingers flex against your waist, just barely dragging down, slipping lower, gripping just enough to pull you fully against him.

His voice is low, rough, already gone. – Who says I want to stop?

You know you shouldn’t.

It’s been a while since you drank and remained conscious, but the ache in your chest is doing nothing for your rational thinking skills, and when he cups your face, soft, so soft, like no one else in the world ever does, you let him.

You taste yourself first—sweet, sticky cherry, the sugar lingering on your tongue, and he hums, pulls away just a bit, licking his lips before he kisses you again. You taste him, then. Malt. Amber. Tobacco. Bourbon-smooth and burning at the edges.

You feel guilty already.

But you want the comfort. The ease. The warmth.

His hands tighten, pressing into the small of your back, like he needs you closer, like the inches between you are somehow unbearable, and he sighs against your lips as he kisses you again. The guilt writhes within you as your pride swells. He hums into your mouth, something low, something pleased, something that sounds dangerously like relief.

You barely register him guiding you back until your calves hit the edge of the couch on the porch, and suddenly you’re falling.

Not away from him.

With him.

Barry pulls you onto his lap, knees spreading beneath you, hands gripping tighter, hotter, rougher.

His mouth moves against yours with purpose now—hungry, claiming, a little desperate, a little too much. But he never pushes. He always begs you to take.

You feel his breath stutter when you shift against him, when your hands tangle in his hair, when your fingers scrape against his scalp just the way he likes and he groans, deep in his throat, pulling you tighter.

This is it.

This is the cycle.

This is the inevitable.

This is history repeating itself.

This is what you do when you have nowhere else to go.

This is a promise, a bad decision made in the heat of too much alcohol, sealed between his teeth and your lips, unspoken, unbreakable. You don’t really know what you’re promising. But like the fool you are —like the fool you’ve always been— you’re almost glad to hold it out on a silver platter, just to get that rare sliver of love you’re always desperately grasping at.

@chatgtfo @bitterdotcom @xmayankax @bluethperson @coralblue35 @myluvingera @munsoncultedits @the-bitch-who-binges @im-julessssss @redkarmakai @hwaaholic @sydkneez @sassyvilliantrope @vampiriito @sassybearfire

[bonnie-the-butcher]

Okay I actually love you for Rip Tide. If I was rich, I'd pay you millions for this masterpiece. Are you secretly a famous author or what? You write so flipping beautiful even tmblr can't contain your emaculate writing.

I. Am. Obsesed. You don't even know how much I wanna gobble up the series.

My heart actually exploded while reading this. I am currently writing with little bits and pieces of my heart all over the screen of my computer. YOU ARE SO NICE TO ME OMG I DON'T DESERVE IT!!!

Even if I was a famous writer (I'm not) and my writing was worth any money at all, I would write anything for you for free. I genuinely cannot put into words how much just seeing that you liked my posts overjoys me, let alone your comments and asks. I would thank you (and I do) but the words "thank you" genuinely are not enough to express my gratitude. I wish I could just hug you through the screen!!

[bonnie-the-butcher]

Rip Tide | Chapter XI

[ MDNI ] [ word count: 8.885 ] [ Masterlist ] 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬: Canonverse/Canon-Divergent; Dark! Content; NSFW; Strong Language; Cheating; Drug Use; Mentions of overdose; Some shades of Munchausen syndrome from dear old Rafe; Manipulation; Toxic, obsessive behaviour; Stalking; Violence; DUBCON/NONCON; My writing is really pretentious and English is not my first language, so please feel free to call me out in whichever grammar mistakes you might find find.

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | You and JJ have always been in each other's orbit. He's your brother’s best friend, the guy you've known your entire life. He was kind, protective, familiar. You never meant for the two of you to start hooking up. And you never meant for it to last so long. But when this boy you thought you'd come to know like the back of your hand turns out to be no better than the men he'd warned you about, you find yourself in the sights of the guy he hates most, regardless of wether you want that or not.

Unsurprisingly, I can't keep things sweet for too long, so here's a weird chapter again. Likes, asks, reblogs, and comments are always greatly appreciated! Thank you in advance for reading <3

Kareem’s eyes nearly pop out of his head as he sees you stepping in. – Holy shit! You’re alive!

– It seems so. – You chuckle, watching him almost run towards you like he’s watching a statue come to life before his eyes. 

– And you’re still employed?

– Mr. Cameron told me to come back, so I guess.

He laughs, a genuine blast of overjoyed disbelief. – I can’t believe it. – He takes your bag, setting it in the little locker where the kitchen staff is allowed to keep their things. – I was so sure that after that fight, they’d just kick you on the street, I was already mourning! Damn Routledge. 

– It was that lamb. – You laugh, folding your sleeves and washing your hands. – It must have really been good. 

– You bet your ass it was. – He’s already moving through the kitchen as you dry your hands, almost avoiding your gaze. – God, for your brother to punch Rafe right during family dinner and still somehow keep your job is crazy. – He hums, so casually, as if he was in the room when it happened. You raise an eyebrow.  – Told you you were gonna be good luck.

He winks, still smiling, but you can’t help the little doubt that swirls in your mind. – Kareem?

– Yup?

– Where were you when it happened? I came to get Rafe some ice, and you were gone.

Kareem doesn’t turn around to look at you as he hums, but you can see the blush creeping up his ears as he stands there. – I uhm, I— He clears his throat. – I went home early.

– Your things were still here, though. – He stays quiet. – Kareem. Were you hiding?

It comes off in a chuckle, soft and airy, as you step closer to him. And he stands there, his back still facing you, his hands moving thoughtlessly, wringing his fingers, pretending to be busy. – Kareem?

– Okay, I was hiding, I didn’t want to lose my job too, okay? I’m sorry. – The genuine shame in his voice brings a laugh to your lips, and he looks at you, almost bashfully, as you bring a hand to rest between his shoulder blades. – Aren’t you mad at me for being a coward?

You laugh even more at that.

The thought of a 6’5’’ overly tattooed Pakistani man with a beard and a man bun cowering in some pantry while you put ice on Rafe Cameron’s face is so delightfully ridiculous you can’t even help your amusement. – Of course I’m not mad at you. This is your job, I don’t blame you for not wanting to get fired. And these people really are crazy.

– Right? – He exhales, wide-eyed like a child on christmas morning. – You saw how Rafe talked to me, right? This kid hates me! I don’t even know why.

– Hate to break it to you, Kay, but he probably doesn’t have a reason. Rich kids don’t need reasons to be menaces. – You pause, looking up at him with a conspiratorial smile. – I’m sure you know that, though. Mr. Highland Park.

He looks away, expression taught as the blush on his face reddens even further. – You googled it. 

– Oh, I did. Richest suburb in the whole of Texas? That’s another level of blue blood.

He winces. – It’s not that bad.

– Oh, I’m sure it’s not bad at all. – You laugh, a twinge of guilt blooming in your chest as you realize just how much you’re enjoying this mockery. – You should see the dump I was born in. That's bad.

Kareem clears his throat, still a little pink around the ears, and turns back to the workstation like he can physically will the conversation away. – Look, can we— Let’s- Let’s talk about something else. Mr. Cameron’s breakfast.

You sigh, already rolling up your sleeves, but still laughing. – Of course. Can’t keep the king waiting.

Kareem narrows his eyes pointing at you with a cautious expression. – You’re laughing now, but you have no idea how specific this man is. –  He mutters, completely serious. 

– Of course, why wouldn’t someone micro-manage their breakfast, of all things?

– Focus! – He warns, ignoring your laughter. – One egg benedict.

Your eyes widen, all amusement going down the drain. – Jesus fucking Christ.

– I told you. Hollandaise. Bacon—crispy but not burnt, and just on one side, the fat can’t be too shriveled up either. Toast. Golden brown, but not too crunchy. He hates crumbs. – He rolls his eyes, already stressed. – And don’t even get me started on the—

The kitchen doors swing open before he can finish, and a sharp pair of heels clicks against the tile. Kareem’s face drops, rolling his eyes a second time, and he leans over the counter, almost hiding behind you as you stand there in awe. You barely have time to register the pinched look on the woman’s face before she snaps her fingers, walking around like she owns the place. – Kareem. Coffee. Now.

Kareem, who had been reaching for the eggs, stills mid-motion. His fingers flex slightly before he turns around, a forced politeness on his face that doesn’t even pretend to hide his irritation.. – Good morning to you too, Marion.

Marion.

Suddenly it’s clear— Kareem said it was a miracle that you managed to make it two hours in this kitchen before being assailed by the Wicked Witch (he did in fact call her that) and her powers of micro-management— Marion, the head housekeeper (or gate-keeper, as Kareem had also referred to her), stormed into the kitchen, 5’0” tall, and a force of nature all of her own.

You bite back a smile.

Marion doesn’t acknowledge him beyond a flick of her wrist, too preoccupied with shaking her head in exasperation. – You won’t believe the morning I’ve been having. – She doesn’t wait for an invitation before pulling out a chair and sitting, arms crossed over the marble like she’s just lifted the world with her bare hands. – Rafe refuses to get up. Again. Do you know how long his room has been a disaster? Since Wednesday. I sent the maids up, but he won’t let anyone in. The smell alone— She shudders. – I went in myself just now, and the brat nearly threw a pillow at me.

You reach for the coffee pot, taking a cup from the cabinet, but Kareem pulls it from your hand. – Don’t give her this. – He mumbles, frowning and huffing under his breath. – That’s much more than she deserves.

You chuckle, taking the acrylic cup he shoves into your hand with a smile.

Marion goes on. – Are you listening to me, boy?!

– Yes, Marion. – He groans. And then, lower, – I think the people on the other side of the island could listen. – You can’t even help the laughter as he goes on. – What I’m hearing is that you walked into his room uninvited, and you got mad when he reacted?

Marion gasps, scandalized. – Excuse me?

Kareem shrugs, playing innocent. – Just making sure I understand the situation.

Her lips press together into a thin, disapproving line. – He’s acting like a child, Kareem.

He looks over at you again. – Who’s gonna tell her?

You glance up briefly, watching as she smooths a perfectly manicured hand over her pristine blazer. It’s not lost on you that she sees herself as above everyone else here, despite technically being just another employee. It’s in the way she orders Kareem around like he’s a butler, the way she perches in that chair like she owns the kitchen.

– Mr. Cameron won’t be happy about this, – she continues, shaking her head. – Honestly, you should be grateful, you know. – She gestures vaguely at you, you’re almost surprised she’s even seeing you. – That Rafe hasn’t come after you. He always gets the pretty ones fired.

– Uhm, – Your brain almost short-circuits. Compliment? Insult? General comment? You’ll never know. – Thank… you?

Her eyes suddenly go wide, and she straightens up on the chair as you put the mug in front of her. – Are you the new chef?

– Yes. Uhm, Routledge, ma’am. 

She sighs with something like disappointment, but not quite.  For a moment she almost seems pleased, but then she starts frowning again. – Good. He was asking about you.

– Mr. Cameron? – She raises a brow, the corners of her lips downturned. – Ma’am. 

The woman relaxes the slightest bit as you refer to her by the proper title, and looks away, taking the coffee without even looking at you. – Well, of course. Rafe Cameron. He wants you to bring him a piece of pie, or some such thing.

Kareem looks at you, his brows knit together, his lips twisted into a strange grin.

 – Uhm, ok. Me? Specifically?

– Is your name Routledge?!

– Yes, ma’am.

– Obviously, then.

Your hands still, grip tightening just slightly on the handle.

Kareem chuckles, bitter and Marion sighs dramatically. – I swear, it’s like he’s punishing everyone. For what, I don’t even know. He just sulks in there all day. And do you know what’s worst of all?

You force your voice to stay steady. – No. What?

She leans forward, as if sharing some great, horrible secret. – He’s not even drinking.

That catches you off guard. You blink, lifting your gaze fully now. – What?

Marion nods gravely, like this is the biggest offense of all. – Not a sip. Not since Wednesday. Not even sneaking anything. He’s just lying there, doing absolutely nothing. It’s unnatural.

– Why would he be drinking? It’s nine AM.

Kareem and Marion both scoff at that, a sharp, short bout of genuinely mocking laughter. – You don’t come around here a lot, do you girl?

You don’t know what to make of that question. And they don’t clarify anything beyond that comment.

Kareem places a cup of coffee in your hand, that same strange smile on his face as he raises a brow, taking a sip of his own. – Tragic, huh?

Marion sighs, taking a delicate sip before clicking her tongue. – I don’t have time for this nonsense. Rose has a book club event, or some such thing she needs me to organize. – She stands, smoothing out invisible wrinkles on her blazer before giving you one last glance. – Good luck with this girl.

And with that, she’s gone, leaving only the sharp scent of her perfume behind.

The kitchen is silent for a beat.

Then Kareem lets out a long, slow breath, shaking his head. – Charming, right?

– I feel like a whirlwind just waltzed right over me.

– She has that gift. – He grumbles. 

You swallow, trying to blink whatever the hell that was away. You have work to do. – I should get started on that egg benedict.

– Oh no, no, no, my dear. You’re going up to Rafe’s and you're bringing him that pie. I don’t need him coming here and fucking up my schedule. 

– C’mon!

– Nope. Get to it.

You frown, lingering in the kitchen for a moment longer than necessary, wiping the counter and cutting the pie slowly, like you’re trying to delay your own execution. 

You stare at the plate. At the pie. That’s all this is. Just delivering a damn piece of pie. You don’t know why this feels like such a chore.

Kareem watches you, one brow raised, his grin teetering between amusement and sympathy. – I don’t wanna interrupt your lingering gaze or whatever, but you should go ahead.

– I’m just— You hesitate. – Should I even go up there?

Kareem snorts. – Didn’t you hear what I just told you? If you don’t, he’ll just come down here, and I don’t want him here.

– Thanks a lot, Kareem. Great camaraderie. What happened to “we average each other’s misery?” Isn’t that what partners are for?

– When it comes to Rafe, the misery is all yours. – He says, looking over his shoulder with a smile. – Don’t act like you’re walking to the gallows, Routledge. It’s not gonna be that bad, you know he likes you.

– Excuse me?

– Oh, come on. – He laughs. – Wasn’t he the one sitting on this counter asking you to kiss his little boo-boo better?

– You sneaky little bastard! – You gasp and narrow your eyes, bumping his shoulder as you take yet another cup from the cabinet, setting it under the espresso machine. 

– I didn’t mean to hear all of it, okay? I was having a hard enough time trying not to laugh. – Kareem only laughs, sipping from your cup, a smile still clear as day on his face. – He was pathetic. Ward was right, I don’t know how you didn’t punch him. God, I don’t think I ever heard Rafe say please. And I’ve worked here for years! 

– You’re hilarious.

– C’mon, that was a little funny.

You take the espresso and the pie, setting it on a tray. – I hope your eggs benedict break before you even take it out.

He bursts out laughing, holding the door open for you. – However will I recover from such cruelty? – You sigh, rolling your eyes at him. – If you don’t come back in ten minutes, I’m still not going to save you.

– I will literally kill you with my bare hands.

– Sure you will.

The walk to Rafe’s room is quieter than it should be. The house, for all its size and grandeur, seems eerily still. There’s no sound of maids bustling around, no chatter echoing down the halls—just the faintest murmur of waves in the distance, the occasional creak of old wood beneath your careful steps. The small tray feels heavier in your hands the closer you get.

But before you can even step foot on the second floor, a pair of cold blue eyes settle on you, squeezing slightly as that same strange smile you’ve come to know so well blooms on his face again. – Miss Routledge.

You swallow, nodding respectfully. – Good morning, Mr. Cameron.

– What are you doing? – He eyes the tray in your hands with a certain amusement, his low careful steps still creaking against the floorboards as he approaches. – Coffee?

– Yes, uhm, espresso, actually. Rafe asked me to bring the pie up for him, I thought he’d want something to drink too.

Ward laughs softly, taking the mug. – Attentive. – He grins, sipping carefully, his eyes boring into yours. – Rafe doesn’t appreciate a good cup of coffee. He only likes things sweet. 

The last words lands between you, much heavier than they should

You’re not sure what to make of that sentence. So you just nod, waiting for him to dismiss you. But he doesn’t, not just yet. – I’m surprised he’s even up this early. Rafe usually doesn’t get up until midday. He’s been changing a lot these last few days.

– Never too late for a change of habit, I guess.

– Damn right. – He sets the cup, half-drunk, on the tray again, his face unreadable. – That espresso was perfect. Kareem always makes it too strong.

– I’ll tell him that.

– No need. – He hums. – Maybe you can start bringing me my breakfast too.

– If you want to, sir. 

Ward smiles, taking a single step to the side to let you through.

You nod and smile, keeping your head down, but just as you’re a couple steps ahead, the tray balanced on your arm, hand hovering over Rafe’s door, he stops you again: – You and your brother had a talk after you got home?

You freeze for a moment, looking back to see him standing there, with that same look. You know that stance: Casual tone, detective eyes. He’s measuring you.

You breathe in deep, keeping your face still and your voice level. – Yes, sir.

– And what did you tell him?

– To stop meddling in my work life or get a job of his own.

He doesn’t allow much, but you can see his stance soften the slightest bit—You never got much approval as a kid, so you could always see it from a mile away— Ward nods, that same way he did when he was talking to you in the kitchen yesterday. – Good girl. – You bristle at the words, but don’t let it show. He makes a move to turn around, but his eyes remain on you. – Off you go.

You stop outside the door. Knocking once.

Silence.

A flicker of hesitation surges through you. You can feel Ward's eyes on your back, the way he lingers at the end of the hall, not even pretending to do something else.

It unnerves you.

You think about leaving the tray at the door and walking away, but you know how unprofessional that is, and you can’t afford to give bad impressions. Not with these people.

You don’t wait much longer before pushing the door open, stepping into a space that feels separate from the rest of the house, like it belongs to another world entirely. The air is heavy, stale, the curtains drawn, the light filtering in muted and dull. It takes your eyes a moment to adjust, to pick out the details—clothes draped over furniture, a half-empty glass of water on the nightstand, the faint scent of salt and sweat and something unmistakably Rafe lingering in the air.

He lays at the edge of the bed, almost hanging off the corner, and though he breathes in and out heavily, nothing else escapes him as the bed creaks beneath his weight.

The sound sends you back to that phone call.

The sighing, the groans, the words.

You shudder, and swallow, approaching with quiet steps. Ward’s espresso trembles lightly but doesn’t spill as you lay the tray flat on your right hand, moving the things on his bedside with your left.

He shifts slightly at the sound of your footsteps, humming low in his throat. – Baby, – He whispers, content, a lazy smile on his face. – Knew you’d come.

You smile at him, setting the tray down on his nightstand. – You asked for pie. Marion said you threw a pillow at her.

He chuckles, nodding. – Mmm. – The sound stretches, and Rafe shifts again, finally turning his head to look at you. His eyes are heavy-lidded, unfocused in a way that makes you wonder if he’s half-asleep or just playing at it. – Had a dream about you.

– Did you? Was it a nightmare?

He laughs again, shaking his head, eyes drifting shut again as his hand trails down to his stomach, the motion lingering too long, too weirdly, that same strange smile on his face. – Was nice. Real nice.

There’s something vaguely suggestive in the way he says it, but it’s faint—just enough that your brain doesn’t fully process it before he’s tugging at your wrist, pulling you closer. – Sit.

You hesitate. – Rafe—

– I don’t feel so good. – His grip tightens just slightly, enough to make it clear he isn’t letting go until you comply. You sigh, lowering yourself onto the edge of the bed. He immediately leans into you, head pressing against your side, arms wrapping loosely around your waist. His body is warm—too warm. – Think I have a fever, – He mumbles, voice dipping into something almost pitiful. – Check for me?

He pulls you close before you can protest, pouting, almost pleading. You lift a hand to his forehead. His skin is warm, clammy, but not alarmingly so. He covers your hand with his own, holding it there before you can pull away.

– It's a good thing that the witch didn't send someone else. – He mutters, eyes flicking up to meet yours. – It'd be just like her to call Rose just to piss me off. – He groans, thumb stroking the back of your hand slowly. – Like she would do anything. I could be dying on this bed and it still wouldn't matter to them.

– Don't say that.

– It's the truth. – His eyes burn into yours. – These people don't care about me, baby.

– These people are your family, Rafe. Of course they care about you.

He scoffs, and his grip loosens just enough for him to shift again, this time sliding down until his head rests against your lap. 

– Rafe, I have to—

– Just for a minute, baby. Please. – His sigh is soft, almost content, and he takes your hand, guiding it into his hair before you can react. – Touch me, – He murmurs. – Brush your fingers through my hair like you do. My head hurts so bad, baby. I barely slept tonight.

Your chest tightens.

Sometimes you wish you weren’t such a softie.

Your fingers twitch against his scalp, hesitating. This isn’t new. Rafe is always too much—too sharp, too reckless, too angry. And the way he switches around you, like this, like he’s someone else entirely, will never cease to give you whiplash. But he looks at you so pleadingly, so softly, those big blue eyes of his so pitiful you almost want to hold him, and you can’t say no.

He pulls at your hand, like you're a doll, like you exist for no other reason than to serve him. Still, you brush your fingers through his hair. Just once.

His breath hitches, that lazy smile softening into something quieter, something almost innocent. He shifts again, curling up against you, his fingers wrapping around the hem of your shirt. – Don’t stop, – He murmurs.

You roll your eyes but keep running your fingers through his hair, slow, rhythmic. – You do feel a little warm. What else are you feeling?

He hums, eyes slipping shut, the tension in his body melting away bit by bit. – My throat is scratchy. My head is pounding. My whole body feels like cement.

– You poor thing.

Rafe hums at your words, a soft, indulgent sound that makes your stomach twist. He shifts again, pressing his face further into your stomach, like he’s trying to burrow into you.

– I hate being sick, – He murmurs, voice turning smaller, almost pitiful. – Feels like I can’t do anything. Like I’m useless.

You sigh, fingers still threading through his hair, and you know—you know—this is exactly what he wants. That little flicker of sympathy, the way your touch has softened, how you haven’t pushed him away yet. He’s milking it. But damn him, he’s good at it.

– You’re not useless, – You murmur, the words slipping out before you can stop them. – You just need to rest.

Rafe makes another one of those pleased little sounds. His fingers curl around the hem of your shirt, barely gripping, just enough that you can feel the heat of them on your skin. – Stay a little longer?

You hesitate.

He tilts his head up slightly, blue eyes peering up at you, half-lidded and pleading, a perfect picture of vulnerability. – Just for a minute, baby, – He whispers. – Feels better when you’re here.

Your lips part, a retort forming on your tongue, but then he exhales, slow and steady, and you realize he’s not just playing anymore—he’s settling into you, like he could stay here forever.

You sigh, glancing at the untouched tray on his nightstand. – I’ll stay while you eat, – You say, keeping your voice firm. – But just for that. I have to work.

Rafe doesn’t argue. He just hums, pleased, nuzzling into you once more before finally —finally— pulling back. His movements are slow, languid, like he’s dragging himself out of some dream.

His eyes land on the tray, and the lazy smile flickers into something more satisfied. – You brought me coffee?

– You asked for pie. I figured you’d want something to go with it. – He smiles, reaching for the cup. – But, Rafe your—

He’s sipping before you can warn him, his eyes peeking at you from beyond the ceramic rim of the cup just like his dad did.

Rafe hums again, sitting up properly now. His hands find your waist for just a second as he puts the cup down, like he’s steadying himself—like he needs you to steady him—before he lets go, stretching with a groan. His shirt rides up slightly, the sharp lines of his stomach peeking out before he drops his arms and reaches for the tray. – It's still hot. – He smiles. You don’t let yourself linger on the irony. – You made this one, didn't you? Kareem always makes it way too strong. And he doesn’t put any sugar.

You can’t help the chuckle. – I’ll bring you some sugar next time.

He smiles, taking the plate and leaning it on his knee. You don’t miss the way his fingers tremble slightly as he picks up the fork. The way he glances at you, like he’s waiting for you to notice.

You sigh again, softer this time. – What?

– You could feed me. – He grins, almost hopeful.

You scoff. – You’re getting real spoiled, Rafe.

He laughs, all the happier as he watches you reach for the fork, slicing off a small piece of pie and holding it out. He just watches you, something unreadable in his gaze, before leaning forward and taking a bite.

Your breath catches for a second. 

You don’t know why.

It’s nothing. Just Rafe being Rafe.

But the way he hums, like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted, the way he holds your hand as he leans in, his lips barely brushing against the utensil before he pulls back—it feels like something else entirely.

– Good? – You ask, keeping your voice level.

He grins, still chewing. – So good, baby.

Of course he says it like that. You shake your head, handing him the fork. – Eat.

Rafe chuckles, but does as he’s told. 

Your eyes catch his lips as he chews. His eyes are heavy, his smile is glad, but you see the familiar watercolor of black and blue forming on his skin, reaching for him before you can stop yourself.

Rafe doesn’t even flinch as your hands ghost over the bruise on his jaw. If anything, he leans into it. 

– Does it hurt?

– It'll hurt a lot less after you kiss it. – Your face drops. You try and pull back your hand, but he holds it in place, laughing with a delight you will never understand. – I don’t know why you even bother to pretend you don’t like it. You kiss me every time I ask.

You scoff. – I never said I don’t like kissing you, Rafe. I just don't like kissing you when I’m at work. Which reminds me—

He pulls your hand a little harder now as you stand. Eyes wide and pleading. – No, no. C’mon, I'm sorry, okay? Don't go, baby, please.

– You don’t need to apologize. I'm not going because of anything you did, I just have to go because Kareem needs my help.

Rafe scoffs, pulling you tighter, and closer, until you’re close enough that he can lean his head on your waist and squeeze you in his arms. – Kareem is a bitch. – You make a noise of protest, trying to pull away, but he keeps you in place. – And that’s rich coming from you. The apology thing. For every ten words you say one of them is an apology.

– One in every ten? – You chuckle. – Pulling out the statistics now, huh? I didn’t know you were a mathematician.

Rafe laughs, the sound resounding against your skin as he presses his face closer to you. – I’m nothing if not a man of the sciences, baby.

– Whatever you say, Norman Osborn. – You thread your fingers through his hair again, soft, slow, just enough that you can feel him relax under your touch.

You shouldn’t like it.

The way he melts at whatever crumb of affection you give him.

The way he clings and pulls and holds like he can’t bear for you not to be touching him.

The way he sighs at every touch.

Because you’ve been here before. And it never ends well for you.

But still you let him hold you, stroking his hair. And when he pulls away, looking at you with those big expectant eyes, the question already on his lips, you kiss him before he can beg. You revel in the way he clings to you as you move your lips against his, gently, barely a whisper of a touch, afraid you’ll hurt him.

And for a moment, Rafe matches you.

He sighs, and his lips part, but he kisses you back just as softly, moving against you almost temptatively. His hands stay still, barely resting on your waist, letting you set the pace. He exhales a slow, content sigh through his nose, his fingers pressing into your sides just slightly, like he’s savoring the moment.

It feels nice.

Not too much, not too fast, just nice.

And maybe that’s why you don’t stop him when his hands start moving.

It’s gradual—so gradual that you barely register the shift. The way his grip tightens, how his fingers start grasping at you instead of just resting against your skin. The way his breathing picks up, shallow, uneven. Then his lips part again, and suddenly the kiss isn’t soft anymore.

Rafe’s hands settle under your ribs, pressing against you so tightly you can barely breathe. His mouth moves over yours more hungrily now, lips parting, head tilting, like he’s trying to consume you. A low, satisfied hum escapes him, his fingers dragging up your spine, tangling into your hair like he’s claiming you.

And God, the way he clings to you—it’s like he’s starving, like he’s been deprived of something.

His hand slides down, over your sides, around your hips, fingers gripping at your thigh, trying to pull you onto his lap. 

So you pull away.

Rafe makes a wounded noise, low in his throat, chasing after your lips before his eyes even open. His hands won’t let go, his fingers flexing against you, as if he’s trying to coax you back into his arms.

– Rafe, – You breathe, voice steadier than you feel. – You're gonna hurt yourself.

His eyes blink open, already searching for another way to pull you back in. His lips are red parted, breath coming out fast, and the bruise looks darker, larger, enough that your heart skips a beat. 

– Shit. – Rafe lets your hands flutter towards the discolored skin, he lets you touch him softly, staring at the way you frown with a breathless smile. – Jesus. Look at you. I'm so sorry.

– There you go again. – He chuckles, hands back at your waist, pulling you in again. – I’m fine baby, I’m not made out of glass. – He murmurs with a smile, but when you stop him, he looks up at you like you’ve just taken something vital away from him.

You look at the door, counting how much time you’ve already wasted. Rafe groans, his fingers tightening around your chin and pulling you back, like a petulant child who can’t bear not to be paid attention to. You laugh, smoothing back his hair. – I have to go.

– No you don’t. Lay down with me for a minute, c’mon.  – He murmurs, his voice wrecked, like he’s the one suffering. – Kiss me again. Just—just one more time.

You shake your head, but he doesn’t loosen his grip. He just leans in again, lips barely ghosting over yours, voice dropping into something dangerously soft.

– Please?

– I’ll come back later.

You inhale sharply, trying to steady yourself, but then he presses another kiss to the corner of your mouth, slow, lingering, his breath fanning against your skin. Another, just beneath your jaw. Then lower, nuzzling into the space where your neck meets your shoulder, lips barely brushing against the skin there.

You shudder, and he feels it. – Is this where you like it? – He murmurs, triumphant, like he finally got something he can use against you. He’s already leaning in to kiss you again when you push him away.

– You’ll have to find that out another time. – You exhale sharply, untangling his arms from around you before he can try to stop you, and taking the plate, the cup, the tray. – Try to sleep again, you’ll feel better.

– I’d feel a lot better if you weren’t abandoning me.

You laugh out loud, hiding behind your hand as you push him back down onto the pillow. – How could I be so cruel?

– This isn’t funny, okay? I’m being serious. I’m sick and you’re gonna leave me here, all alone? – He eyes you, disapproving. – What if I choke?

– You’re not gonna choke.

– You don’t know that.

– Yeah, I do. You’re not gonna choke, because, you’re gonna lay on your side— You pull at his shoulder softly, until he does as you say, watching you with that same disappointed look as you adjust his pillow. – there you go. Officially choke-proof. Get some sleep.

He’s quiet for a moment, letting you pat his shoulder and kiss his eye, letting you step away, but just as your hand hovers over the doorknob, he speaks again:

– Why were you with Barry earlier?

You don’t even know why you let yourself forget it. The way he looked at the two of you from his window, the way his eyes sharpened as you let Barry step away.

You knew he was gonna bring this up.

You knew he was gonna ambush you.

So you sigh, looking over your shoulder as your hand remains, steady, on the brass doorknob. – Can we talk about this later?

– I wanna talk about it now.

– Rafe—

– You slept at his place? – He cuts in, just the ghost of an edge on his voice. – Is that how much you hate your brother? That you would go to Barry's place just to avoid him? Even after what he did?

– I don’t hate my brother, and I didn’t sleep at Barry's place. He came to apologize, and he was too drunk to drive so he stayed over.

– He wasn’t too drunk to get over there. – He says, sharp, too sharp for someone who just a moment ago had been so drowsy. – He slept with you.

– He slept next to me. 

Rafe scoffs, looking away, smiling bitterly at the ceiling. – I bet he tried. – He mumbles. – Did he take you to that bar, the one in the Cut with all those weird irish people?

– What are you talking about?

– You know that's where he goes to pick up girls, right? He wanted to sleep with you!

– I didn't sleep with him, and we didn't go to any bars. He was drunk. We talked and fell asleep, that’s all. Why do you even care about this?

Rafe’s jaw tenses, but he doesn’t say anything at first. Just leans back on his elbows, looking at you like he’s thinking way too hard about something that should be simple.

And something in him shifts.

Slowly, he sits up again, walking towards you. His hand finds your wrist—not grabbing, just tracing his fingers over your pulse like he’s absentminded, like he’s bored.

– You really spent the whole night with him? – His voice is light, almost playful, but you can hear the edge underneath it.

You sigh. – Rafe—

– No, I just… – He tilts his head, watching you. – I guess I don’t get it.

– Get what?

His lips twitch like he’s about to grin, but he doesn’t, he looks bothered, like he has something bitter in his mouth. – How you weren’t bored out of your mind.

– What? – You roll your eyes, but before you can speak, his fingers tighten slightly around your wrist—not hard, just enough to keep you here.

– I mean, really, baby, c’mon. – He exhales, shaking his head like he feels bad for you. – Barry? – His lips curl like the name itself tastes bitter. – You know he’s not half as fun as me.

You almost laugh, shaking your head. – What are you even talking about?

– No, it’s fine, – He cuts in, like he’s just thinking out loud now. – Maybe you like being bored. Maybe that’s the problem.

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

You’re actually perplexed. 

There is no path in the road of rational thought that could ever lead to the conclusion he got to. You don’t know whether he’s mocking you or if the sickness actually got to his head.

Rafe sees it, feels it, and that’s when he really grins, but there’s no joy to it. He smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Then he leans in, voice dropping lower. – That’s it, isn’t it? – His fingers trail up your arm now, slow, barely touching. – You're tired of me. That's it.

– What?

His face darkens, and he looks away, laughing bitterly. 

– Rafe, that’s not—

He exhales sharply, looking away like he’s already heard enough. His fingers slip from your wrist, dragging down your arm like he’s letting you go. Letting you leave.

– Never mind, – He mutters.

The change is instant. The teasing, the smugness—it’s gone. Now he just looks… defeated.

You hesitate, shifting on your feet. – Rafe.

He shakes his head. – No, I get it, – he says, voice quieter now. – You don’t have to explain.

Your stomach twists. – Where did you even get that from—

– I just thought you liked being around me, – He cuts in, and fuck, his voice wavers just slightly, just enough to make something inside you crack. – But if you need space you could’ve just said so.

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Because what are you supposed to say to that?

Rafe sighs again, rubbing his jaw. His fingers graze the bruise there, and for the first time since you walked in, he actually looks as tired as he claimed to be.

And suddenly, you feel awful.

– I don’t even know what you’re talking about. I'm not tired of you, Rafe. – You say, soft, reassuring. – You know that.

He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. – Do I?

You frown, stepping closer before you can stop yourself. – Rafe.

He looks up at you then, and God, his eyes—wide, glassy, wounded.

You hate it.

You hate that he looks at you like that, like you’ve hurt him, like you’ve done something wrong.

So you sigh, sitting on the edge of the bed again, and putting the things on the nightstand just like before. – Don’t do this. – You murmur, smoothing your hand over his hair. He almost pulls away, but then he leans in, exhaling, like he can’t stop himself. – I'm not tired of you. I could never get tired of you. You're a person, Rafe. Not a toy.

Rafe doesn’t say anything. Just stares at you, his eyes widening again. Then, just as quickly as he pulled away, he shifts closer, tucking his head against your chest, arms wrapping around your waist, clinging. – Really?

His eyes are glassy, his voice cracks.

– Don’t play around, you know I’m serious. I’m not tired of you.

He burrows in closer, grasping, heaving. – God, yeah. Yeah. – He nods, rapidly, incessantly, the movement rough against your skin, like he’s breaking down. – Sometimes I forget. I’m sorry, baby. I keep forgetting.

– What? What are you talking about?

– That you’re not like them. – He sighs, and there’s so much relief, like you've lifted a weight off his shoulders. Like he can finally breathe. – That you’re good. That you’re not cruel. That you actually care about me.

– Rafe—

– You care about me. – He repeats. You no longer know whether he’s speaking to you or to himself, trying to get it through his brain. – You do, and you would never abandon me. You wouldn’t. Right?

His grip tightens around you, fingers pressing into your back like he’s afraid you’ll slip through them.

You hesitate. Because this—all of this—feels eerily familiar. But the way he’s looking at you now, wide-eyed and raw, makes it impossible to leave.

He’s backed you into a corner, and you have no choice but to open your arms.

– Of course not. – You murmur, threading your fingers through his hair, trying to soothe him. – I wouldn’t, Rafe. We're in this together now, okay? You can't get rid of me now.

Rafe exhales, shuddering, pressing himself closer to you. Like you just saved him. Like you just fixed something inside him. – Yeah. – He nods again, rapidly, like he’s convincing himself now. – Yeah, I know, baby. I know you wouldn’t.

His fingers flex against your back, and for a second, he just holds you there, silent.

Then, quietly—soft, almost like he doesn’t want you to hear it—

– I don’t think I could take it.

Your stomach twists.

Because it’s too soon.

It's too much.

It's too fast.

But that’s normal, right? He's not used to it. To being cared for. To being looked after. To being heard. The way you met was so weird and intense and overwhelming for him. A brush against death, one that he's convinced himself you saved him from. How could he be anything other than too much? How could he feel ever “normal” about this?

You know you don’t.

You attached too fast, too deeply. You can’t even see him hurt without thinking he's dying all over again. So of course he's weird about it.

You're weird about it.

Right?

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

Because what do you say to that?

What do you say when he’s wrapped around you like this, when he’s breathing you in like you’re the only thing keeping him here?

You just let him hold you.

And when he sighs again, nuzzling deeper into your chest, you feel it—the way his body finally relaxes, the way his grip loosens just enough to let you breathe, the way he hums, content, satisfied.

Like he’s won.

Like he knew you’d stay all along.

You exhale, threading your fingers through his hair. – Just lay down, okay Rafe? Get some rest.

– I'm fine. – He sniffles, but he looks at you, and he looks shattered.

– Please. Lay down for me, can you do that?

He hums, already relaxing, already settling. But as you move to lay him down, adjusting him against the pillows, his arms only tighten around you. – Lay down with me.

He pleads.

Like he still thinks you might disappear.

Like he needs to hold you.

You sigh again, letting your hand run soothingly down his back. – Rafe.

– Just for a minute, baby. Then you can go. – Rafe whispers, pressing his face closer, his voice barely above a whisper when he finally speaks. – Just don’t get tired of me.

You swallow hard. – I won’t.

You lay down next to him, settling on the pillows.

His arms pull you closer.

Not gently, not like he’s worried about hurting you—desperately. Like he was just waiting for you to give in, like now that you have, he’s going to make sure you can’t take it back.

His face presses against your collarbone, breath warm against your skin. His hands—broad, steady, greedy—slide under your shirt, but it isn’t heated, like it was before, just needy. He spreads his palm flat against your back, holding you there like he needs to feel you.

Like he needs proof that you’re real.

And you exhale, letting your fingers drift through his hair again, slow, soothing.

Rafe hums, the sound low, content. Then—just barely, just enough for you to notice—this weird sound escapes him. A hum. Maybe a huff, maybe a sigh, but it sounds like a laugh.

Your fingers still for a second.

– …What?

– Nothing, baby. – He sniffs, his voice thick with exhaustion, but you feel his smile against your skin. – Just—you’re so fucking nice to me.

Rafe grins, you can feel his smile against the sliver of skin your shit allows, and his free hand comes up, to your collarbone, to your tattoo, burrowing closer. 

You don’t say anything.

And neither does he.

Slowly, his breathing evens out. His grip on you stays tight—like even in sleep, he doesn’t trust you not to leave—but you feel his body fully relax against yours, the tension melting out of him.

You should leave.

You should.

But you don’t.

Instead, you just lay there, fingers still threading through his hair, listening to his steady breathing, feeling the weight of him against you.

Because if he wakes up and you’re gone, what will he do?

Because if you leave, and he spirals again, and something happens—

No.

You don’t want to think about that.

So you stay.

Just for a little longer.

Just until you’re sure he’s really asleep.

You find yourself sneaking away from him as his breath weighs heavy. Taking the things from the nightstand like you're stealing. Fixing yourself in the mirror like you've done something wrong.

When you get to the door, you can’t help but look over your shoulder, making sure you’re safe, making sure he’s still asleep, like you used to do with your dad when he drank too much.

The thought sends a shiver down your spine, and you shake your head, as if to get the memory off of you, steps growing hasty as you climb down the steps, rushing to the kitchen. 

The tray knocks softly against the counter, and you take the plates out thoughtlessly, running them under the sink, washing them obsessively, the stains on the plate, on the cup, on you, too risky to leave unattended.

– Hey! – Kareem’s voice echoes from behind you. You look over your shoulder. He’s disheveled, voice breathy. Way too surprised to see you. – Took you a while.

You focus on scrubbing, the foam of the espresso lingering on the ceramic. – Yeah, uhm. Rafe’s sick.

– Jesus. He didn’t puke on you, did he?

You pause, the perfect lie having just fallen on your lap. You stare at the sponge on your hand, unable to look Kareem in the eye. – Not on me. He was really sick though. Took me a while to get him to eat after that. Took me even longer to get him to sleep.

He laughs, but the sound is rushed. He’s shifting around on his feet. – You’re too nice, Routledge. I would’ve left him there. He would’ve choked on his own sick if it were up to me.

You shudder, shaking your head.

You’re back at Barry’s, laying on the ground, Rafe wretching as you hold him steady. You keep shaking your head until the image goes away. – Why are you doing that? Just put it in the dishwasher.

– Oh. – You look beside you, a perfectly good washer merely feet away. – I always forget people have those. I’m already halfway done.

– It’s okay, just leave it there. – There’s a noise behind you, steps. You look over, but Kareem interrupts your train of thought. – So! Uhm, you’ll never guess.

– What?

– Mr. Cameron came down here, when I was already one with the egg benedict, halfway through the hollandaise, with the bacon already on the skillet, and he told me he’s not gonna have any breakfast.

You chuckle, trying to pull yourself into the conversation. – How considerate of him.

– Right? Such a sweet man. – He takes the plate from the counter behind him, still lingering too close, like he’s blocking you, trying to keep you from running. You shake your head again. You’re acting paranoid. Kareem’s just being sweet. – Here you go. Left some for you, you look hungry.

– Feeding the orphans? I didn’t know you were charitable like that. – He chuckles, almost fooled by your normalcy. – What else do we have to do now, what are these people’s ridiculously specific breakfast orders?

– Uhm, none. Rose doesn’t eat breakfast, Sarah’s not here, Rafe’s already been fed and the only thing Wheezie ever eats is cereal, so we’re off the hook. We can just hang around, plan out the other meals and eat scraps like the dogs we are.

– Scraps are for the strays, my friend. Purebreds like you get full meals, especially in houses like this.

He raises a brow, unimpressed, unamused. – Ha-ha. Very funny.

– Thank you, comedy is my passion.

He shakes his head, and reaches for some paper, already getting you started on the prep. You’re glad for his practicality.

You let yourself sink into the routine.

Anything to keep your mind busy.

The hours pass in a blur of tasks—chopping, prepping, cleaning, planning, moving like you’re on autopilot. Your hands work faster than your thoughts, you like it that way. Every time you stop for too long, something creeps back in—the weight of Rafe’s arms around you, the way he sighed into your skin, the way he smiled against you.

So you don’t stop.

You joke with Kareem, toss out your sarcastic remarks, keep up the easy banter like it’s just another day. And he laughs, calls you a saint for dealing with Rafe every time he calls you up for something menial, rolls his eyes when you dodge his questions about why you took so long.

And for the most part, it works.

It works when you’re plating dishes, when you’re folding napkins, when you’re bickering with Kareem over the right way to season something.

It only falters in the quiet moments.

When you wipe down the counters and catch yourself scrubbing too hard, like you’re trying to wash something invisible off your hands. When you zone out in the pantry, staring at the shelves but not really seeing them. When you hear the faintest creak from upstairs and your stomach flips before you even realize what you’re reacting to.

But you shake it off. You force yourself to.

Before you know it, the day is gone.

The kitchen is clean, tomorrow’s meals are planned, and the only thing left is the quiet hum of the fridge and the last few scraps Kareem keeps picking at.

You exhale, leaning against the counter, forcing yourself to feel normal.

Because everything’s fine.

Right?

You leave Kareem again as he puts away the last of the shopping in its right, labeled place, and you drift back up to Rafe’s room, standing at the door, listening to his steady breathing, forcing yourself to feel at ease.

But you’re not.

You’re not as you close the door. You’re not as you climb down the steps. You’re not as you stand in the driveway, calling Barry for the second time as you wave goodbye to Kareem.

You’re once again staring out into the street, pondering whether to walk or call someone else when you hear a familiar rumble. In the distance, in the surprisingly dim light of the suburbs, you glimpse the red and yellow paint job of Barry’s— actually Rafe’s— bike.

He pulls over slowly, coming to a stop on the asphalt right before you, wearing a jacket you’ve never seen before, and no shoes. 

– What’s up with you, Ghost Rider? Just come back from a rave or something? Whose clothes did you steal? – You’re chuckling to yourself, but your heart’s not in it, you’re still looking over your shoulder as you stand there, waiting for him to take off his helmet, for him to say something, do something. But he doesn’t. He stays there, hands clutching the handlebars, staring forward, without saying a word. – Bee? Jesus, what happened now? Are you okay?

You’re getting shifty. Something's wrong, you can feel it.

Your hand is shaking as you lay it on your best friend’s shoulder, silently pleading that he look at you, say something to you, just give you a sign that he’s alive. But he just turns away.

You hear a light scoff, the sound muddled under the heavy helmet.

– Barry, for fuck’s sakes, just say something, this ghostface act is freaking me out! – He laughs again, just as bitter. – Barry!

He flips the visor, looking back at you with nothing but scorn in his eyes. But these aren’t Barry’s eyes. These eyes are blue.

You step back, shaking more than you can hide. – Where—What— You keep mumbling, but the words don’t come out. You don’t even know what you want to say.

You want to run. You want to hide.

 But when you step away again, this person’s hand comes up to wrap around your wrist, and he wrings you closer, nails digging into your arms. – Get off of me. Get off— You want to scream, but it comes out as a whisper. You’re backing up, your voice hoarse in your throat, your pulse roaring in your ears, and then your eyes catch it.

Right under the collar of his shirt, just underneath the collarbone. The same letters that are engraved into your skin. The same words in the same place. 

He lets go of you, watching you stumble back so desperately you fall, seated, onto the grass, and only then does he take the helmet off. 

You see his hair before you see his face. The mess of blonde strands that spill out from under the cushioned helmet. But not the usual mess, the mess you’d expect from JJ, the mess he gets whenever he wears a helmet.

It’s a very specific chaos.  The sort he gets when he runs his hands through his hair so much he starts tearing it out.

– So it’s true, huh? – JJ’s voice is a blade, a blunt one, it beats you before it can cut. – When John B said it, I couldn’t believe it. I thought you’d never do that. You’d never be so fucking stupid.

– JJ—

– No. – He barely refrains from screaming it, looking away, his fingers clenched so tight around the plastic visor you see his knuckles pale. – You’re not gonna do this to me again! There’s nothing you can say to me right now. Nothing!

– Barry— Where— Your voice dies in your throat. You’re trembling. You don’t know why. You don’t know how, but you can’t stop it.

– Barry doesn’t fucking matter, get on the bike. – You try to swallow, you shake your head, but he doesn’t let you. He reaches forward, grabbing you by the arm again. – Get on the fucking bike right now!

@chatgtfo @bitterdotcom @xmayankax @bluethperson @coralblue35 @myluvingera @munsoncultedits @the-bitch-who-binges @im-julessssss @redkarmakai @hwaaholic @sydkneez @sassyvilliantrope @vampiriito @sassybearfire

[bonnie-the-butcher]

Rip Tide | Chapter X

[ MDNI ] [ word count: 10.312 ] [ Masterlist ] 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬: Canonverse/Canon-Divergent; Dark! Content; NSFW; Strong Language; Cheating; Drug Use; Mentions of overdose; Some shades of Munchausen syndrome from dear old Rafe; Manipulation; Toxic, obsessive behaviour; Stalking; Violence; DUBCON/NONCON; My writing is really pretentious and English is not my first language, so please feel free to call me out in whichever grammar mistakes you might find find.

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | You and JJ have always been in each other's orbit. He's your brother’s best friend, the guy you've known your entire life. He was kind, protective, familiar. You never meant for the two of you to start hooking up. And you never meant for it to last so long. But when this boy you thought you'd come to know like the back of your hand turns out to be no better than the men he'd warned you about, you find yourself in the sights of the guy he hates most, regardless of wether you want that or not.

Lil bit of tooth-rotting barry fluff to wash down the tension of the last chapter. Honestly, I love him so so so much. He's the best character, the outer banks writers actually robbed us. Likes, asks, reblogs, and comments are always greatly appreciated! Thank you in advance for reading <3

It takes you a moment to process the situation.

No remnants of moonlight ever peek from your windows, but the distant lamp of your porch buzzes precariously, bathing just the left half of Barry’s face with a glow as pitiful as his expression. – Please, sweetheart. – His hand brushes the doorframe beside you, lighter still in hand as he shifts closer, dragging the smooth plastic across your arm in a slow, sloppy plea. – Look, I know— I know I fucked up. I just— His breath is ragged, heavy. Almost acidic. – I freaked out.

– Are you drunk? – His eyes widen. It's so dark you can barely make out his pupils from his irises, but as soon as he looks away, you know what his problem is. – You’re high. – The disappointment in your voice is palpable. He steps away, and then steps closer, hands sifting nervously at his sides. – Barry, for fuck’s sakes,

– I’m sorry. – He whispers, both hands on your arms now. – I’m really sorry. I just— I don’t know, look, I was stressed out.

– I’m sure turning and running while someone died in my arms was very stressful for you.

– Please. – He breathes, and you get a clear whiff of the alcohol in his system as he steps closer, almost stuttering as you instinctively recoil from the smell. – Look, please, sweetheart, I know I fucked up. I came here to apologize.

– And you did. You can leave know.

He doesn’t let you move. Holding on tighter, Barry makes you look him in the eye. The lights on the porch flicker right then, just enough that you can see how much his pupils are blown. – Let’s talk about it, okay?

– There’s nothing to talk about.

– Yes, there is! – His grip tightens, fingers pressing against your skin. – C’mon, sweetheart, please. – His voice is softer now, like he’s trying to reel you in. Like the blood on your hands was just his problem, not yours. – You don’t gotta look at me like that.

You stare back, jaw tight. – Like what?

– Like I just kicked your goddamn puppy. – He breathes out a slow, humorless laugh, tilting his head just slightly. That easy, effortless charm—his default armor—still lingers, but it’s cracked now. His pupils are too wide, his shoulders too tense.

His thumb traces one slow circle against your arm, absentminded, jittery. – Look, I know I fucked up, alright? I panicked. I ain't proud of it, but I ain't never been built for that kinda shit. That ain't me.

Barry exhales through his nose, shaking his head with that same exasperated, half-drunk, half-high smirk—but it doesn’t land. Not this time.

– C’mon now, sweetheart—

– No. – You shove at his chest, frustration clawing its way out of you, burning, ugly, real. – No, you don’t get to charm your way out of this one, okay?!

His mouth opens, but you don’t let him speak. The words are pouring out, sharp and reckless.

– You always do this, Bee! Always! – Your breath hitches, your voice going hoarse with the weight of it. – Whenever shit gets tough, you run! You leave me holding the bag, then you ignore me for DAYS, no calls, no texts, no “hey, I’m alive, actually,” no nothing! And you come back, with your little smile and your apologies, and I’m supposed to just— Your voice cracks, and you hate that it does. – This is BULLSHIT, Barry! BULLSHIT!

Barry flinches. Not much. Not enough that anyone else would notice. But you do.

For a second, just a second, his bravado cracks. His expression falters, his fingers twitch against your arms like he wants to pull you closer and push you away at the same time.

– I ain’t never ignored you. – His voice is lower now, rougher. There’s no teasing lilt, no half-assed charm. Just something weary.

You let out a sharp, bitter laugh. – Oh, fuck off, Barry—

– I mean it— No, don't look at me like that, okay?! I wouldn’t ignore you. If you called, if you needed my help, I woulda— 

– When did you ever answer my calls after this shit, Barry? No, honestly?! WHEN?

– Don't talk like that. You can’t say that! – His grip tightens, grounding, desperate. – I stayed away 'cause I knew if I came back too soon, I’d just fuck it up worse. I’d say the wrong thing. Do the wrong thing. I was tryna give you space, a’ight? I was tryna—

His words stumble over each other, cut short like he doesn’t know how to finish the sentence. Like he’s afraid to.

His lips part, but nothing comes out.

The silence stretches between you, thick and heavy.

Then, almost tentative—

– You ever think maybe I ran 'cause I knew I couldn't fix it?

– And I did? – It isn’t just a crack in your voice anymore, it just collapsed. You can feel the weight of the entire week crashing upon you, every fuck-up, every fight, ever blow-out. All the things you had to deal with, the things he wasn’t there to help you with, amounting within your chest, pressing against your ribcage. You can barely breathe. – He was dying, bee. I was gonna kill myself if he’d died right there in my hands Barry, I couldn’t deal with that guilt, man!

He scoffs, shaking his head, tongue running along his teeth. – You think I don’t know what it looked like? You think I ain’t been playing it back over and over in my head, trying to make sense of it? – He exhales sharply. – Shit, sweetheart, I barely even remember leaving. One second I was there, the next I was gone. And you were just—

He stops. Swallows. Looks away, the muscle in his jaw flexing.

– You were just sitting there, holding him like the whole world hadn’t just cracked open.

The words feel too honest, like they slipped out before he could shove them back down. The porch light flickers again, just enough to highlight the tension in his face—he looks gone. Hollowed out, horrified. 

For a second, he just stands there, chest rising and falling unevenly, thumb still tracing that absentminded pattern against your skin.

Then, voice lower, almost pleading—

– Just—just let me make it right.

– That’s not the point, Bee.

– Yeah it is! It is! I’m here now! I can—

– But that’s just it! You’re here now. When the dust settles, when you can just say an apology and get forgiveness free of charge, that’s when you’re here! But when I need you, you vanish!

Barry’s breath stutters—just a fraction—but it’s enough. You see it. Feel it in the way his grip tightens, like he can physically hold the conversation together, keep it from slipping through his fingers like everything else.

– That—that ain’t fair, – he mutters, voice hoarse, like he’s already lost the argument but can’t bear to let it go. – I didn’t mean to vanish, sweetheart.

You laugh, sharp and hollow. – Yeah? Well, you did.

His jaw clenches, the muscle twitching like he’s biting something back. He hates this. Hates being cornered, hates that he has no smooth exit, no half-smirk or lazy drawl that can fix this.

– I didn't know what the fuck to do! – He bursts, voice cracking at the edges. – You were— Jesus, he was lying dead there, he weren’t even moving, you were just—

He stops, running a hand down his face like he can wipe the memory away. Like he hasn’t been seeing it every time he closes his eyes.

His voice is quieter when he speaks again. Unsteady. Exposed.

– I ain’t never been scared like that before.

Your chest tightens.

He exhales hard, like he’s bracing himself for a hit, like he knows you won’t let that slide.

– I'm sorry, Bee. I really am, but— You shake your head, throat thick. – You think I wasn’t scared? You think I didn’t need you right then?

Barry’s lips part, but nothing comes out.

– You could’ve stayed. That's what fucks me up. – The words barely make it out, shaking with everything you haven’t said. – You could’ve— I don’t know, just— sat there and did nothing. Lied to me. Told me he was gonna be fine, even if we both knew he wasn’t. But you didn’t even try, Bee. You just left.

Barry flinches. Actually flinches.

He drags a hand over his mouth, eyes flicking away, to the ground, to the porch light, anywhere but you.

– I know. – The words are low. Like they cost him something.

– Then why do you keep doing it?

The question lands heavy, shoving the breath out of both of you.

Barry just looks at you. You don’t see the swagger, the easy smirk, the teasing warmth. He’s a little boy again, that kid you met at the supermarket, sitting alone behind the refrigerators, waiting for a mom that never returned.

For a second, the room is silent. Just the buzz of the porch light, the distant hum of cicadas.

Then, barely above a whisper—

– Because I don’t know how to stay.

And suddenly, it’s not just about this.

It’s not just about that night, or the drugs, or the mistakes, or Rafe. It’s about all of it. Every time he’s slipped away when things got too real, every time he’s left you picking up the pieces. It’s not just habit—it’s who he is.

And maybe—maybe he hates that about himself as much as you do. You stare at him, the weight of those words sinking in slow, like lead in your chest.

Because I don’t know how to stay.

Like it’s just that simple. Like it’s just a fact of life. Like it’s something he’s already accepted about himself. Like that line doesn't kill you, like it doesn’t tear you apart.

You shake your head, breath uneven. – That’s not good enough, Bee.

Barry exhales through his nose, slow and tired, like he already knew you were gonna say that. Like he already knew he didn’t have an answer that would fix it.

– I know.

– Then fucking do something about it! – Your voice cracks again, but you don’t care. You shove at his chest, and this time, he actually stumbles back a step. – You act like this is just—just some part of you that can’t be changed, but it’s not, Barry! You’re making a choice every time you walk away! Every time you leave me standing there, waiting for you to come back!

Your throat tightens, a lump wedging itself so deep you can barely breathe around it.

– Do you even realize what that does to me? – Barry looks like you just knocked the wind out of him. – You don't, do you? That’s cause you have other people. But I don't, Barry! You’re the only one I got!

His mouth opens, then shuts again. His fingers twitch, like he wants to reach for you but doesn’t know if he’s allowed to.

And you’re shaking now, all of it catching up to you at once. The fear, the frustration, the gut-wrenching ache of realizing that you’re always gonna be the one waiting.

– You can’t keep leaving when shit gets hard, man. You can’t. I need you. I need you with me. Fuck, Barry, I just need you to be here! That's all I'm asking for! – You press the heel of your palm against your forehead, like you can physically push back the tears threatening to spill. – I can’t keep doing this with you, Bee. I just can’t.

Barry stiffens.

And for the first time since he showed up, there’s something almost panicked in his expression.

– Don’t say that.

It’s quiet. A whisper.

But it hits you like a gut-punch.

You let out a shaky breath, wiping at your face. – Why not? You gonna run away again?

Barry swallows hard, dragging a hand over his mouth. His gaze flickers—over your face, down to your hands, back up again.

He’s unraveling, but not in the way he usually does. Not in anger, not in frustration.

In something softer.

Something terrified.

He takes a slow step forward, careful, cautious. Like he’s walking a tightrope. Like he’s afraid you’ll bolt.

– I don’t know what I’m supposed to do if you’re not waiting for me anymore.

That breaks you wide open.

Your breath stutters, chest rising and falling like you just ran a mile, but you haven’t—you’ve just been standing here, bleeding out in front of him, watching him do the same.

And the worst part?

You believe him.

That’s your fatal flaw. You always believe him.

You believe that he doesn’t know. That it’s never even crossed his mind that one day you might not be there. That one day, he’d turn back and find nothing waiting for him.

Because you always are.

His fingers flex at his sides, restless, like they’re waiting for permission to reach for you. His mouth parts slightly, and when he speaks, his voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it.

– I know I ain't what you need me to be. I know I don’t always show up right, or say the right shit, or—or stay when I should.

A breath comes out of you. Heavy, charged. You feel as if it lingers between you when you open your mouth again, almost scared to look him in the eye.

– I don’t care if you show up right. I don’t. I like you much better when you’re fucking up then when you’re not around. – Barry stills, his breath catches, eyes flickering to yours. – I don’t need to miss you to like you Bee, I already like you.

His breath hitches, eyes softening. In the dark of your room, his shoulders ease the littlest bit. You see the flame then, the warm orange glow that comes from your lighter as he flicks the switch, once, twice. Illuminating his tightening grip around the cheap plastic. – Yeah? – The word comes out small, almost unsure.

– Yeah.  – It should be obvious. It's all you think about. All you worry over. – God Barry, you’re my best friend! – The words seem to knock something out of him. He looks down at his hands, at your lighter, thumb playing with the switch again. – Shit, man. You’re my only friend. All these pieces of shit out here, they ain’t worth a damn.

His eyes drift up to you again as you turn around, pacing with your hands in your hair around the three or four feet of open floor your tiny room has to offer. You feel the weight of his gaze, the words lingering just out of reach. 

– I went to look for you at your job today, – He says, almost hesitantly, as if he’s confessing a sin. – that— That kook, with the eyebrows, he told me a server got you fired. – You breathe and nod, falling down on your bed, the exhaustion crystalized within you. – It was Kie, wasn’t it? She got you fired.

You huff, almost a laugh.

If your father was dead, he’d be sitting in hell, laughing his ass off. – So everyone saw that coming before I did, huh? 

Barry’s face darkens, but he has the grace not to say what you both know: that you’re a fool. You oughta’ve been blind for Rafe Cameron and Barry both to see the flaw in someone’s character before you did.

You exhale the disappointment in you along with your breath, feeling the springy bed dip and creak as Barry sits down beside you.

 – She’s a kook. – He leans back against the wall, still playing around with the lighter. – And she's your brother’s friend. That’s like, the square root of snake.

You can’t help the laugh, but you don’t feel the humor. 

– I always do that, don’t I? I always go for the worst possible person, and everybody tells me they’re fucked up, and I still have the nerve to be surprised when they fuck me over. 

– That ain’t a bad thing.

Though you appreciate the kind words, you’re not too impressed by the lie in them. – Yeah right.

– Nah, I’m serious. You see the good in everybody. – He laughs then, his hand warm against your knee. – Shit, you saw the good in me.

– You are good, Barry. – His lips part slightly, like he’s not sure how to take them. – You’ve been good since we were kids.

He scoffs, shaking his head. – You didn’t know me. Before, I mean. I was shit.

You let your hand rest against his, over your knee. You can feel the fresh cuts on his knuckles. He always boxed his hands raw when he was stressed out. – I know you now. – He looks at you, almost hopeful. His ears move like a bunny rabbit’s as he zeroes in. – As long as I know you until we die, I’m fine with the shit you did before we met.

He exhales slowly, turning his face away as he clutches your knee tighter, and wipes his face.

There's a beat of silence between you then, and for a moment all you hear is his breathing and the sound of his sniffling.

– I’m sorry I left you there. – His jaw clenches, like he’s trying to shove the words back down, but they keep coming. – But I’m here now. – He exhales sharply, shaking his head. – And I swear to fucking God, I ain’t going nowhere. Not this time.

The promise settles in the space between you, thick and uncertain, but you can feel the weight of it in your bones, tangible, true. You search his face, looking for something—anything—that might tell you if he actually means it.

And then, in true Barry fashion—

He ruins it.

– Well, maybe if the cops show up, then I gotta go. – He tilts his head, smirking just slightly, like he's testing the water, seeing if he can pull you back from the edge. – I can’t go to jail, y’know? I’m too pretty, they’d be fighting over this booty like it was Pearl Harbor or some shit.

You blink at him. Once. Twice.

And then, against all logic, you snort.

It’s short, barely anything, but Barry pounces on it, his grin widening.

– Oh, don’t do that, sweetheart. Don’t pretend you ain't charmed.

– I will literally strangle you.

– Kinky.

You smack his arm—hard—but there’s no real heat behind it, and he just laughs, shaking his head like he can’t believe he got you to crack.

The tension in your chest loosens, just slightly, the weight of the night settling in less like a knife, more like an ache.

And Barry sees it.

He exhales through his nose, voice dipping lower, warmer, turning his hand over your knee to hold yours. – There’s my girl.

Your stomach twists, and you look away before he can see how hard that lands in you.

You shake your head, exhaling slow. – You’re fucking horrible, you know that?

He grins, rocking back on his heels. – Yeah. But you love me anyway.

You roll your eyes, but don’t deny it.

Barry smiles—soft, relieved—Like maybe, just maybe, this is something he can fix. – We shouldn’t sit here, moping around, y’know? – You lift your gaze to find him already looking at you, that lazy smirk giving you the slightest glimpse of his white grin, his gold tooth. – I know somewhere we can go.

– If you say the—

– The River Styx, that’s right. C’mon. If we go now we can still catch Jerry and Finnegan.

You roll your eyes so hard it nearly gives you a migraine.

Of course he’d say The River Styx.

It’s always The River Styx.

That shit hole of a bar—the one that plays nothing but old Irish rebel songs that sound like they were pulled straight from the depths of the world war one trenches, where the drinks are so cheap you have to wonder if they’re even legal, where there's no one except old men and overly tattooed ex-convicts. You’ve spent more nights there than you can count, balanced on the shifty stools before the counter, nursing something that burned down your throat like gasoline while Barry leaned in too close, trying to teach you to play pool or singing along to whatever song the old men were screaming to.

A place where, every single time, you drank too much.

And every single time you drank too much, you ended up in his bed.

The thought barely forms before the memory hits, visceral and immediate:

The day you lost your virginity.

Barry’s arm slung over your shoulder as you stumbled through the dark, both of you way past your limit, his breath warm against your neck as he muttered something low and amused into your ear. The porch creaking beneath you as he collapsed onto the couch, pulling you down with him, the weight of him pressing you into the worn cushions.

His hands, so sure, so solid, roaming over your sides, tugging at the hem of your shirt. His mouth, slow and coaxing, murmuring sweet nothings against your lips.

And you—giddy and young, and reckless and naive, and so, so drunk—laughing as you pulled him down, kissing him like you had something to prove.

The memory lingers, stinging like a fresh wound.

You shake your head, physically shaking it off, like you can force it back into the corner of your mind where it belongs.

– No. – The word is firm. Final. You cross your arms. – I don’t feel like drinking shitty moonshine and listening to old men wail about the Irish potato famine for three hours.

Barry raises a brow, and laughs, easily amused by your bad mood. – That’s cold, sweetheart. That’s culture.

– Boo hoo. – You huff. – I can't anyway, I have to be at Rafe's tomorrow at eight.

Barry stills, just barely, not even hiding the distaste on his face.

– Rafe? – His brows pull together. – What the hell are you gonna do at Rafe Cameron's house at eight o’clock in the fucking morning?

You shrug, not sure how to explain it. – Rafe offered me a job. One of his private chefs quit, so I took his place.

Something shifts in Barry’s face.

It’s subtle, but you see it. The slight narrowing of his eyes, the way his lips press together for half a second before solidifying in something displeased, almost angry.

– The fuck kinda person needs a “private chef”?

You roll your eyes. – Barry.

– I’m just saying, – He shrugs, leaning back against the headboard, but there’s something too easy about it now. Like he’s trying not to care. – Dude's got a personal cook? Ain’t that what his stepmom’s for?

You chuckle, the woman's words echoing in your mind. – Rose “doesn't need to cook, because she works.”

– She said that?

– To my face. While I was working. – It's so ridiculous, it's almost funny. – Gotta love rich people. I wish I could walk around saying whatever like consequences just don't exist.

Barry scoffs, shaking his head. But his fingers tap against his thigh—quick, restless. – How did he even know you needed a job?

– I saw him just after I got fired. 

Barry’s hand stops.

– You called him!?

– Of course not. He just— I don't know, he just sorta happened to be there. He saw me crying and—

– You were crying?! 

– My boss was horrible to me. – You swallow hard, the image burning behind your eyes as your eyes close. – He made me take the coat off there, in front of everyone.

Your throat tightens as you say it. You don’t know why you say it, only that it’s been sitting in your chest for days, heavy and unresolved.

– After Kie got me fired. He— You clear your throat, suddenly uncomfortable. – He— He called me all these things, and I don’t know, it just felt like— You stop yourself short.  The words lingers at the tip of your tongue: like him.

You can’t speak about your father, not with Barry, the single person in the world who hates him more than you do.

But you don’t need to say anything.

The way his eyes darken tell you he knows exactly who you're talking about. You feel the tick of his hand against yours, how it hardens, as if he had to physically hold himself back.

His jaw clenches, his tongue running over his teeth before he exhales through his nose, like he’s biting back a reaction.

– Anyway. Rafe just found me there, and he made me feel better. We talked, and then—

– I don’t wanna hear this shit.

You don't know why you laugh. His jaw ticks and his breath gets heavier, he seems like a rottweiler puppy, growling and barking before throwing a little tantrum. – We didn't sleep together, you moron. Jesus, do you really think I'm that easy?!

– Of course not. But the way you said it— A word forms in his lips, but he bites it back.

– The way I said it? – You scoff, shaking your head. – What, like a normal human being recounting a normal conversation?

Barry exhales sharply, tongue running over his teeth like he’s trying to keep something trapped there. His fingers tap against his thigh again—faster this time, like a tell he doesn’t even realize he has.

– Like someone who got real cozy with Rafe fucking Cameron all of a sudden.

You let out a laugh, because it’s Barry—because it’s so stupid, the idea of him sitting here getting all huffy over Rafe like some jealous ex.

– Cozy? – You shake your head, grinning. – Jesus, Bee, you sound like my brother.

Barry scoffs, tilting his head, watching you with something a little sharper now. – Yeah? Well, maybe your brother’s got a point for once.

You raise a brow, amused. – That’s rich, coming from you. Since when do you side with John B on anything?

Barry shrugs, all faux-indifference, but there’s something tight in the motion. Something too controlled. – Since he ain't wrong.

You roll your eyes, stretching out on the bed, kicking your feet up onto the headboard, casual as anything. – Okay, Sheriff, tell me—what exactly is the crime here?

Barry doesn’t answer right away. Just looks at you, lips pressing into a thin line. – I don’t like him.

– You don’t like Rafe? You who introduced me to Rafe? You who always has him over at your place?

– He's not my fucking friend, okay?! He's just an annoying piece of shit who keeps buying drugs from me. What’d you want me to do? Throw money away?!

– Bee?

– Stop. – He sits up, pulling his hand away. – I ain’t playing okay?! Rafe is a jerk.

You snort. – Wow. Groundbreaking insight. So original. So fresh.

– I’m serious. – His voice dips lower, losing some of that teasing edge.

You tilt your head, smirking. – Yeah? – You make a show of looking around. – We at a town hall or something? You’re preaching to the choir, Bee. Rafe Cameron is an asshole. Everybody knows that.

– And yet, – Barry leans in, his eyes locking onto yours in that slow, deliberate way that makes something prickle under your skin. – Here you are, cooking his fancy little meals, letting him wipe your damn tears.

You blink at him.

Once.

Twice.

Then you burst out laughing.

Because what the fuck?

– Barry, oh my God, – you wheeze, covering your face with your hands. – Listen to yourself right now. You sound like—

You don’t even get to finish the thought before Barry shakes his head, standing up abruptly, pacing a few steps like he needs to physically shake something off.

– It ain’t funny.

That only makes you laugh harder.

– It’s hilarious, – You correct, wiping at your eyes, trying to breathe through it. – What, you think I’m about to run off and marry him now? Start wearin’ pearls and calling Rose Cameron “mother”?!

Barry doesn’t answer.

And for the first time, it hits you: He’s actually bothered. Not in the over-the-top, dramatic way he usually plays shit up for laughs. Really bothered.

The realization makes your laughter falter, just slightly.

– Barry?

He exhales sharply, rubbing a hand over his jaw, shaking his head like he’s disappointed—but not in you. In himself. Like he doesn’t know why this is getting to him.

– Whatever. – His voice is quieter now, rougher around the edges. – Do what you want.

You frown. – Bee— You try not to laugh, because you don't want to insult him, but you can't even help it. – Barry, don’t tell me you're jealous?

He glares at you, causing your laughter to grow, it's absurd. Its preposterous. Barry and jealousy.

– You are! You think I'm gonna run off with Rafe and leave you behind!

– Fuck off. – He growls. – Nah, I mean it. – He shrugs, but it’s stiff, unnatural. Like he’s trying way too hard to be casual. – Ain’t my business, right?

But he doesn’t look at you when he says it.

You sit up, watching him. His shoulders are tense, his hands twitchy like he needs something to do. Like if he stands still too long, you’ll see too much.

You already do.

– Bee.

– Drop it. – His voice is rough, final.

But you don’t.

You push yourself off the bed, stepping in front of him. He doesn’t look at you, just rubs a hand over his jaw, exhaling slow through his nose like he’s trying to force himself to let it go.

Like he’s trying to convince himself it doesn’t matter.

You tip your head, watching him.

Then, softer—

– You’re acting weird.

Barry scoffs, shaking his head. – I ain't acting nothing.

You cross your arms. – You got all pissy the second I said Rafe’s name.

– I did not get—

– You literally stood up like the bed was on fire, Barry.

He huffs, shaking his head again, but still—he won’t look at you.

And that’s how you know.

You take a step closer, reaching for him, fingers brushing against his wrist. He flinches, like the contact burns, but he doesn’t pull away.

Not really.

– What’s going on with you?

Barry exhales sharply, tilting his head back like he’s searching for patience on the fucking ceiling.

– Nothing, alright?

You roll your eyes. – Oh, yeah. That was super convincing. Next time, try throwing in a “gee whiz, golly” for extra effect.

Barry finally looks at you, and it’s exasperated, but there’s something else there too. Something tired.

– Jesus, you don’t let shit go, do you?

You smile, sweet, tilting your head. – Not when it comes to you.

That makes something shift in him.

You know it's a low blow, but it disarms him.

His mouth opens, but nothing comes out. His jaw clenches, his hands flex. He looks like he wants to argue, wants to deny it, but there’s nothing he can say, nothing that would make it not true.

You step closer, pressing your palm against his chest.

He tenses at first, stiff as a board, but you don’t move away. Just stay there, steady and warm, your fingers spreading slightly over the fabric of his shirt.

– Bee, – You say, softer now. Calmer. – Talk to me.

Barry exhales again, but it’s different this time. Less frustrated, more… resigned. His head drops forward slightly, and for a second, you think he might actually say something, but then he just mutters—

– I fucking hate when you do that.

You grin. – Do what?

He lifts his head, eyes flicking over your face, lips twitching like he wants to be annoyed, but it’s already slipping.

– That. – He gestures vaguely. – That whole “I’m real soft and understanding” thing. Makes me feel all… fucking—

He groans, tipping his head back again.

You laugh, tilting your head to meet his gaze. – What? Warm and fuzzy? Like you got actual feelings and shit?

Barry glares at you. – Shut the fuck up.

But you see it. The way his body relaxes just slightly. The way he leans into your touch now, rather than away from it. The way he melts.

Like he always does.

You shake your head, grinning, and before he can process what’s happening, you grab him, pulling him into a hug.

Barry immediately stiffens. – Oh, hell no—

– Shut up, – you laugh against his shoulder, squeezing him tighter. – You’re not gonna lose me to the dark side, Bee. I’m not about to become Rafe Cameron’s bestie and start sipping champagne on yachts.

Barry makes a disgusted sound, muttering – I’d rather you fucking die.

You snort, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

Barry huffs, stiff and uncooperative at first, arms glued to his sides like he’s actively refusing to participate.

Then he breathes out, slow and quiet.

And after a few beats, his hands come up, grudgingly, settling on your waist, then tightening just slightly, like he hates that he wants to hold you back, but he does it anyway.

His chin rests against the top of your head, and you feel him exhale, something heavy leaving his chest. – You’re real fucking annoying, you know that? – His voice is lower now, softer.

– Mhm. – You grin against his shirt. – But you loooove me.

Barry scoffs, but you don’t miss the way his fingers flex slightly against your back. – Yeah, yeah. Don’t let it go to your head, sweetheart.

His chin stays resting on your head, his breath coming slow and steady, his arms firm and real around you. He’s here, for once. Not running, not making a joke out of it.

Just here.

The tension drains out of him like someone pulled a plug, his fingers curling slightly into the fabric of your shirt, like he needs the contact more than he’s willing to say.

You hum against his chest, smirking.

– See? This isn’t so bad, is it?

Barry doesn’t answer at first. Just stays exactly where he is, his arms tightening slightly, like he’s afraid to let go. – Shut up.

You grin, tilting your head up to smirk at him. – Wow. I really have you whipped, huh?

Barry scoffs, pulling back slightly to shoot you a glare, but it’s weak.

You grin harder.

– You love this. Admit it.

His jaw twitches. – I will literally murder you in cold blood.

You gasp, hand over your heart. – You wouldn’t hurt me, Bee. Look at you, you're a marshmallow.

Barry narrows his eyes. – Alright, that’s enough of that.

And before you can react, he grabs you, twisting you around in one fluid motion, throwing you over his shoulder like you weigh nothing.

– Hey, hey, hey! – You squeal, smacking at his back. – Barry, put me the fuck down!

He laughs, full and unrestrained, the sound vibrating through his chest as he spins you around, ignoring your protests.

– Nah, sweetheart, you wanna talk big? Let’s see you talk with your face in the fucking mattress.

He tosses you onto the bed, and you bounce, letting out a shriek before bursting into laughter. Barry grins, watching you with a look so fond it almost makes your heart hurt. You’re still laughing, shaking your head as he flops down beside you, grinning like an idiot. – You’re the worst.

He smirks, tilting his head at you. – You’re the one who’s putting up with it. I don't hear you complain when I'm paying for drinks.

You’re breathing easy, the air between you light and warm and safe, the weight of the night melting away into something that just feels good.

Barry flops onto the bed beside you, still grinning, breath unsteady from laughing so hard. You’re both just lying there, staring at the ceiling, shoulders shaking from the last remnants of laughter.

Your ribs ache, your cheeks hurt from smiling, but you can’t stop.

His arm is thrown haphazardly across your stomach, warm and solid, like it just landed there on instinct. You don’t move it. – You’re ridiculous, – you mutter, still breathless.

– And you’re obsessed with me, – Barry shoots back, a lazy smirk curling at the corner of his mouth.

You snort. – Oh, totally. I wake up every morning thinking about how much I wanna be Barry fucking Russo.

He hums, mock-thoughtful. – Can’t blame you. I’d wanna be me too.

You smack his chest, and he lets out an exaggerated oof, before turning on his side to face you, his head propped up on his hand.

His eyes flicker over your face, softening just slightly.

And for once, he doesn’t say anything cocky.

Just looks at you.

– What?

Barry exhales, shaking his head. – Nothin’.

– You’re staring, Bee.

– So?

– So, you’re being weird.

Barry smirks, but it’s softer now. – You ever just look at someone and think, “Damn. This dumbass really puts up with my shit?”

You grin, biting your lip. – Every time I look at you, actually.

Barry chuckles, shaking his head. – You little shit.

– Takes one to know one.

He grabs your wrist, rolling onto his back and dragging you with him, pulling you half on top of him like you’re just a part of him now.

You yelp, but he just laughs, shifting so you’re tucked against his side, his arm slung lazy over your back. – Aww, someone needs a cuddle!

– Yeah, yeah. Just shut up and enjoy it, sweetheart.

You roll your eyes, but you don’t move. Instead, you let your fingers trace absentminded shapes against the fabric of his shirt, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath you.

Barry hums, content. – See? Ain’t this nice?

You let out a mock-sigh. – Guess I can tolerate it.

Barry grins, tugging you closer, resting his chin against the top of your head.

– Knew you loved me.

You just shake your head, smiling, eyes fluttering closed for just a moment.

You feel like you might actually fall asleep then. A comfortable, resting sleep. Nothing like these half-hearted black-outs you’ve been having. Barry’s breath is even, whistling against the loose strands of your hair softly, a breeze upon a placid ocean, and your mind drifts away, quiet, content.

The lightness of it lingers on your face for a moment, but like your energy, the smile also fizzles out. Barry shifts, just slightly, stretching his arms with a lazy groan before grabbing you again, pulling you right back into his chest like it's just natural.

Like it’s comfortable.

And it is. 

His warmth seeps into you, his breathing low and steady, and he pulls you even closer as you tell him to lay on his side. Your body feels heavy now, exhaustion creeping in at the edges of your conscience, blurring your surroundings out.

There’s a sound, some mumbled words that whisper through your hair as you lay there, head tucked under your friend’s chin, but you can’t register them. Whatever that was, you hum to it, half-heartedly, the thought of asking on what he said only tangentially floating through your mind as your breath syncs with his and your mind finally shuts down, before you can even ask what he said.

For the first time in what feels like forever, you sleep.

Not the restless, fractured kind of sleep that leaves you more exhausted than before. Not the kind where your mind keeps running half-heartedly, processing a thousand worries at once, replaying every mistake, every conversation, every single thing you should have said but didn’t.

Just sleep. Real sleep. Deep, warm, safe, and dreamless.

The morning soaks through you slowly as the sun invades your room.

Your senses return to you, one by one. —You feel the perfectly comfortable warmth of an embrace that’s shifted through the hours. Your limbs aren’t numb, but still, they’re tangled. On the sheets, around Barry’s, in your own old clothes. You blink, still foggy, before tilting your head to see him splayed out beside you, completely at peace, mouth slightly open, one arm thrown dramatically over his face like he’s posing for a Renaissance painting. You can smell the cigarettes he smoked before coming here, the smoke still clinging to his clothes. You hear his snoring, low and soft like the purr of an engine, and then— The distant clang of dishes, the low murmur of voices, the thud of something hitting the counter too hard.

Your perfect moment, corrupted by the life outside of it.

Your body stirs before your mind does, pulling you from the heavy weight of sleep into the early light of morning. Your watch, thrown somewhere on your pillow where your arm had rested at some point, marks 6:21. Just enough time to shower and get ready.

Your stomach grumbles as you sit up, but you’ve given up on breakfast before you can even think about it, knowing damn well John would never bother to go grocery shopping. 

It’s been a while since you actually resented the thought of having to get up. 

With the watch weighing heavy in your palm, you linger in that same spot for another moment, taking in the softness, the calm. It feels like a safe haven: the wrinkled sheets thrown half-hazardly over the two of you, the tiny twin bed creaking as you move, the soft, almost content huff Barry lets out as you adjust the pillow under his head, stirring without waking as you gather the courage to stand.

The floor creaks as you walk, the dresser’s drawer creaks as you pull on it, and you take one last look at the room, at Barry, at the sun casting long golden streaks of light across the stale air, as if keeping that image could keep you from the storm you know is brewing outside.

Still, you allow yourself to savor it, the last fleeting taste of what could’ve been a decent day.

John and Sarah’s voices are clearer as you step out into the hallway, but you don’t allow yourself the energy to decode their words. The bathroom door opens and closes behind you, the clothes you picked out fall, still folded, over the lid of your laundry basket, and you throw the towel on the hook, eyeing yourself in the mirror before facing another cold shower.

Your good mood is officially gone, fallen to the corruption of your own skepticism, and to the fact your brother still has not fixed the fucking heater.

The water is colder than normal, but you let it hit you anyway, let it wash away the last remnants of sleep, of comfort, of safety.

By the time you step out your skin is pricked with goosebumps, your hair damp and dripping as you reach for your towel. You avoid your reflection in the mirror this time, focus instead on the small streaks of condensation gathering on the glass.

The floor is rougher beneath your bare feet, the air cooler, the walls closer. 

The house itself feels different.

John and Sarah’s voices come into focus as you approach the kitchen, their conversation sharp and muffled all at once. You catch only bits and pieces—your name, Rafe’s name, something about him—but you don’t linger on it.

You already know what they’re saying.

You already know what they think.

The conversation stops as soon as you step into the room.

Abrupt. Jarring.

Like they weren’t expecting you, despite the fact that you live here.

– Good morning. – You say, thoughtless, already reaching for the coffee pot. Its still hot, but the jar is empty— You’re not surprised that he would make just enough for him and Sarah, but still, its no less annoying.

– For who? 

You can’t even take him seriously. – Jesus Christ, John. What's your problem?

– Well, for starters—

You cut him off before he can begin. – The question was rhetorical, dumbass. – You move around them, from the pot to the counter, trying to make coffee and doing your best not to meet his eye. – “Good morning” is a well-wish. “What's your problem” is a rhetorical question. You could’ve kept quiet and spared us both the embarrassment.

– You’re ridiculous.

You measure the powder into the filter, crumpling the empty package and throwing it across the room to the trash overflowing in the corner. – You could’ve at least taken out the trash.

He scoffs, a bitter laugh on his lips as he looks up. – You’re unbelievable. We didn’t even start the argument and you’re already deflecting! This has got to be a record.

– Great, How about you measure the greatness of this record after taking out the trash?

– Are you serious? – He groans. You look at him with a straight face, arms crossed over your chest. – You are un-fucking-believable.

You breathe and smile, humorless. – We haven’t even started the argument and you’re already repeating yourself. Damn, John. This has got to be a record.

– Is EVERYTHING a fucking game to you?!

– I don’t know. But hey, since you seem to think I spend all my time around Rafe, maybe you should go and ask him.

His eyes bore into yours, sharp and cutting. – This is not the own you think it is, Y/n.

– And you don’t have as much dog in this fight as you think you do, John. – Your breathing is measured, and you’re counting to a hundred in your head. You’re committed not to losing it this time. You can’t let him get to you, but you feel every expression he makes grinding at your nerves, and you’re sinking your nails into your palms before his mouth even opens. – We’re even. Let’s leave it at that.

– Oh sure, that’s a great idea. My sister is a traitor without a fucking conscience who can’t even be bothered to tell me about what goes on in her life, but let’s leave it at that, right?!— We’re not even, actually. We’re not even close—

– Oh my God, get to it already! We’ve had this fight three times this week, can we just jump to the highlights?! I’m working for Rafe. You’re pissed I didn’t tell you. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t have time. And I didn’t have time, because the moment I could have used to tell you was spent having THIS EXACT FUCKING TALK. – You lost it. You just did, your hands gesture wildly because you feel that whatever it was that you had to hold onto—your sanity, your dignity, your temper— is slipping through your fingers as you speak. – So go ahead! Jump to it, John! Just storm out and have your tantrum already so we can stop pretending any of this bullshit matters at all!

– This is our fucking life we’re talking about! Of course it matters!

– No, no. That’s just it. This isn’t my life, actually. This is the John B show! You run around and you do your little things and you have your little adventures and you think you’re the star around which the rest of the universe revolves! So when I go out and I do something without your stamp of approval, you think I’m out to get you! But I’m not John! I’m not trying to fuck you over! I’m just trying to put food on our fucking table!

– Oh here we go again. – He scoffs.

– Yes! Yes, we’re going there again. So sit down on the chair, my chair, the one that you broke and I had to fix. Then you can have a cup of coffee, which I bought, and you burned through. And maybe, when you’re done not washing the dishes, you can go and have a cold shower, since that’s the only option we’ve got, because your ass can’t even follow through on the little responsibilities you fucking have!

You’re tired of repeating this, tired of saying it over and over again. But he doesn’t listen. 

– Why does everything have to be about money with you?! 

– NEWS FLASH motherfucker, that’s the only reason I’m working for Rafe, which is the reason why you’re mad at me, which is the reason why we’re having this conversation in the first place!

The words hang between you.

John’s chest rises and falls hard, his fists clenched at his sides, his mouth still open, like he wants to argue, but he doesn’t.

He just laughs, bitter, venomous.

Because there’s nothing left to say.

You’re both just standing there, breathing hard, staring each other down like you’re waiting for the other to swing first.

John scoffs, shaking his head, running a hand down his face. – You know what? – His voice is lower now, not calmer, just quieter. – Forget it. Just—forget it.

He turns away, reaching for his mug, but his grip is too tight, and the coffee inside sloshes over the rim, spilling onto the counter. He curses under his breath, slamming it down harder than necessary.

You watch him for a second, jaw tight.

Your hand is clutching your arm, your foot is bouncing. You feel the need for movement surging through your bones as he takes a step towards the door, and you know you shouldn’t do it. But if you spend another fucking day lingering in the things you two left unsaid you’re gonna choke in your own words and this is gonna end badly for the both of you.

So you rush, and you grab him, and you tug him back like a ragdoll. – Don’t walk away from me!

He scoffs. – What? Too hard to sit alone with your guilty conscience?

– Not really, no. But it must run in the family, since you can sit alone with your conscience all day and still never stop being a fucking hypocrite.

John yanks his arm free, spinning to face you, eyes burning. – You don’t get to call me a hypocrite when you’re the one crawling into bed with fucking Rafe Cameron.

Your breath stutters for half a second before rage swallows it whole. – Do we have to go through this every fucking day?! I’m not fucking Rafe! He offered me a job! I took it because we can’t afford to live any worse than how we’re already living without actually starving!

– We’re fine! – He shouts, shoving at you. – We’re living just fine! You’re not doing this out of some need to survive, you’re doing this because you have this burning desire to piss me the fuck off! I’ve got news for you too, Y/n. Your need for attention isn’t gonna fix the fact you fucked it up with dad! It’s not gonna fix the fact your mother didn’t love you. So maybe you can sit with that feeling and figure out another way to get me to look at you without having to humiliate us both!

You’re frozen in place, looking at him.

You see Sarah shifting uncomfortably in the corner, her eyes drifting between the two of you like she’s trying to figure out which direction to run in.

The breath that escapes you feels like it’s been there for years. But there is no great realization. No mask comes off, no true colors are revealed. You’ve seen this all already. You’ve heard these insults in countless different fonts, countless different arguments. And though it hurts no less to hear, somehow you find it in yourself to laugh. – I don’t know how you find it within yourself to be so low.  

He looks at you, lips parted, as if he is the one who is surprised by the words. 

You breathe in.

– You’re right, John.

It comes out of your lips like chains falling off of you.

It’s been written on the walls for years, and yet you spent so long a time with your head down, it never occurred for you to read the warnings.

– You’re right. This is the John show. I’m a backup character. I don’t live for myself. I live for you. – The rope keeps falling, and falling. The more you talk, the clearer it gets. – All the money I make goes to this house. And all the money you make goes to you.

It doesn’t weigh heavy.

It doesn’t hurt to say.

It’s there, and it’s true.

– All this time I thought you were in denial, but you’re not. You’re just living a completely different life. I’ve been scraping by for FUCK— The anger falls like sack of bricks, hard, sharp corners and rough sides grating against your fragile bones. It hurts. It bruises. You can feel yourself split open, you can feel yourself bleed out. – I’ve been scraping by so you could do what?

– Y/n…

– What, John?! WHAT?! So you could do what?! Drink yourself stupid with your little friends and talk shit about kooks while you’ve been living the EXACT SAME FUCKING LIFE AS THEM?! Is that why I work? So you can— You look at Sarah, and you think of her house. The life she’s putting aside to pretend she has some character. – So you can eat lamb at Ward Cameron’s and humiliate me? You haven’t stopped eating so I could eat. You haven’t been convincing yourself you like a job where you’re constantly humiliated so it can be bearable to barely pay the bills. You’ve been spending it all in beer, and weed, and food that you DON’T EVEN FUCKING LEAVE FOR ME.

The coffee is done. Sitting there on the pot, untouched. Scalding.

You don’t remember the last thing you ate at your house.

The last decent night of sleep you had on your own bed.

The last time you enjoyed any of the things you’ve been killing yourself for.

You back yourself into a corner, you look away from John, from Sarah, from this house that’s been draining at you like a fucking leech.

John looks stunned.

Not guilty. Not sorry. Just—stunned.

Like he never thought you’d say it out loud.

Like he never thought you’d realize it.

Sarah’s still frozen, one hand gripping the edge of the counter, like she’s waiting to see if this is where it ends. If this is where you finally walk out.

You feel like you should keep talking, like you should scream, like you should break something—but there’s nothing left to say.

You already said it.

And that’s the worst part: John knows you’re right. He knows.

But instead of admitting it—

He laughs.

Short. Bitter.

And when he looks at you again, his jaw is set, his fists clenched at his sides. – Is that what you have to say? – His voice is quiet, but it cuts just the same. – That I’m useless? That I don’t pull my weight?

– You are. – It's bitter too, but when the words leave your lips you feel like you've eaten for the first time in weeks. – You're useless. And you don’t pull your weight. But I've never asked you to. That's my own fault. I don’t need you to be useful, John. I don’t need you to be a man. I don’t even need you to be my brother. Shit, clearly, you’re none of those fucking things. But I expected that if you were gonna freeload off of me, at least you’d have the decency to leave me the fuck alone as to how I make the money you so carelessly flit around.

You look away, to the bin forgotten in the corner. To the clock, marking the little time you still have to get this over with above the window.

And for once, you don't feel the world resting on your shoulders.

For once, it isn’t on you to hold this crumbling house up.

– Take out the trash. Call someone to fix the heater, and clean up after yourself for once. Cause if I get home, and things are still the way I left it, I’m leaving you here, and you can support this house on your own.

John scoffs, but it's stuttered. Unsure. Like he’s trying to call a bluff he isn’t actually sure won’t stand the scrutiny. – You don’t have anywhere to go.

– I can live off of what I make. You, on the other hand, can’t live off of your own delusions.

– Walk away.

You don’t answer.

Because he’s not answering you.

He’s just flipping it around, turning it into something else, something easier for him to fight against.

Your stomach turns.

You push off the wall, shaking your head.

John scoffs. – Oh, no. We’re talking now, right? Let’s talk. Go ahead. Tell me I’m a selfish piece of shit—

– I don’t need to. – Your voice is tired now. Not angry. Not screaming. Just done.

That shuts him up faster than anything else could have.

Sarah finally moves, stepping forward, voice cautious, but the bomb has gone off, she’s trying to diffuse something that’s already blown you all into pieces.

– Hey. Maybe we should all just—

But you don’t stay to listen.

You don’t want to hear whatever half-hearted bullshit John is about to spit out next.

You turn, walking away, feeling the weight of the house pressing down on you with every step.

And as you get to the doorway—

You see Barry.

Standing right there.

Arms crossed, leaning against the kitchen door.

Like he’s been standing there for a while.

Watching. Listening.

His expression is unreadable.

But his eyes say everything you need to hear.

He moves back, arm out as you pass the doorway, and he gathers his things quietly as you put on your shoes.

The house is silent as you lace up your sneakers, the argument still thick in the air behind you.

But you don’t look back.

Barry doesn’t speak. Doesn’t ask if you’re okay, doesn’t tell you that you were right or wrong—he doesn’t have to. You already know. Instead, he moves easily: grabs his jacket, tucks your lighter in his pocket, reaches for the helmet sitting on the table.

He spins it once between his fingers, then holds it out to you.

A simple motion. Nothing grand. Nothing spoken.

But he smiles as you reach out to take it, and he laughs, softly, contently, as you lead him out.

The morning air hits sharp against your skin, cool and steady, grounding you in a way the house never could.

Barry swings a leg over his bike, Rafe's bike, settling in easy, waiting for you to do the same.

You exhale, slipping onto the seat behind him, arms looping loosely around his waist as he kicks the stand back.

And when the engine rumbles beneath you, drowning out the house, the argument, the weight of everything inside—

You breathe. 

And for once, it's easy.

Barry doesn’t look back.

He just shifts the bike into gear, rolls out onto the road, and drives.

You barely register the road you two leave behind until he’s pulling into the Camerons’ driveway. But you step off the bike, hand him his helmet, and he holds your hand. – You can stay with me, you know?

– Huh?

– Tonight. I’ll pick you up, you can stay at mine. That oughta scare him.

The laughter on his lips is airy, meant to be. That’s what you like about him, you realize—Barry doesn’t second guess things. He lives for him, and him alone, never doubting that’s how things are meant to go. It’s hurt you before, but you see it now, fully-formed, mature, and vulnerable— He holds the helmet between you almost like an invitation. Come with me. The gesture says. Run with me, wild like me, happy like me.

And you’ll be damned.

Because at the moment, there’s nothing you want more.

– I don’t need to scare him, Bee. – You hum, but it isn’t pensive. You can think about John now, and your chest doesn’t tighten, your voice doesn’t crack. – He can do what he wants.

– So can we.

You smile despite yourself.

That’s another thing you like about Barry: he always says we. 

With him, it’s never, “I want, I need, I can”. It’s “we’re gonna, we can, we will.” Like the two of you are two halves of one conscience. 

– And what do we want to do? – You ask.

He smiles wide, pulling at the helmet to bring you closer, his hand resting at the dip of your waist. – Go to The River Styx and drink our asses off. You get the bed.

– Wow. Unmissable deal.

– That’s how it is with me, sweetheart.

– So if I get the bed, where do you sleep?

He pretends to ponder, flashing you that golden grin as he looks back at you. – On top of you?

– You’ve been missing pillows or something?

– I’ve been missing you. – He says. And it's so simple. So completely free of any strings attached it almost feels foreign to hear it.

– You never lost me, Bee. I’m always here for you.

– Always? – This time it’s small, and though he’s never uncertain, it’s almost like he’s begging to be reaffirmed.

And you do.

Not because it doesn’t cost you anything, but because it enriches you to say things as openly as he does. – Always. Cross my heart.

Barry hums, tilting his head, looking at you like he’s committing you to memory.

Then, in one fluid motion, he tugs you forward, arms wrapping around you, face buried in the crook of your neck.

You feel held.

The steadiness of his arms, the weight of his relief, the strength that it gives you.

Held.

Fully, completely, like he’s not just pulling you in, but holding himself up too, steadying himself against you the way you’ve steadied yourself against him a thousand times before.

Your fingers tighten against the fabric of his jacket, your face pressing into his shoulder, breathing him in—smoke and Barry, something familiar and grounding. Something that never changes.

For a moment, the world outside of this doesn’t exist. Just his breath against your skin, the quiet hum in his chest, the weight of him solid and real against you.

You pull back, hands sliding over his shoulders as you step away.

It’s over, but it doesn’t feel like it. The ghost of his warmth lingers around you just as the smirk he had before lingers on his lips.

– I’ll call you for a ride when I’m done.

Barry smirks, his grip still loose at your waist. – You can ride me whenever you want, sweetheart.

You scoff, shoving at his chest, and he laughs, stepping back, grinning like an idiot.

You shake your head, turning toward the house, but then—

Then you look up.

The silhouette on the window, lingering silently behind curtains that are all too white, all too frigid. The look in his eyes. That radioactive blue that you can’t get a read on, lingering far. But not on you, on Barry. 

You feel the air shift.

You swallow, turning back to Barry, but he’s already climbing onto the bike, completely unaware of Rafe’s eyes.

@chatgtfo @bitterdotcom @xmayankax @bluethperson @coralblue35 @myluvingera @munsoncultedits @the-bitch-who-binges @im-julessssss @redkarmakai @hwaaholic @sydkneez @sassyvillaintrophy

[bonnie-the-butcher]

I just asked gemini and apparently, Barry's last name is Russo???? Like why is that so perfectly fitting yet so foreign to me??

Does someone remember that from the show? I couldn't figure this out for the life of me.

[bonnie-the-butcher]

Rip Tide | Chapter IX

[ MDNI ] [ word count: 8.129 ] [ Masterlist ] 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬: Canonverse/Canon-Divergent; Dark! Content; NSFW; Strong Language; Cheating; Drug Use; Mentions of overdose; Some shades of Munchausen syndrome from dear old Rafe; Manipulation; Toxic, obsessive behaviour; Stalking; Violence; DUBCON/NONCON; My writing is really pretentious and English is not my first language, so please feel free to call me out in whichever grammar mistakes you might find find.

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | You and JJ have always been in each other's orbit. He's your brother’s best friend, the guy you've known your entire life. He was kind, protective, familiar. You never meant for the two of you to start hooking up. And you never meant for it to last so long. But when this boy you thought you'd come to know like the back of your hand turns out to be no better than the men he'd warned you about, you find yourself in the sights of the guy he hates most, regardless of wether you want that or not.

Y'all I am so sorry for taking this long to update, my whole entire family is in my house at the moment and they are all insufferable, pls send help. Likes, asks, reblogs, and comments are always greatly appreciated! Thank you in advance for reading <3

You try to swallow your embarrassment along with your pride, hands still resting firmly against your brother's shoulder, but it's to no avail.

He doesn't budge, and neither does the shame.

Kareem is between you still, but you can't even look at him. – Leave. – He repeats. – You are a guest, not the owner. If you want to take up something with an employee you can do it in your own time.

He stutters, scoffing out a laugh as if he was being victimized. – She is my fucking sister, dude you don—

Kareem cuts in: – It still wouldn't matter to me if she was your wife. – His voice is ice, and he stands just as still as a glacier. – This isn't the time or place for you to come here shouting. So please. Leave before I make you.

– Excuse me?!

– You heard him, John. – He does another double take at your tone. – Please. This is my job now. You know just as well as I do how much we need this. Don’t make a scene right now.

– You have a lot of nerve.

– And you have a girlfriend and her whole family out there not to blow it all for. So leave! Make a good impression. I’ll make sure to give you the time to humiliate me when the paycheck comes.

You don’t give him the time to respond.

Like the whiny teenager he probably thinks you are, you shove him out the door and barely refrain from slamming it. Standing, face buried in your hands, back pressed against the door, in front of your new boss.

So much for good impressions.

– You’re the people-reader. – Kareem hums. – But I was right. He is a piece of—

– Please. – He makes no effort to hide his distaste as you raise a hand. – Look, I’m really really sorry about this, you can’t even imagine. – You take a deep breath, knowing you’ll be hearing about this forever. – You know how family is. John’s just— The words hang in your throat. – been very in his head since dad.

You don’t have to finish the sentence. Kareem gets the memo as he watches you flitter towards the oven to check on the pie, and he watches you move before walking behind you silently, leaning against the counter with his brows raised. – I get it. – He hums, crossing his arms over his chest. – But Routledge, you said it yourself, you need this job. Don’t let your family, your boyfriend, your best friend, your fucking parakeet, whatever, blow this for you. Believe me, the Camerons won’t appreciate your family drama. They’re complicated enough as they are. Don’t give them a reason to fire you.

You swallow, nodding. – I won’t. I promise.

– This isn’t on you, Routledge. This— He gestures exaggeratedly towards the kitchen. – Keeping this? it’s on the people around you, it's on them not to be around. Best thing for you, it’s to keep them away.

Funny. Even when things aren't your responsibility, somehow, you still have to be the one doing the work.

– Yes, chef. – Your shoulders feel heavier now, but you look straight at Kareem, the way a mature adult is supposed to do. – I won’t fuck this up. For either of us. Scout's honor.

– I know you won’t.

– Cause you’ll beat my ass otherwise?

– Damn right.

– Let me get this pie out of here before we come to blows, then.

He only laughs, clapping a hand over your back softly as you take the gloves from its handles and open the oven door.

The pie is apparently perfect, the sickly sweet scent of peach and syrup wafting through the perfectly savory golden crust. Your mouth waters as you set it down on the counter.

The smell takes you back. You didn’t make the connection when Rafe mentioned the pie, but John was right. This was your father’s favorite thing. The only thing you and him could do together. A pie for thanksgiving, one for his birthday, one for John’s birthday.

It had been your only marker of a decent day a long time ago.

And today it almost cost you your job. – I’ll take that there for you, if you want.

You’re almost startled, so deep in thought you barely realized Kareem was there, his gloved hands extended and ready even as a cautious look gleams in his eye.

– It’s fine, Kareem. – You laugh. – I know you don’t want to.

– Damn right I don’t want to. But that’s what partners are for. – He helps you remove the desert from the pan and set it on the dish. – We average each other’s misery.

A laugh escapes you before you can stop it. – You think I’m miserable?

– With a brother like that, it would be a wonder if you weren’t. – You raise your brows at him, and he raises his glove-clad hands in response. – Hey, I’m just saying. Keep him away.

– You’re forgetting the part where he’s Sarah’s boyfriend.

– Holy shit, that's right. That piece of sh— He stops himself short at the face you make. – I'm sorry. I just can’t believe your bad luck.

– Wow, Kareem. That’s really sweet of you.

He frowns:

– Yeah, I'm sorry. That wasn't nice. – You set the pie down with a flourish, watching as the golden crust gleams under the kitchen lights. Kareem eyes it like it’s a ticking time bomb. – C’mon, let me take that there for you, – He offers, already reaching for it.

You snatch it back, scandalized. – Absolutely not. I don't want you to think I have no dignity.

He laughs.

– Dignity? That’s cute. You do realize he’s still there, right?

– I’m well aware.

– And you're also aware that he clearly is an idiot?

His shit-talking is starting to irritate you. – You talk an awful lot of crap for someone who has known him for twenty seconds.

– Look, Routledge, I've been nineteen before. 20 year old guys are types. And your brother is the entitled-freeloader-type, the man-child type. That little temper tantrum? They don’t grow out of that. Most of the time, they actually grow into it.

Well, there goes half your social circle.

– And you say you don't read people.

– People. – He stresses. – Assholes are another thing entirely.

– Okay. You’re gonna have to watch it. – You don’t know where the defensiveness came from. John and you weren't the “don't talk about my family” types. In fact, you were sure that, lately, John's favorite hobby was talking shit about you. So you breathe in deep and take the pie, ready to end this thought before it takes root. – I'm taking the pie and when I'm back we can both talk shit about someone else, together.

Kareem pinches the bridge of his nose. – Fine. But when he inevitably makes some smart-ass comment to embarass you, I want you to remember that you did this to yourself.

– Noted.

He gestures to the door with a grand sweep of his hand, and pulls it open. – Go on then, noble knight. Face thy dragons.

You scoff, chuckling as you balance the plate like a prized trophy. – You're a peach.

– So I keep hearing.

You step out and the door quietly clicks into place behind you. The hall is quiet, you barely hear murmurs from the dining room. But you catch your brother’s eye from the crack in the door, and he averts his gaze immediately, almost groaning as you step into the room.

– There you are. – Ward’s voice is a hum: monotone and content. – If you’d taken any longer, Rafe would have started a riot.

– Well, the peace corps have arrived.

Ward laughs, but Rose is not impressed. – Too bad she doesn’t get paid extra to be a comedian.

You can hear her husband begin to speak as you put the pie down, but it’s Rafe who cuts in, his hand on your arm, yet his eyes set on his stepmother: – Don't listen to her, newbie. Rose's just bitter cause she can't cook for shit.

Her scoff is like the swish of a blade, you almost feel the need to recoil.

– I don't need to cook, Rafe. I work. – You don't miss the venom that splatters on you, but where your mouth remains shut, Rafe's is twisted into a smile:

– Oh, you work, huh?

– Yes. I don't understand your tone.

– John B knows something about that kind of work too, don’t you John B? Freeloading off someone who actually makes their money by working.

It's Ward who cuts in then: – Rafe! Don’t get into this now. Is it so much to ask that we have one dinner in peace?

– He started it.

– Don't be childish, Rose. It doesn't become you. – He looks at you, nodding, almost relieved, as you take his plate. – Thank you, miss Routledge. That looks great.

– Yeah. Do me next, newbie.

– Can you fucking stop it?! – Your brother's voice cuts through the room. Even Sarah looks taken aback. – These innuendoes, this stupid shit you’re doing, it’s not funny Rafe!

– We don’t curse at this table, John.

– It was Rafe! He's the one—

– My son just asked for a piece of dessert. I understand you are protective of your sister, but he didn't mean anything by it.

Rafe laughs, the only person at the table that does so. And he squeezes your arm in his hand as he hands over the plate. – Does your brother always get so worked up when he sees someone working, or does he just extend that courtesy to you?

– Rafe! – Ward shouts, but his son ignores it.

You turn to take the plate from Rafe’s hand, ignoring the way his fingers linger against yours. His grin is lazy, almost triumphant, like he’s already won some invisible battle.

John is seething. You can feel it radiating off of him, the white-knuckle grip around his fork. Sarah tries to talk to him, the soft murmurs of her voice reaching your ears even as the words evade you, but your brother doesn’t seem to listen.

You clear your throat, ignoring the tension as you look back at Rafe. – How do you want the slice?

His eyes flick to yours, slow and deliberate. – I don't know. – He chuckles. – But I bet you like it with a lot of filling, don't you?

He licks a crumb off his hand, eyes locked onto yours.

John slams his hands on the table. – Are you fucking kidding me?!

– Language, – Ward warns.

Rafe tilts his head, expression all mock confusion. – What’s the issue, Johnny Boy? Can’t a guy appreciate a good pie?

– You’re disgusting, Rafe! – John spits, pushing back his chair. – You don’t even pretend to hide it anymore, do you?

Rafe just laughs, dragging his fork through the pie like he’s got all the time in the world. – I have no idea what you’re talking about. – He pops a bite into his mouth, chewing exaggeratedly. – Damn, newbie. You did put a lot of filling in this. Real sweet, too.

That's it.

John lunges.

The chair screeches, his fist flying toward Rafe’s face—but Rafe’s faster. He ducks back, chair tipping precariously before he catches himself on you.

You pull him towards the wall before John can near you, his back against your chest, your back against the concrete, heart hammering in your chest.

– Jesus, John B! – Sarah hisses, her hands gripping his shirt, his arms, his hands. But it's fruitless, like trying to put a leash of a bull.

Ward stands in a startle, pinching the bridge of his nose. – Sit down, John.

Your brother doesn’t move, chest heaving. He’s vibrating with rage, fists still clenched at his sides.

Rafe just grins. Smug. Pleased. You can feel the chuckle he lets out vibrating through his skin as your hand remains on his shoulders.

– You’ve got a nasty temper, huh? – He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, as if the whole scene was just a mild inconvenience, and then looks at you. – Jesus. Look at what you did, John B.

His eyes are wide, his voice is soft. You’re still holding him when he reaches for you, and yet you still flinch when his hand nears your face.

– I'm— Your breath is caught. – I should go back. Clean up.

Rafe catches your arm. – Hey. Hey, it's okay. He's leaving. Right, John B? Why don't you get your unemployed ass down to the Cut, huh? I bet someone could use you to mow their lawn. Or maybe that’s too complicated for you.

John lunges again, and this time it takes both you and Sarah to shove him back.

– Get off me!

– That’s enough, – Ward finally snaps, voice just sharp enough to cut through the chaos. His gaze levels on John. – You don’t raise a hand in my house. Do you understand me?

Your brother glares at Rafe, still breathing hard. – He started it.

Ward sighs, exasperated. – He was eating dessert.

– Oh, come on, – Sarah mutters. – Dad, you don’t even believe that.

Ward’s eyes remain on his daughter for a moment, but just as he opens his mouth, Rafe keeps firing:

– Yeah, John B. Chill out. We’re just having some family bonding time. I know you don't get a lot of that. What with the way you treat your sister, I doubt she wants to spend any time with you at all.

John’s fist connects with a sickening crack.

Rafe’s head snaps to the side, his weight falling back on you before you latch onto the edge of the table. For a second, there’s only silence. The scrape of the chair legs. The sharp inhale from someone—maybe Sarah.

And then you move.

Your body reacts before your mind catches up. You reach for Rafe, clinging to his arm, hands skimming his face, his shoulder, searching for the damage.

You don’t know when your heart started racing, but you feel your ribcage ache with the speed.

– Rafe! – You breathe. Your pulse is buzzing in your ears, shaking within you. You feel like you might break apart.

He doesn’t answer right away as you hold him, steadying him. He just blinks, dazed, the emotions flitting through his face like a carousel: Confusion at first, then anger, and then something softer, something pleased. A slow smirk curls on his lips. But there’s blood—on his mouth, at the corner of his lip, smeared across his chin.

– Shit, – you whisper. – Jesus Christ. – He exhales through his nose, wincing as you press your fingers to the swelling. – I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.

– What are you sorry about? – You don't register the laugh. The way his body relaxes as you touch him, how he leans into the pain instead of away from it.

You just see the blood on his lip.

The noise rushes around you like a vortex, you can’t even pay attention. All you see is Rafe, his eyes blown out just as they were that day at Barry's, and your hands shake as if the life was leaving him all over again.

– Just—just let me see, – You murmur, tilting his face toward you. – I'm sorry, Rafe. God, I'm so sorry.

– It's not your fault, baby. – He whispers, barely a hum.

John’s still there. Still heaving, fists clenched at his sides. But you barely notice him now. Your world has narrowed to the warmth of Rafe’s skin beneath your hands, the way he lets you touch him without protest. It isn’t the moment for you to ponder on how easy it is to die, but you feel your back pressing against the back of the chair Rafe would’ve fallen onto if you hadn’t caught him, and suddenly he feels like a newborn puppy. All soft, thin skin and whiny whimpers, something so delicate the world around him feels like a deathtrap.

You tighten your hold on him.

– Are you kidding me? – John’s voice is raw. Furious. It feels like he’s screaming at you from above. Like you and Rafe are sitting at the bottom of a river, the sound so muffled you barely realize its there. Your hands feel heavy as they move over his skin. – Him? You’re worried about him?

You don’t look up.

Your eyes are set on the blood at the corner of Rafe’s lips. It’s on your hands now, but it isn’t warm anymore. You don’t know why that thought scares you.

You can’t look away.

But Rafe does.

Even with blood on his lip, he’s still grinning, slow and smug.

– Aww, come on, Johnny Boy, – He drawls. His voice is rough, but not from pain. From something else. Something satisfied. – There’s no need to be jealous. She might like me better than you, but then again, that’s not very hard, is it?

John moves again, but Ward steps in this time. His voice is low, final. – Get out.

– Mr. Cameron I—

– You nothing, boy. You’re not gonna come into my house and be violent and disrespectful. I don’t tolerate that kind of behaviour here. Get out.

John doesn’t move. Not right away. His eyes flicker to you again, searching. Maybe he’s waiting for you to tell him something—anything—that will make this okay.

But you’re still touching Rafe.

His pulse thunders under your hands. You try to focus on that, pull yourself away from your thoughts. But you can’t. You’re still hovering over him, checking the cut on his lip, fingers light against his jaw.

His bones feel like glass beneath your touch.

John lets out a sharp breath, shaking his head before turning away. Sarah is the one to pull him back, her voice soft as she mutters something under her breath. The front door slams behind them a moment later.

But the sound takes none of the tension from the room.

You sit in the silence, Rafe’s pulse under your hands.

One, two. One, two. One, two.

Ward sighs.

– Rafe? Son, are you okay?

Rafe doesn’t acknowledge him.

Because he’s looking at you.

His eyes are hooded, his smirk lazy. You try to pull back, but his hand wraps around your wrist, keeping you close.

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t whine, doesn’t groan.

Just sits there.

And smiles.

– I'll— I’m gonna go get some ice for you. – You’re shaking. You barely catch a stumble on your step as you sit Rafe down and rush to the kitchen. – Kareem. – You call him once, twice, a third time, but he doesn’t answer. The back door is ajar. His things are still on the table.

You shouldn’t be worrying about him.

So you turn. Your feet move before you mind does, and you’re rushing to the walk-in refrigerator.

Your fingers fumble as you wrap the ice cubes in a washcloth, pressing them together too tightly, the cold seeping through the thin fabric and stinging your skin. Your pulse is still thrumming too fast, rattling in your ribs, your breath unsteady as you step out of the kitchen.

And then you see him.

You almost jump back.

Rafe is waiting just outside the doorway, leaning lazily against the wall, his head tilted slightly, that ever-present smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. There’s a dazed look in his eyes, something distant, like he’s not all the way there. His lip is split, swollen, a smear of red still clinging to the corner, but he doesn’t seem to care. If anything, he looks amused.

He exhales a short laugh, running his tongue along his teeth like he’s testing for more damage.

– Gotta give it to him. Your brother might be a bitch, but he's got a hell of a right hook.

You don’t laugh. Your stomach twists as he steps closer and leans against the shelf before you, that same strange look in his eye. Your grip tightens around the washcloth. – Rafe—

– Relax, baby, – he drawls, his voice softer now, slower. His hands bracket your arms, your skin is buzzing, like someone turned a light switch in you. – You look like you’re the one who just got hit.

You frown, shake your head. You can’t stop shaking it. – I’m fine. – Rafe laughs. He’s not acting right. He’s too relaxed, too loose, and there’s something almost sweet about the way he’s looking at you, like the punch knocked a different side of him loose.

– You might have a concussion, – you mutter, reaching out before you can stop yourself. He leans into your touch, holding onto your wrist as your fingers brush his forehead. – C'mon, let’s— let's sit you down.

He doesn’t fight you as you guide him toward the counter, settling him onto the cool surface. He’s still watching you, his head tilting slightly, studying you like he can’t quite figure you out. His hands twitch at his sides, restless, like he’s not sure what to do with them.

– You’re frowning. – He chuckles, like it's funny, and presses a finger between your brows. – You look really cute when you’re worried.

You push his hand away, the words flying over your head.

– This is gonna sting a little. – You step between his knees, pressing the ice against his lip, and he hisses softly at the cold. – I'm sorry.

– You said that already. – Rafe exhales, the sound more like a laugh than a groan. – I'll forgive you if you kiss it better.

You glare at him, but it’s weak. He grins anyway, his hands coming up, slow and unhurried, fingers trailing absently down your arms. It’s light, barely there, but enough to send a shiver down your spine.

– You’re shaking, – he murmurs.

– The freezer. – you hum. – It's cold.

– Mm. – His fingers drift to your shoulders, then to the ends of your hair, twisting a lock between his fingers. He eyes it intently, pressing the strands between the pads of his fingers as if trying to assess whether or not they are real. – Dunno. Feels like something else is making you nervous.

You swallow hard, refusing to look at him, focusing on the ice pressed against his skin. You can feel the warmth of him, the way his legs bracket yours loosely, the way he just lets you tend to him.

It feels too much. Too something.

You have to stop yourself from backing away.

He exhales again, this time slower, his breath warm against your wrist. – You always this nice when a guy you like gets hurt?

You don’t answer. You just press the ice against his lip a little harder.

He hisses again, but when you pull the washcloth away, his lips part slightly, tongue flicking out to chase the cold. His eyes search yours, heavy-lidded.

Then, softly, almost teasing:

– You sure you don’t wanna kiss it better?

Rafe hums, low in his throat, his fingers still lazily playing with the ends of your hair. His eyes flick down to your lips, then back up, his grin widening just slightly. – Still hurts, y'know? – He murmurs, tilting his head, exaggerating the movement like he’s testing the ache. – You really gonna leave me like this?

– You're gonna be okay.

– Dunno. – His hands drift, tracing up your arms again, then down, smoothing over your shoulders like he’s trying to work something out of his system. – I feel like I’m aching everywhere, baby.

He shifts slightly on the counter, his knees brushing against your hips, the warmth of his skin burning through your clothes. His voice is quieter now, softer, coaxing. – C’mon. Help me out here.

You shake your head. – You’re beat up, Rafe. You aren't making any sense.

– I’m not making sense? – His laugh is breathy, and his hands tighten briefly on your shoulders, fingers pressing lightly into your skin. – You’re the one standing between my legs with your hands all over me. Feels like you wanna help.

You don’t dignify that with a response.

But his gaze doesn’t waver. He tilts his head again, mouth curving into something dangerously close to a pout. – It really hurts, you know. Really hurts.

You sigh, hands itching to press onto his mouth and shut him up.

He's like a child. He pulls you around and he backs you into a corner, then his eyes widen, his lips pout, and you just have to do what he wants. – Please? – He whispers. Batting his eyes and tilting his head to the side just like your mother often did when she wanted something, from your dad, from her boss, from that guy at the drugstore she was always talking to.

It didn’t matter.

She always got what she wanted.

And so did Rafe.

You find yourself looking at the door as he pleads again, sliding a little closer until he can press your hips between his legs.

So you do.

Before he can say anything else, you lean in and press a peck to his lips—so small, so fleeting, you barely feel it. But you do feel the way his breath hitches, the way his fingers tighten against your shoulders, the way his whole body seems to go still, just for a second.

His mouth parts slightly as you pull away, and then he lets out a slow, pleased exhale, his voice low, almost smug.

– Forgot how good you kiss. – His grip shifts, hands sliding up the curve of your shoulders again, thumbs pressing into the dip of your collarbones. He’s already leaning back in, already chasing another taste, and his voice dips into something softer, something almost desperate. – Just one more.

But before he can close the distance, you press your hand to his chest, stopping him. It’s not forceful—not a shove, not a hard rejection. Just a quiet barrier, a gentle push.

He doesn’t move back right away. His lips part, his brows furrowing, like he wants to argue. Like he wants to beg.

But then—

– Rafe.

The voice cuts through the thick air between you like a knife, sharp and immediate.

Rafe’s shoulders go tense beneath your palms.

Your hand drops as he exhales slowly, his entire body stiffening, his easy smile fading into something angry. – What do you want?

Ward Cameron steps further into the kitchen, his presence like a cold gust of air. You straighten a little, keeping your eyes to the ice. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes flick between you and Rafe before settling on his son.

He doesn’t waste time. Doesn’t soften his tone.

– You were reckless.

Rafe scoffs, shaking his head. – Oh, here we go.

– You knew exactly what you were doing, – Ward continues, ignoring him. – That mockery at the table was cruel, Rafe. The things you said, I'm surprised she didn't punch you.

Rafe rolls his eyes. – Oh, please—

– Don’t interrupt me, boy.

You felt like you were twelve again.

You might not know the man, but you knew that tone. — It was your father’s go-to, when he wanted you to feel guilty, or inadequate, or whenever he got bored of pretending you weren’t there.

For a second, Rafe almost looks like he might listen. His jaw tightens, and his hand clenches into a fist against the counter, but he doesn’t speak.

Suddenly you wish you could hold him.

Ward crosses his arms, his jaw clenched. – You know damn right you wouldn’t like it if someone spoke about your sisters that way.

Rafe lets out a sharp, bitter laugh. – Yeah, well, I’d never be as much of a cunt as John B is, so we don’t have to worry about that.

Ward’s expression hardens. – Watch your mouth around me, Rafe! I'm not one of your little friends!

– He’s right. – Both men turn toward you, surprised. – Rafe’s right.

You wouldn’t be able to sleep at night if you didn’t say anything, but you’re regretting that instinct even as your eyes meet the floor.

You shift slightly, exhaling through your nose.

You don’t resent your brother. You know what he was trying to do—protect you, in his own stupid, thoughtless way. But the problem with John has never been his heart. It’s always been his temper.

– John doesn’t know when to stop, – you say. – I know he was trying to look out for me, but that’s just it—he doesn’t know when to stop. If I don't walk away when we fight, eventually he just— Your voice dies in your throat. The bruise around your arm throbbing. – It's just like dad all over again.

Rafe doesn’t say anything. He just looks at you, watching, waiting. Then he turns to his father. – I told you so.

Every last bit of calm on Ward's face vanishes:

– Every time I think you’re getting better… – He scoffs. – She’s not shifting the blame, Rafe. You were wrong, and you know that.

Rafe makes a quiet, irritated sound. – Can you spend a second talking without making me the bad guy?! The guy is an asshole, dad. He treats his sister like crap, how do you think he's gonna treat his girlfriend?!

You swallow hard, whispering. – Rafe.

He doesn’t listen. – I mean, look at what this piece of shit did now! You wouldn’t imagine he— He grabs your arm, pulling up the sleeve on your left arm. – grabs like a fucking—

– Please!

You don’t know what to do. You grab his hand, you're still holding onto it as you focus on your breathing, trying not to cry.

Rafe stops.

His shoulders shift, almost sinking into himself.

He’s standing frozen before you as if you’d just slapped him, his eyes wide again.

You don’t have to say it twice.

He lowers his head, and quietens his tone, squeezing your hand in his as he whispers – I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. That was shitty. I shouldn’t have done that.

The words lingers between you, his father suddenly silent, almost stunned.

– It’s okay. – His hand clutches yours tighter. He almost seems guilty. You pull the sleeve back down. – John does have a temper, but this was a mistake. He’d never hit me, even though he hates me right now. And he’d never hit Sarah either. Never.

You turn, unsure of what else to say, and your eyes fall back on Ward. The shock on his face is not hard to miss, barely a raise of a brow as his lips part open for a moment, he steps closer, placing a hand on his son's shoulder before he can give away anything else. But you catch it. That sudden shock on his face. – Go to bed, Rafe.

The boy’s tone is softer, but no less annoyed: – Dad,

Ward looks at you for a moment, then looks back at Rafe, almost cautious, as if he’s trying something out. – Please, – You feel Rafe’s grip on your hand tighten, and loosen again.

– You should rest. – Your voice is sweet, you know that. It's a low blow. But the shock on Mr. Cameron’s face stirs a question up in you. You’re not exactly sure of what that is, but there’s something there you need to probe.

And though Rafe hardens for a split second, you feel some tension leave him along with a breath as his eyes meet yours. His expression softens, his jaw unclenches, but he looks like a kid who's just been told off, all unkempt anger and barely restrained complaints.

So you keep going. – I'm gonna get you some painkillers. – You brush your fingers over his hand, soft, quick, thoughtless, but he chases that touch as you move away to get him some water and the naproxen in your purse. You can feel him watching you as you fill a glass with water, and when you put your purse next to him, he starts looking at it, playing with the clasps and toying with your keychains. – Here. You should close your blinds, and have some tea. I can bring it up to you.

He breathes, laughs. The stress in his face turning into something like amusement.

He lays your purse on his lap, patiently taking the pill and the water. His eyes still cling to you as his throat bobs, draining the cup as quickly as possible.

He seems so much calmer as he hands the cup back to you.

It worked. – Thanks, newbie. – He hums, with half a smile on his face, almost resigned. – I hate tea, though. File that for later.

– Filed. – You nod. – Do you need anything else?

– Yeah. – You're glad to hear him laugh, lighter now, with ease. – For you to quit doing those puppy dog eyes at me. It's breaking my heart.

You take back your hands, putting them over your eyes. Rafe chuckles, and you can see the smile even with your eyes closed— Sweet, soft— It's even sweeter when your hands fall back beside you again. – Better now?

– Yeah. I’ll see you tomorrow?

– Eight AM on the dot, just like my boss told me to.

– That’s a good girl. – He hums, and stands, his eyes darker, his smile wider as he stands barely an inch away from you, and then moves again. – Night, newbie.

– Sleep well, Rafe.

The last you hear of him is a hum, something between a chuckle and a sigh, as he walks out of the kitchen, ignoring his father entirely.

Ward exhales slowly, his fingers smoothing over the cuffs of his sleeves. His gaze lingers on the door Rafe just walked through, his expression unreadable.

Then, suddenly, his eyes flick over to you.

You stiffen, instinctively straightening your posture. Your hands twitch at your sides, unsure whether you should be standing at attention or making yourself small.

– I’m really sorry about all of this, – You blurt out, voice steady despite the tension. – I didn’t mean for any of it to—

Ward lifts a hand, cutting you off mid-sentence.

– I don’t need your apology, – He says simply. – I need professionalism.

You nod quickly. – Yes, sir.

His lips press together, but not in disapproval. If anything, he seems almost pleased. Not overtly—nothing as obvious as a smile—but in the way his eyes narrow just slightly, as if filing your response away somewhere important.

He studies you for a long moment before speaking again.

– You handled that well, you know, given the situation.

You don’t know if that’s meant to be a compliment. You don’t know if you want it to be.

You're not sure you agree either, as the remnants of a racing pulse are still running slower under your skin.

– Thank you, sir.

– I have an older brother. – He says, almost like an afterthought. – He treats me just like that, like I'm the problem, as if I'm not the one who works. I know I wouldn’t be able to keep a straight face if I showed up to my place of work and he was there. Most people would have let their emotions get the better of them. Especially with Rafe.

You tilt your head without realizing, but you nod, and even if half-unconsciously, he keeps going.

– He gets that from his mother. Nothing in this world pleases him more than getting under people's skin. – Ward’s gaze flicks to the washcloth still clutched in your hands, the ice inside melting slowly, dripping down your wrist. His head tilts slightly, considering. – He didn't get under your skin, though. I thought you would punch him, with everything he kept throwing at you. But you de-escalated him at every turn.

– That's my job.

He hums, and you can see him file that response somewhere in his mind.

– How old are you?

The question throws you for a second, but you don’t let it show.

– I'll be eighteen in a couple of weeks, sir.

His brows raise slightly. Not in surprise—more like interest. Like he wasn’t expecting that answer, but it fits into whatever equation he’s solving in his head.

– You worked at The Wreck before this?

– Yes, sir.

– For how long?

– Three and a half years.

He makes a quiet noise in his throat, almost amused. – Started young, then. – You nod. – And what did you do there?

– I was a roast chef.

His lips twitch, like he’s waiting for something more. – A good one?

You hesitate, but not for long. – Yes.

That earns a small nod from him, his gaze flickering over you like he’s weighing something, testing something.

He watches you a second longer, then exhales, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. There’s a sense of finality in the movement, but it's not dismissal. It's not exactly approval either, but he seems pleased, the way a child is pleased when they figure out their homework.

– You can leave after you clean up. – He says. – I’ll see you tomorrow.

It’s not a compliment, but it feels like it. The fact that there is work tomorrow after such a giant crisis is the greatest reassurance you can receive.

And as he walks away, you realize that Ward Cameron isn’t just assessing you.

He’s pleased with what he sees.

The relief sinks into you like a carbon tablet, and it fizzles out slowly as you go through the motions, cleaning, putting away and writing down the rough draft for tomorrow’s breakfast. Halfway through 8 PM you realize that Kareem won’t return, so you follow Ward’s orders, and gather your things to leave.

The night air is thick and warm as you step outside, the damp heat of the island settling against your skin as you clutch your purse to your side. The driveway stretches long and empty before you, the distant glow of the streetlights barely cutting through the dark.

You exhale, adjusting the strap of your bag over your shoulder. Walk or call someone? Neither option seems particularly appealing at the moment. Walking means at least forty minutes alone in the sticky night air, but calling someone—JJ, since he’s your only option now—means answering questions you don’t have the energy for.

You’re still mulling over your options when you hear it.

Footsteps behind you.

You turn, and there he is.

Ward Cameron stands in the doorway, his silhouette sharp against the dim light spilling from the house. His posture is relaxed, but his gaze is focused—zeroed in on you with that same unreadable expression.

There’s something familiar about it. Something you’ve seen before.

On Rafe.

That realization sits uneasily in your stomach, but you push it down, straightening as he steps closer.

– You’re not driving? – he asks, voice smooth. Casual.

You shake your head. – I don’t have a car.

He hums, as if he already knew that.

– How were you planning to get home?

You hesitate. – God gave me legs, figured I should use them.

His gaze flicks toward the road, the dark stretch of asphalt cutting through the island. His lips press together, but this time, in something closer to disapproval.

– I’ll drive you, – he says simply.

It’s not a question.

– Oh— You shake your head quickly, forcing a polite smile. – That’s really not necessary, sir. I can—

– I insist.

You swallow. – I don’t want to be any trouble.

His head tilts slightly, studying you. Then he exhales, slow and measured, as if he’s amused by your reluctance.

– You think it’s trouble to drive one of my employees home?

You don’t know how to answer that without making it worse.

His eyes flicker, something sharp and knowing flashing behind them. – It’s late, – he says, like that alone settles the matter. – And I’d rather not hear about something happening to you on your way home.

The words are simple, but the weight behind them isn’t. It’s not concern. Not exactly. It’s something else—something quieter, something calculated.

Something distinctly Cameron.

He doesn’t give you another chance to argue. He just gestures toward the car, expectant, almost commanding.

You hesitate for half a second longer, then nod.

Because really, what else can you do?

You slip into the passenger seat as he slides behind the wheel, the doors shutting with a quiet finality.

The engine purrs to life, and as Ward pulls out of the driveway, the silence between you settles thick.

You glance at him from the corner of your eye. His grip is firm on the steering wheel, his posture at ease. But his gaze—steady, focused—flicks toward you briefly, that same unreadable look lingering.

The same look Rafe always has.

You exhale slowly, shifting your gaze out the window.

The drive stretches ahead, the road dark and winding.

And you’re not quite sure where you stand anymore.

The low hum of the car engine fills the silence between you, steady and rhythmic. The road stretches dark and empty ahead, the occasional flicker of streetlights casting brief shadows across Ward’s face.

You keep your gaze out the window, watching the shapes blur past, but you can feel his attention shift. The weight of his gaze settling on you, sharp and deliberate.

– You seem to know Rafe well.

It’s not quite a question.

Your fingers twitch in your lap.

– I— You hesitate, just for a second. – I wouldn’t say well.

Ward hums like he’s considering that. Like he doesn’t quite believe you.

– So how did you two meet?

You knew this was coming.

Your pulse ticks up, but you keep your face even, your voice smooth. Lies are easier to tell when they aren’t really lies. When they’re just stretched-out versions of the truth.

You inhale, carefully measured. – We were supposed to go to a party together. – Ward doesn’t react. Just keeps driving, keeps listening. – But he got sick, – you continue. – I stayed with him and drove him home.

A pause.

You glance at him from the corner of your eye. His expression hasn’t changed much, but there’s something—something—about the way he exhales through his nose.

Like he’s remembering something.

– And when was that? – he asks, almost casually.

You swallow. – A couple days ago.

Ward laughs. But it’s not really a laugh. More of a sharp exhale, dry and humorless.

– That makes sense.

You stiffen slightly. – What do you mean?

Ward doesn’t answer right away. He turns onto a quieter stretch of road, the car gliding smoothly through the empty streets. His grip on the steering wheel is loose, relaxed, but his voice is steady when he speaks again.

– I’ve been wondering what’s gotten into him these past few days, – he says, almost like he’s thinking aloud. – He’s been… different.

Different.

You don’t know what to make of that.

– He’s always been agitated, – Ward continues, his tone even. – But lately, it’s like he’s been looking for something. Distracted. He's at home a lot more than he used to be.

His eyes flick to you, sharp and searching.

You keep your face carefully neutral. – I wouldn’t know anything about that, sir.

Ward hums again, low and thoughtful.

– No, – He says. – I suppose you wouldn’t.

But the way he says it makes you think he’s not entirely convinced.

The silence stretches again, thicker this time.

And you get the unsettling sense that Ward Cameron is still putting something together.

Ward doesn’t say anything for a long moment. The silence isn’t exactly uncomfortable, but it isn’t easy either. It stretches between you, thick and heavy, like he’s waiting to see if you’ll break it first.

You don’t.

His fingers drum against the steering wheel once. Twice. Then—

– He didn’t give you any trouble, did he?

The question is casual, but the way he asks it isn’t. His voice is light, but his gaze flickers to you, sharp and waiting.

You shake your head. – No, sir.

Ward exhales through his nose. He doesn’t look convinced.

– Rafe can be a handful, – he muses, like he’s not really talking to you, more to himself. – Always has been. He was a good kid, though. Smart.

The words are nostalgic, almost distant, but there’s an undercurrent of something else there. Something measured.

– Still is, – you offer carefully.

Ward huffs out a small, dry laugh. – You think so?

You hesitate. – I think so, sir. – You swallow, all the recent interactions reeling through your mind like a movie. – I'd say he's a people person, though. Read me like a book. My brother too. – He looks at you as you look away. – They did know each other for longer, but, it's like he knows him in his marrow.

– Mm. – He watches the road for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then— You said this was a couple days ago?

Your stomach twists, but you keep your voice steady. – Yes, sir.

Ward nods, slow and thoughtful. His knuckles tighten just slightly around the wheel. – That would explain the missing motorcycle.

You still.

He doesn’t look at you, but you can feel the weight of his words. The way they settle in the space between you, thick with meaning.

You don’t know what to say. What answer he’s looking for.

Ward exhales, shaking his head slightly. – Doesn’t matter, – He says. – I’m sure it’ll turn up.

Your fingers curl in your lap.

The street lights flicker past, the golden glow casting fleeting shadows across his face. He’s still thinking—you can see it, the way his jaw shifts slightly, the way his fingers tap absently against the leather of the steering wheel.

Then, finally, he speaks again.

– Rafe doesn’t take to people quickly, – He says, almost musing. – Never has.

There’s something off about the way he says it. Like it’s not a compliment.

You keep your voice neutral. – I wouldn’t know, sir.

Another hum. Another glance in your direction.

– But you’re here.

You swallow. – I needed the job.

Ward nods slowly, like he’s filing that response away. – Smart girl.

The words settle in your chest, heavier than they should, and you don’t quite know what to make of them. The car stops. You're in front of your house, you realize, and he’s still looking at you. – Aren’t you gonna thank me for the ride?

He chuckles, lightly, and you have to force yourself to smile back. – Thank you for the ride, Mr. Cameron.

– I'll see you soon.

– You bet. – The door doesn't open when you reach for it, you move two other times before you look back at him.

Ward is sitting still.

Watching.

Waiting.

Then as if it was nothing, he smiles again, laughs, and unlocks the door. – Sleep well, Routledge.

You do your best to maintain your smile.

– Thank you, sir.

You step out of the car, your pulse a dull, an erratic thrum in your throat. The weight of Ward’s gaze lingers long after his car disappears down the street, swallowed by the dark.

You exhale, rolling your shoulders, trying to shake off the unease.

And then you see it, right there, bathed in shadow, almost invisible as it leans againt the tree: yellow and red metal.

Rafe’s bike.

The porch light flickers against the metal frame, casting long shadows across the muddy driveway. The sight of it turns your stomach to ice.

What the hell is he doing here?

You don’t think—you just move.

The door creaks as you push inside, the house bathed in stretching darkness. The kitchen window lets in a sliver of moonlight, cutting across the counter in a thin silver line. The furniture sits in silhouette, familiar shapes swallowed by shadows. It feels empty—like the air itself is holding its breath.

You look over your shoulder at John's door.

The only glow in the house seeps from the cracks beneath it, a warm, flickering light bleeding into the hall. His voice is a low murmur, sharp and frustrated, barely intelligible from behind the thick wooden door, tangled with Sarah’s. The words are indistinct, but you can hear the tension, the way it scrapes against the walls.

Your stomach tightens.

If Rafe is here, he’s not with them.

Which means—

Your grip tightens around the strap of your bag as you take careful steps toward your room. The ground creaking beneath you, that sound sets your nerves alight.

You push open your bedroom door. The air inside is still. Undisturbed.

The thought barely forms before you turn toward your dresser and freeze.

There’s someone sitting on your bed, but it isn’t Rafe.

Your eyes drag over the cut on the jeans, caked with dry blood. The heavy boots, still powdered by dirt, the black wife beater.

Your stomach drops.

Barry.

He’s barely visible in the dim light, his posture relaxed but… off. One arm draped over his knee, the other flicking something between his fingers. Your lighter.

His gaze flicks to yours, cautious, almost nervous.

– Hey, sweetheart. – He says quietly, his voice is thick, slow, like he’s thinking too much about every word.

Your breath catches in your throat.

He flips the lighter open with a click, the flame briefly illuminating his face before he snaps it shut again. He doesn’t smirk, doesn’t grin. He just watches you.

– I— He exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw. – I know I shouldn’t be here.

You don’t move as he stands, nearing you. His face shifts, almost hurt.

He clears his throat, tapping the lighter against his palm. – Door was unlocked.

You swallow hard.

His eyes flick over you, searching, like he’s trying to gauge whether or not you’re going to kick him out. He shifts slightly, closer than he was before, expectant, uncomfortable.

Then, voice quieter—almost hesitant—

– Can we talk?

@chatgtfo @bitterdotcom @xmayankax @bluethperson @coralblue35 @myluvingera @munsoncultedits @the-bitch-who-binges @im-julessssss @redkarmakai @hwaaholic @sydkneez @sassyvillaintrophy

[bonnie-the-butcher]

Rip Tide | Chapter VIII

[ MDNI ] [ word count: 7.289 ] [ Masterlist ] 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬: Canonverse/Canon-Divergent; Dark! Content; NSFW; Strong Language; Cheating; Drug Use; Mentions of overdose; Some shades of Munchausen syndrome from dear old Rafe; Manipulation; Toxic, obsessive behaviour; Stalking; Violence; DUBCON/NONCON; My writing is really pretentious and English is not my first language, so please feel free to call me out in whichever grammar mistakes you might find find.

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | You and JJ have always been in each other's orbit. He's your brother’s best friend, the guy you've known your entire life. He was kind, protective, familiar. You never meant for the two of you to start hooking up. And you never meant for it to last so long. But when this boy you thought you'd come to know like the back of your hand turns out to be no better than the men he'd warned you about, you find yourself in the sights of the guy he hates most, regardless of wether you want that or not.

Likes, asks, reblogs, and comments are always greatly appreciated! Thank you in advance for reading <3

Silence weighs heavy in the kitchen as Rafe remains there, in the door, looking at you. His smirk widens, a flash of perfectly straight teeth between his swollen lips. – The new chef, huh? You already hired?

Kareem stands, frantically wiping his hands on his apron. – Mr. Cameron, this is—

– I was talking to her. – He takes his time scanning the room, gaze sweeping over the kitchen like he’s searching for something out of place, something to pick apart. When his eyes land on Kareem, there’s a flicker of amusement, barely there before it smooths into something more polished, more calculated. He gives you a slow, easy smile, practiced like the rest of him. – Didn’t know we were hiring new help.

Kareem only barely bites back whatever it was that flashed over his face so violently.

Rafe exhales a short laugh, like he’s humoring him. He moves closer, leaning against the counter like he’s settling in for a show, and pushes at your plate. – So? What's on the menu?

Kareem puts his fork down, fidgeting with his hands. – Lunch’s already in the making. The new hire was just showing off.

Rafe’s eyes flick back to you, trailing down to the plate before drifting back up. – Was she now? – The way he says it makes your skin prickle. Like he’s talking about a trick dog instead of a person. Like the whole thing is some private joke only he’s in on. – Damn, – He whistles, tilting his head. – Guess we’re getting fancy. You go to culinary school or something?

You hold his gaze, forcing your shoulders to stay squared. You don’t know what game he’s playing at, but you’re almost thankful he’s pretending not to know you. – No, sir. Just experience.

– Sir? You serious? – Rafe grins. – I like it. Real respectful. Could use more of that around here.

There’s an edge to it. A warning disguised as praise. You don’t miss the way Kareem stiffens slightly, the way his grip tightens around the fabric of his sleeve. Rafe doesn’t like him. That much is obvious. But more than that—he likes making sure Kareem knows it.

He reaches for the plate without asking, plucking a piece of cornbread from the edge. He takes a slow bite, exaggerating the motion like he’s savoring it, like he’s considering whether or not to spit it out. Then he hums, licking a crumb from his hand.

His eyes gleam as when he meets your gaze. – Not bad.

– Glad it meets your standards. – You say evenly.

His eyes flick back up, a flash of something sharper beneath the surface. – Careful, – he warns, low and amused. – Flattery’ll get you everywhere.

Kareem shifts beside you, his hand landing on your shoulder as if he's trying to tranquilize you. He's shaking. – Mr. Cameron, is there anything we can do for you?

Rafe doesn’t move. Just chews, watching you with the kind of patience that isn’t patience at all. – Yeah. Well, not you. But maybe she can do it. – He takes your fork, scooping up some of your mashed potatoes. – Lamb roast, like the one at the Wreck. Kareem over here always fumbles it, his lamb tastes like beef jerky.

– Mr. Cameron, the supper’s already planned.

– Well, then, un-plan it. – He says as if it’s the simplest thing in the world, taking some more chicken and mash from your plate, and chewing slowly. – We have a very special dinner guest coming over and I want that lamb for dinner. So chop chop. Go ahead and buy the things. I wanna see if your new hire really is up to my standards. – He looks back at you, mischief glinting off his eyes. – Right, newbie?

You let your eyes drift back to Kareem, nodding quietly. – I think I can handle a second interview.

– Great! – Rafe’s smile is almost innocent, he chuckles lightly, his shoulder brushing yours. – Off you go, Kareem. She can handle a second interview.

The man’s eyes linger on you for a moment. His brows drawn together, eyes overtaken by worry. His lips fall open, but they close again as he reaches for a tote bag on the back door. – I won’t be long.

It's a reassurance, you realize, but as soon as the door closes Rafe starts laughing like a child, covering his mouth as he leans into your side.

– Are you always this charming?

– You know I am, baby. That's what you like about me. – You don’t know what to say. A twinge of discomfort still lingers in your chest after watching Rafe treat poor Kareem, who ranks much higher than you, as if he was nothing. – So… – He pokes at you, eyes wide and intent, and pulls the chair behind you closer with a grin. – You’re officially employed now, huh?

– You could say so.

– You know what that means? – He takes another bite of the chicken and hums, happily. Happier than you’ve ever seen him.

You sit down, and he pulls your chair even closer, his knee brushing yours. – That I don’t have to worry about starving anymore because you saved my ass?

Rafe chuckles, the sound light and careless. He seems so different like this. So different from the guy that was bullying one of his employees not a minute ago. – That too. But mostly, that you’ll have to fulfill all of my cravings, no matter how insane.

His eyes darken as he leans close. You don’t miss the suggestiveness, but you look around, at this giant, pristine kitchen, at the calm surrounding you, at this perfect new job you only have because of Rafe.

You don’t have it in you to be bothered for much longer.

Things never go your way.

You might as well enjoy the smooth sailing while it lasts. – Tell me about these cravings then. I know you like my lamb roast. – He nods, taking the other fork on the counter and handing it to you. – What else do you like?

– Tryna get to know me huh? That's cute.

– Go ahead, Rafe. I’ll make it easy for you: Favorite soup, favorite roast, favorite pastry.

He looks at you, challenge glinting off his eyes. – You’re the professional here, aren’t you? Let’s see if you can guess my taste. Give me your palm reading.

– Palm reading? – You laugh. – I’m a psychic now? Shit, I gotta put that on my resume.

– You’re not gonna put shit in your resume. This is your job now. You ain’t getting fired.

His words are even, level, almost casual. Like he hadn't thought before the words left his mouth. But he is still pressed against you, holding up the fork as an invitation, an attempt to make you feel part of his world.

You take the fork from his hand, twirling it between your fingers as you watch him. His expression changes then. He looks so smug, so sure you’ll get it wrong. But you’re good at this. You've never been good with yourself, but you've always been good at people.

– Alright. Let’s see… – You lean back slightly, crossing one leg over the other. His knee is still brushing yours. – Favorite soup? French Onion.

The smirk on his lips twitches, almost falters. You know you have him.

– Interesting. Why?

– You like rich food. Heavy, but classic. Something you’d get at a steakhouse or some bougie country club dinner with your dad. Here's the thing though, I think, for you it has to be indulgent. Something you could eat for days. It's gotta be tasty.

He nods. – That’s what I'm talking about.

– Cheese too. I bet you put a lot of cheese on your soup. What do you like?

He smiles, leaning so close he's almost glued to your side. – I like a good Gruyere.

– Okay, fancy!

– I'm a man of culture, okay?

– I see it. – You tilt your head, watching his reaction. – That’s my first guess. Am I wrong?

His tongue darts out, running along the edge of his teeth. As if he's thinking about it. – Not bad. Not bad at all, baby.

You grin, triumphant. – Roast is easy. Man like you? Only one option: Prime rib. You like it rare, still bleeding.

His brows lift, eyes gleaming with something between amusement and genuine curiosity.

– You sure about that?

– Oh, I am positive. Lamb is still your number one, but prime rib is a close second. You wouldn’t go for anything too gamey—no pork, no turkey, chicken only if it's fried. – He laughs, the bone of your fried chicken still in his hand. – You like the expensive stuff. The things other people think are only good because they cost a lot, but that are actually better than the rest.

Rafe lets out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. – You really think you know me, huh?

– Oh, I do.

He’s still grinning, but there’s something sharper in his gaze now, like he’s sizing you up in a way he hadn’t before.

– Alright, psychic. Last one.

You take a beat, tapping the fork against your lip.

– Pastry… You pretend you don’t have a sweet tooth, but you totally do. – His smile sharpens. Rafe licks his lips slowly, his gaze fixed on your mouth. – You’d never admit it, though. So it has to be something subtle. Not over-the-top, nothing too sugary. – You pause for effect, then snap your fingers. – Madame Routledge says... Chocolate croissant.

Rafe stares at you, and for a second, you think you’ve finally missed. But then he lets out a small tsk, shaking his head. – Close.

– Close?

– Chocolate éclair.

Your mouth opens, then closes. That’s—okay, that actually makes perfect sense. – Damn. That was my second guess.

Rafe grins, tilting his head as he leans in just a little closer. – Sure it was. – You narrow your eyes at him, but you’re smiling too. – You’re kind of freaky, you know that? – he mutters, taking another bite of your chicken.

– And you’re easy to read.

His smirk deepens, his knee pressing just a little firmer against yours.

– I’ll let you think that.

– Okay, Bella Swan. What else do I need to guess? – You smirk, teasing him back as your hand grips your cup. You’re not intimidated, but it’s hard to ignore how his presence seems to consume the space around you.

He leans back in his chair, watching you with a new kind of amusement. The food he's eaten entirely, almost licked the plate clean, and even as the plate lies between you two, there’s still an unspoken hunger in the air, only it’s not the kind that comes from a full stomach.

– My favorite drink. What do you think? – He takes your glass and runs his thumb along the rim, gaze never leaving yours. There’s a definite playfulness to his tone, but it’s mixed with a touch of challenge. He’s testing you now.

– It’s hard. – You tilt your head, putting your water down. – Scotch. Or something with vodka, maybe a Moscow Mule if you’re trying to play classy.

– Oh, I see, you think you’ve got me pegged now. – His lips curl up. There’s that cocky smirk again. – I do like a good scotch. But you missed one.

Your brow furrows. – What'd I miss?

Rafe’s eyes gleam with something almost conspiratorial as he leans in, lowering his voice. – Gin. The real gentleman's drink. Never would’ve guessed that, huh?

You blink, surprised yet somehow not. – I'll give you that one. You’re full of surprises.

– I like to keep people guessing. – His voice is low, and there’s something almost predatory about the way he’s watching you.

Before you can respond, he casually throws another challenge your way, his eyes alight with the thrill of the game.

– Alright, let’s go for the ultimate test. You ready?

You laugh lightly, rolling your eyes. – Born ready.

He leans even closer, his lips just barely brushing your ear. – Guilty pleasure.

You pause. He’s looking at you like he’s about to tell you something you’re not supposed to know. You lean in, matching his intensity. – What is it? It's something sweet isn't it?

– Peach pie. – He drops the bomb like it’s the most casual thing in the world, his grin only widening at your confused expression. – I eat the whole damn thing. Never fails. It’s the one thing that can put me in a good mood, no matter what’s going on.

You blink, trying to process it. – Rafe Cameron... peach pie? – You let out a small, incredulous laugh. – You? The ‘I’m so fancy’ guy? Eating peach pie like it's your last meal?

He doesn’t flinch, just smirks. – Hey, don’t knock it ‘til you try it. It’s the filling, sweet, juicy—and the crust? It hits every spot.

You shake your head in disbelief, but you can’t hide your smile. – I guess I see it.

His hand moves, brushing against yours again as his eyes drop to your lips for a moment. – What else do you think you can guess? Maybe... – He trails off, leaning back slightly, a new challenge in his gaze. – ...a favorite movie?

You smirk knowingly. – That’s easy. The one you would say, is The Godfather. Definitely. Eldest son of a legendary man, making the world his own? That's all you, Rafe. – There’s a different glint to his eye now, his smile softens, his eyes round the slightest bit, like one of the walls he's put up just fell to his feet around the both of you. – But that's not your favorite is it? It's cool, but it can get a little boring. Not the sort of thing you re-watch. You like a little feel-good.

– You're getting colder…

– I think... Men in Black?

Rafe laughs. – Nope. – He leans in again, lowering his voice just for you. – Shrek.

You blink at him. – Shrek? – You can’t contain your laughter. It feels so fitting, just the right amount of darkness with a lot of humor. It's Rafe to a T.

He grins wickedly. – What? I like the layers. I’m a complicated guy.

You shake your head, laughing. – Of course you do. You’re a walking contradiction, Rafe.

Rafe leans back in his chair again, that infuriating smugness back on his face. – That’s what makes me interesting.

You narrow your eyes, but your smile says it all. – So, what’s your real secret then? You’ve been dropping little hints, but I think I got you figured out.

He grins, standing up to grab the bottle of scotch. – Not yet, that’s-so-Raven. You still have a lot to learn.

He pours himself a drink, you can’t help but wonder if maybe—just maybe—he’s starting to enjoy the game as much as you are. – You want me to dig deeper? Think you can handle that?

– Oh, I can handle it. – He dawns the drink in one breath, flopping back on the seat right in front of you.

– Give me your hands, traveler. Let's see what’s written in your soul. – He’s laughing as he hands himself over, you can see the smallest of shivers blooming in his arms as you cart a finger through the lines of his right hand. – Favorite color, favorite season, favorite ice cream.

– You’re never gonna guess that. None of that.

– Wanna bet?

– What do I get when I win?

– Don’t jump the gun yet, mr. This-is-my-swamp-Corleone. I have not yet revealed all of my talents. – He raises a brow, licking his lips as his eyes trail down your body.

– I’m hoping you’ll show me the talent I’m thinking about when I win.

– Hilarious.

– I’ll guess you! – He grins. – Best of three, how bout that? Loser drinks with every wrong one.

You can feel the smirk tugging at your lips before you even speak. – Someone’s getting cocky.

– I don’t get cocky. I just know you’re not gonna get it.

– You better not bet a drink then. You’ll be owing me a bottle when I’m done with you.

– Fine then, baby. – His eyes flick to your lips. – A kiss then, loser kisses where the winner says.

– With this lipstick? You’re out of your mind.

– I don’t mind if you leave a mark. I like it. – You can see the gears turning in his head. – C’mon. Is someone gonna chicken out?

– Oh, you’re on, mister. Me first. Your favorite color: Judging by the fact that every shirt I’ve ever seen you wear is blue, and your shoes are blue, and your comforter is blue, and your eyes are blue, this is a really tough one. I’d say, blue.

– What kind of blue?

– So I’m right! – You can’t help the giggle. You’ve always been competitive, and this day has you in such a good mood, it falls from your lips before you can even think.

– No! You gotta guess the shade too!

– What am I, home depot? Nobody’s painting walls here, just accept that I won!

– Okay, okay. Where do I kiss? – You laugh, take back your right hand, and point to the floor. It takes Rafe a minute to follow the line. – You’re absolutely hilarious, y’know that?

– I don’t know why you think I’m joking.

– Where do I kiss you?

– Changing the rules, now, Mr. Cameron? – He doesn’t even answer, just leans closer, a smile bright on his face as he pulls back your shirt to kiss your collarbone. His lips remain there for a moment, brushing against your skin like he’s savoring every second. – Sore loser.

– We’ll see who’s losing next. – He squeezes your nose in his fingers as he pulls back, still smiling. – Go ahead. What’s my favorite season?

– Summer.

– You think I’m that much of a plebe?

– Plebe, really?! – You’re laughing now, and he’s holding both our legs as he pulls his chair closer, until his is less than a foot away from yours. – You are a sociological experience, Rafe.

– Wrong. – You can see the pleasure it gives him to say that. – My knee.

You can’t even help the scoff. – You’re wearing pants.

– I can take them off, if you want. – He's squeezing you know, eyes glinting with something almost possessive.

– That's funny. It's just gonna stain.

– Maybe I want it to stain. – He hums, hooking his right hand under your knees and pulling you closer. – Now, you get down there and kiss me.

You shake your head, laughing, but stay put. He doesn’t wanna play your game, might as well play by your own rules.

So you lean in a little closer, just enough that you can feel his breath hitch against your skin, and pull at the collar of his polo. Your lips land just where his had, on the collarbone, and Rafe chuckles lowly, humming with his hand in your hair, keeping you there until you pull away.

You watch the shape of your lips peek from under the cotton of his shirt, deep red and perfectly contoured. It almost seemed like a tattoo. – Your favorite ice cream now. – His fingers are still tangled in the strands of your hair, warm as anything, but still as a stone. – You are a man of hedonisms. You like it sweet, rich, flavorful. But, you are also very layered.

– Thank you.

– That’s nothing. My guess is something indulgent, that’s sweet but not too sweet. Some different textures, some contrasting flavors. A rocky road, if you will. – He smiles, defeated. And you know you read him like a book. – I told you I was good. If I may go a little deeper?

– Go as deep as you want.

– Your perfect rocky road is the dutch chocolate one, with hazelnuts, and marshmallow bits.

– Marshmallow swirl. – He corrects.

– Damn. – You snap your fingers, earning a laugh out of Rafe. – I’ve gotta give it to you, there is not a single thing in your list that is even remotely dubious. Everything is undeniably great.

– That’s who I am. Perfect all-round

You laugh. – Conceited, much?

– Honest. – He corrects. – Now you.

You’re shaking your head before he even starts. – This is not about me.

– You think you’re that hard to guess?

– You’ll never know, Rafe. I will never tell you. My mama always said, remain a creature of mystery. Otherwise people get bored and fuck off. – Rafe raises a brow. – Yeah, that’s it. That’s her whole philosophy.

– Sounds like a bitch. – You laugh, and he does too. You feel a little lighter. – But lets get into it. I wanna know you too.

– That’s too damn bad.

– That's not fair now, baby. You had an advantage.

– Oh, boo-hoo. – You grin. – Told you I would win.

– I still have to kiss you somewhere else.

You hum, tapping your finger on your chin as you smile. Rafe doesn’t even seem angry, his eyes just glint darkly.

You extend your hand. – As Rodrigo Borgia said to Caterina of Forli: Kiss the ring, bitch.

Rafe’s laughter echoes in your ear, low and rich with something dangerous as he takes your hand, his fingers curling around yours. He leans in, lips inches from your hand, but instead of kissing your hand, he trails his mouth up to your neck.

– Careful, – You murmur, almost smiling as you press your palm to his chest, trying to push him away, but his lips keep moving against your skin.

– You said I had to kiss somewhere else. – He whispers, his voice muffled against your neck as he pulls you closer, his hand sliding to your back, pulling you into his body. His other hand is still entwined in your hair, gently tugging to hold you in place.

You roll your eyes, amused by his persistence. But just as you're about to push him off again, something startles you. His phone, tucked in his pocket, rings—a sharp, sudden sound that cuts through the tension between you two.

Rafe groans, pulling away from your neck, a growl of frustration slipping from his lips. His eyes narrow. – No way, – He mutters, already diving in again.

You stop him. – Could be important.

He glances at the screen, and his irritation becomes palpable, the muscle in his jaw ticking as he stares at the name flashing on the display. It’s his father. You can see it clearly from here.

– It’s him, – Rafe mutters under his breath, exhaling sharply through his nose. The smirk he had on his lips fades slightly, replaced by an edge of annoyance. – Of course it's him.

You can’t help but feel the shift in the energy between you two, but you lean back, giving him space to take the call if he has to. – Go ahead. I should get back to work, my boss is really strict.

He shoots you a glare, but there’s something almost resigned in the way he looks at the phone.

– I don’t have a choice, do I? – He leans back in his chair, running a hand through his hair before answering the call. His voice is low, almost cold as he speaks into the phone, and you can’t help but notice the way the playful, carefree Rafe fades with each word exchanged.

The call doesn't last long, just a bunch of monotone sounds from Rafe, who sits there, sulking, as you clean up and start chopping vegetables. When he eventually hangs up, there's an unsettling silence from him. Rafe sighs, his hand running over his face in frustration.

– Bastard. – he mutters, more defeated than you’ve ever heard him. He looks at you, his eyes softening, but the playfulness is gone. – Guess you got lucky this time, – He says, the words carrying a weight that wasn’t there before.

– No big deal, I can always beat your ass later.

Rafe leans back in his chair, and stands, coming closer. He doesn’t answer immediately, his eyes distant for a moment as he comes up behind you, looking at your work as he leans his chin on your shoulder. – I have to go.

– It's okay. I'll catch up with you later.

He doesn’t seem to hear you. Instead his arms snake around your waist, face burying deeper into your neck.

You look over your shoulder, hoping Kareem is still far.

– Your father's gone, right?

The question stops you cold. The knife in your hand suddenly feeling heavy. – Yeah.

Rafe burrows in a little closer, breathing you in. – Did you ever wish he would drop dead? – A shiver tears through you as he remains there, holding you in that iron grip, as if he was physically grounding himself, as if his father might burst through the doors and try to drag him away.

You think about it, but you don't have to.

The answer is easy enough.

A thousand times.

Every time you walked into a room he was in, he'd sigh, heavy, as if your presence alone made the space uncomfortable. At some point, you stopped wishing you'd die, and transferred over that rage to him.

Whenever he scoffed at you, you prayed for a heart attack.

When he cursed at you, you wished he'd be mugged in the street.

When he grabbed you, when he'd pull you around, your thoughts got more violent. They worsened and worsened until the day he slapped you, and you found yourself laying on the floor, digging your nails into your hands as you thought about the knives you were always sharpening, sitting there in the drawer, completely unwatched.

You fed on that memory for a while. To the point that every time you saw him you were clenching your fists.

But had you meant it? – Yeah. A couple times.

Rafe doesn’t say anything else. He squeezes you one last time, almost as if plucking the feel of your body against his from that moment. You can feel him hanging onto it as he walks away.

His steps echo loud into the house, beyond the threshold you can step through, and you go through the motions almost robotically, cooking and prepping and cleaning as if it was gonna save you from the thought he’d left you with.

Work goes by smoothly, though your mind remains a wasteland. Kareem is quieter, too, after he returns, and he keeps looking back and forth between what he does and the doorway, a strange resentment burning in his eyes. You don’t meddle, your own spirits low after the talk with Rafe.

Lunch goes by in a blur, even without the chaos of lunch rush at a restaurant. You feel yourself drown out the noise around you, diving completely into the work. Your partner makes a couple comments here and there. He checks your roast, tweaks your reduction, analyses your vegetables. His smile is reassuring everytime he turns to you, tasting this dish and the other with the comically tiny spoon he keeps in a special pocket on his apron, and pats your back like a middle aged dad whenever the servants come in to take your trays away.

– You work quick. – He finally comments, finishing the plate you made for him, as Rose and Ward lunch alone in the dining room. – Every time I looked at you you were doing something else.

– You work quiet. – You smile back, and when he widens his eyes, you immediately clarify. – It’s nice! Like working with a zen master. I’ve never cooked for so long without someone screaming at me.

– Working at a restaurant kitchen makes you feel like the world’s gonna end. – He laughs, but his eyes fall back to the plate, suddenly darkening. – I actually used to have nightmares about burning entrees and being late on mains when I still worked at the bar.

You ponder what to say for a moment, clearly caught in a touchy subject. – I can tell you’re sleeping well, now. Your skin is glowing.

Flattery really does go a long way.

Kareem smiles, finishing his food in silence as you clean up, and the two of you don’t really speak much until the dinner prep starts looming closer.

Supper waits for no one, and Kareem snaps back into focus as the time approaches. — He’s methodical, you admire that in him. —So you follow his lead, letting routine take over, movements automatic as you prepare the kitchen. The momentary stillness gives way to the familiar rhythm of preparation—the clatter of knives, the hum of the oven preheating, the weight of expectation settling over you like a second skin.

You take charge of the entrees and the main dish while Kareem handles the sides. The lamb roast is yours to perfect, its success a quiet challenge, a second interview you refuse to fail. You roll up your sleeves, minding the ingredients you laid out, and get to work.

You begin with the prep, sliding the lamb onto the cutting board, fingers tracing the marbled surface, gauging its density, its fat distribution. A perfect cut. You reach for the boning knife, and trim the excess fat—just enough to allow the seasonings to penetrate deeper, not enough to sacrifice flavor. The rendered trimmings will be saved, melted down for later use. Nothing wasted.

Next, the seasoning. Garlic cloves are smashed under the flat of your knife, their oils bursting free, before you mince them into a fine paste. Rosemary leaves are stripped from their stems, crushed between your fingers, the scent sharp and green. You mix them with flaky sea salt and cracked pepper, the coarse grains binding to the moisture of the garlic. The mixture is worked into the lamb with steady hands, pressing into every groove, every fold of muscle, ensuring the flavors seep into the fibers of the meat.

The pan is already waiting, and you’re happy for the freedom of throwing a healthy dollop of butter on the iron without having to watch out for Anthony’s pretentious complaints. The sizzle is loud as you lay the lamb down. The heat grips the surface, searing it to a perfect crust, the scent of browning fat filling the kitchen. You tilt the pan, spooning the bubbling butter over the top, watching it soak into the herbs and garlic, turning the surface deep amber. When every side is sealed, you transfer it to the preheated oven, where the slow heat will coax out the tenderness, the juices locking in beneath the crisp exterior.

Beside you, Kareem dices vegetables with methodical efficiency, the rhythmic tap of his knife grounding like the hum of a monk deep in prayer. You glance over your shoulder, watching as he peels and slices carrots into thin ribbons, tossing them into a pan where melted butter and honey wait to coat them in a glossy sheen. He looks so peaceful, so in his element. It's almost cute. You catch the faintest scent of citrus as he zests an orange, preparing the glaze for the carrots, and there’s a moment where he looks up, meeting your eyes briefly before returning to his task.

Turning back to your own work, you begin assembling the entrees. You lay out fresh slices of crusty baguette, rubbing each piece with raw garlic before topping them with a blend of ricotta and herbs, the creamy spread flecked with chopped basil and thyme. Cherry tomatoes, roasted until blistered and sweet, are gently pressed atop each slice, their juices seeping into the bread. A final drizzle of balsamic reduction finishes the dish, the deep, tangy aroma curling into the already fragrant air of the kitchen.

By the time everything comes together, the kitchen smells like warmth, like the indulgence you and Rafe spoke of, and you find yourself praying this tops every memory of the lamb he had before, just to give you that reassurance. The roast rests, juices settling beneath its crisp, golden crust, while Kareem plates the sides—a creamy potato purée, the glossy, honey-glazed carrots, a crisp asparagus sauté with almonds. Dessert waits to be finished in the background, Kareem’s perfect pie crust resting easy beside the fresh-chopped peaches you left soaking in syrup, soaking up all the flavor until the moment is right.

You step back, wiping your brow, allowing yourself a moment—just one—to take it in. The meal is set, a quiet triumph, and for now, that’s enough.

Kareem slumps down on the chair as the echo of greeting and bickering in the room next door gives way to the hums and awes of enjoyment. – Who knew art could be so tiring, huh? – You say.

He looks up from his hands, an easy smile on his face, and nods. – “it is, perhaps, the price we pay for love, the cost of commitment.” – The hum coaxes a brow raise from you as you wash your hands again.

– Okay, private school. – You laugh, and catch his shoulders shaking slightly as he watches you. – Care to enlighten the country bumpkin here before you?

– It’s a quote by Colin Murray Parkes.

– The actor?

He laughs even louder, delighted with your lack of poshness. – The psychiatrist. Didn’t you have psychology lessons in your school?

– Does the Outer Banks seem like the sort of place that would offer that curriculum?

– Well, no, of course. But you’re not from here, are you?

You gasp:

– Of course I am. – He doesn’t even pretend to hide his shock. – Born and bred in the OBX.

– Seriously, Routledge. Where did you learn to cook like this? Couldn’t have been here. – You let out an incredulous laugh, but the question is so ridiculous you can’t even find it insulting. – I didn't mean it like—

– I know. – You grin. – I learned how to cook because it’s the only luxury I could have, food can be elevated. It's the other things that are hard to come around. Sometimes I forget you tourons don’t read class cues like the islanders. I’m flattered you even considered the possibility of me being a kook.

– I feel like I’ve just been spoken to in tongues. – It's your turn to laugh again, the genuine bewilderment on his face a joke of its own. – Toro? Like bull?

– You’ve been living here for years and nobody taught you the hierarchy? – He shakes his head, earning more laughter from you. – I’m kinda glad. But here it is: OBX 101, brought to you by a Routledge. So the rich folk, inhabitants of the Figure Eight, this lovely little neighborhood we’re currently in, are the Kooks. Golf players, country club goers, the cream of the crop. Now they’re rich, but not rich like you’re rich.

– I’m not rich. – He pouts, and you have to bite back the brow raise.

– Says the man who had advanced psychology in his high school curriculum. You’re private school. Now, that’s not something to be embarrassed about. But, a pogue, the poor people of the island, the ones that live in the Cut, like me, we can tell.

– I think that’s just you. You get a good read on people. How’d you learn that by the way?

– My older brother who hated me kind of poisoned the well for me when it came to friends. I had to get my hands on whatever outsider I could reach.

Kareem’s brows furrow. – He sounds like a piece of shit.

– He used to be. We’re better now. – He seems unbelieving, but you don’t go any further. – Now you never told me where you’re from, but maybe I can guess you.

– I doubt that. – He says, the hum of his voice low and steady.

You tilt your head, and he smiles at you, signing for you to go on. – You’re a Texan, that much is obvious. By the accent, I’d say Dallas. And you’re a farm boy, clearly old money. Blue blood, boarding school bred.

– I’m from Highland Park. Which is, to your credit, in Dallas. – It feels good to be right. – But I’m not posh.

– Never said you were. – He’s the one raising a brow now, but before he can say anything else, the door opens again.

Daniel, one of the servants, stands there, his face almost worried. – Mr. Cameron asked to see the chef. – Kareem swallows thickly, face suddenly void of all the playfulness he’d had just a moment earlier. But Daniel stops him again. – He asked for her.

You stop cold, heart hammering against your ribs. Daniel’s words echo in your head, but you don’t let yourself hesitate. Kareem steps forward, a steadying head wrapping around your arm. – Hey, don’t worry. Look, they probably just wanna compliment you. That lamb, it was great. Don’t worry about it.

– You don’t know that.

– Routledge, – It's almost pleading, the way he says it. A soft lull of a voice brushing against your ears as he tried to tranquilize you. But it doesn’t help. How often did things go well for you? You should’ve known better than to hope.

– I’ll be right back. – You murmur. Kareem tries to argue, but you’ve brushed past him before he can think to say anything else.

The walk to the dining room feels longer than it should, each step pulling tighter at the knot in your stomach. The hall seems to stretch around you as you reach the warm light bleeding in from the cracked door. You push through it, and immediately, the air thickens.

They’re all there.

It’s Rafe who holds your attention first. He’s leaned back in his chair, a lazy grin on his face, self-satisfied. Like he’s been expecting you. Like he’s enjoying this.

Ward sits at the head of the table, relaxed, a glass of wine in hand. Rose is poised beside him, her smile the perfect shade of contempt. Wheezie barely looks up from her phone, and Sarah… Sarah’s expression falls as she sees you, and she looks up from her plate with something can’t quite place.

Then your eyes shift, and you freeze.

At the opposite end of the table, just beside Sarah, sits your brother.

The sight of him steals the breath from your lungs. His expression is cold, unreadable, but the anger simmering beneath the surface is unmistakable. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Just watches.

Your fingers tighten around the towel in your hands.

– Ah, there she is, – Ward's voice cuts through the silence, warm, approving. – When my son told me he had to fire the last cook, I didn’t think he’d go out and find us a new one. I doubted him, but I have to say, I was… pleasantly surprised. That was the best lamb I’ve had in years. Truly remarkable.

The words come out immediately, but no relief fills you as you speak. – Thank you sir. I’m glad you liked it.

– Liked it? Young lady, I loved this dish. I have to give it to Rafe, he’s ordered nothing but this for years, and I never saw the appeal, but, really, it’s fantastic.

Rose cuts in, a sharp drawl that shatters whatever sliver of gladness was building up. – Honey, you don’t need to be pedantic.

– But, I’m not, Rose. Really. Good help is so hard to find these days, especially on short notice. Very few people put their back into their work. And this, this is exactly that. Passion. I can tell you’re good at what you do.

– Thank you sir, really.

He smiles, gesturing toward his plate, then at Rafe, who’s still watching you like he knows something you don’t. – My son’s gonna sleep like a baby tonight. – He chuckles. – Lamb’s his favorite. But I’m sure you know that.

You swallow hard, forcing a nod. – Yes, he did tell me that.

– She used to work at the Wreck. – Rafe hums, his eyes fixed on you, smiling from ear to ear as he swings a glass around. Scotch, by the looks of it. – She was a chef there. Some moron fucked up her order, and I… Well, I couldn’t think of never eating that lamb again.

You feign laughter, as demure as you can make it. – Yes, thank you for that. I really appreciate it.

– You already thanked me, – His grin is sharp, and he averts his eyes for a fraction of a second, gesturing for you to cut him another piece of lamb. You do, thankful for your steady hands and the heavy knife. – in the interview.

His father makes a sound of surprise. – You interviewed her? – He looks at you as you set the plate before Rafe.

– Yes he did. He was very thorough.

Ward seems pleased. – I’ve never seen this side of you, son. I’m glad to see you take an interest in what goes on in this house.

– What can I say? – Rafe looks back at you, signing to the bottle across the table. You don’t know what game he’s playing, but you’re sure it's not meant to be fun for you. – I’m a proactive kind of guy.

Ward hums, taking a long sip of his wine as he watches you pour Rafe another drink. – I’m glad, son. I’m really glad. – You put the bottle back in its place, trying to ignore the gazes burning holes into your skin as you move to your original spot. – And what’s for dessert?

You hesitate only for a moment, wishing you could disappear. – Peach pie. It should be ready in ten minutes.

The reaction is immediate.

Ward smiles, slow and knowing, but before he can say anything, Sarah speaks.

– That’s Rafe’s favorite. – Her tone is cold, almost suspicious.

Your heart stutters, but you keep your face smooth, your voice even. – Really? That’s a coincidence.

John’s voice echoes then, chilling your blood to ice. – Funny, right? It’s my dad’s favorite too. But she knows that. That why she makes it so well.

Ward doesn't miss a beat, even as Rafe turns to glare at your brother. – You two know each other?

John answers for you. – You could say that. – The earth could just split open, and swallow you whole. – Y/n is my baby sister.

– Really? – Ward’s laughter is deep, but somehow not incredulous. – And she’s Rafe’s friend. God, what a small world.

– Looks like it's getting smaller. – John adds. His stare burns into you, hard and unrelenting, like he’s waiting for something.

You don’t let yourself look away first.

Instead, you square your shoulders, holding onto the only thing you can control—the steady rhythm of your breath, the knowledge that you belong here, no matter how much it feels like you don’t.

– Yes. Well, I’ll go check on that pie, and I’ll bring it out soon enough. – You say, voice steady.

Ward nods, pleased. – Good. We’re looking forward to it.

As you turn to leave, Rafe’s voice follows you, low and amused.

– Good job, newbie.

You don’t stop. You don’t react.

But your pulse thunders in your ears all the way back to the kitchen.

Kareem is already there, watching you closely as you step inside. – You okay? – His voice is low, cautious, but the concern is obvious. He nears you as if he’s cornering a wounded animal, warm hands landing on your arms like he’s afraid you’d bolt.

You try to nod, but the motion feels stiff, forced. Your hands are cold, even in the warmth of the kitchen. Kareem notices. He steps forward, brows furrowing as he reaches for your wrist. – You’re pale. Come— C’mere. Sit down for a sec.

Before you can respond, the kitchen door swings open again.

John walks in.

The air turns sharp. Kareem’s hand drops as your brother steps inside, his expression unreadable but heavy with something darker. He doesn’t look at Kareem. Just you.

– You have anything to say? – His voice is quiet, but there’s no mistaking the steel beneath it. – You already lied to me this morning, wanna get it out already?

Your pulse stumbles.

– John, please. I’m working right now.

Kareem straightens beside you, eyes flicking between the two of you. – Sir, you’re not supposed to be here—

– No. – John cuts in, still staring at you. – This doesn’t concern you, okay man? This is family business.

– Don’t talk to my boss like—

– I’ll talk if I fucking want to!

Kareem doesn’t hesitate, his hand resting on your shoulder for a split second before he steps in front of you. – This is not a therapist’s office, sir. She’s working, and you’re not supposed to be back here. So please, leave.

@chatgtfo @bitterdotcom @xmayankax @bluethperson @coralblue35 @munsoncultedits @the-bitch-who-binges @im-julessssss @redkarmakai @hwaaholic @sydkneez

[bonnie-the-butcher]

Rip Tide | Chapter VII

[ MDNI ] [ word count: 8.669 ] [ Masterlist ] 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬: Canonverse/Canon-Divergent; Dark! Content; NSFW; Strong Language; Cheating; Drug Use; Mentions of overdose; Some shades of Munchausen syndrome from dear old Rafe; Manipulation; Toxic, obsessive behaviour; Stalking; Violence; DUBCON/NONCON; My writing is really pretentious and English is not my first language, so please feel free to call me out in whichever grammar mistakes you might find find.

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | You and JJ have always been in each other's orbit. He's your brother’s best friend, the guy you've known your entire life. He was kind, protective, familiar. You never meant for the two of you to start hooking up. And you never meant for it to last so long. But when this boy you thought you'd come to know like the back of your hand turns out to be no better than the men he'd warned you about, you find yourself in the sights of the guy he hates most, regardless of wether you want that or not.

I'm sorry for introducing a side character so extensively, but I promise y'all, I swear to God it will all make sense in the future. I've been having a blast reading your comments and seeing what you think of the story. Thank you so so so much, from the bottom of my heart. Likes, asks, reblogs, and comments are always greatly appreciated! Thank you in advance for reading!

Morning has a way of making everything seem lighter in retrospect.

Sleep was always a safe place for you. When you were in pain, when you were ruined, when you wished for death, you fell asleep. And when you woke up, with the sun hitting your face as reality sunk in, you weren’t so hopeless anymore.

But you startle awake that morning, nearly falling off the bed with JJ still half on top of you, having barely even slept, and you feel no metaphorical light strike you.

No clarity.

No introspection.

You feel worse.

All night long, you fell asleep and startled awake — You dreamt of stumbling up to the front door of the Cameron house to realize you were wearing nothing but the blue skirt, and woke up. You dreamt of running down the beach with JJ chasing you, persecuting you, and woke up. You dreamt of standing frozen in the kitchen at the Wreck while Kie tore your clothes off of you as everyone laughed and woke up.

It was 3:54 when you took a sleeping pill.

It was 4:09 when you woke up again.

Since then you'd drifted back and forth between a dreamless sleep riddled by the feeling of suddenly falling, and waking up, groggy and unable to move on the stifling heat of your bedroom.

You don’t feel much better when you finally open your eyes at 6:40. The sun seems to be in the room with you, scalding you, as it bleeds in through the window screen that shakes even as no wind comes through it. JJ’s skin is glued to yours, his hair sticking to your chest, his hands still gripping you as you try to move away.

He mumbles slightly, eyes peeking open in the overwhelming brightness. – Mornin’. – His fingers drift up your spine, around your waist, up to your chest. A kiss landing on the crook of your neck as he sits up next to you. – I don’t think I’ve ever slept this good in my life.

You try not to scoff at the irony as you rub the sleep you didn’t even have off your eyes. – Yeah. – He smiles against your skin, soft, warm, overbearing. – God, why is it so hot in here?

– Dunno, something to do with your presence, maybe.

A laugh falls from your lips, sharper than it should be. – Cute, JJ. Thanks a lot.

You’d be glad for the breath he lets out against your shoulder, but it doesn’t do much to help the heat, especially when he’s holding you so close, so tight, it's like being glued to a sentient heater.

The imprint of his hands seeps through the sweat on your skin. — Rough, calloused. Like sandpaper on silk, your skin seems to fray at his touch.

The wooden floorboards are hot beneath your feet as you try to stand, but JJ pulls you back, tugging at your arm until you're an inch short of falling over. – Where you going, baby? Let's sleep a little more.

– I wanna get ready.

– For what? It’s not like you’re working today. – The words linger around you, not cruel, but still sharp. – C’mon, baby. Relax.

– I’m starving. D’you want anything?

– You?

– Bye, JJ.

His laughter bounces off the walls as you walk down the hall, picking up the string of clothes he’s left behind.

You look over your shoulder on instinct. John’s door is still wide open, empty of him. If Sarah’s sleeping patterns are to be taken into account, and he truly did sleep there, neither of them are gonna wake up before midday.

So why do you feel like you’re being watched?

Worse than watched, judged.

The walls hover close, ceiling lower than you remember. The air is heavy around you, an overwhelming silence swallowing you whole even as you hear the creaks and cracks of the Chateau make themselves heard. You hesitate before stepping into the living room, eyes immediately falling over the armchair on the corner, where your dad used to sit.

Deep burgundy suede, copper buttons on the arms, probably the most expensive thing in this house. His bag still sits next to it, a worn honey-leather crossbody purse he’s had for longer than you've been alive. A gift from John's mother. You have to lift it everytime you clean the place, and it gets heavier every time, as if the piece of both of them that still lingers inside is growing.

Your breathing hitches.

You don’t know when your heartbeat picked up, why it did. But you avert your eyes like the sight had burned you, and rush to the kitchen quicker than dignity should allow.

You reach for the fridge door, thankful for the cold air that blows against you as you throw on JJ’s shirt to cover yourself. But that quick gladness doesn’t last: The fridge is almost empty, a half-done jar of peanut butter and some wonder bread you definitely didn’t buy the only things that don’t look spoiled, or just straight up empty. Your groceries never lasted long, no matter how much you try to stretch them.

The job interview still doesn’t seem appealing as Rafe’s weird words echo in your mind, but you don’t have the luxury to throw yourself on a job search you know won’t be fruitful, not now when half your bills are still to be paid.

You reach in, taking the bread, and open the little drawer, hoping for some cheese, tomatoes, anything. But your hope for semi-fresh produce vanishes as you feel JJ against you, his arms suddenly snaking around your waist. The bread falls from your hands. – Ooh, jumpy! – He giggles, leaning over you, his chin resting at the crook of your neck.

– Are you trying to give me a heart-attack?!

– You can’t bend over with an ass like yours and expect me not to do that. – His hands trail up your sides, under the shirt, his shirt, humming as he presses his hips against yours. – You look so hot like that, wearing my shirt.

A disgruntled chuckle falls from your lips as you look behind you, over your shoulder and his. – And you’d look really hot if you were wearing one.

– No need to lie to yourself, I know you like to see me naked. – He pulls you back, closing the fridge door with a kick as he leans down to kiss you. His hands find yours, pulling them to his chest. He trails them down his abs, until the strings of his shorts brush against your fingers. – D’you wanna take it off of me, baby?

– JJ, what are you doing?

– You. – He laughs, hands drifting down to your thighs. He takes a handful of flesh wherever he can squeeze, hissing under his breath as he presses on closer. – C’mon, beautiful. Aren’t you gonna give me a good morning?

– I’d have a better morning if you guys ever left anything for me to eat in this house.

– What? You hungry? I’ve got something you can put in your mouth.

– I think I’ll pass. – You turn around, but JJ grabs your waist before you can even step to the door. He’s close, much closer than what he should be, breath clinging heavy to your skin, blue eyes raking over your chest as he pushes you against the counter. – JJ, stop it.

– I don’t want to. – He growls, stepping closer, pulling at you, until his hips are against yours, thrusting so lightly you think he must not realize it. – You’re walking around like that, with nothing but my shirt— He groans, movements growing faster, more intentional. – driving me insane. And I can’t even do anything about it?

You push at his chest, trying to wriggle out from under him, but JJ’s grip is unwavering. – I’m not playing around, JJ, I’m not—

– Just a little, baby, please. Just— He’s pulling down his shorts, breath stuttering, head falling back as soon as skin touches skin. – Fuck. Fuck, that feels so good.

– JJ—

– Please, baby. Please. I promise I’ll make it quick. – You feel him pushing into you, hands holding your hips in a vice grip as he sinks in, head falling to the crook of your neck. – You feel so fucking good around me. Fuck—

You’re frozen in place, watching him use you, have at you like a toy, as if your words didn’t mean anything. He’s fucking himself into you, babbling, stuttering, rolling his eyes, almost as if he’s possessed. – How’d you do this to me? – The words fall from his lips as if he’s speaking to himself, his eyes closed, mouth pressed against your skin. – I can’t—fuck, I can’t stop.

His pace has grown faster, sloppier, dick sliding in and out so fast you can barely brace against him, nails digging into his shoulders, still unmoving.

You hear something in the distance, the familiar rumble of an engine, a sound you’d heard a thousand times before.

John.

You wake up from your daze in a heartbeat, already pushing JJ away. – The car. John’s coming JJ, get off of me!

He doesn’t listen, your protests falling on deaf ears as he moans into your shoulder, still moving like a bitch in heat. – Jus— Just a little more, please. Please it feels so– Fuck! Fuck, right there! – His hips move wildly, and even as you shove him with all your strength, it's to no avail. You can hear the car getting closer, wheels moving on the soft lakebank mud, but JJ doesn’t stop. He gets louder. More restless, begging and pleading, his pace stuttering as his stomach contracts. – Don’t stop, fuck don’t stop I’m almost there! I— Fuck, fuck! Right there, baby! FUCK–

You shut him up just as he cums, shuddering and shaking over you as you push your hands onto his mouth, dick still twitching as you finally manage to get him away. You hear his back knocking against the opposite counter just as the car door slams closed, and you’re running to the bathroom, JJ pulling up his shorts behind you, still frozen in place.

You’ve never locked a door so fast, shame burning beneath your skin as you hear your brother’s steps on the porch, the squeak of the front door banging closed against the frame as he shuts it behind him.

JJ greets him with a stutter. – Hi—hey bro, what are you doing here this early? I thought you were gonna stay at Sarah’s.

– Rafe Cameron.

– What?

– Sarah and I were sleeping and then this psycho walks into the room. – You don’t know if JJ’s too stunned to respond, or if he’s not actually listening, but even you do a double take. – We weren’t even doing anything. And he just bursts through the door like the kool-aid man and starts laughing.

– Laughing?

– Yeah! Laughing! Fucking cackling. He laughed so hard, her dad came to check what was going on. – You hear impact. John probably threw something, you can hear the frustration in his sigh. – I had to sneak out the window so he wouldn’t catch me there. And you know what’s worse?

– There's worse?

– Yeah! Rafe told me to check on my sister. – Your breath is caught. – He actually fucking talked about her! Said her name! Like they’re friends or whatever. Can you fucking believe that?!

You dig your nails into your hands.

Please don’t say anything stupid. Please don’t say anything stupid. – Rafe’s a fucking junkie, bro. He was probably out of his mind. – Thank you. – But he acts really weird about her, if you ask me.

Your nails dig deeper.

Nobody asked you anything, JJ. – What do you mean?

You're not listening anymore.

There's no way in hell you're about to let JJ fucking Maybank buy you three more months of confinement. Your brother and you have it bad enough as it is without him throwing wood into that fire.

You throw the shirt off of you, burying it deep into the laundry basket, and wrap yourself with your towel.

– I don’t know man, but don’t you think it's kinda weird that he would—

– John? You home? – The conversation dies right then as you step in, and your brother jumps to his feet, looking over to the hall at you, like you're a specter. – That’s early.

He barely looks at you at first, still caught up in his own frustration. You tighten the towel around your body, tucking in the corner like it's the most natural thing in the world. Your hands shake slightly as they drop back to your side. – I thought you slept at Sarah's.

John exhales sharply, rubbing a hand down his face. – Yeah. I did. – Something burns in his eyes. – And then your buddy Rafe laughed me off the building.

– Rafe? – You hum. – What'd you mean ‘laughed you off the building'?

John scoffs. – He was high as shit. Talking in circles. Then— He pauses, his jaw flexing. – Then he brought you up.

Your stomach clenches, but you don’t let it show. You barely blink. – Me?

John's looking at you now. Really looking. – Yeah. Said your name. Told me to check on you.

The air shifts. JJ’s foot scuffs against the floor, he's looking at you too, something else in his gaze you can't quite catch from the corner of your eyes.

You feign confusion. – That's weird.

John doesn’t respond right away. He’s watching you too closely, like he’s trying to catch something in the way your face moves, in the way your fingers curl around the edge of your towel.

– When the fuck did Rafe start talking about you?

He says it slow, almost careful. But you know that tone. It’s the one he gets when he already suspects the answer.

You force a shrug, swallowing against the tightness in your throat. – I don’t know, John. Doesn’t he hate you? Was probably trynna get into your head or something.

He doesn't say anything for a moment, just keeps looking at you like he’s waiting for something to crack.

He thinks you're made of glass, he always did. But he doesn't treat you like you’re fragile, he treats you like you’re all shards and sharp edges. Like he’ll cut himself on you if he gets too close.

– Why are you getting ready so early? – That tone again. Casual enough, just shy of friendly. But his eyes are like knives, and you just happen to be the one he's holding at knifepoint. – You were fired.

You can feel your expression darken. JJ's already looking at you as your eyes drift between him and your brother. – Kie told you, huh?

– Yeah, she did. – He sways on his feet as he stands. Drunk off his own self-righteousness. – And she's right to. We all know damn right you wouldn't tell me. Because it's not like I'm your brother! It's not like I worry about you!

– It happened YESTERDAY. I just got fired, and you just walked in! Was I supposed to bring it up now? Over what? The breakfast we don't have?! The pile of bills that we still have to pay?!

He's looking at you, his heart probably racing just as much as yours. – Do you think this shit is easy?! – You continue. – It's hard enough to lose the job I've had for three fucking years, John! But telling you?! Having to disappoint you like this when we don't even know if we're gonna eat tomorrow?

He’s silent now.

You are too. —All the things you have to say flutter away as your mind sends you spinning— He whispers your name under his breath, reaching. Grasping. But you don’t want him to. You recoil before he can get to you, like a scared cat curling up in the corner.

And his hand drops.

As if the rejection had sent a shock through him, one as painful as what you’re feeling now. – Don't do this to me right now. – He’s pleading, but it doesn't sound like it. Your eyes meet his, and for a split second, all you see is ache. It pains you to see him like this. But it doesn’t last long. Just as soon as that worry washed over him, anger swallowed it whole. – You always do this shit. You always do that. You fuck up and you shut down and you blame it on me!

– I'm not!

– Yes you are! You are! And you always do! It's not my fault you lost your job!

– I’m not saying it is, John! I’m just trying to—

– To what?! Huh? What is it?!

You let go of your breath, of your hope for this conversation, of any possibility of mending whatever it is that's wrong with you and John right now. The heels of your palms burn against the hollow of your eyes as you press your hands into them. – Forget it. – Your stomach turns, your throat is burning, you want it to end. – Forget it, John.

Your feet move before your mind does, you barely see the house moving around you as you scurry away. The door of your room falls shut behind you, but your thoughts remain in that kitchen, like your conscience couldn't bear to leave this the way it was.

Deal with it. You tell yourself. If they don't want to listen you shouldn’t even talk. But there is so much to say.

It wasn't you who got fired, you think as you take your clothes from the dresser and rush into the bathroom, it was Kie who did it to you.

The cold water jars you, like a glacier on your burning skin, but you continue the argument in your head as you scrub your skin raw trying to get JJ's hands off of you, thinking of everything you should have said.

The towel is still damp from your last shower as you pat yourself dry, but you can't get over the way your brother still looked at you like a criminal, as if the one time you got yourself into trouble was enough to outweigh every other stupid mistake he made.

The mirror seems like an alternative reality. You look into it and you see someone who’s alive. Bags under the eyes, reddened lips, messy hair. — If you look deep enough you can see breath in those lungs, shoulders that move up and down steadily, a chest that heaves. — But you feel like death, warmed over. An animal carcass that someone threw in the microwave, just to bring the color back to the corpse.

You reach under the sink for your makeup bag, and rifle through the little items you’ve managed to swipe from drugstores along the years.

Your mother would’ve been very disappointed in you. She was all about beauty, it's the only thing you remember about the woman: her, bent over the sink, touching up a cherry-red lipstick with the precision of a pre-raphaelite painter.

She never liked to kiss you. Took too much work to get her lips like that. Too bad for you, she wouldn’t be caught dead without it.

You wonder if she was wearing it right now. If she woke up, if she still refuses to kiss, even though that’s the basis on which her entire life was built upon.

Maybe she’s dead.

Maybe that's why you never heard from her.

If they did bury her, you at least hope they got her makeup right.

You fish a tube from the deepest corner of your bag, your only one. It's not as pretty as hers was, but you put it on just like she did, thinking of her, laying on a coroner’s table, being painted up like a doll.

Concealer. Foundation. You look like a doll. Painted plastic, a fake glimmer in your eye.

The blush comes later, closer to your undereyes, just where she put it. Then the lashes. She'd bat them to anyone who'd have her. A born flirt, your father would say.

The only thing he would say about her.

A stone weighs down on your chest.

Resentment.

Solid, calcified, heavy. If you move too fast you might feel it rattling inside your ribcage. But you look prettier than you did in a while.

You almost feel like her.

You take one last look in the mirror before stepping out, and she's looking back at you, raised brow, unimpressed, the way she always looked at you—it’s the version of you that can handle this, the one who won’t crumble at the first sign of trouble. It’s armor. A little cracked, maybe, but it’ll hold.

She would hold. You never could.

The house is quiet now, holding its breath with you when you step outside. John’s still in the kitchen, seething, you don’t hear him, but you feel him there, the weight of his anger pressing against the walls.

JJ is still there. He’s outside, sitting on the steps. He’s not looking at you, not at first. Just staring out at the river, his jaw clenched tight.

He only turns when you step out.

His eyes drop, flicking over you like he’s trying to figure out what’s different. Maybe he does. Maybe he doesn’t.

– That was cruel. – He says, and his voice is rougher than before, like he’s been thinking too hard, breathing too shallow. – What you said to him. You shouldn't— He feels guilty.

You nod, barely.

He looks away again, back to the water. – Figures.

It’s not fair. You know that. You also know that staying here, standing in front of him, means letting him say whatever it is he’s trying not to say. And you don’t have the stomach for it.

So you step off the porch. The weight in your chest shifts, sharp and insistent.

JJ doesn’t stop you.

But he does call after you, just before you reach the end.

– Don’t do that. – he says, lower, slower. Suddenly, it's like he’s talking to a child. – We were getting along so well. Don't ignore me now.

You pause.

He lets out a breath, almost a laugh, but there’s no humor in it. – I'm late, – His eyes widen. – For an interview, JJ. I have to be there at 10. Someone’s gotta pay the bills.

– Don't.

– Why? Is he gonna do it? – JJ sucks his teeth, looking down, it's all the answer you need. – Don't you wanna eat something other than bread and beer? Actual food? I know I do.

– Baby,

– Don't call me that. – You nod to the door behind you. – We were already poor enough when I was working. I don’t wanna think of how it could be otherwise.

JJ is quiet. You can almost hear him thinking. – Do you want me to drive you?

There’s nothing you want less. – I’m fine. I’ll see you later.

– Wait, wait. Wait a minute. – He looks over his shoulder, and pulls at your hand, standing closer. – Give me a kiss.

– JJ, stop it.

– He won't see. – His hand lands on the small of your back, heat bleeding through your shirt as he pulls you in, tighter and tighter until you can’t avoid his lips.

His mouth is warm, familiar. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t second-guess the way he fits against you, like he already knows exactly how you’ll respond.

But you don’t.

You stay still, lips barely parting under his. The pressure of his hand at your back keeps you anchored, locked in place, and when he deepens the kiss—his lips moving slow, deliberate—you don’t fight it. You just let it happen, waiting for it to be over.

JJ doesn’t notice.

You feel it when he exhales through his nose, when his fingers press just a little harder into your spine, like he’s chasing something he isn’t getting. But he doesn’t pull back, not until he’s ready, until he's had his fill, and when he finally does, he sighs against your lips, almost satisfied, but not quite.

He lingers, his nose still brushing yours, but then he shifts back slightly, studying your face.

– That’s all I get? – His voice is low, teasing, but there’s an edge to it, like he’s trying to decide whether to be hurt. – Don’t leave me wanting like that, baby.

– I gotta go.

He says nothing. Just glances over his shoulder and swallows. His hand stays on you for another second, two. And he moves as if he’ll pull away, but he doesn’t.

– JJ.

Your voice is steady, but the weight in your chest hasn’t budged. If anything, it’s worse now, heavier.

JJ watches you, expression unreadable, before tipping his head back with a soft chuckle.

– Damn. – He drags a hand down his face, shaking his head. – You make a guy work for it, huh?

You don’t respond. Take a step back, hands still on his shoulders.

– Come back soon, okay? – He whispers, you nod, and he goes on. – I'll see you later, right?

It isn’t a question. It’s a statement, like he already knows the answer.

And maybe he does.

You don’t give him a reply. You just keep walking, the weight in your chest sinking deeper, spreading through your ribs.

You never thought you’d be afraid of the Cameron house.

Rafe wasn’t really wrong when he joked about your house being haunted, but there’s something about his that is actually frightening. Maybe it’s the sheer size of it, the too-perfect symmetry of the windows staring down at you from over the white balconies like a set of watchful eyes. Or maybe it’s the fact that you know what happens inside. Either way, you stand there for a moment, frozen on the pavement, your phone open to Rafe’s messages, and curse the day your broke-ass parents decided to have a kid.

You spent the last of your money printing out a copy of your resume—hastily written on Google Docs during the bus ride. You’d embellished as much as your conscience allowed, but you had no illusions; landing a job at the Camerons’ was out of the question unless you managed to impress the head chef: Kareem Nawaz.

You were surprised to realize you sort of knew him. Kareem had run a bar at Figure Eight just around the time you were hired at the Wreck. Everybody on the island seemed to turn to it in awe, the single taste of something even tangentially cosmopolitan to ever grace the Outer Banks—fancy drinks, fancy music, fancy food. But the bar didn’t last long. As you’d heard from Anthony, Kareem and the other owner had come to blows over finances. Eventually, the lawsuit got so expensive they had to shut the place down.

You think of driving past the still-empty structure as you step around the perfect lawn, heading toward the staff entrance in the back. You knock once, then a second time, a little softer.

Your clothes are less than perfect. You think of what Rafe said, a shiver running up your spine. Your mother would’ve told you to wear that skirt. Maybe you should have.

Maybe that was the only thing that could work you this miracle.

You barely have time to steady yourself before the door swings open.

– Oh, uhm, hey. I’m here for the private chef position. – The man standing in the doorway eyes you down—not obviously, but just long enough that you notice. A brief flicker of appraisal, the kind that would go unnoticed if you weren’t already on edge. He leans against the frame, the sleeves of his coat pushed up just enough to show off the dark ink decorating his forearms. – I talked to someone on the phone.

– Yeah, I know. That was me. I'm Kareem. Kareem Nawaz, the head chef.

He extends a hand. Big, manicured, intricately tattooed, and you meet him halfway, a firm handshake in which his hand lingers for a minute.

– I'm…

– I remember your name. – He cuts in, but his tone is warm, friendly. You don’t even mind. He steps aside, holding the door open wider, inviting you in. – I looked you up. Routledge, right? You worked at the Wreck?

– Yes, sir. I was a roast chef for three years.

You extend the resume to him, watching his gaze shift between the paper and you. He doesn’t rush.

You don’t know what to make of him. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, with a thick beard and a man bun. The millennial chef stereotype. And yet, something about him doesn’t quite fit the label. He’s too put-together, too composed.

Kareem is not the struggling type. You can tell he has money, significant money, in the way he talks and moves so comfortably, as if he's so deeply aware that the world is his that he doesn't even think about it.

You wait for resentment to bloom in your chest, a distaste, a mistrust, but nothing comes. You look at him, and it’s like you've known each other for years. He smiles—broad, easy, sweet—and yet you still can’t tell what’s going on behind his eyes.

– So I hear. – You freeze. – I gave your last boss a call. Regretted it, too. He did everything he could to convince me not to hire you.

Your hands twitch at your sides, but you force yourself to stay still, to keep your gaze fixed.

– Mr. Carrera never had a high opinion of me.

– And yet he kept you on for three years. Why do you think that is?

– Cheap labor? A fondness for torturing people? – Kareem laughs, crossing his arms as he leans back against the marble counter, watching you with something like amusement. – He’s a famous sadist.

– Oh, I know that. – His smile falters, just for a second, twisting at the edges. It’s quick—blink and you’d miss it—but it’s enough. The first hint of something other than friendliness. – Mr. Cameron is fond of him, don’t ask me why. The bastard makes a point to come into my kitchen and tell me how to do my job every time he’s here.

You put on your sympathetic voice. – How rude.

He chuckles, flashing straight white teeth.

– You don’t need to kiss ass, Ms. Routledge. If Michael Carrera doesn’t like you, then I’m sure we can be great friends.

You tilt your head, shifting your weight from one foot to the other, suddenly feeling like a little girl.

– I do enjoy friendship…

– …But what you need is a job?

– I'm not rejecting the offer, but… yeah.

He smiles and glances down at your resume again.

– Here’s the deal. Three years at a professional kitchen, in the single kinda decent restaurant in this place—that’s a lot. You've worked at diners, mom&pop businesses, bakeries… You got a lot of color in your resume. That's great. But you’re what, nineteen?

– Something like that.

– You never even went to culinary school.

– No, sir.

– That’s kind of a problem.

You take a slow breath. His expression is neutral, but his eyes linger—just a beat longer than they should.

– Well, I know. I know without an education, I’m not anyone's ideal choice. But maybe, in the absence of a diploma to tell you that I’m able, you might accept another sort of proof?

He raises his brows, his mouth parting just slightly.

– Another sort..?

– Yeah.

Something in the air shifts.

His posture changes— he straightens, brushing a hand over the tattoos on his forearm, like he’s suddenly aware of them. His eyes hold yours for a moment, long enough that you feel it in your stomach, that same feeling you get when you’ve stepped a little too close to the edge of a ledge.

His voice is low when he speaks, taking a step closer. – Alright, I'll bite. – He says, voice even, unreadable. – What kind of proof?

– Well, you tell me. I can do it all.

– All?

The way he says it feels careful. You can tell he’s watching you, weighing the moment, as if waiting for you to clarify. But you don’t—not right away. That’s the gift your mother left you: suggestion. You let the silence stretch for just long enough to see the way his fingers tighten slightly over his forearm, a flicker of something in his eyes before he blinks it away.

You shrug. – Yeah. – You hum. – It really depends on what you need help with. I've been a roast chef, I can help with lunch. Or maybe the desert is the problem, that's where the bakery gig comes in handy. Pick a dish. If I wanna work here with you, I gotta learn how to follow your lead, right?

He hums, smile growing. You feel yourself mirror it without even realizing. – You wanna cook for me?

– Well, yeah. – He exhales a soft chuckle, something unreadable flickering in his expression before he tilts his head. – I'm a proactive kind of girl. That's my greatest trait.

– I bet it is. – Kareem lets out a breath through his nose, his lips pressing together in something like amusement, though there’s a slowness to it. – You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?

– I try.

You’re aware of his gaze still on you as he finally shifts, setting your resume down on the counter and turning toward the stainless steel fridge.

– Alright, chef. Lunch for today is beef tenderloin with a red wine reduction sauce. Truffle mash potatoes, cornbread with honey butter, some roasted vegetables with herbs and panna cotta for dessert.

– Did you get started with cornbread?

He looks at his watch with a smile. – Not yet.

– Well, in that case. I can do the cornbread and, at the same time, something simple but tasty for us to lunch on. And later, if you’re convinced, I will do the rest.

A hearty laugh escapes him, you feel it buzz against your skin. – You weren’t playing about the proactive thing, were you?

– No sir. I'm a woman of my word.

– Hardly a woman. – He teases.

– I will ignore that comment. And what are you anyways? 27? Not exactly my idea of an old man.

– I am thirty one years old!

– In what? Dog years?

– Really funny. – His tone drips with sarcasm, but he can’t shake off the smile as you gather the ingredients for the cornbread.

– That's another thing you might look forward to. If you decide to hire me, of course.

– Hate to say it, but your fate's really hanging on how good that us-lunch is gonna be. – He pauses, smiling again. – Actually, I don’t hate to say it at all. What are you making?

– That's a surprise. Shouldn't you be getting started on that panna cotta?

– Bossy. – He bumps your shoulder, still grinning. It's starting to unnerve you.

You nod, stepping forward to scan the kitchen, already mapping out what you need.

But before you can open the fridge, Kareem moves in front. He reaches for the sink, fills a glass with water, and sets it down beside you.

– You’re shaking, y'know?

You freeze for half a second.

– I’m not.

– Sure you aren’t.

His tone is casual, almost teasing, but there’s something in the way he leans just slightly into your space as he says it. Close enough that, when you glance up, he’s already looking at you.

It’s brief. A flicker of a moment. But there’s something in the way his gaze lingers, the way his fingers drum once against the counter before he pulls away, giving you back your space.

– Clock’s ticking, chef.

You take a deep breath, fingers brushing against the countertop as you gather the ingredients for the cornbread. There’s a slight tremor in your hands, but you ignore it. You can’t afford to let nerves get the best of you—not now. The kitchen is big, the appliances gleaming, and Kareem’s presence fills the space in a way you’re not entirely sure how to handle.

But you can cook. You know that much.

It’s easy enough to find your way around the ingredients. Head chefs are all about the methodical nature of storing, and you can see his pattern as you go from the fridge, to the pantry, and back to the counter

You begin with the dry ingredients—cornmeal, flour, sugar, baking powder. There’s something almost meditative about it, the repetition of pouring and measuring, the steady rhythm that lulls you into focus. You’re already thinking ahead, the steps laid out in your mind as you mix. You add the salt, the baking powder, the sugar. The cornbread is a good start. It’s simple, but comforting—a dish that feels like a hug with every bite.

That tells you enough about him. Obviously, Kareem’s the one picking out the meals. A man like Ward Cameron is exactly the person to just hand off that responsibility entirely while he focuses on the “important things”. Beef tenderloin is posh enough to fit the Cameron’s style, especially with a wine reduction. But cornbread? That’s a chef’s nostalgia speaking.

And you’ll be damned if you can’t milk that for all it's got.

There’s a hum in the air, the soft buzz of your thoughts, as you pour the buttermilk into the bowl, watching the swirl of white in the yellow mix. Your mind drifts back to Kareem, trying to figure out his preferences.

He’s not a city boy, despite the desperate attempt to seem like one. Whenever he laughs or gets too distracted you can hear the subtle drawl on a country accent in his voice. His build hardly hints at someone unfamiliar with manual labour. You’re not a betting woman, but if you were, you’d bet he was raised on a farm. — So fancy food isn’t the right choice. He’s earnest, wholesome, and though he hides it well enough under the truffle oil and the herbs and the wine thing that are clearly not what he would prefer, his menu tells you he enjoys simplicity, but that he often has to dress it up.

What he wants is a homey fare.

Something that’s comforting, without being heavy, Something hearty. Tasty. The sort of thing that makes you drool as it cooks and fills every expectation when it's in your mouth: Chicken, mash, a salad that isn’t quite a salad just to put some color on the plate. Something a mother would make. A good mother— That’s easy enough.

You add the egg, the melted butter, and fold everything together with quick, practiced movements. No hesitation. It's easier now that you know what you’re gonna do next. You pour the batter into a cast-iron skillet, sizzling as it hits the hot surface enough to make you pause, your heart catching in your chest. The cornbread will bake up crisp on the outside and soft on the inside, just like it should. That’s the easy part. The hard part’s still to come.

As the cornbread begins to bake, you move onto your chicken. You need to get the oil hot—just the right temperature so that the chicken fries up golden brown, the skin crispy and seasoned perfectly. You take a moment to mix in the seasonings: paprika, garlic powder, onion powder, cayenne. Press it into the flour mixture, making sure it coats evenly. You feel the nervousness creep in again as you set the pieces into the hot oil. It crackles, the sound sharp and satisfying.

You glance over your shoulder, but Kareem is still a little too far away to read his expression.

Focus.

The chicken fries, sizzling as it turns a golden brown. You turn the pieces carefully, making sure they cook evenly, the skin getting crisp and crackly. There’s a slight smell of garlic and paprika in the air—rich and savory—and for a moment, the tension that’s been building in your chest starts to lift, if only a little. You move in a kind of rhythm now, your hands steady, your mind occupied with each step.

You turn to the potatoes. You throw them into a pot, fill it with water, and set it to boil. You don’t need to watch it. It’ll take care of itself for now, just like the cornbread. You wash spinach, the leaves fresh and bright, and start on the sauté. A quick toss in hot olive oil with garlic—simple, but good. The spinach wilts quickly, its deep green turning darker as it cooks. You squeeze a little lemon juice over it, just enough to add a pop of brightness.

You’re acutely aware of Kareem’s presence behind you. You can feel his eyes on you, even when you don’t turn to look. His movements are almost too quiet, too calculated as he focuses on the panna cotta, but then, you hear a soft chuckle. You glance over and catch him looking at you—just a split second before he turns back to his work. He’s not hiding it. He’s watching you.

You try to ignore it, but it’s hard. Every so often, you catch him peeking over the top of the counter, eyes twinkling with something that could be amusement—or maybe just curiosity. He watches you handle the chicken, his gaze never straying too far, like he’s waiting for you to slip up. His voice breaks the silence between you when he speaks, low and teasing.

– You sure you know what you’re doing?

You keep your hands steady as you flip a piece of chicken, not looking up. – What, you think I can’t handle some fried chicken?

– No, no. I’m just curious, – he says, his voice carrying a hint of a grin. You feel it in the air as he stays close enough to catch the scent of garlic and paprika. – The real question is: are you really going to make this whole meal from scratch?

You roll your eyes, though the corners of your mouth twitch. – Didn’t I tell you I was a proactive type of person?

His laugh is soft, almost like he’s enjoying the game of it all. – I’m starting to think I might have underestimated you, chef.

You focus on the chicken, trying to ignore the way his presence feels just a little too heavy in the kitchen. When you set the pieces on the paper towels, you catch his eyes again, this time his grin widening as he leans against the counter. He seems unbothered by the quiet, the way you’re keeping your space while working. The kitchen is like a stage, and right now, you’re not sure whether you’re the performer or the director.

As the chicken finishes up, you check the potatoes. They’re soft and ready to mash, so you turn off the heat and start mashing them, adding butter, cream, and salt to get them to the right consistency. The spinach is done now, wilted and coated with a light sheen of oil and lemon juice. You set the chicken, the spinach, and the potatoes together, and glance over at Kareem again. He’s watching you now, his eyes following every move you make. There’s something amused in the way his lips curl as he turns back to the panna cotta.

– Well, – you say, trying to sound casual, like your whole life doesn’t depend on this. – lunch is almost ready.

He takes a step forward, his gaze moving over your work. – Smells damn good, – he says with a nod, his approval heavy in the air. You feel the cold whiff of realization Pandora must have felt after the box was finally open —Surrounded by the darkness you harvested, the only thing left for you is hope, the cruelest of all feelings.

You finally pull the cornbread from the oven, the golden crust hot and ready. You cut a piece, drizzling honey butter over the top. You glance at Kareem, who’s standing just a little too close, his grin still there, like he’s enjoying the whole scene.

– You didn’t think I’d pull it off, did you? – you ask, keeping your voice light, but you know he’s been watching, testing you.

– I might’ve had my doubts, – he admits, glancing at the food, – but I’m starting to think you might just be what this kitchen needs.

You set the plate in front of him, your heart racing a little. You’ve survived. For now.

You watch as Kareem picks up his fork, inspecting the plate like he’s about to face some kind of culinary battle. The corners of his mouth twitch in a playful smirk as he takes a bite of the chicken, his eyes immediately lighting up. He chews slowly, savoring each mouthful, before his gaze shifts to the potatoes. He dips his fork in, taking a scoop with as much care as a connoisseur tasting fine wine.

– Damn, – he says, half to himself, almost in disbelief. – You really did know what you were doing, huh?

You feel a smile tug at your lips, but you don’t let it show too much. – Told you.

His eyes lock with yours as he takes another bite, clearly relishing the moment. – I thought I was just gonna get something...good, but this? – He shakes his head, clearly impressed. – This is something else.

Your chest coils at the praise, heavy, even through the gladness. Yturn to grab the panna cotta, trying to keep your composure. – It’s just food.

– Oh, don’t play humble now, – he teases, voice laced with admiration. – This is art.

You’re not sure if it’s the joke or the way his tone softens just a little, but there’s a small flush creeping up your neck. You focus on serving the dessert, trying to keep your cool. When you turn back, he’s already looking at you like he’s trying to figure out what makes you tick.

– You know, if this was a competition, – he says with a grin, – I’d say you’ve got a pretty solid shot at winning.

You set the panna cotta down, feeling your hands fail you. – You're saying this isn’t a competition?

He takes another bite, face lighting up once again. – Well, I don’t really feel like doing any more interviews.

You wait for the punchline, but instead he just takes another bite, his eyes never leaving yours, a hint of something more behind the humor. The kitchen feels different now, charged, like the food isn’t the only thing that’s being tested.

You chuckle, trying to play it cool, even as you feel yourself trembling. – I do have a shot, then?

Kareem shrugs, but there’s a gleam in his eye as he leans back against the counter, holding the plate as if it was made of solid gold. – I think, you have a job.

You blink, heart skipping a beat. His words hang in the air, playful yet serious, like they’ve both been wrapped in a layer of something unspoken. For a second, all you can do is stand there, staring at him, trying to process whether he’s joking or actually offering something more.

And then the rush of emotions hits you like a wave.

Before you can stop yourself, you practically leap towards him, your arms wrapping around him in a spontaneous hug. It’s a mix of excitement, relief, and something else that you can’t quite put a name to.

– Oh my god, thank you! Thank you so much! – you practically squeal, hugging him tighter than you probably should.

Kareem lets out a startled laugh, but there’s no resistance in his body as he gently pats your back. – You’re welcome, you’re welcome.

You pull back, your face flushing in embarrassment. – Uh, I’m sorry. I just… I don’t know what came over me. That was… uh, I mean… you know, too much.

Kareem grins, a mischievous spark in his eyes. – Don’t apologize. You’ve got energy. I like it.

You wince, still a little flustered but feeling slightly better at his easy-going response. – Well, I’m glad you’re not my old boss. He would’ve fired me on the spot.

He chuckles, clearly enjoying your awkwardness. – You can hug me whenever you want if you keep cooking like this. That’s a trade-off I’m willing to make.

You stare at him, your heart still racing a little from the interaction, but there's something else beneath it, something lighter.

– Alright, well, next time I’ll just hand you a plate of burnt toast and see if you still want to hug me then.

Kareem laughs loudly, shaking his head. – I’m not that picky.

Your chest tightens, but it’s not out of nervousness. It’s excitement, maybe even anticipation. You force yourself to focus, taking a deep breath. – Well, I do have a few more tricks up my sleeve. So, if you’re lucky…

– Oh, I’m lucky alright, – he says, his tone low and serious. His gaze flicks to your lips for just a moment, then back up to your eyes, his smile still lingering. – I think I’ve hit the jackpot.

Your breath catches, and for a second its like the whole kitchen quiets, the buzz of the conversation fading as your mind tries to catch up with what just happened. But just as quickly, Kareem’s grin widens, and he’s back to normal, as if nothing happened.

You're not sure it did, now.

– Seriously, though. You’re definitely the kind of person I want in this kitchen. You’ve got a future in this.

The weight of his words is still heavy, but you let out a laugh, easing the tension a little. – Guess we’ll see, won’t we?

– Oh, we will. – Kareem raises his eyebrows, clearly amused. – Well sit down and eat already, did you put poison on the food or something?

– Who knows, maybe mr. Carrera sent me down here to kill you.

Kareem raises an eyebrow. – Sounds like something he would do.

You laugh, shaking your head. – No poison, I promise. But hey, if it were, I’d say I’d be going down with you. Can’t let you go alone.

He chuckles, taking another bite of his food. – And who's gonna finish the pana cotta when I'm dead?

– Well, when you're out of the way I'm probably be busy basking in all that glory. – You take a sip of the water he poured you, but when you look up, Kareem takes a deep breath, his face suddenly worried. – Oh God. Did I overdo it with the joke, that was a little...

– No, no. That’s not what that is. It's just this thing you should know. – Your face falls. – It’s not that horrible…

– So it is.

– I can’t hire you without telling you. I mean, you're already hired. But I should tell you. – He plays around with the food for a moment. – The job is good. The pay is good, better than what you’re gonna get slaving away at some place like the Wreck.

– So, what's the catch?

He looks over his shoulder, and after assessing if you truly were alone or not, he finally says – The employers. – It seems to weigh on him. The way he says it is almost grievous. – There's not a month that goes by without someone being fired for something stupid.

– Jesus Christ.

– Yeah. I mean, Ward is a hard-ass. He complains a lot, he talks big game, but he's fair most of the time. Sarah and Louisa, his daughters, they're fine too, sometimes they whine, but they're mostly okay. It's his wife and his son you gotta worry about.

You mull on that for a moment, staring at your plate. – Why is that?

Kareem huffs. – Rafe and Rose, they'll find issues with the slightest things if they're pissed, sometimes, even when they're not. I've heard them screaming at staff for no reason, making people cry. Just— He looks deeper at you, almost pensive. – just don't get in their way.

– Is that what happened to the last person in the job? They got "in the way"?

The question slips out before you can stop it, and as soon as the words leave your mouth, you notice a subtle shift in Kareem’s demeanor. His wavers just slightly, pausing mid-bite. For a split second, his eyes flicker over to the door again.

Before you can backpedal, Kareem clears his throat and leans back slightly in his chair, a more measured tone entering his voice. – The last guy, I don’t even know. Randomly fired, like out of nowhere. He’d been working here for a while, but one day, bam. Gone.

He glances over his shoulder, looking like he's weighing whether to continue. There's a brief hesitation, and you notice his jaw tighten just slightly. – Don’t really know the full story, but I heard it was… – He stops himself just as he’s about to finish the sentence.

You feel the sudden weight of the moment, but just as you’re about to press him further, the door swings open, and you both look up in surprise.

Rafe walks in, his presence filling the room immediately. There’s something unmistakable about the way he carries himself—like he’s constantly aware of the effect he has on people. His eyes scan the room quickly, lingering just a little too long on Kareem, before drifting over to you.

@chatgtfo @bitterdotcom @xmayankax @bluethperson @coralblue35 @munsoncultedits @the-bitch-who-binges @im-julessssss @redkarmakai @hwaaholic

[bonnie-the-butcher]

I absolutely LOVE Rip Tide SM! You write so perfectly, your pacing of the story is so beautiful, how you write them as either normal and psychotic is just so addicting😫✨

THANK YOU SO SO MUCH DARLING!! I've gotta be honest that I always saw both of them as male manipulators a little bit so that's why I wrote them like that, but they're both so DAMN CHARMING!!

Honestly, they shouldn't have the right to be this hot irl or in fiction, but since they are... lets make them psychos <3

[bonnie-the-butcher]

Rip Tide | Chapter VI

[ MDNI ] [ word count: 8.928 ] [ Masterlist ] 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬: Canonverse/Canon-Divergent; Dark! Content; NSFW (p in v, unprotected, implied m!masturbation); Strong Language; Cheating; Drug Use; Mentions of overdose; Some shades of Munchausen syndrome from dear old Rafe; Manipulation; Toxic, obsessive behaviour; Stalking; Violence; DUBCON/NONCON; My writing is really pretentious and English is not my first language, so please feel free to call me out in whichever grammar mistakes you might find find.

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | You and JJ have always been in each other's orbit. He's your brother’s best friend, the guy you've known your entire life. He was kind, protective, familiar. You never meant for the two of you to start hooking up. And you never meant for it to last so long. But when this boy you thought you'd come to know like the back of your hand turns out to be no better than the men he'd warned you about, you find yourself in the sights of the guy he hates most, regardless of wether you want that or not.

OMG Bonnie what is that? A JJ chapter? Yeah, maybe I went insane. Likes, asks, reblogs, and comments are always greatly appreciated! Thank you in advance for reading <3

JJ takes a slow step forward, his shoulders rolling back, his fingers still coiled tight around the handlebars of his bike. There’s a heat rolling off of him, a barely contained energy that makes your stomach twist.

His gaze drifts over to you. The rage burning through his eyes as he climbs down, drifting through Rafe’ arms, how they wrap around you, how close he’s holding you to him. – What’s going on, huh? – His voice is taught, barely restrained. You think of the hiss a rattlesnake makes before pouncing, the barely restrained violence simmering under each sound. – What are you doing here?

– I could ask you the same thing, Maybank. – Rafe hums. You call his name, trying to reel him back before it gets dangerous, but he seems entertained more than anything. – We’re a little far from the salvation army. Not much for you to do around here.

– Rafe!

The kook holds your hand to his chest when you push him, smiling down at you like it’s the funniest thing in the world. – I’m just having a little fun with him, that’s all.

– Get off of her, Rafe.

He’s looking at you with a focus that’s never a good sign, but don’t miss the way his eyes flick to where Rafe’s hand still lingers at your waist. The moment stretches, thick with the weight of his anger, but you can’t bring yourself to move first.

Rafe doesn’t bother hiding his grin. If anything, it grows, slow and deliberate, like this is the most fun he’s had all night. – Why? You scared she won’t come back when she realizes there’s more to life than being leeched off of by her brother’s friends?

– Rafe, this isn’t funny.

– JJ must think it is, it’s the only thing he does well. – Rafe drawls, tilting his head as he finally steps back from you—but not without dragging his fingers along your side, a pointed reminder. – Right, JJ?

JJ’s lips press into a thin line. His fingers flex around the handlebars, his nostrils flaring as he exhales hard through his nose. His gaze cuts to you now, sharp and demanding. – What the hell are you doing with this asshole?

His voice grates you. Every word echoing in your head like nails on a chalkboard.

– This is none of your business, JJ.

He doesn’t even pretend to hear you. – Kie told me what happened at work. We were all worried about you.

You open your mouth, but Rafe hums before you can speak, stepping in again, loose and easy, barely putting in effort but still commanding all the space between you. – Worried? Were you worried that you’re finally gonna have to get a job and deal with your own shit?!

– You don’t know what you’re talking about, okay?! Shut the fuck up!

– Or what? Are you gonna freeload off of me too?

JJ moves before you can stop him. His bike crashes to the pavement as he lunges, fists already clenched, fury twisting his face. Rafe barely shifts, like he’s been expecting this all along, like he’s been waiting for the moment he can finally push JJ over the edge.

– THIS SHIT ISN’T ABOUT YOU RAFE!

You step in fast, hands catching JJ’s arm before he can swing, your pulse hammering. – JJ, don’t. Fuck off. Don’t fucking do this right now.

– He’s the one who needs to fuck off! We’re talking right now, it’s none of his fucking business! – His breath is ragged, his muscles stiff under your grip. But Rafe just grins, smug and taunting, eyes alight with something dark. – Tell him to go away.

– You can’t tell me that yourself? Is that how much of a bitch you are, JJ?

JJ lunges, nearly pushing you into the asphalt by mistake. Rafe’s the one that catches you, his hand steadying you as you hold JJ back. – LET GO OF ME!

– JJ step the fuck back, I’m not even kidding you.

– He started it!

Rafe whistles lowly, laughing just under his breath as his arm wraps around you again. – Your brother really knows how to pick them, doesn’t he?

– Not helping, Rafe.

– I’m just trying to enjoy myself while you talk him down from his tantrum. I’m great.

– Stop fucking talking to her like that!

– Or what? You gonna hit me? – He muses, tilting his head, like the thought actually amuses him. – Go ahead, man. Take your shot. I bet it’ll feel real good.

JJ’s jaw tightens, his arm twitching under your hold. You can feel the war inside him, the barely restrained urge to throw that punch, to finally give Rafe the fight he’s clearly asking for.

But you don’t let go.

And JJ doesn’t swing.

For a second, the only sound is the thick silence between you.

Then Rafe sighs, exaggerated and disappointed. – Shame, – He mutters, stepping back, shaking his head like JJ’s let him down. – I was really hoping you’d play along, JJ. It’s been what? A week since you last got arrested? Has it ever been so long? I bet they’re missing you down at the station.

He flashes a grin at you, sharp and knowing, before brushing past, hands moving over your back like he owns you. – Y’know what, baby? We should really get going. I’m getting kinda bored.

– You’re out of your fucking mind if you think she’s going anywhere with you.

– JJ. – You warn, but he doesn’t seem to hear you.

– She came here with me, buddy. Maybe you wanna look around you. – He glances at you, blue eyes gleaming as he takes you by the arm. – C’mon. It’s getting late, right? Your brother’s probably struggling to figure out the oven right now.

– You don’t know what the fuck your talking about. – JJ growls.

– You’re gonna go home with this pogue? –The question comes out in a hum, almost condescendingly. His laughter thrills up your spine like a shiver of fear. – You’re gonna let him strongarm you like this?

You swallow, breathing in deep.

Rafe’s grip on your arm tightens, fingers warm against your skin, but you don’t move. His smirk twitches—just barely—before he tilts his head, watching you with curiosity, even if the smile he’s giving you doesn’t seem too pleased.

JJ notices too. He exhales sharply, barely holding himself together. – You’re not leaving with him.

His voice is low, coarse. And he’s clinging, moving his arms within your hold like a whiny kid. But it’s not a plea. It’s a demand.

Rafe hums under his breath, low and pleased, like this is all going exactly how he wanted. – She’s not staying for you, JJ. – He flicks his gaze over, like he’s looking at something stuck to the bottom of his shoe. – You have John B’s useless ass to thank for her not leaving with me right now.

JJ clenches his jaw so tight you swear you hear his molars crack. – Shut the fuck up, Rafe.

Rafe grins, slow and knowing. – I will if she makes me. Right, baby? Maybe you can give me a goodnight kiss before I go.

JJ takes a step forward, but you press a hand to his chest, stopping him. He seethes, nostrils flaring, but you shake your head. – Just go, Rafe. Please. – Your voice isn’t sharp—it’s tired, annoyed.

And that’s exactly why Rafe thrives on it.

He tsks, squeezing your waist in his hold on you before pulling his keys from his pocket. – That’s okay. We’ll have plenty of time for that tomorrow, right? – He leans in, voice dipping lower. – You can make it up to me.

You sigh, rubbing your temple. – Rafe—

– You’re cute when you get all flustered. – He laughs, tapping your chin with his knuckle. – I’ll call you later.

JJ lunges, and it takes everything in you to shove him back.

Rafe just whistles, all relaxed amusement, stepping back with an easy grin. – Damn, Maybank, you’re really gonna let her hold you back like that?

JJ is shaking in anger, chest heaving.

Rafe doesn’t wait for an answer. He shoots you a wink and a lazy salute before finally turning away, tossing over his shoulder, – Don’t miss me too much, baby.

JJ exhales sharply, shaking off your hold. His head drops for a second, his hands clenching at his sides before he looks at you, eyes blazing. – What the hell was that?

You swallow hard, the weight in your chest pressing down heavy. – JJ—

But he shakes his head. – Nah. No way. You don’t get to brush this off. – His voice is rough, disbelief coating every syllable. – Tell me you’re not— He stops himself, exhaling sharply again before taking a step back, shaking his head like he’s trying to make sense of it. – Tell me you’re not seriously falling for this shit.

You don’t know what to say.

Because maybe you don’t have an answer he wants to hear.

– Oh my God. – You don’t know what exactly in his face shifts, but you feel the air around you thicken. – You are, aren’t you?!

– Spare me the outrage, JJ. I’m not in the mood for your lectures.

– The guy is a fucking psychopath! There’s no fucking way you do’t see that! He’s insane!

You roll your eyes, a sigh falling from your lips before you can think of it. – You say that like you’re some sort of model of normalcy.

– I can’t fucking believe you!

– I don’t fucking need you to believe me, JJ. Clearly you fucking don’t. It doesn’t matter what I say, you already have your pitchfork ready! So what exactly am I supposed to be getting out of this?! Huh? Tell me. – A beat of silence lingers between you, as you turn your back on him. It’s long past 6 PM. The sky is pitch-black. – Can we just go? I don’t wanna do this.

You can see the gears turn in his head when you speak. His eyes soften, jaw unclentching. – I’m trying to look out for you. – You scoff. – Look, I know you’re stressed and all, but you don’t need to be taking it out on me, okay?! Chill out.

– Thanks, Mother Teresa. I feel much calmer now.

– Can we just put down the boxing gloves, right now?!

– I don’t know JJ, can we? I can’t put my guard down with you for a moment. Because that’s what you do. You tell me I should calm down, and when I do, you come up with some insane shit to piss me off all over again!

JJ watches you, chest still rising and falling like he’s trying to catch a breath that won’t come. Then his expression shifts—like something clicks into place, like he’s realizing something he doesn’t like.

His lips curl, his tongue running over the inside of his cheek. – Are you serious? – His voice is quieter now, almost disbelieving. – This is where we’re at?

You shake your head, swallowing back the lump in your throat. – I don’t want to do this right now, JJ.

– Oh, that’s rich. You don’t wanna do this right now? – He lets out a sharp, humorless laugh. – You wanna pick a better time? Should I make an appointment? Because it’s like you never have time for me these days! You’ll speak your mind, talk all the game you fucking want, but when it’s time to talk about my feelings, suddenly you’re too tired to deal!

Your stomach twists.

JJ scoffs. – You know, I keep trying. I keep trying to get through to you, and you just— He stops, shakes his head again, shoving a hand through his hair like that’ll help get rid of some of the frustration bleeding off of him.

– Trying to what, JJ? What is it that you’re trying to get through to me so much? That I can’t even talk to people while you go around fucking whatever girl you want? – The words come out before you can stop them.

– That’s funny, I don’t remember leaving with your mortal enemy!

– And I don’t remember kissing your best friend after leaving your bed, JJ. But here we are!

JJ goes still.

For a second, neither of you speak.

Then he exhales sharply through his nose, shaking his head like you’ve just confirmed something he was trying not to believe. – There you go again, – He mutters, half in laughter, half in scorn. – You’re insane. Like. You’re actually sick in the fucking head. You and Rafe are perfect for each other. Maybe that’s why you’re here right? I was too normal, so you got bored. And that’s why you’re here in the Country Club, fucking that psychopath!

You stare at him, heart still pounding, but there’s something else gnawing at the edges of your mind now—something off. Something you didn’t notice in the heat of it all.

The country club.

You’re not at your job.

You’re not at home.

You’re not even on your side of the island.

Your stomach twists again.

– JJ, – you start, voice quieter now.

But he doesn’t hear it, or he doesn’t care. He scoffs again, throwing his hands in the air as he turns away, pacing. – I should’ve known. I should’ve listened to John B. He always said you were fucking twisted! But leave it to me! It’s my fault or thinking you could act like a person for once!

Your pulse stutters.

You don’t even register his words.

You don’t remember telling him where you were.

Your job isn't anywhere near the Country Club. You didn’t text him. You didn’t call him.

So how did he find you?

Your skin prickles as you stare at him, the words barely coming out. – JJ... how did you know I was here?

– What?! – He laughs, like you’ve just said something stupid, but you’re not gonna let him do this. Keeping your face neutral, even while your blood runs cold, you repeat:

– How did you know where I was? – He looks at you for a moment, frozen in place. You don’t even see him breathe. But the thoughts run wild behind his eyes, his mouth hanging open, unable to keep up with the speed at which his mind is running. – Answer me. How did you know I was here, JJ?

– I— He swallows, looking between each of your eyes frantically. – I was gonna pick you up at work,

– At a quarter to seven PM? You know I get the bus. It leaves at 5:20. You know that.

– Why are you making a big deal out of this?! I was driving to the wreck and I saw you here—

– No you weren’t. The wreck is East. To get here, you need to be going West.

He’s quiet again.

– Are you following me? How did you even— Realization dawns on you. JJ and John had your phone all day after you left. The notification you saw when you finally got it back, was from your maps app, which you’ve never opened in your life. You pull your phone out of your pocket. The location is on, but you don’t remember activating it. You open your messages. The latest contact is JJ. But you haven’t texted him in days. The chat is empty. – You sent my phone location to yourself, didn’t you? You and John are fucki— Your voice dies within your throat. The hair at the back of your neck standing. – John doesn’t have my password, though.

– You’re acting insane.

– How the fuck did you figure out my password, JJ? It’s a thousand characters long. I expect that shit from Pope, but— You stop again, opening your settings. A second fingerprint is set there, next to yours. – What the fuck is wrong with you?

– Don’t turn this around right now!

– That’s rich, JJ! And I’m the one who’s insane?! You’re a fucking stalker!

JJ scoffs, but it’s different now—less angry, more… wounded. Like you just slapped him in the face instead of uncovering something deeply fucked up. He shakes his head, stepping back like he needs distance from you.

– Are you serious right now? – His voice is quieter, rougher. – After everything?

You stare at him, blood still thrumming in your ears. – After everything? JJ, you just—

– No, you don’t get it. You don’t fucking get it. – He lets out a breathless laugh, dragging his hand down his face. – I knew something was off. I knew you were pulling away. I knew you were sneaking around, lying to me—

– I’m pulling away because you’re messing around with Kie!

– I’m not! Baby, I— He’s slapping himself, pulling out his hair. – I was trying to make you jealous, okay?! I just want you to pay attention to me! But you’re either glued to your phone talking to Barry, or you’re around John B, doing everything for him, everything I want you to do for me!

– What the fuck are you talking about?! He’s my fucking brother, JJ!

– BUT HE DOESN’T DESERVE IT! – He screams, the vitriol burning against his lips like acid. – He was always horrible to you, and I was there! I was there! I wanted you!

– What are you talking about?! You’ve hated me since we were kids!

– NO! I— I wanted you to look at me. I just wanted you to—Please. Just look at me, okay? I don’t want you sneaking around with Barry or with Rafe, or whatever! I want you here! With me!

– Sneaking around—JJ, you broke into my fucking phone—

– Because you wouldn’t fucking talk to me! – His voice cracks on the last word, and it throws you for a second—because the anger is still there, but there’s something else now, something desperate. His hands are in his hair, gripping like he’s holding himself together. – Do you even hear yourself? Do you even care? Or are you just gonna act like I’m some fucking psycho and not the guy who’s been there for you? The guy who—who has wanted you since I was kid?!

Your breath catches.

JJ exhales sharply, jaw clenching like he hates himself for saying it, for letting it slip out in the middle of this.

– You were there for me. – He continues. – When your brother couldn’t be. When my dad started— When he drank. You remember that, don’t you? You took care of me. You always took care of me. John B couldn’t get that! Even if he tried, y’know, who knows, maybe he did! But he was always this golden boy! Your dad, he— He treated him like he could do no wrong— He’d never get it. But you did! You always got me!

You’re quiet. Because you remember.

You remember taking a beating for JJ the day John sent you there to give him his surfboard. You remember laying there on the floor, his dad pulling you by the hair, because you stood there while JJ ran. You remember the face he made when his dad threw you out.

How he fell apart in your arms.

How you remained there, holding him, as he bled through your clothes.

And it tears you apart.

Because the way he spoke to you before, is exactly the way his father used to speak to him.

– But yeah. Sure. I’m the stalker. I’m the crazy one. – He laughs bitterly, shaking his head. – You’re so fucking worried about me following you, but you don’t care that you’re running straight to him! – His eyes flash with something sharp, something dark. – You think he gives a shit about you? You think Rafe fucking Cameron isn’t watching your every move, waiting for you to fuck up so he can sink his claws in? Like Barry did? – He steps forward, voice lowering like he’s telling you some ugly secret.

Your heart jumps in your chest at the mention. JJ knows this is a low blow. – You don’t know anything about Barry and me.

– I know he hurt you. – He’s almost pleading. – He hurt you because you were with him, when you should’ve been with me.

– JJ—

– I did this to protect you. Let me protect you. Like you protected me.

There it is. The flip.

You feel like you might faint.

JJ exhales shakily, his fingers flexing like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands anymore. The anger is fizzling out, but what’s left is somehow worse—smaller. He looks at you, really looks at you, and suddenly it’s like all the fight drains out of him.

– I can’t keep doing this. – His voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper. He shakes his head, eyes flickering away like he’s embarrassed, like you’ve just torn him down completely. – I don’t—I don’t know how else to prove it to you. How else to make you see that I just wanted to keep you safe.

His shoulders drop. He looks exhausted.

– But you don’t believe me. You won’t ever fucking believe me, will you? – He laughs, but it’s hollow, broken. – It doesn’t matter what I do. Doesn’t matter that I would literally die for you—Jesus Christ, I would, and you don’t even fucking see it. I’d do anything for you, and you’re just standing there, looking at me like I’m a fucking monster.

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

– I mean—fuck, what am I supposed to do? Huh? – His voice cracks. His eyes are glassy now, but he swipes a hand over his face before anything can fall. – You want me to apologize? I will. You want me to beg? Fine. – He laughs breathlessly, shoulders shaking as he sinks down onto the curb like his body just gave up. – I’ll fucking beg.

Your stomach twists.

– Just— he exhales, hands clinging to your hips. – Can we go home? – His voice is so quiet now, so defeated. – Please. I don’t wanna fight anymore. I don’t wanna—fuck, I don’t even care. Just let me take you home. That’s all I want.

He looks up at you, and for the first time tonight, he looks fragile. Worn down. Like he’s carrying something too heavy for him, and the only thing keeping him from collapsing is you.

And God help you, part of you wants to believe him.

– JJ. – Your voice is sharp, but your hands are shaking. – This isn’t about that—this isn’t about you wanting to take me home. This is about what you did—

– I know! – he cuts in, his breath coming too fast, too uneven. His hands fist in his hair, like he’s trying to hold himself together by sheer force. – I know, okay? I fucked up, I fucking know— He stumbles over his own words, gasping, like the weight of it is physically pressing down on him. – But I can’t—

His voice breaks.

– I can’t lose you over this. Over Rafe fucking Cameron and his bullshit.

The air between you shifts. Something inside him just collapses.

– Please. – His chest is heaving, his eyes wet, his whole body trembling like he’s about to snap. – I don’t—I don’t know how to make you stay. I don’t know how to fix this. – His voice cracks again, and this time, his knees buckle.

You barely have time to react before he’s falling into you, grabbing fistfuls of your clothes, his breath hitching against your belly. His whole body is shaking.

�� I’m sorry. – His words spill out in a frantic, broken rush. – I’m so fucking sorry. Please—please don’t go. Just—just let me take you home, baby, please—

His arms tighten around you, like if he holds on hard enough, he can force you to stay. And God, you shouldn’t. You should push him away, make him listen, make him answer for this.

But he’s crying.

JJ Maybank—loud, reckless, impossible JJ—is sobbing into you like a little kid, like he’s breaking apart right in front of you.

You inhale shakily, your hands hovering before you finally give in, falling before him on the ground, wrapping your arms around him, pressing your cheek against his hair.

– It’s okay, – you whisper, even though it isn’t. Even though nothing is.

But it’s all he wants to hear.

JJ exhales sharply, his whole body collapsing into yours with something like relief. – Don’t leave me.

– I won’t.

And maybe you mean it.

Maybe that’s the scariest part.

You let him fall apart against you, his body wracked with silent tremors as he clings to you like a lifeline. His breath is uneven, ragged, hot against your skin, and his fingers fist into your top, desperate, like letting go isn’t an option. He presses closer, his whole body sinking into yours, like he’s trying to disappear inside you, like that’s the only place he might be safe.

And you let him. You hold him as his shoulders shake, as he fights to keep from outright sobbing, as the weight of whatever broke him presses down so hard you swear you can feel it, too. He’s unraveling in your arms, piece by piece, like he’s been holding himself together for so long that the second you touched him, he lost the strength to keep pretending.

So you kiss the top of his head, soft but steady, and something in him shifts.

JJ exhales, a long, shuddering breath against your skin, like you’ve reached inside him and pulled all that tension from his chest. His body, wound so tightly, begins to loosen—his grip on you eases, but only enough for his hands to smooth over your back instead of clutching desperately. He leans into you now not just from pain, but from something quieter, something softer.

You feel it in the way his breathing slows, in the way the tremors start to fade as your fingers trace slow circles over his back. His arms tighten around you again, but it’s different this time—not frantic, not desperate. Just… needing you. Needing to be here, against you, in your warmth, in this small, quiet moment where he can finally let go.

His face stays buried in the crook of your neck, and when he speaks, his voice is hoarse but steady.

– I’m sorry, – He murmurs, again and again, lips moving against your skin.

You shake your head slightly, your fingers still stroking his back. – It’s okay.

And maybe for him, it actually is. Maybe just for a moment, with your hands in his hair and his body wrapped around yours, he feels something like peace. He doesn’t let go—not yet. He holds on, reveling in the comfort you offer, pressing into you like he never wants to leave. Like you’re the first real breath of air he’s had in a long time.

You stay like that, until the silence grows too heavy and you sigh. – We should go.

JJ doesn’t argue. He pulls back slowly, blinking, his eyes still red-rimmed but calmer, softer. His fingers linger at your waist before he finally steps up, exhaling like he’s reluctant to leave the space you created for him.

The drive is quiet, with him pulling your arms tighter around him everytime he gets the chance. You don’t protest. For a moment it's almost comforting, sitting on the back of his bike, without a word being spoken between you. But the feeling sits there, in your chest, that shiver you got when you realized he’s been following you.

It's not just caution.

It's not strangeness.

It's fear. A real, tangible fear of what he did, of what he can still do. Of what he might have continued doing had you not realized it. —It curls up around your throat, that fear. Pressing against your windpipe. You almost struggle to breathe.— You remain there, arms fastened around him as he slows down, pulling the brakes just before your house, even when he finally stops.

JJ leans back into you, breathing deep, clutching your hand to his chest, his body completely relaxed against yours. You’re still wondering. Mind still running.

How long had he followed you for?

Had he been trailing you? Close behind, just out of reach, or had he stared at your location, waiting, watching you without seeing you?

You don’t know which is worse.

– John B’s with Sarah tonight. – JJ mumbles, his head thrown back against your shoulder, the ends of his hair tickling your face. – I saw him sneak out. He’s probably gonna sleep there. – You hum, not really sure of what to say. – Pope and Kie are gone too. – His thumb brushes over the back of your hand slowly, his voice growing deeper, lower. – It’s just the two of us now.

You don’t say anything.

You don’t know what to say.

JJ looks back as you throw your leg over the other side of the bike, and climb down. He still clings to your hand like he’s got you on a leash: you have to remain there as he pulls the key from the ignition, as he sets his things in the top-box, as he leans back against the seat, pulling you in for a kiss.

You meet his mouth briefly, close-lipped, his fingers interlocking with yours as he pulls you in for another, and another, and one more. – I missed this. – He whispers, eyes barely open, already leaning in again.

– It’s been two days. – You remind him, but JJ only laughs.

– Two too many.

You don’t resist when he pulls you closer. His hands find your hips, sliding beneath the waistband of your jeans, calloused fingers pressing into the small of your back like he’s trying to mold you against him. He kisses you again—deeper, messier, his breath warm and tinged with something desperate.

JJ doesn’t just want this. He needs it.

That's what you like about him. He takes like he can’t get enough. He begs, and he grasps and he clings and he needs you like he needs air to breathe.

His hands are restless, traveling up your ribs, down your waist, over your thighs, like he’s trying to make up for lost time, like touching you might steady him, might ground him. But it doesn’t. The more he touches you, the more insatiable he gets. He’s humming against your lips, sighing into your touch, a little frantic, a little unsteady.

You pull him inside, but JJ can’t seem to break the kiss. He takes your hands to the hem of his shirt, tugging impatiently, his lips dragging from your mouth to your jaw to your neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your skin between whispered pleas.

– Touch me, – he breathes, his voice cracking like the weight of everything is still right there, lingering beneath the surface.

Your fingers slip into his hair, threading through the strands, and JJ shudders. He melts against you, knees almost buckling as he exhales a sharp, shaky breath.

– Fuck, – he mumbles, almost laughing, giddy and drunk on your touch. He’s clinging to you now, pressing his body into yours, murmuring against your lips, deeper, please, until you give in, kissing him the way he wants. The way he needs.

He moans softly, hands gripping your waist, pushing your top up just to feel your skin against his palms. He’s lost in this, lost in you, smiling against your mouth in that dazed, breathless way, like nothing else exists beyond the way your body fits against his.

Like everything is fine.

Even it isn’t, not really.

You lead him to your room, kicking the door behind you as he falls back on the bed, tearing his shirt off of him as if it were burning. He doesn’t even give you the time to think before he’s pulling you on top of him.

You try to guide him through the motions, letting his hands explore, letting him pull you closer, letting him bury his face in your neck, all while your mind is somewhere else. Detached. Floating.

Because underneath it all—beneath the heat of his mouth and the weight of his body and the way he pleads for you like you’re the only thing keeping him from falling apart—there’s that feeling.

That cold, creeping thing at the back of your mind.

That fear.

It wraps around your throat, pressing tight, squeezing, reminding you of what he did. Of how long he must have followed you, watching, waiting, just out of reach.

Of how much worse it could’ve been if you hadn’t noticed.

JJ doesn’t see it. He doesn’t feel it. He only sees you, only feels your hands, your lips, the comfort he’s so desperate to take from you.

– I missed this, – he murmurs again, voice slurring slightly, hands still moving, still searching. – Fuck, baby I missed this so much.

You swallow hard, exhaling slowly, before finally answering.

– I know.

And you let him keep touching you, let him revel in this, let him have this, because maybe if he does, he’ll calm down. Maybe if he does, you’ll feel safe again.

JJ exhales against your skin, his body completely unwound, pliant beneath your hands. – Take it off. – He groans, hands shaking against his breeches. – Take it off of me, baby. Please. I just want you to be on me. I need it. Please.

You don’t need to be told twice.

He watches, almost breathless while you strip him bare, moaning at every touch, hips bucking every time you brush against him.

That doesn’t last long though.

It isn’t enough that just your hands are on him. So he drags you onto his dick, still clothed, and he grinds himself into you, eyes rolling back.

There’s something raw about the way he touches you—like he’s savoring every inch, like he’ll be going through withdrawal unless he doesn’t hold on tight enough. His fingers dig into your sides as he pulls your hips into his, his laugh breathy, almost delirious.

– God, I fucking love this, – he mutters against your shoulder, his hands slipping beneath your top, his thumbs brushing lazy circles over your skin.

This.

Not you—this.

The warmth. The closeness. The way you let him touch you, take what he needs. – You love this too, right baby? Your hips— He moans, head thrown back when you roll your hips against his cock, the fabric of your jeans giving just the friction he needs to work himself up. – You're so fucking good at this.

You squeeze your eyes shut as he kisses up your throat, his lips tracing familiar paths, his breath hot and unsteady. He hums when you card your fingers through his hair again, pressing into your touch like he’s melting from the inside out.

He's getting wilder, humping you with this reckless abandon he never seems to shake off. But you can see him unraveling. Just the friction isn't scratching the itch.

He needs more.

– Take it off, baby. Please. Please. – he sighs, voice catching, eyes blown out. – Fuck, give it to me. Just ride me.

You hesitate. Your fingers still against the nape of his neck. The sounds he makes, strangled, anguished. Like he’s going mad.

You actually hear him whine when you lift your hips, and his hand flies down to palm himself while he watches you pull the jeans down.

He tilts his head up, catching your mouth again, dragging you deeper into him. His hands slide down, gripping the backs of your thighs, pulling you closer until he's practically in you.

But you don’t let him sink in just yet.

It's more fun when you drag it out.

When you move against him, teasing him, watching him twitch and moan and plead with nothing but the wetness, the softness, the warmth.

There’s a slow, creeping sickness curling in your stomach.

Because you’re leading this. Because you know what he needs, and you’re not quite giving it to him. Because you’re letting him press closer, letting him unravel, letting him forget—for just a little while—that anything is wrong at all.

And a part of you wants to forget too.

It feels good.

It doesn’t matter what he did, what he would do, because he needs you. He can’t get enough of you. He won't leave.

– Please. Please. – He repeats it like a mantra, writhing beneath you, clutching you so fucking tight. His hips go rogue, bucking wildly. – Please let me fuck you. I need to fuck you. Please. Fuck, I can't take this anymore!

The laughter that falls from your lips almost seems to stoke the flames.

He groans out loud when tip pushes into you, and for a second, his entire body just collapses against yours, heavy, needy.

Then his hands slip under your bra again, tugging at the fabric, his breath hot and desperate against your skin.

– Let me see you, – he murmurs, voice thick, rough. – G-Go ahead, baby. I need you to move. Please.

You pull back slightly, meeting his gaze. His pupils are blown wide, his lips kiss-swollen, his expression open in a way that makes you ache.

JJ wants you. That much is obvious.

But more than that—he wants to disappear into you.

To sink into your warmth, your touch, your body, and let it drown out whatever’s eating him alive from the inside.

Your stomach twists.

His fingers have long stopped tracing slow patterns against your ribs, now he's bruising you, nails digging in, shaking, waiting. Pleading.

You could give him what he wants. It would be easy. So, so easy.

But for the first time since this started, you wonder if you should. – And who said you deserve that, JJ?

– Huh?

– Because with the way you talked to me before, I don’t think you do. – You move, just slightly, and he folds, back arching. – I think you’re gonna have to convince me.

– Please. Baby, please.

– You think I'm pathetic. – You tsk, your hips rolling so slow his eyes flutter when they roll back. – I'm not the one who’s begging, though.

– Please! – He's screaming now, and you’re moving faster. The bed creaking beneath you. – I need it! Faster, baby. Faster!

He's splayed out, a puppet with the strings cut loose, yet he's anything but relaxed. You can feel him tensing, hands fisting the sheets so tight his knuckles have gone white.

He screams.

Almost yelping when you start going at the pace you know he likes. And it still isn't enough. He still grabs your hips, pulling you closer, and closer, again and again, banging against that soft spot within you like it's the only thing that can relieve him from this torture.

And you let him.

You ride him like a bronco, as if he’s trying to fuck you off instead of closer. As if he isn't begging for it. Screaming for it. – MORE, BABY, PLEASE!

You want more too.

At some point you lost yourself in trying to punish him, and it started to feel good. You're biting him, teeth dragging against the skin at the crook of his neck, the spot that always makes him shudder, that always makes him writhe.

Your nails have mapped half his body over.

He's red. —His face, his eyes, his lips, his scratches.— He’s gasping. Shaking. His whole body trembling, his eyes rolling back. You can’t even make sense of what he's saying anymore.

The only thing that leaves his mouth are these incoherent pleas, these oohs and aahs that make you laugh, humming to yourself as you ride into your orgasm, feeling him fall apart.

– F-uck, fuck! Don’t stop! Feels so fucking good baby, so fucking good! – He pushes it in faster, but it's still not enough. He needs more, he was going mad! Grabs you by the waist, tosses you on the bed, rutting like a wild dog, head thrown back, eyes rolling upwards. – Fuck! Fuck! Feel s-feel so fucking good!

All that was heard was your laughter, the pleased little gasps that escape your mouth as he fills you up over and over and over again, animalistic and heaving, laughing as well, but out of his mind, completely overwhelmed by the pleasure, by the building release. He crashes against you, once, twice, getting careless. But by then he couldn’t hold it in. More! More! is all you heard from him.

And then you felt it.

His body shudders all over again, still rutting like his life would end. – God. God! I need to cum— fuck! I need— I need— Keep going! Don’t fucking stop baby, don— FUCK! FUCK!

You felt him coat your walls, white, hot, and endless. By then, you were shaking as well, the waves of your own climax washing over you as you arch against him.

He collapses over you, trembling and crying as he smiles, moaning your name in that shaky, adoring voice, eyes clinging to you in utter joy as he pumped lazily, through your climax and his, he still needed more of you. – It won-won’t stop. Fuck, there’s so m-much of it. – Laughter. Yours, his.

Your mind is blank.

He's heavy, heaving, still inside you.

JJ's breathing is ragged, each exhale a shaky whisper as he remains, still there, still trembling with the aftershocks. His hands wander aimlessly across the sheets, his body warm and heavy, as though he's been consumed entirely. His eyes are half-lidded, unfocused, and a soft whimper escapes him as he reaches for your hand.

– Baby... can you...? – His voice is slurred, broken, as if he’s still caught between the pleasure and the exhaustion of it all. His hand gently tugs at your wrist, his fingers brushing against your skin. – Just... touch me. Please... softly.

There was that, too.

He was always sweeter when he was done.

You give a soft, reassuring smile, your fingers gently grazing his messy hair, pushing the strands out of his face, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead, lingering for a moment before you speak in the same soft, soothing tone. – I’m here, JJ. I got you.

He hums in response, his eyes fluttering closed, a content sigh escaping his lips as you run your fingers through his hair, the action slow and comforting. – I’m... Fuck— Laughter buzzes against your skin as he presses his lips on you again. – I'm never getting used to this... I’m not used to this, – he mumbles between shaky breaths, his hand coming to rest on your arm, the weight of his touch grounding him. – Feels... too good. I need you to... keep me close. Just... just a little longer.

You hate the way your heart skips.

But you love the way he says it.

The way his voice brushes against your skin when he pleads, so softly, so sweetly. Like he could never do you harm.

You shift slightly, pulling him into your chest, the warmth of his body a constant reassurance. His hand rests over your heart, the frantic pace of his pulse now slowing, but his face is still pinched with that lingering tension, a mix of exhaustion and need for reassurance. He lets out a soft groan as you press your lips to his temple, whispering, – I’m right here. You’re okay.

His breath evens out, and as the minutes pass, you keep stroking his hair and kissing his head, each kiss lighter than the last, until his body relaxes fully, his grip on you loosens. – Love you.

You feel yourself tense up.

It’s not the first time he says it.

But it might be the first time you know he doesn’t mean it.

Still you smile down at him anyway, pressing another gentle kiss to his forehead before whispering back, – Sure you do, baby. Go to sleep, okay?

He doesn’t need much encouragement.

JJ's never been easy to tire out, but when he does, it's immediate. His ear is pressed to your chest, to your heart, and you wonder what kind of dreams he’ll be having with that soundtrack, but it doesn't take long for his breath to even out.

The house is quiet.

Completely so.

And though you're glad John wasn't there to hear it, laying there, without his snoring to lull you into even halfway into reality only means that it crashes against you like a bucket of cold water a soon as JJ is out.

The day dawns on you, as it has done several times, but still the loathing blooms in your chest and spreads through your body faster than your mind can process.

You're broke.

You're jobless.

The girl you thought was your best friend is a snake.

The boy that's sleeping on you is a stalker.

Your best prospect right now is famously the most spoiled and volatile person on the island. That, because your best friend, the person that could actually get you out of this, has faded away after abandoning you, and you have no idea if he’ll even come back.

What's funny is that this is the thought that hurts you most —Not that you're unemployed, that your now previous boss could ruin you forever, that your relationship with only family member is as unstable as your financial situation, or that the people you thought you could trust don’t care about you— that Barry is gone.

Something he has been plenty of times before.

You lie there in the stillness, the weight of JJ's body pressing against yours. The sheets feel too warm, too much, a world you can’t find a way into. JJ’s steady breathing is a lullaby of sorts, pulling you toward the edge of exhaustion, but it’s not enough to quiet the thoughts tumbling relentlessly in your head.

Barry's absence gnaws at you —You know he’s not gone forever, not really. Or at least you hope so. He’s done this before, pulled away just long enough for you to convince yourself it doesn’t matter. And yet, it hurts like it does. Like it’s different this time.

You turn your head to glance at him—JJ, still sleeping soundly, unaware. His face is soft, the usual edge to his features dulled by exhaustion, but even now, with him so vulnerable in your arms, you feel the invisible distance between you grow. He’s a comfort, but only in the way a warm blanket can make you feel safe when the storm is too loud. And it is too loud. So loud you can barely breathe through it.

Your fingers trace patterns along his skin, but it’s absent, mechanical—the world outside the room, the boy in your arms, the life that’s slipping from your fingers, and the ghost that won’t stop haunting you, and you don't even know why.

Barry.

You know, deep down, that it’s not about him being gone. It’s about the fact that, despite what JJ has just tried to convince you of, Barry actually is the one person that was there for you.

When your father went away, he celebrated with you. When he was declared missing, he comforted you, even if you said you didn't care. Even if you didn't even know you needed it.

And maybe that's the problem: He saw you better than you saw yourself. He knows you. Really knows you.

But does he now?

So much has changed in two days.

You can’t even tell yourself it was real anymore because everything you thought you knew about him, about you, is shifting—becoming something else you can’t identify.

There’s no way to put a name to it, though, is there? That dull ache you’ve learned to live with. Not quite loneliness, but not contentment, either. Just an empty space where hope used to live, and you're so used to it now that you don’t know what it would feel like to fill it.

You let your gaze fall to JJ again, watching the way his back rises and falls with the easy rhythm of sleep. Maybe this is it—this is what you have now. A boy who doesn’t even know what he’s asking for when he whispers his need into the quiet night. And you, too tired to push him away, too lost to turn to anything else. You can almost convince yourself it’s enough, and for a second, you do.

But then, Barry’s face flickers in your mind again, like a ghost.

You wonder, just for a moment, if you would’ve been able to say anything if he were here. If you would’ve told him how much you needed him to help you, how much you needed him to be here, not just physically, but with you in the way that only he ever did.

But he’s not here.

And you’re not sure when he will be again.

The buzz of your phone slices through the silence. You freeze. What's the likelihood that he would call you right then, when you needed him most?

You slide from under JJ, and he grumbles, hands reaching for you even deep into sleep, but you don’t see it. All you see is the unknown number flashing on your screen amidst the darkness, and your heart races as you bring the phone to your ear. – Bee? – The word falls from your lips almost fearfully. You don’t want to know where he's been, what he's doing, or how much of what he had to take to call you like this, in the middle of the night. But you’re impatient to hear his voice, you just want to know if he's okay. – Bee, is that you?

The line scratches softly, the familiar sound of skin whispering against the microphone echoing in-between the two phones. Your pulse thrums against your ear. – Not bee. – You finally hear. – Are, actually.

– “Are”? Barry, what are you talking about? What did you take?

– It’s not Barry, baby. – The edge of his words resounded even through the distance. Pleased, but not quite satisfied. – It’s Rafe.

You let go of a breath you didn’t even realize you were holding.

– Oh, “R”. Okay I got it.

He chuckles, a long, breathy noise. His breathing is heavy. – Did you put the cry-baby to sleep or is he still up whining?

JJ turns in his sleep. His arm, still lying, lax, over your lap shifts, and he pulls himself closer, brow brushing against your thigh. – JJ is… gone.

– Good. Thought I was gonna have to call CPS or some shit. – He scoffs, turning, in bed, you gather, since you hear the squeak of furniture.

– How considerate.

– Well, baby, I'm nothing if not considerate. – He hums. – What are you doing awake?

Regretting your life decisions, pondering the benefits of suicide. – Thinking of you. – It was meant to be a joke, but it didn’t sound like one as it slipped from your lips.

There's half a second of silence from him before you hear that laugh again, like you shocked him.

Rafe Cameron was shocked.

That's definitely a headline.

You can almost hear the smirk on his face. – I was thinking about you too, baby. What are you wearing?

You scoff, almost rolling your eyes. – Rafe.

He laughs again, even breathier. – Sorry. Was that too soon? – His bed creaks again. – You don’t seem like the kind of girl who needs a lot of foreplay.

– Hilarious.

– I was really hoping you'd give me a taste of what you’re wearing tomorrow, though.

You look down almost unconsciously. The only thing covering your skin is sweat. – Definitely not what I'm wearing right now. Unless you're hiring for a job other than personal chef.

Rafe’s quiet again. He moves around. You can hear him breathing. – Maybe I am. What kind of job are you thinking?

– Well, aren’t you the little hiring agency? Should've met you before. There’s some things on my resume I'm definitely not proud of. – He laughs with you now, though there's something strange in his tone. – Did you talk to your governess, or that other guy you said you didn't know the name of?

– Did. We'll be waiting for you.

– Well, you call and I come. – He laughs at the double-entendre, another noise escaping his lips. – What time should I be there?

– How's 10 AM sound?

– Perfect, Rafe. Thank you. Again, really. I can’t thank you enough.

– You're welcome, baby. You really are. – He groans, the bed creaking. JJ moves around again, his head on your lap, hands around your knees, and he mumbles something unintelligible. – What was that?

– Sorry, uhm. Just… thinking out loud.

You swallow, but Rafe doesn’t miss a beat. – And what are you thinking about?

– About… What I'm gonna wear. – Improvising was never really your forte.

Rafe hums, a long stretch of the M, then something smaller, a sound you can't quite catch. – That skirt. – He sighs. – The blue pleated one.

You pause.

– What?

– It's pretty. – Is all he says, then a groan, or a purr. The phone falls on his pillow, you can hear it scratch against his skin as he moves. But the way he says it, as if he’s seen it a thousand times in the two days you've known each other, as if he can picture you wearing it right in front of him. – Fuck, baby. You’re so pretty.

The compliment grates at your ears.

How does he know your clothes?

You think of the skirt. Your blue pleated skirt. It's been ages since you've worn it. It's way too short. You’ve outgrown it a while ago. – What else, baby?

– Hm?

– What else are you wearing for me?

His bed creaks again, over and over, and he doesn’t say anything for a minute, he just sighs.

– I, uhm. I don’t know. – What even is this conversation?

– Far as I'm concerned you don't need to wear anything. You can come— He laughs, low and unsteady, a strangled “yeah” cutting through the word. – Come as you are.

You feel a trickle of repulse run down your back. You don’t wanna talk to him anymore. You don’t want to talk at all.

– Talk to me, baby. – He groans, again.

– I, uhm. – You kick the nightstand, the noise echoing loudly around your room. – Shit, uhm. Sorry, that's my brother. I'll see you tomorrow.

You kill the line before he can say anything else.

@chatgtfo @bitterdotcom @sassyvillaintrophy @xmayankax @bluethperson @coralblue35 @munsoncultedits @the-bitch-who-binges @im-julessssss

[bonnie-the-butcher]

I got a notification for part 5, what happened 😭

I went to edit it and dumbass tumblr posted it without my consent (🤡)

Its almost complete, though. I just need to write the closing paragraphs and review it one last time. Will post tomorrow, I promise.