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hrtfltslt · 4 months ago

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Something Borrowed (Michael Corleone x Reader)

Summary: Michael Corleone is the last person you expect to see at your best friend Connie’s wedding, and the last thing you expect to happen upon seeing him again after so many years is spending the night together. Maybe, it'll turn into something more.

Note: Female reader, but no other descriptors are used. No hate to Kay, she’s my girl, but wedding scene Michael drives me crazy🤭 She’s off living her best life elsewhere in this. Also, it was a lot of fun writing pre-everything Michael. Do not interact if you’re under 18, terf or radfem, or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 2.8k

Warnings: Sexually explicit content involving unprotected sex. Light play fighting.

Champagne and giggles overflowed at Connie Corleone’s wedding to Carlo Rizzi. Plenty of red wine was passed around in pitchers for the old guard, of course. For you and the other women conscious of not staining the rainbow of cocktail dresses and flowing gowns that dotted the backyard, you opted for lighter fare in tall flutes that sparkled in the early autumn sun.

Perhaps you were a bit too enthusiastic about the drink offerings, having already exchanged three empty champagne glasses for ones filled to the brim with glittering gold when the bride engulfed you in a hug. With a delighted laugh, you returned the gesture, kissing her cheek.

“I wanted to say thank you one more time for coming!” Connie exclaimed, her cheeks flushed pink from the excitement of the day. “God, it breaks my heart we couldn’t have gotten you a bridesmaid dress in time, but you look gorgeous.”

“Me? Connie, you look like a princess.”

“I feel like one,” she giggled.

“When you see your gift from me—I’m sorry it’s not more, I haven’t—”

“Stop it!” she scolded. “You came all the way from Europe just to be at my wedding. I couldn’t ask for a better friend.”

You didn’t bother correcting her. Her version of events sounded much nicer than you just got lucky with when the Red Cross put you on a boat home. “Anything for you.”

“I won’t keep you. This is probably the first time you’re eating real food in years. Mama, Sandra, and Theresa made most of it.”

Connie was right. You tried to savor your plate, packed with pasta drowned in homemade sauce, antipasto and crusty bread, and sandwiches that towered with fresh cold cuts. The Corleones knew a thing or two about good food, and had the means to pull the strings for the unfathomable ration books such a feast required.

A familiar yet unexpected voice startled you when your fork pierced a piece of mozzarella. “Is this seat taken?”

“Michael,” you practically gasped, taken aback by his even attending the wedding in the first place, but also how good he looked in his uniform. Cap tucked under his arm, medals and decorations on his chest, the photos you’d seen in the magazine didn’t do him justice. Finding yourself again, you gestured to the empty seat across from you. “Go ahead.”

“I can’t remember the last time I saw you, but you look great,” he said, his gaze fixed on you as he set his plate and glass down. He took you in, the girl he’d grown up seeing around the house and at school, now, without a doubt, a woman.

“You too, Captain,” you said, nodding toward the double bars on his uniform.

He snickered at your little joke, making you feel a bit more at ease in his presence. “I’m surprised you aren’t in the wedding party.”

“Honestly, I wasn’t even sure I was going to make it until a few days ago. I only just got back to New York on Thursday,” you said.

“You volunteered with the Red Cross, didn’t you?”

You nodded. “I was in England, and then France after the liberation.”

“Clubmobile, right?”

“Did Connie tell you?”

He shook his head, smiling the slightest bit. “All the pretty girls worked the Clubmobile.”

A mortifyingly girlish giggle escaped your lips. You quickly brought your glass to your mouth, though the champagne in it was likely the culprit of your embarrassing reaction to Michael’s compliment. Averting your eyes to the dancing guests, you tried to ignore the warmth that spread across your face.

You allowed yourself to look at him again a few moments later, relieved to find he was still sitting in front of you, amused, maybe even endeared, by you.

“You’re such a jerk, Michael,” you mumbled, only because he was your friend’s older brother, and when you were younger and starry-eyed and figuring out what it meant when your heart wouldn’t quite beat right around a boy, it was him who those tender emotions were kindled in secret toward—until you had your first real boyfriend.

He grinned at your remark, and the two of you ate and caught up in between his various family members stopping by the table to say hello. You weren’t sure what to make of his seeing you before any of them—flattered, a bit confused as well, but he laughed at your jokes and moved his seat closer to yours, so you must have been doing something right when he finally asked, “Do you want to dance?”

“I’d love to,” you said.

The chaos from Johnny Fontaine’s unexpected arrival and impromptu performance subsided when Michael led you out to dance. He held you close, the way soldiers had at the dances the Red Cross put on for servicemen, all to boost morale, or, as the war went on, to offer a break from reality. Among the many rules meant to be followed—and typically broken in one way or another in the haze of war—was to keep some emotional distance from the enlisted men, for your sake and their own, but with bodies so close together, tender touches and soft whispers over songs of twilight and moonbeams, it was tough not to be caught up in romance’s alluring snare.

Even then, with the war behind both of you, something about being in Michael’s arms made you truly understand why some girls risked their assignments for a man. There was something in how he looked at you, different from your childhood together, even from a few minutes prior. You felt breathless despite the slow song you swayed along to.

“Did you like Paris?” he asked quietly, throwing you for a loop.

You furrowed your eyebrows. “Paris?”

“You were in France, weren’t you?”

“Not Paris.”

“Where in France were you slinging doughnuts, then?”

“Little villages a few miles out from the front, mostly. More cows than people, but nice enough once the fighting stopped, and it was finally quiet—as quiet as it could get, anyway,” you said. “When Connie wrote you’d been wounded, I couldn’t help but think the worst. Plenty of guys out there—well, that article sure put me at ease. All the girls were jealous when I said I knew you.” You smiled. “I’m glad you’re alright, Michael.”

He glanced at your lips, and for an aching moment you were sure he was going to kiss you, but instead he gave you a smile, one that was real and made your heart flutter nevertheless, but left you disappointed.

“Where are you staying since you’ve been back?” he asked.

He seemed familiar with the hotel you were staying in when you mentioned it, offering to drive you back after the reception ended, and Connie and Carlo left for their honeymoon.

“It’s only until I can find a boarding hotel that has space,” you said. “I mean, it doesn’t have to be the Barbizon, but I’m not moving back in with my parents.”

“Here’s to that.”

The rest of the day and into the evening, Michael hung around you, unless he was pulled away by members of his family, each instance an annoyance to him. You knew they weren’t exactly supportive of his enlisting, but the situation couldn’t have been that bad, not since he was home, safe and sound at his sister’s wedding.

The Corleones, though endlessly kind to you, always been an odd family, and you learned through your friendship with Connie not to ask too many questions.

But Genco Abbandando was dying, and Vito insisted Michael go with the rest of the Corleone men to pay his respects to the elder. When you offered to take a cab back to your hotel, Michael promised the visit wouldn’t be long, suggesting you wait at the house with his mother until he returned to drive you into the city.

Your foolish desire to spend more time with him led to your waiting in the Corleones’ kitchen for a little over an hour, when you likely would’ve been showered and in bed in your hotel room by the time he arrived back for you, in one hell of a hurry to get you into his car and presumably get away from his family.

“Do you ever think about leaving New York?” he asked when the house was out of view.

You laughed. “Michael, I only just got back.”

“That’s not what I mean. The war—it wasn’t going to be forever, but it let you see what life could be like away from all of this, didn’t it?”

“Of course it did. I’m honestly not sure what I’m going to do with myself now,” you said. “How about you? Are you going back to school? Dartmouth, I mean.”

He nodded. “I start again the spring semester.” At a red light, he glanced over at you. “New England’s nice. Better than French cow country.”

“And do you suppose I could study in the department of pouring coffee and serving doughnuts?”

“You’re smart. I think you have a real future,” he said, the sincerity in his voice startling you. “All of that back there, that’s not for us. It never has been.”

You were silent for a few moments. “I guess you’re right.”

The city lights twinkling in the distance took the place of the stars they blocked out from the sky, growing larger as Michael crossed the bridge into Manhattan, the center of the universe. You’d never tell a soul how you cried just a few days prior upon seeing it again for the first time in years.

Besides his talk of the future, Michael kept the conversation light, and you could’ve sworn he was flirting with you. Working the Clubmobile, you learned quickly how to pick up on it, some men laying it on thick while others were irresistibly smooth. Michael could’ve easily just been teasing you, the way a friend’s older brother would, but when he pulled up to your hotel, either your ego or curiosity prompted you to invite him up for a drink.

You sobered up on the drive into the city, enough to remember you didn’t have any drinks in your room. The two of you would have to go to the hotel bar for that, but then you and Michael wouldn’t be alone, not how you wanted, anyway.

To your relief, he agreed.

With Michael in uniform, few questions would be asked by hotel staff as to why you suddenly had a man with you when you checked in on your own. It would have been easy to lie, claim he was your fiance who had only just gotten back Stateside. But you supposed you and Michael already looked the part, walking arm-in-arm through the lobby without an issue.

Your confidence soared on the elevator ride up to your modest room, which you let Michael into, knowing he wouldn’t judge the state of your accommodations.

“Mind if I make myself comfortable?” You didn’t wait for his answer, pulling your blouse from where it’d been tucked in your skirt. Slipping out of your heels, you sighed softly in relief.

“It’s your place,” he said, setting his coat over the chair in the corner and loosening his tie.

You grabbed his cap from where he set it down and placed it on your head, tilting the brim over your face a bit and posing in front of him with a hand on your hip. “How do I look?”

He sat down on the edge of the bed, giving you a once over, “I swear I saw you pinned up in some guy’s tent looking just like that.”

You laughed, taking the cap off and flinging it aside. “Oh, I don’t even know why I invited you up here!” Your laughter faded as something in your stomach turned sour, the situation feeling achingly too good to be true. Alone in a hotel room with Michael, the two of you entirely capable of making your own mistakes on the off chance he wanted you too. “Or why you even agreed to come up.”

“I didn’t come up here to drink.”

“No, you did it to be nice, because we’ve known each other for so long…” You sighed, sitting next to him. “I always figured you thought of me as your kid sister’s annoying little friend or something.”

He shook his head, saying your name softly in either protest or reassurance. His hand cupped your face as he turned it toward him, his thumb rubbing soft circles in your cheek. “Not for a long time. Especially not tonight.”

You kissed him, hands gripping his shoulders, closing your eyes as you melted in his embrace. Your skin feverish at his touch, you shuddered when his hand slipped up your untucked blouse until his fingertips reached your bra.

To say you hadn’t fantasized about Michael would have been an unconvincing lie to anyone who dared ask, but even in your wildest dreams, it was never quite like this, so bold and irreverent in the face of the tradition the two of you had just spent the day celebrating.

“I came up here because you’re beautiful,” he confessed against your lips, “because you’re the only familiar face I saw at my sister’s wedding that didn’t make me wish I were somewhere else.”

Silencing him with another kiss, your fingers raked through his soft black hair as your body pressed flush against his, unsure if you could withstand hearing more of his tender words without falling to pieces. You couldn’t, not so early in the night, but his desire grew difficult to ignore when he pulled you onto his lap. The pressure against your pussy made you moan, and with a hasty desperation, you shimmied out of your panties as he unbuckled his belt, freeing his hard cock within a few moments.

You slipped a hand between the two of you, pumping his length, feeling the way it twitched at your touch and gasping when Michael’s hips bucked. His teeth grazed your bottom lip, a whisper of an intent to devour you.

“I need you, sweetheart,” he groaned. “Need to feel you.”

Lifting your hips, you whimpered upon feeling his head brush your clit as you positioned yourself, slowly lowering as he filled you, cock throbbing against your walls that clenched around him. He assuaged the pain of taking all of him with a gentle kiss and soft praises, urging you to take your time, that you had all night together.

All night. The promise he would stay, at least until the morning, sent a teasing wave of pleasure through you. Gripping his shoulders, you tried to keep a steady pace as you rode him, wanted to show him that staying would be worth his while. He’d been right in the car, you wouldn’t be a virginal, wedding white bride. The both of you had seen and experienced too much to be considered innocent any longer, but it was something you shared, that no one else from that day would have understood.

Your thighs ached as you neared your climax, desperately chasing it despite the exhaustion that was creeping up on you. Crying out in frustration, you buried your face in the crook of Michael’s neck.

“I’m close,” you whined. “Michael, I—”

“I’ve got you,” he assured you, his hands making their home on your hips.

Your eyes fluttered shut as you let him guide your body, his thrusts doing most of the work while you rocked against him, seeking the friction against your clit that would bring you to release. It caught in your throat, a broken groan from your lips to his ears as you came, clenching around him, pleasure rolling through you, rattling your body like thunder. You barely caught your breath when he came, shuddering against you, practically cradling you against him as he filled you.

With a whimper, you lifted yourself off of him and rolled back onto the bed. Placing your hand on your chest, you felt your rapidly beating heart beneath your fingertips, focusing on it as it slowed the following minute or so and ignoring the stickiness between your legs, the evidence you slept with your best friend’s older brother.

Michael leaned over, brushing back the hair that stuck to your face. “What are your plans tomorrow?”

“Looking through the classifieds for a job,” you said honestly.

“Wanna put it off for a day?”

“With what money, Michael?”

“I’ll give you a line of credit.”

You grabbed one of the pillows from behind you, throwing it at him with a laugh. “Jerk!”

He grinned, pushing it aside to grab for one of your arms. You put up a weak fight, your breathless laughter giving away his almost certain win.

Having pinned you down beneath him, he pressed you for an answer. “So?” He kissed you. “What do you say, sweetheart?”

You rolled your eyes, smiling despite yourself. “I guess I can clear my schedule for a dashing war hero like you.”

“Dashing, I like the sound of that,” he murmured, bringing his lips to yours again, softly, with a tenderness that promised more for tomorrow, and even the day after, if you’d have him.

You smiled. “Me too.”

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hrtfltslt · 4 months ago

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OH GOD IM GOING TO CRY

"He snaps a few photos but there’s no muse behind it, no parts of you sneaking into the photo that give him an excuse to look at the photo longer than he should. "

SHES HIS MUSE

i absolutely loved this chapter even though my heart is breaking for the mc, that is one evil mother

but rafe standing up to paulette for her?? like YEASSSSS DEFEND MY NAME

08 ── PLAYING THE PART UNDER THE SICILIAN SUN ── RAFE CAMERON

── SYNOPSIS when your image-obsessed mother catches you and Rafe Cameron ─ your friends with benefits ─ in a compromising situation, you must lie and say you're dating. It spirals out of control when your mother invites him to your cousin's upcoming wedding in Italy, and spirals even further when he says yes. ── WARNINGS language, angst (familial issues, miscommunication). 18+ mdni. ── WORD COUNT 9.6k. ── NOTES edited from third person perspective to second, so let me know if there are any mistakes. apologies because this is very description heavy. ── SERIES MASTERLIST ── SONG OF THE CHAPTER fake plastic trees by radiohead

Barbaric knocking jolts you both awake.

Your head pounds so achingly hard that you audibly whine, burying your face into Rafe’s warm chest without hesitation.

He lifts his head up off the pillow, blinking the bleariness out of his eyes as he tries to gauge the situation. Head pounding, he curses, leaning back on the pillow and throwing an arm over his eyes.

Eventually the loud knocking stops, and you feel like you can breathe again, sighing in relief against his skin as he lazily rubs your back. But then your eyes snap open when you hear the door click open, putting all of your strength into lifting your head to see who is entering the room.

You nearly cry when you see your mother, standing at the end of the bed and peering down at the two of you.

“You two are late. Let’s go.”

You've got to be kidding.

You and Rafe simply blink up at her, unsure if the hangover is playing mind games on you or if Paulette is actually standing in front of you both right now, clad in a beach coverup and a purse so comically large it looks cartoonish.

“They won’t hold the reservation if you’re more than fifteen minutes late,” Paulette snaps, clapping her hands to get you to wake up. “Get up!”

The noise sounds like artillery fire.

“Ow,” you mumble, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes and dropping your head against Rafe’s chest. “What are you talking about?”

Paulette shakes her head in disbelief. “You two have a couple’s spa reservation that Jessa so graciously booked for you guys.” With a manicured hand, she grabs the sheets and rips them off of you.

You and Rafe audibly groan at the sudden coldness, the lack of clothes barely fazing your mother.

“I’m not leaving until I know you two will get out of bed.”

Eventually, you pick your limp body up to pull yourself to the edge of the bed, throwing your feet over the edge and rubbing out the piercing migraine. You look back to Rafe, who manages to sit up and curl into himself. Regardless of your double zombie-like state, Paulette seems to be satisfied that you're both sort-of up and at it.

She hums like a priss. “I’ll be waiting outside the room, and I will come in again in five minutes if you’re not out here.”

Then, Paulette leaves the room and the door shutting behind you is as loud as thunder.

“Oh my god.” You moan into your hands, nearly shaking from the force of your hangover. “Rafe, I feel like I got hit by a bus.”

“More like a train.”

You groan again, willing yourself to stand and stumbling at the dizziness.

It's comical, really. You'd laugh if you didn't feel like dying.

You and Rafe navigate in the dimly lit room like baby fawns learning how to walk, bumping into each other as you attempt to get dressed and go to the bathroom. You gag when you brush your teeth, nearly hurling right then and there. Rafe at one point trips over his suitcase, landing harshly on the cold tile with a groan, and it takes you at least two minutes to get him up off the floor.

By the grace of a higher being, you make it out into the hallway before Paulette can forcibly enter again, rolling her eyes at your clearly disheveled state as she wordlessly leads you to the elevator and down to the lobby.

You have to grab Rafe’s forearm to steady yourself, cursing under your breath that you didn’t grab sunglasses to shield from the blazing sun that shines directly into your eyes as you walk towards the spa treatment center.

You both don’t have the capacity to even ask what the hell she means by a couples spa treatment until you're standing at the entrance, your heart dropping when you see Jessa and Kevin, and Yara and Grant waiting there as well.

This couldn't get any worse.

“Oh my god, I’m actually going to throw up,” you mumble, Rafe nearly wincing at the mere thought of vomit right now.

“Don’t say that,” he groans. “Don’t bring it up.”

The spa therapist emerges from the back with a smile to chipper, too bright, that it makes the both of you wince. “Buongiorno, tutti!”

You and Rafe join the group, lingering in the back as you practically lean on each other for physical support.

“My name is Giuditta, and I will be your group therapist this morning! Thank you for signing up for our exclusive Couple’s Spa Retreat!”

God, her voice is way too loud right now.

Also, what?

Before you can comprehend the scene in front of you, Jessa nudges your arm with a sly smile. "Long night?"

Your cheeks burn when you see her gaze flicker between you and Rafe teasingly, unsure if he can hear her right now. You want to tell her to shut up, to make up an excuse to get you out of here, but the sight of her darting eyes gives you motion sickness so you squeeze yours shut.

"Dude," you whisper painfully, "what the fuck did you sign us up for?"

Jessa snorts quietly, finding your state amusing. "Something expensive, so enjoy it while you can."

You want to bite back that you really don't care if it's free or the most pretentious treatment on the planet, you'd much rather be in bed gaining a few extra hours of sleep instead of wavering nauseously in the same room as your ex and high school acquaintance, but when you try and speak you nearly throw up.

So you settle on a groan.

Giuditta doesn't notice your conversation, and even if she does, you'd never know given how chipper she is. “...is our highest recommended treatment for all kinds of couples to unlock their inner personal connection, enhancing the bond between souls through physical and mental contact.”

Meanwhile, Rafe frowns once he digests the words.

What? What are they about to do?

Before he registers it, everyone is being coaxed into the large private room. It’s dimly lit, thank god, but overtly romantic with candles being the only source of light.

He studies the set up: three huts evenly spaced from one another. The curtains draw open to showcase the inside, a double bed with soft sheets, with a smaller table full of supplies for each hut. Two robes are neatly folded on each bed as well as matching slippers.

Slowly blinking the hangover fog away, Rafe's heart drops when he realizes where he is. What you're about to do.

“We’ll have each couple assigned to one hut,” Giuditta happily explains. “Once you’ve picked your spot, please use our private fitting rooms to change into our pillowy soft robes! It is preferred if undergarments are removed, but this is a safe space, so you may leave them on if it makes you more comfortable.”

Jessa and Kevin take the bed on the left, Yara and Grant take the one on the right, leaving you and Rafe to approach the bed smack dab in the middle of the two couples.

Great.

If you weren't hurdling towards death you would’ve made a joke to Rafe, who probably would’ve laughed if he wasn’t also on the verge of death.

You head into one of the changing rooms and strip out of your dress cover up, slipping on the butter-soft robe that nearly has you melting. All you want to do is lie down in bed with your head stuck in a giant ice cube. Or at least lay on the beach with your head in a giant ice cube.

Anything, you mean anything, would be better than this right now.

Exiting at the same time as Rafe, you nearly snort when you glance at him.

His hair is disastrously unruly while his robe is way too short, exposing his already lanky legs to heights unknown. He immediately shakes his head at you, jaw clenching so hard you're sure it’ll break off. A hand instantly finds the small of your back as you retreat back to your hut, almost a warning to keep walking and not say anything about it.

“Not a word,” he grumbles miserably.

It only makes you stifle a laugh, poking his over-exposed thigh. “I don’t know. I think you’d rock the five inch seam shorts.”

“Shut up.”

“It’s kind of hot.”

“Sweet girl,” he warns as you both sit down on the bed. It only makes his robe hike up further.

You go to pinch his thigh again, but is interrupted by Giuditta's excited clap, one that makes you both wince at the volume.

“Okay!” She stands in front of all the huts, each couple looking at her expectantly. “Now, we understand privacy is of the utmost importance, so we will be shutting each hut door to give each couple the intimacy that is promised on the brochure.”

Two assistants line up at each hut door, waiting for the green light to enter and shut them to start the treatment, which suddenly makes the entire scene way more intimate, as it essentially cages you in together. You shift uncomfortably next to Rafe, who rubs a hand down the side of his face.

God, the room reeks of eucalyptus and you sigh, unsure if it’s out of nausea or irritation.

“Now, you will each have your own intimacy coordinator who will lead the spa treatment, along with some exercises to get you more in tune with your partner,” Giuditta explains. “I won’t keep you any longer. Enjoy!”

Rafe takes a long deep breath, about to say something regarding the BS of this entire thing, but closes his mouth when your two coordinators enter the makeshift hut, a short woman with a soft smile and long dark hair and another woman who’s much taller with a bob.

“Hello,” the shorter one greets politely. “I am Amelia and this is Birdie, your massuses for this session. Please remove your robes and we’ll cover you with a sheet. Let’s start on our stomachs, please.”

You and Rafe navigate onto the bed essentially in the dark. Slowly, you start to strip out of the robes. Rafe left his boxers on that he wears under his swim suit as you still have your bathing suit on, unsure if you wanted to be naked for this ordeal.

Of course, you take one last attempt to be funny as you pinch his thigh again, causing him to gently swat your hand away with an incoherent grumble, flopping on his stomach as he rests his head on the fluffy pillow. You follow suit with a quiet laugh, laying down and turning your head away from him so you're facing the wall.

The bed is actually pretty comfortable, and you find yourself nearly sighing. Perhaps you'll get the sleep that's been calling to you instead of participating in whatever bullshit is in store.

You assume Rafe thinks the same because Amelia clears her throat. “Please face each other and lock hands. We’re going to begin our breathing exercises.”

Right.

Awkwardly, you both adjust and crane your necks so you and Rafe are facing each other, cheeks smushed against the pillows as you blindly reach down to find each other’s hands. Rafe’s hand engulfs yours, locking your fingers together and squeezing once, as if in solidarity that you will get through this despite how sick you feel.

You lock eyes for a moment, your breath hitching at the physical intimacy of it all.

This is all of a sudden too much.

You blink a few times and then close your eyes, not wanting to know if he’s done the same or if he’s still looking at you. Regardless, he squeezes your hand again a little lighter than before, but not without smoothing over your skin with the pad of his thumb, as if he's tracing over a map.

God, this is only going to make your hangover worse, since every small doting gesture he does makes your stomach flip anyway, so you can’t imagine how you're going to feel if this whole treatment is about connecting with your partner on a level deeper than physicality.

“Scusate?”

You open your eyes to Birdie leaning down.

“May I untie your top?”

You blink, short circuiting and trying to ignore his eyes on you. “Uh, yeah. That’s fine.”

Birdie thanks you and begins to untie your swim suit top, your back now bare, both masseuses preparing their lotions.

Rafe’s eyes travel to drink in your exposed back, swallowing thickly at the sliver of side boob that smushes out from laying on your stomach.

Instinctively, he grabs your hand a fraction tighter, tearing his gaze away from your body and shutting his eyes instead.

He's fighting a million different demons right now. Starting with the one in his head that's telling him how nice your hand feels in his right now.

“Okay,” Amelia says calmly, “we are going to start with a light back massage to start that should ease us into a more relaxed state. Take a nice, deep breath in through your noses.”

You and Rafe do so as cool hands meet the smalls of your backs at the same time, lathered in lotion as they press the heels into the muscles and push up your spine.

Once they reach your shoulder, Amelia adds, “Now exhale out your mouth.”

The masseuses do this a few times, breathe you both through a basic massage that lasts about fifteen minutes.

You close your eyes, feeling sleep overtake you as your breaths get deeper. At one point, you feel your fingers twitch against his, lips parted as you're so close to peace, so close–

“Alright,” Amelia’s voice breaks you out of your trance, blinking your eyes open blearily as Rafe does the same, probably almost falling asleep as well. “Now that we’ve connected our breathing, we’re going to sit up to a criss-cross position and face each other.”

You want to cry. You're so goddamn tired.

Birdie ties your swim suit before you can sit up, groggily pushing yourself into a criss-cross as Rafe does the same, although it takes him a little longer to get comfortable due to his long legs.

He shoots you a pointed glare when you bite your lip to suppress a laugh, noticing you struggling to keep a straight face while watching him, especially when Birdie motions you to scoot closer together so your knees are touching.

The contact makes your heart skip.

The masseuses pay it no mind. “Alright, now straighten your spines with a deep inhale.” You do as told. “Then an exhale. Let’s join our hands together by our knees and we will begin our soul ties segment.”

Sorry, the what segment?

You and Rafe shoot each other a nervous glance, reluctantly doing as you're told and locking your hands together once more.

Sheepishly, he averts his gaze up to the makeshift ceiling of the hut, the thrum of his heart beating louder than ever. He blames the hangover for amplifying his senses, dialing them to eleven, hating the magnetic pull he has towards you, especially right now as he can feel your gaze burning into his profile.

Rafe hopes the candles don’t show his rising blush.

“Our exercise will start with a light massage to further release inhibitions,” Amelia explains, standing behind Rafe as Birdie stands behind you. “We will start at your forearms and work our way up to the shoulders to release any tension built there from bottled emotions. While we do this, you two will participate in a verbal exercise. Please look each other in the eye and take turns listing qualities that you admire about the other.”

Silence fills the hut.

His piercing blue eyes meet yours and for a moment, you both come up short on what to do.

You nearly speak up, wanting to give a huge disclaimer that the relationship is very much unlike the others, that this isn’t what they think it is. Your heart races, and for a second, you consider hurling all over him to give an escape route.

Then, Rafe’s stupidly arrogant voice interrupts your internal panic. “Ladies first.”

God, you want to smack that stupid smirk off of his face.

Shaking your head lightly in disbelief at him, you clench your jaw, but is jolted out of your moment of pitiful anger as Birdie’s hands meet your forearms, signaling the start of the exercise.

Rafe raises a brow at you expectantly, almost mockingly, and you grip his hand bruisingly tight as your heart races with the pressure of initiating this part of the treatment.

“Uh, uhm,” you stutter, unsure of how casual you can keep it without raising alarm bells. “You have nice, uh, hands.”

Rafe stifles a snort, cocking his head to the side. God, he’s way closer than you realized and it makes your head spin. “Nice hands?” he drawls out slowly, mockingly.

“Yes.” Your cheeks flame in embarrassment. You're going to kill Jessa for booking this. “That’s what I said. Now you go.”

He chuckles softly, running his thumb over the smooth skin of your hand as if it means nothing. He darts his gaze between your narrowed eyes, clearly displaying his amusement for this whole ordeal.

“You have a funny laugh.”

Your lip curls in disgust. “Really?”

Rafe shrugs as much as the masseuse will allow him. “It’s adorable.”

“Oh my god,” you grumble, ignoring the insinuation. “Okay. Your music taste isn’t that bad most of the time.”

“I knew you liked it, baby.”

“It’s your turn.”

Rafe smiles lazily and your heart skips a beat. “You sometimes talk in your sleep and I find it very amusing.”

"Rafe."

"Your turn."

If it’s possible for your face to feel even hotter, it is. “That's not admiration, that's a form of entertainment."

"Fine," he says, indulging your dispute. "I admire how you talk in your sleep. We had a full conversation once."

"I do not. And I never did that.”

“How would you know? You were asleep.”

“You probably imagined it.”

He nods. “Sure.”

At your silence, he squeezes your hand gently.

“Your turn.”

Cool hands meet your shoulder blades and you nearly forgot there are other people here, who are probably confused at the lack of seriousness this conversation has.

You hate how easy it is to get lost in his eyes, hating how captivating they are, how much joy they hold at the moment. He’s totally eating this up, because if there’s one thing he loves to do, it’s rile you up and make you a blubbering, flustered mess.

It only frustrates you further, huffing quietly. Especially when he's clearly joking about this whole exercise.

You want to flip the script back to him. If he wants to play this game, then you can, too.

“You have a nice singing voice.”

That has him raising a brow, confusion plastered all over his pretty features. He goes to say something in clarification, but you interrupt him.

“I heard you the other day,” you say, softer. “It was the second day here. I obviously wasn't really asleep, not deeply, anyway."

The memory of what happened after he came into the room as your heart skipping a beat. How he made you beg for it.

But you refuse to cower. "You were singing an Ariana song. It was really sweet.”

Rafe gapes his mouth open like a fish.

“Shut up,” he stutters, embarrassed at the call out.

But he narrows his gaze when he recognizes the game you're playing, at the little smile ghosting your lips as you take in his flustered appearance. Rafe can't help but straighten up, knowing you can go band-for-band right now if that's how you want to play.

Game on, sweet girl, he thinks.

“Alright, you’re a grade-A nerd.”

You narrow your eyes. "That feels like an insult."

He rolls his eyes. "I'm saying you're smart. One of the smartest people I know. You know a bunch of history shit off the top of your head and it's mildly impressive."

"Only mildly?"

"Immensely, sweet girl." His voice is faux saccharine, trying to get you to crumble. "Your turn."

But. it doesn't faze you.

“You’re super protective. Physically. I remember being trapped in the mosh-pit at Davo’s and you pushed your way through to get me out,” you recount the memory almost defensively.

Rafe wants to tell you I told you so, as he remembers that day vividly. He felt like a damn hero, and teased you relentlessly after you refused to thank him because you said you could get out of it yourself (he knew you couldn't). It only took three orgasms back-to-back-to-back for you to give him what he wanted: a simple thank you.

“You have a cool style, and you’re always annoying well-put together.”

“You’re the one to talk." You scoff. "You can simply throw on jeans and a t-shirt and look like you’re straight from a magazine.”

The notion makes him snort as an attempt to hide his flustered mind. “You’re basically a Sour Patch Kid,” he retorts. “You’re sour because you like to make fun of me and act all mean and tough, but then you’re-"

"Let me guess, a sweet girl?"

Rafe hums. "Yup. The sweetest." Then, before he can shut his mouth, he adds, "Like when you read to me the other day.”

The memory makes you falter, dropping the competitive demeanor and soaking in the weight of his words.

You stare at him, unsure if there’s more to it, but there isn’t, and he almost looks startled at the confession, eyes wide with a flicker of uncertainty, as if he’s said too much. He swallows thickly as you feel a tonal shift in the air.

Playtime’s over.

“I liked reading to you,” you admit gently, genuinely.

Rafe studies your expression, trying to really decipher if you're joking around still. But you don't crack a smile, or laugh, or give him any indication that your words are untruthful. In fact, you look appreciative. He isn't sure what to make of it.

Just barely narrowing his gaze, his confusion grows. "You did?"

You nod earnestly. “I like when you let your guard down, because then I can see you.”

Rafe stares at you, that flicker of uncertainty leaving his eyes and instead is replaced with something you can’t pin point. Appreciation? Gratitude? You barely register that he squeezes your hands a fraction tighter, and whether he does it intentionally or not, it makes your heart pound all the same.

His voice is small. “You’re the only person I feel like I can let my guard down to.”

That makes you frown slightly. You think back to his friends at school, his best friend Elliot, his sisters. He has a support system, people who care about him. How are you the person he feels he can be the most authentic with? Is this a joke?

You swallow that thought. “I admire how you’ve seen some ugly parts of my life and you didn’t run.”

Not that he could, you think immediately. You're trapped in a foreign country together.

But Rafe's heart drops at that, resisting the urge to cradle your face.

“You’re selfless in a way you don’t want people to know about,” he says quietly, “like how you’ll bring me a coffee without my asking or clean Maggie’s room when she’s going through another episode.”

You hum. “You care more about people than you think. You noticed when I was upset on my birthday and you didn’t make fun of me even though you had the perfect opportunity to do so.”

His next words punch you in the gut. “Despite what other people may think,” he whispers, “you deserve a lot more than you’ve been given.”

The confession slips from your mouth before you can stop it.

“You have pretty eyes.”

Rafe’s breath hitches, and then his eyes blink rapidly, as if he’s realizing something devastatingly important. He squeezes your hands a little tighter, more firmly and certain than before, opening his mouth to say something else, to spill his confession that he’s been bottling up for so long now.

He says your name slowly.

But then Amelia clears her throat.

You blink out of your trance, losing eye contact as the masseuses’ hands aren’t even on your bodies anymore and instead gesture you to lay back down.

How long have they been done?

“Now, we will move into the third and final segment of the session,” Amelia instructs gently, darting her gaze cautiously between the two of you. “If you’ll please lay down on your backs, please.”

The rest of the day is…weird.

After the spa treatment, you feel even more wound up than before, a newfound tension easing its way to your shoulders as the weight of the confessional rests upon you.

The things you said to each other, the rawness of it, make your head spin in a way that’s not solely from the hangover. It’s something else entirely, something more than just spewing out lies to get through the session, something that both of you conjured.

Something real.

You shake the thought away.

Because, no. No.

This isn’t real. This is simply forced hormonal proximity that makes people say things they don’t mean. Rafe, the King of Sleeping Around, is incapable of such feelings or even the mere thought of being with one person. He said it himself last night, he doesn’t know how to date, and even if he did, there’s no way you’d be able to fulfill anything of what he needs.

It wouldn’t work.

Guys don’t like you. They don’t harbor crushes on you, because you’re not that kind of girl that grabs attention like that. You don’t command a room, or turn heads, or make people believe that you want more than just a hook up.

All your life, you’ve been rejected by the one person whose approval would mean the world, constantly being tossed aside by your mother and regarded as a thing, not a person, not a daughter.

And the thought of being rejected romantically too makes you utterly nauseous.

Given that, you don’t even allow for the opportunity to come, kicking guys to the curb when they show an ounce of emotion beyond merely sex, nipping that chance for rejection right in the bud. It's simple: you leave before you can be left.

So, no. It wouldn’t work between you and Rafe.

Because you will never let him, nor anyone for that matter, get the chance.

It’s devastatingly hard to concentrate on anything for the rest of the day, especially when your immediate family plus Yara and Grant pile on a yacht to ride around the cove for a few hours. The boat is ridiculously big, and normally you’d roll your eyes at the blatant flaunt of money that your family loves to parade around, but for once, you’re grateful because the ship’s giant size allows for you to sneak away from them without anyone noticing.

Well, anyone except for Rafe.

You and Rafe lounge silently on the pull-out hammock that juts out the side of the yacht, dangling directly over the clear water.

Despite the tumultuous emotional exchange earlier, you lay opposite one another, your legs bending as your calves rest against the side of his ribcage as his legs stretch long beyond your head, your temple resting against his calf.

The position is alarmingly inclusive of the best of both worlds: you’re still close enough to him, practically on top of him, which is where you like to be as of late, but that this position gives you a perfect vantage point of his face since you face each other, and looking at him after that spa treatment makes your cheeks flush.

You both nurse cold glasses of water, the thought of drinking again nearly making you yack off the side of the boat.

You’re so lost in your thoughts that you don’t realize he’s speaking to you until he taps your thigh with his hand.

“Hmm?”

“Tired?”

You nod shyly. You could sleep for twelve hours if you were allowed to. “What’d you say?”

Rafe smiles gently. “I said that someone’s having fun.”

You quirk a brow.

He elaborates by nodding his head to something behind you. You look up to see the view upside down, which is Yara drunkenly dancing with Jessa and squealing obnoxiously loud over the music.

What’s worse is that no one seems to be annoyed with it, maybe except Grant, but surprisingly Paulette watches the blonde with an endearing smile, sipping her drink with a proud gleam in her eye.

Something foreign pulls at your chest at the sight of your mother flashing someone else - Yara, for that matter - a smile like that.

She’s never smiled at you like that.

You force yourself to look away and turn back to Rafe, knowing if you continue staring that you will, no doubt, spiral.

Instead, you rest your head against his shin and shut your eyes, cradling the water on your tummy. The coolness of it does nothing to settle the kettlebell in your stomach.

“I hope she has a horrible hangover.”

Despite the bitterness in your tone, Rafe laughs boyishly, a sound you have grown to love and hate. “Baby, I wouldn’t wish this hangover on anyone. That’s evil.”

“Maybe I am evil.”

“Yeah,” he snorts. “Sure, alright.”

“I don’t appreciate your sardonic tone,” you huff. “I could be if I really wanted to.”

Rafe’s hand absentmindely traces up and down your shin, going as high as your knee and as low as your ankle. “You wanna know what Elliot told me a few weeks ago?”

You hum in instigation.

“He told me you went over to smoke with him, Maggie, and Ian, and cried like a baby when he was telling the story of when he lost his virginity. Like, totally inconsolable. Maggie had to bring you back to the dorm.”

Your cheeks burn at the memory. You’re going to kill Elliot. And based on the wide grin adorning his lips, you’re also seconds away from throttling Rafe as well.

“So?”

Cocking his head to the side, his tone is low and mocking. “That doesn’t sound like something someone evil would do.”

“Whatever. At least I wasn’t the one who cried when their shoulder popped out so they couldn’t play video games for two weeks.”

Rafe’s jaw slacks, his teasing demeanor gone.

Oh, he’s going to kill Elliot for that. “Hey, it was the day the original Fornite map came back. I was looking forward to it for weeks.”

You simply raise a quizzical brow at him as he attempts to defend himself.

He says your name seriously. “They brought back the double pump.”

“I have no idea what that means,” you deadpan.

Rafe scoffs. “You know, I oughta throw you in the water.”

“Oughta?”

“Yeah. I oughta. You’re being a brat.”

“Me?! You’re the one who started it.”

He then sits up on the hammock, the bed dangerously swaying at the movement and for a moment, thinking you are about to flip overboard. But the precariousness ceases, but a new problem arises as Rafe is now directly above you, leaning forward to rest his arm on your bent knees and caging you into your laying position.

All Rafe does is stare at you for a few moments, and you forgot your train of thought as you look into his pretty blues.

You have pretty eyes.

Heat rushes to your neck as you remember what you said to him in the soul ties treatment, nearly cursing yourself for your big mouth that has to always ruin a moment.

But you remember how he said your name, as if he wanted to say more after you complimented him.

You need to know.

Before he can say anything snarky, you peer up at him with a newfound curiosity.

“What were you going to say at the end of the soul ties treatment?”

The question catches him off guard, eyes widing slightly at the audacity of you to ask.

Rafe pauses, reaching up to push the hair off his forehead as an anxious tick. But the nerves go as quickly as they came, that sly smirk reappearing on his face as he gazes down at you.

“Probably something stupid,” is what he settles on.

Yet you yearn to know more, to know if your thoughts were truly irrational and delusional. “You don’t remember?”

Please say it, you think desperately. Don’t make me look like an idiot.

Your chest constricts when he shrugs nonchalantly, brushing the whole thing off.

“No. I kind of blacked out during it, if I’m being honest.”

The confession knocks the wind out of your lungs as you nod slowly to mask your disappointment, your embarrassment.

Unfortunately, it’s not a surprise he chooses to forget the exercise that exposes deep emotional vulnerability, the only part of the entire treatment that you wish was longer so you’d know more, you’d know what he was about to say.

Wow. You want to scoff.

You really believed every word that came out of his mouth during that, and now you’re not so sure about his genuinity, probably faking his way through it so the time would pass quicker than if he said nothing. Embarrassment pools in your tummy, because you were being truthful in your admirations.

Of course he didn’t take it seriously. Why would he?

You swallow the lump in your throat.

“Right,” you find yourself saying.

Suddenly, you feel trapped here on this hammock with him, anxiety bubbling in your chest as the need to leave augments.

You sit up so abruptly that it startles him, scrambling to get off as soon as possible. “I’m gonna…uh… I’ll be back.”

Despite his confusion, he helps you get off the hammock with pinched brows. “Are you good?”

“Yeah. Fine.”

Rafe hates the distance in your tone. “Alright, well, do you want me to come–?”

“No,” you respond immediately, noticing your harsh tone and then reeling it in. “I’m just…I’ll be back,” you repeat before turning tail and leaving him alone.

Sitting alone with his thoughts, Rafe replays the past five minutes in his head and tries to come up with things that would warrant that kind of reaction.

But he genuinely comes up short as he watches you mingle with your family, knowing he must’ve done something incorrigible to have you wanting to spend your time with them instead of him.

It makes Rafe spiral.

He thought you were on the same page about the spa treatment, since he could hear you muttering how stupid it was under your breath when you left the hut.

…Unless, you were calling something else stupid, maybe your hangover, or the fact that you were immediately carted to the yacht without a moment to catch your breath.

That makes him recoil. Maybe you weren’t on the same page, and you think he was calling your moment stupid.

Rafe wants to believe it was stupid and a complete waste of time. He really does because it would save him from the amount of spiraling he’s done. But no matter how hard he tries to make himself believe that, he simply can’t.

He can’t because you said his eyes were pretty.

Not oh, you have nice eyes or your eyes are really blue. No, you called them pretty.

Pretty.

No one’s ever said that to him before and meant it. Or at least he thinks you meant it. You looked too damn pretty when you uttered it, your eyes boring into his with such intensity that it – literally – took his breath away.

But now you won’t even look at him.

For the entirety of the yacht ride, you avoid his eyes, the ones you called pretty.

Sure, you curl into his side when you chat with uncles and aunts, and play the hell out of the doting girlfriend part, but never once look up at him.

It drives Rafe nuts, and he tries to add ridiculously fake anecdotes into the conversation that’ll get you to do so, like how you popped his shoulder back into place one time or how you heroically helped him save a cat from a tree on campus. One after the other, he tries to one up himself, to get you to acknowledge him – even if it’s out of confusion – but you don’t.

You don’t even look at him when Paulette pulls you aside, berating you about something he can’t hear.

He hates the dejected look on your face, the far off gaze in your eyes as your mother goes on and on about stuff, occasionally pointing to parts of you you or towards certain people – Yara – on the yacht. Paulette even gestures to Rafe at some point, no doubt saying something about him, and it only makes your shoulders sag.

Rafe can only imagine what she said to you.

When you return by his side, he gives your waist a gentle squeeze and asks if you’re alright, to which you only nod.

Still not looking at him.

And it pisses him off.

It’s torture. This whole week has been slowly killing him, because he has no idea where he stands with you.

Everyday throws Rafe for a whirlwind, because sometimes in the mornings it seems like you want to lay in his arms forever and you smile at him involuntarily, like it’s the only thing you’re meant to smile at.

But then by lunchtime, you’ll be distant, detached, so far removed as if you’re going to burn your hand from touching his skin.

Then, maybe, by dinner you’ll be back to caring for him, smoothing down the ends of his hair that stick up or the wrinkles in his shirt. It’s almost as if you catch yourself playing the girlfriend role in private, knowing you’re not supposed to be acting like that if it’s not in front of your family.

He hates it.

Rafe wants you to act like that all the time.

But he doesn’t know how to ask you to let your guard down. He doesn’t know how to ask if you trust him, because it doesn’t seem like you do, or ever will. Not to the extent of trust that should be between a boyfriend and girlfriend.

You keep yourself at arms length away, revealing breadcrumbs about yourself but always leaving him wanting to know more.

Rafe hates rejection, and won’t pursue someone if he knows he’s not going to get what he wants.

But with you, he has no idea.

Sometimes, he thinks you’re on the same page. But other times, like on the hammock, you push yourself away from him, as if you’re repulsed by him.

Who’s he kidding? You probably are.

You know of his history, his tendencies, his reputation on campus. Why would you want to be with someone like him for real?

He wants to be the one who holds you at the end of the day, the only one who gets to fuck you, the only one who knows your secrets.

And he’ll never be able to tell you.

You arrive back at the resort around five, giving you about three hours until the rehearsal dinner. You and Rafe silently agree to go back to the room, exhausted after standing in the sun all day while trying to actively fight a hangover.

His touch on your back lingers a little longer than it should while you walk to their door, and you don’t acknowledge the gesture in the slightest.

Instead, the only time you make an effort for conversation is when you sigh once you step foot into the room, immediately kicking off your sandals.

“You mind if I shower first?” is all you ask, and all he can do is silently nod and watch you retreat into the bathroom, shutting the door and leaving him in silence.

Rafe sits on the balcony attached to the room, the view overlooking the coast and all of its beautiful scenery. He snaps a few photos but there’s no muse behind it, no parts of you sneaking into the photo that give him an excuse to look at the photo longer than he should.

Scoffing to himself, Rafe shakes his head.

He feels pathetic, and he hates losing control of things he should have easy control over. For starters, he should be able to dictate his feelings and not have to worry if he’s going to involuntarily do or say something that he has no control over.

It scares the shit out of him.

It almost happened today during the spa treatment, he was seconds away from spilling chained up secrets to you, feelings that he isn’t sure should reach the light of day.

But the ache in his heart weighs him down.

Everytime he looks at you, hears you, even thinks about you since all he sees when he closes his eyes is you, it’s as if his breath is being stolen from him. And it pisses him off.

He’s supposed to be the untouchable Rafe Cameron. He doesn’t grovel. He doesn’t submit. And yet, he finds himself completely at your mercy.

Rafe takes a quick shower after you’re done, leaving the bathroom to discover your sleeping figure on the bed.

He stops and stares at your body curled in on itself, arms hugging yourself tight as your wet hair cascades over the pillow, and realizes that you’re probably cold. Or, at least, you look cold.

But he doesn’t want to move your body to put you under the covers, so he simply takes the one crewneck he brought and drapes it over your figure.

A voice in the back of his mind mutters pathetic.

Instead of joining you and providing the warmth himself, Rafe goes back out onto the balcony and simply sits in silence.

He doesn’t trust himself to lay down with you, thinking about the last time he did that where it turned into a fuck. Not that he doesn’t want to sleep with you right now, but today carried an unusual emotional weight that spooked him, and he doesn’t want that to translate to how he sleeps with you.

Minutes turn into hours and, before he knows it, it’s about to be seven.

Rafe sighs, knowing he should start getting ready or at least look in the mirror and pray his hair dried semi-presentable. But when he slithers back into the room, his heart lurches when he sees you still asleep, lightly snoring, with his crewneck pulled snug against your chest as if you’re cradling it.

He can’t help but gravitate towards you, hating to wake you but knowing you need to start getting ready before Paulette barges in again.

Kneeling on the floor right next to your sleeping figure, he places a gentle hand on your shoulder, shaking very lightly.

“Hey, you need to get up.”

You don’t budge at first, still knocked out cold.

Rafe moves his hand to cradle your face, his cool ring brushing across your jaw to push the stray hair that falls in front of your face.

Whether it’s the gesture or the cold sensation of his ring, it makes you stir ever so slightly, pinching your brows and nearly pouting. He tilts his head so he’s looking at your face straight on, continuing to push the hair back from your eyes as if he’s petting a kitten.

God, the act is so soft that part of him wants to scoff at himself, but another part relishes in it.

You groan quietly, trying to nuzzle yourself deeper into the mattress.

“Sweet girl.”

“Mmrph.”

“You have to start getting ready.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, as if you’re in pain. “‘M so tired.”

Rafe’s chest pulls at your tone, so much smaller than he’s used to hearing.

It makes him frown. “I know, baby. But you can’t sleep any longer.”

“Mhm. No.”

He continues smoothing down your hair. “You can’t.”

You sigh deeply, getting more comfortable. “Five minutes.”

“No.”

“Please?”

The word sends a shiver down his spine. He wants to curse, knowing that’s his weak spot, how much he loves hearing you say that, how he knows you hate using it. Rafe doesn’t understand why you don’t say it more often, why you don’t ask for things, because he’ll give you anything you want, with or without the please.

But he needs to hold his ground. You’ll be scrambling to get ready if you don’t start soon.

Rafe says your name gently.

The use of your name makes you open your eyes slowly, blinking to adjust to the lamp light.

Finally, after all day of nothing, you look at him sleepily, rubbing the bleariness out of your eyes with the back of your hand that once fisted his crewneck. The smallest of smiles ghosts his lips at the sight of you, how pretty you look even after just waking up with your face bare and half dried hair.

As if you temporarily forget the grudge you’ve been holding against him all day, you sheepishly match his smile.

“Can I get five more minutes if I call you Rafey?”

The nickname makes his heart skip a beat, and he tries to mask how fucking sweet it sounds from your lips by rolling his eyes and shaking his head in disbelief.

God, you really know all the steps to get him to back down.

Rafe hums, despite the stupid warmth blossoming in his chest. “Nice try, sweet girl.”

You groan, closing your eyes again but seceding, stretching your legs and arms out like a cat and flipping onto your back. Eventually, you slowly blink to wake yourself up, subconsciously grabbing his crewneck to throw it back over your chest.

Rafe ignores the flare of possession in his chest.

“What time is it?” You ask softly.

“Seven,” he answers. “We need to be downstairs for eight.”

You groan again, dreading the rehearsal.

It takes longer for you to mobilize and get out of bed than it does to do your makeup, deciding on a simpler look tonight and saving the grand makeup for the actual wedding tomorrow.

Obviously, Rafe takes less than five minutes to get ready, simply lounging on the bed and watching you do your hair, offering a few quips to fill the silence. It pisses you off, rolling your eyes at his lazy smirk as he gets to lay around and watch you work.

Ten minutes to eight, you slip on a plain green dress he’s never seen before and wear the heels you originally brought, not the ones he bought you, and he almost has half a heart to ask you why you aren’t wearing any of the stuff he got you on your birthday, but bites his tongue at the possessiveness of it, and wordlessly ushers you out of the room with a clenched jaw and closed fist.

When you emerge from the elevator into the lobby, Rafe doesn’t slip his hand into yours as he’s been doing, instead pretending to fidget with his button down to keep himself from doing so.

You don’t make an effort to grab his, so you silently walk side by side to the resort ballroom where your family waits, some still trickling in and others already seated. You politely greet some of them, offering tight lipped smiles for others, all while Rafe trails quietly behind you, tucking his thumb through the belt loop of his dress pants to refrain from putting a hand on your back.

Approaching your assigned table, you curse the gods above when it consists of the two of you, your parents, Patrick, Yara and Grant, and one of your other degenerate cousins that your brother is close with.

No wonder, because they’re both pricks.

You internally groan. You don’t even know who’s the best person to sit next to, but don’t get the choice because your mother is nodding to the seat next to her, which ultimately translates to you’re sitting here and don’t even think about complaining about it.

So, begrudgingly, you saunter over and sit next to your mother, Rafe following suit and sitting in the vacant seat next to you.

“You’re practically wearing a nightgown,” Paulette seethes under her breath to you. “Have you no decency?”

You only shrug, too tired to put up with your mother. Too done.

Plus, you don’t need to face Rafe to know he’s staring at you, instead looking down at your hands that pick the ends of the tablecloth. Paulette continues to whisper in your ear, on what you should’ve done with your hair or how you could’ve put more makeup on. Frankly, it goes in one ear and out the other.

“If you don't put effort into your appearances, your boyfriend is going to find someone who will,” is the last thing she says before Jessa interrupts her with the microphone on the grand stage.

Paulette turns her scowl into a bright smile, as if she wasn’t just visceral berating her daughter into the next dimension.

You half listen to Jessa’s speech to the family, and you’re sure that it’s nice and wonderful as expected, but you’re just so damn tired that you can’t seem to care.

It doesn’t help that everything your mother has said to you today has been ringing in your ears, a constant thrum that you can’t get rid of.

Would it kill you to smile? Notice how Yara smiles at people, like that. Where’d you get that bathing suit? Honestly, angel, whoever told you that fit wasn’t being a very good friend. If you went down two sizes it would look much better, if only you listened to me when I told you to start that diet over the summer.

It’s taken years for you to learn how to not let your mother’s words get under your skin. Now it feels like you’re in high school all over again, constantly reminded of your deepest insecurities by the one person who should be lifting you up. You’ve grown to learn how to defend yourself, to feel compelled to go back and forth and set it in stone that you’re healthy, but you can’t seem to get back up.

At least not today.

All you want to do is grab Rafe’s hand, to ground yourself to something, but you don’t.

He doesn’t want you. Pull back.

It isn’t until Paulette gets up to do a speech where you truly feel like you’re losing it.

You listen to your mother drone on and on and on about absolutely nothing, how privileged she is to be standing here, to have organized the backbone of the wedding, to have a blatant excuse to flaunt her bottomless pit of funds. She gives a big thanks to Jessa for how open she was to all of your mother's ideas, though you assume she didn't give Jessa much of a choice considering how much money she was putting towards the itinerary.

“Last but not least,” your mother says into the microphone after eons, “I need to thank a very special person tonight.”

Your heart skips when Paulette looks at you.

"It's no secret we occasionally butt heads from time to time," she says, earning a few chuckles throughout the crowd, "but truthfully there's no easier way to express gratitude than through tough love."

You can’t remember the last time your mother looked at you with such…warmth.

Paulette continues humbly. “I'm incredibly honored to share this room with her today, to share my life with her. It's been a privilege to connect with her after all this time. So, let’s raise our glasses and toast–”

Then your mother’s eyes shift beyond you.

“--to my assistant, Yara.”

Applause and chatter falls onto deaf ears, because your ears start to ring and, suddenly, you can’t hear anything besides the rapid thumping of you heart.

You absentmindedly notice Yara standing two chairs down from you, waving away the claps and blowing kisses to your mother as if she’s won the greatest honor.

Then there’s the sight of your brother clapping excessively while staring directly at you with a wicked smile etching his lips, as if he’s been waiting for your reaction all night. The blatant joy in his expression engraves in your brain, as if he’s getting off on seeing you upset, especially when it comes to the lack of your mother’s love, something he gets so easily without needing to try.

Suddenly, you're fuming.

You aren't sure whether it’s out of anger or embarrassment or humiliation, but regardless your cheeks flame bright red, your heart beating faster and faster as your gaze darts from your mother on stage, to Yara wiping away her tears, to Patrick’s obvious laughing at you.

It’s not fair.

Paulette likes to reel you in just to cast you aside at the last second, a common act she’s done to you all throughout your life.

And the worst part is that you never expect the rejection. There's always a small part of you that hopes it'll be real, it'll be you that she chooses. But it never is, and you falter with every occurrence. Every. Single. Time.

You don't notice your hands are shaking until a large hand engulfs yours.

“Hey.” You can hear Rafe’s voice, but it feels far away. “Are you alright?”

It’s a stupid question. It only makes you more embarrassed that Rafe Cameron of all people had to witness that blatant humiliation.

He’s only asking as a courtesy, he feels like he has to. He doesn’t care. He’s not capable of caring, and if you allow him to think you believe his bullshit, then he’ll only keep doing it. He’ll do it until you fall for him, and he’ll have to reject you, too.

You have to pull away first.

You yank your hands away. “Fine.”

But Rafe only says your name. Your name.

If he keeps pushing, you’ll cry.

“Stop.”

The harshness in your tone makes him pull back reluctantly, and you can’t bring yourself to look at him.

You hate how mean you sound, how horrible you feel, how nice it was to feel him despite your thoughts telling you that you shouldn’t. All you think about is how you don't want to be here, how you hate the blossom of hope in your chest when your mother looked at you, how stupid you feel now.

Instead, you dig your nails into your palms, no doubt breaking skin at the ferocity of your grip, and say nothing else for the rest of the night.

Not during appetizers. Not during dinner. Not during dessert.

Rafe speaks on your behalf on the odd chance you're somehow roped into the conversation, only making your humiliation bloom, that he feels so pitifully bad for you that he feels like he needs to take over.

It nearly makes you scoff, pushing around your kid-like portions with a fork and eating maybe a few bites the entire night. You're nauseous all over again, knowing if you have more you'll probably puke all over the table.

Ugh. And you just got over your hangover, too.

The night stretches on for what feels like forever until people are getting up, walking from table to table to mingle and catch up since all the speeches and formalities are over. You nearly sigh in relief that it’s all over, willing yourself to stand on wobbly legs and excusing yourself from the table so quietly you aren't sure anyone hears you, nor do you care, really.

But your mother does.

She grabs you by the elbow, ducking her head low to avoid drawing suspicion.

"Where are you going?"

Your mouth opens and closes, unsure if you can trust your voice right now because the waterworks might start if you even attempt to say anything right now.

Paulette says your name quietly, a hiss amongst chatter.

Her talons grip your elbow a fraction tighter, a warning to not cause a scene. "Gemma from Kevin's firm wants to talk to you. Go."

You're frozen, unable to tug away and unable to speak, stuck in the grasp of the worst captor. Tears start to brim your waterline, and you will them to not fall. Not in front of these people, and especially not in front of her.

A flicker of panic rises in your throat, just wanting to get the fuck out of here.

And before your mother can say anything else, a large palm is splaying around your waist, practically yanking you from your mother's talons and freeing your arm. You stumble slightly at the ferocity, but a wave of relief washes over you as Rafe pulls you impossibly taut and completely out of her grasp.

Paulette looks to Rafe incredulously. "We were having a discussion."

"Not anymore," Rafe responds coldly, ice lacing his words unlike anything you've heard before. His grip is tight, grounding, possessive.

You're thankful for it.

"She needs to make connections tonight," your mother says, matching his tone. Then, her gaze narrows on you, "Go see Gemma."

Your breath hitches in response at the proverbial fork in the road, but Rafe side-steps so he's in front of you, blocking you from seeing your mother, as he leans down and cradles your jaw with one hand, so much gentler than what his voice conveys.

He's pissed, you realize.

"What do you want to do?" He asks low, soft but firm in a tone reserved for you. When you can't offer words, he adds, "Room?"

You nod.

He seems to accept your lack of words, brushing the pad of his thumb over your chin as he murmurs a soft, "Okay." Rafe holds you for one more moment before letting you out of his grip.

Instead of heading to the bathroom, or the bar, or the smoke area, you beeline for the exit.

Rafe, however, lingers in the aftermath of the tension-filled atmosphere, turning slowly to face your mother who still looks offended at his intervention.

Paulette isn't intimidated by him, but rather irritated. "She has to-"

"No."

The ice in his tone makes her freeze, gaping up at him with wide eyes as if to question his audacity.

Rafe doesn't let her speak again as he stares down at her. "She doesn't. Especially not for you."

"I've done everything for her-"

"You've done enough," he spats.

Paulette stares at him for another moment, stunned at his outright crudeness yet completely speechless.

And he glares right back at her, letting her squirm under his intense stare for one, two moments before giving her an up and down glance, and turning heel to find you.

You're in the lobby waiting for the elevator, thinking you slick enough to slip out without anyone seeing.

Of course, not to Rafe, who’s right on your tail and clutching your purse that you left on the table so tight that you're sure he's probably cracked a few of your lip liners in half.

You aren't sure what’s going on through his head, but he offers nothing.

No lingering touches, no comforting hand squeezes, no words at all. Just his presence, standing broad and tall next to you in the elevator, centimeters away from you. He’s so close, he’s right there, yet he couldn’t be further.

Because you pushed him away. Because that’s what you do best.

When you enter the room again, the door shutting is the loudest noise. Silence engulfs you, and you suddenly feel humiliated all over again as he stands still behind you, waiting for you to move first. Probably waiting to see if you want a quickie to make you feel better.

But you don't move, you can't.

All you can do is simply stare into space and relive the moment over and over again.

How Paulette looked at you. How she called Yara your childhood nickname in front of your entire family. How the split second your mother looked at you in a way you've been yearning for for years, only for it to be a tease, meant for someone else. It’s as if she enjoys dangling it on a fishhook in front of you, so close yet so far.

Before you can register it, Rafe is gently guiding you from the doorway to stand beside the bed.

Lost in your thoughts, you quietly watch him gather a few things, sighing and straightening your posture to get ready for the night ahead.

There’s no doubt he wants to have sex, probably distracting himself to delay the inevitable and figure out how to ask you at the right moment. You suppose you could get into the mood, as it would be a nice distraction from the weight of dinner.

Although the thought of being naked in front of him right now churns something ugly in your chest.

He bunches clothes in his hand, most likely to change into after you're done.

Your chest constricts when Rafe moves right in front of you, but instead of leaning down and initiating it, he’s tugging his crewneck over your head with such gentleness that it makes you frown.

Why is he putting more clothes on you? Covering you?

He doesn’t put your arms through the hole, instead pulling the sweater down so that it fully covers your torso before trailing his hands underneath it, gingerly slipping the dress off your shoulders so it falls to your ankles without exposing your bare body, and then assists with getting your arms through the right holes.

Then, he kneels to start unbuckling your heels, patting your calf when you're good to step out of the shoe, further proceeding to get you to lift your foot a fraction so he can slip a pair of his boxer shorts up your legs to rest on your waist.

The whole time he offers no words, no gentle kisses, no nothing.

Rafe stands, reaching his hands up to pull your hair out from underneath the crewneck and brushing a few strays that fall in your face away behind your ears. His pretty blue eyes search your face, as if he’s waiting to see if you want to say anything. There’s a softness behind them that you can’t discern from pity.

But you say nothing.

You simply look up at him. And he looks down at you.

And for a moment, it’s just you. No racing thoughts in your head. No insecurities brewing in your chest. No nausea bubbling in your stomach.

For the first time tonight, you feel like you can take a deep breath.

Rafe runs his hands up and down your arms with a feather-light touch. Wordlessly, he guides you to the bed, pushing you to lie down in the same place you napped earlier and bringing the covers to you chin, making sure you're all set before tending to himself.

You watch him quickly change out of his dress clothes, discarding them carelessly as he rounds the bed and slips under the covers. The mattress dips under his weight as you wait for him to press himself against your back.

But the contact never comes.

When you feel him move again, the spark of hope dulls when it’s to turn off the lamp light, not to hold you.

Then he lays at an arm’s length away, plunged into darkness.

You realize he’s giving you the space that you demanded at dinner.

Heart aching, you want to reach out to him, to feel him, to thank him for dressing you. But the words don’t come. You can’t move. You're frozen where he left you, curled in on yourself and enveloped in his clothing that smells like him.

God, he’s surrounding you but not where you need him to be.

The realization only makes your night worse, knowing the end of the trip – and therefore the agreement – is coming to an end, and having to adjust to the reality of not being with him settles a pit in your stomach. You know things will return to normal: you'll go back to sleeping together with no strings attached without any of the romance that’s been infused this week, without the qualities that couples have, and certainly without all the emotions.

But right now, you're still technically dating. Even if it’s fake.

Even if he says yes out of pity, you don't care. You can’t be alone right now.

“Rafe?”

“Yeah?”

You almost wish he doesn't hear you, as it would make detaching from him much easier in the long run.

“Can you hold me?”

He’s pulling you flush against his chest and wrapping his arms around you in an instant, as if he was waiting for the green light.

It feels familiar, so much that you feel like you can find sleep eventually. The act is done like a second nature, as if you're meant to be taut against each other at every waking moment, as if it pained you to be apart for as long as you were.

But you can’t help but feel stupid at your own helplessness, frowning at how much you enjoy being taken care of.

All your life you've been fending for yourself emotionally, closing yourself off to any opportunities to expose your vulnerabilities and shielding your heart from people who act like they want you, but deep down, don’t.

But now, curled up in his arms, you don't realize how desperately you yearned for the chance to be held, appreciated, cared for.

Even if it’s all for show.

A thank you rises but dies in your throat, unable to find your voice again. There’s so many things he did tonight that he didn’t have to, selfless acts that he maneuvered all on his own without you asking.

You're grateful for it, and it’s almost as if he can sense the feeling because he pulls you a little tighter, his hand finding yours in the darkness and lacing your fingers together.

The gesture is so fucking sweet that it makes your heart flip.

But you know you'll need to find your footing come tomorrow. You've been dealing with your family alone for your entire life, so there's no point in getting used to having Rafe shield you left and right.

The only mechanism that calms your rapid heartbeat is the feel of his beating steady against your back, a syncopated thump, thump, thump that lulls you to sleep, hand still holding his.

notes sorry this is actual word vomit.

#saur good #so soft and gentle and sweet #i could cry #her alwayas assuming rafe just wants sex is breaking me

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hrtfltslt · 4 months ago

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me everytime i see " spit kink" in the warnings of an obx fics

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hrtfltslt · 4 months ago

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realest thing ive ever heard

I VOLUNTEER

rafe honestly just needed sex like . he would not have tweaked like that if he was getting pussy …

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hrtfltslt · 4 months ago

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TH E CUTEST

hi girl!

so i was rewatching obx yesterday and i seen the kook party scene which sparked my idea. so, season four rafe and female reader are dating and get into an argument (not massive but enough to ignore eachother for the night) and reader goes to a party. since shes by herself, a guy rafe has fought before decided to get his revenge back on rafe by doing something to reader, (throwing a drink at her, swearing at her, something along those lines). after this, reader and (bestfriend) sarah are in the bathroom calming doen when rsfe comes to the partu to apologise to her for their arugment when he finds he crying in the bathroom. idm how it enfs he can beat up the guy, take reader home idm but i love ur writing and think youd eat this up so i hope this is okay! i love angst to fluff and sarah sm so i hope this request makes sense!

My God, I love this request so much! Very sorry it took me so long to write something. ✨💕

𝒩𝑜𝓉 𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝑔𝒾𝓇𝓁

You slammed the car door harder than you meant to, but it wasn’t like Rafe hadn’t already heard worse tonight.

He stood on the opposite side of the driveway, arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes avoiding yours.

The kind of silence that followed arguments — not peace, not calm, but a vacuum, charged with everything unsaid.

“You know what? Just forget it,” you muttered, turning toward the porch.

“No, don’t do that.” His voice cut through the thick air. “Don’t shut down like that just because I called you out.”

You stopped cold, your back still to him. “You didn’t call me out, Rafe. You didn’t do anything but accuse me of things.”

He stepped forward, voice low and rough. “You lied to me.”

“I didn’t lie,” you said, spinning around to face him. “I didn’t tell you because I knew this is exactly how you’d react.”

“So now it’s my fault?” His laugh was bitter. “Classic.”

Your fingers curled into fists at your sides. “It was just a stupid party. One that you weren’t even going to. And I told you nothing happened.”

“But you hid it.”

“Because you blow up over everything!” you snapped, your voice cracking just slightly. “Every time something doesn’t go the way you want, you shut down or freak out or do... this.”

Rafe looked like you’d smacked him. His mouth opened like he wanted to argue more, but nothing came out.

“I’m tired,” you said, softer this time. “Of walking on eggshells. Of wondering if you’re gonna pick a fight over nothing. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

Silence again. Heavy.

He looked at you for a long time, then shook his head once. Silence was the only sound you could hear.

Not trusting yourself to say anything more, you turned back toward the house.

This time, he didn’t stop you.

Three days passed. No texts. No calls. Just your phone lighting up for everything except the name you wanted to see.

It wasn’t until the fourth night that you opened your messages, your finger hovering over his name.

Still nothing.

You locked your phone and exhaled hard, staring up at your ceiling, wondering if maybe this time it wasn’t just a fight.

Maybe this time... it meant something else.

You sat on the edge of Sarah’s bed, aimlessly scrolling through your phone, though you weren’t really looking at anything.

The silence between you was comfortable — until she broke it with her usual, too-casual tone.

“Look, I know he’s my brother,” she started, tossing a pillow at your legs. “But he reacts... heavily.”

You gave her a look, trying not to laugh. “That’s one way to put it.”

Sarah sighed, flopping next to you. “Rafe’s a lot. I get it. You guys care about each other like crazy — which means sometimes, yeah, it blows up.” “But you can’t let one fight make you disappear from each other’s whole world.”

You hesitated, staring down at your hands. “I don’t think I should go to this party. It’s the reason we got in the fight in the first place.”

Sarah sat up a little, more serious now. “I’ll be here. Just like last time. And nothing’s gonna happen... just like last time.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Really? Because last time it felt like the whole house was on edge.”

“Okay,” she laughed. “Maybe a little chaotic, but no casualties. Besides…”

She paused, pretending to check her nails, then glanced sideways at you. “Rafe’ll be there.”

That got your attention.

You looked over, heart skipping the way it always did when someone brought him up — like your brain hadn’t quite caught up with the silence between you two.

Sarah smirked. “Yeah. Thought so.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were already mentally walking through your closet.

Minutes later, you stood in front of her mirror, pulling on the pastel blue top.

The one Rafe bought you after some random beach day — when he claimed it matched your vibe and made you look “incredibly cute, in a way that’s unfair to everyone else.”

You smoothed it down, biting your lip.

Maybe it was stupid. Maybe it was hopeful.

But if there was even the smallest chance he’d look at you tonight and remember what it felt like before everything got so complicated... maybe that was worth it.

Sarah appeared in the doorway behind you. “You look good.”

You gave her a small smile. “Think it’ll spark conversation?”

She shrugged. “If he doesn’t say something, he’s dumber than I thought.”

You laughed softly, nerves buzzing now. Maybe tonight wouldn't fix everything. But it was a start — and maybe, just maybe, Rafe would notice.

The music thumped low and steady, the kind that vibrated through your ribs and made conversation practically impossible unless someone leaned in real close. Since the house was a ten mintue walk, you arrived almost instantly.

Sarah had gone off to grab drinks, promising she'd be back in two minutes tops.

You were trying to play it cool, acting like you weren’t anxiously clocking every tall, broad-shouldered guy that walked through the room.

It already felt like ten minutes had passed.

You tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear and shifted your weight, heart racing for no reason — or for every reason.

This was your first time seeing Rafe since the disagreement, and even though you hadn’t spotted him yet, you could feel him in the air. Like gravity.

Like a storm waiting to hit.

Then — a tap on your shoulder.

Your breath caught. You turned, already half-expecting him. Hoping.

But it wasn’t Rafe.

It was some guy — tallish, buzzcut, smirking in that lazy, careless way. Something about him made your stomach twist with unease.

“Hey,” he said, like he knew you. “I’m Jordan.”

Your brows pulled together. The name rang a bell, but not in a good way.

“Aren’t you Rafe’s girl? Y/N, right?”

You blinked. “Yeah... why?”

Jordan grinned wider, that sick kind of smile that said he was bored and looking for trouble. “Oh, nothing. I just remembered we had a little... disagreement once. Me and your boyfriend.”

Your body tensed. “Okay?”

“And I don’t think it ended right,” he added casually.

Before you could even react, he threw the drink in his cup straight over your head — ice, cheap alcohol, and all.

You gasped, stumbling back as the cold red liquid soaked your hair, your makeup smearing instantly, mascara burning into your eyes.

You froze, stunned, feeling the sticky drip down your neck, your arms, your pastel blue top now ruined — Rafe’s top. The pastel blue one Rafe gave you. The one you hoped might’ve reminded him of something good.

“What the hell?” you snapped, eyes wide with disbelief.

Jordan just laughed, holding his empty cup like a trophy. “Yeah, that felt better.”

You stood there, drenched, humiliated, rage creeping up your throat.

“What is wrong with you?!”

People were starting to turn and look, but Jordan just kept going. “Tell Rafe I said hi, yeah? Or don’t — whatever, i don’t really care.”

“The fuck did you just do?”

Sarah’s voice came sharp, cutting through the noise as she pushed through the crowd with two drinks in hand, eyes narrowing when she saw you — soaking, shaking, furious.

Jordan turned toward her, hands up. “Hey, chill. It’s between me and—”

“You absolute loser,” Sarah snapped, stepping in front of you. “What are you, twelve? Throwing drinks on girls because a guy kicked your ass?”

Jordan’s smirk faded just slightly. “It wasn’t a fair fight—”

“Literally no one cares,” she hissed. “Get out of here before I make a bigger scene than your ego can handle.”

You were still frozen in place, breathing shallow, your heart pounding from shock, from rage, from embarrassment.

Your clothes clung to you uncomfortably. Your makeup was ruined. And the one thing you’d worn to feel close to Rafe... was soaked and stained.

Sarah turned to you quickly. “Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up. He’s not worth your energy.”

Her hand wrapped around your wrist like a lifeline, tugging you quickly through the hallway and away from the crowded living room.

You nodded numbly, barely able to feel anything except the cold cling of wet fabric and the burn of humiliation on your skin.

She shoved open the door to the upstairs guest bathroom and pulled you inside, locking it behind you.

Immediately, she grabbed a handful of tissues and started dabbing at your makeup while muttering curses under her breath.

“Who even does that? Like what kind of emotionally stunted, walking middle school tantrum thinks that’s okay?”

You half-laughed, half-choked. “Please don’t make me laugh right now, I’m gonna cry.”

Sarah paused, giving you a quick look. “Okay, but like... also fair warning, I might still go back out there and hit him.”

You smiled weakly, blinking back tears. She moved to wet a towel and started gently patting your face.

“Ugh,” you groaned, looking down at your shirt in the mirror. “It’s ruined.”

“It’s not ruined,” Sarah said automatically. But the dark stain across the back and down the side of the pale blue fabric said otherwise.

You sighed, biting the inside of your cheek.

Down the hall, just outside the bathroom, Rafe had stopped mid-step.

He hadn’t meant to follow anyone. He’d only glanced up from where he stood with a drink in hand, trying not to think about you, when he saw the back of your head.

And then he saw the back of your shirt—the soft, pastel blue one he remembered buying you that day you made him stop in some random boutique because you liked the way it felt.

Rafe leaned against the wall outside the bathroom, one hand shoved in his pocket, the other drumming idly against his leg.

He didn’t know how long he’d been standing there — a few seconds, at most.

But it was long enough for the music downstairs to fade into background noise. Long enough for the weight of everything unsaid between you to settle on his shoulders.

He figured you were probably fixing your hair, maybe wiping away whatever little smudge of mascara had run.

You always liked to keep it together, even when things cracked underneath.

But then — he heard it.

Soft, muffled, but unmistakable: a quiet sniffle.

Then another.

Rafe’s brow furrowed. He straightened up, pressing just a little closer to the door.

And then he heard your voice — not even words, just a soft, broken sound, the kind that tugged something deep in his chest. That wasn’t you fixing makeup.

That was you crying.

He froze.

Inside, Sarah’s voice came next, lower, comforting. “Hey, it’s okay, babe. Don’t let that asshole get to you. Don’t worry about the top either, I can clean it if you want to.”

Rafe’s heart dropped.

He stepped forward and knocked, hard enough to shake the door slightly. His voice came out sharp, urgent. “Y/N?”

No response.

“Sar—Sarah, open the door. Now.” “Please?”

There was a pause. Then the lock clicked.

The door cracked open, and Sarah peeked out. Her expression was tense, her jaw tight. “She’s fine. Just—”

But Rafe was already pushing gently past her, eyes searching for you.

Then he saw you.

Sitting on the counter, legs pulled up, face streaked with tears and mascara. Your once-perfect hair clung to the side of your face in damp strands. And the top — was stained, darkened, ruined.

And something inside him snapped.

But not outwardly. Not yet.

First, he went to you.

You looked up at him, startled, like you weren’t sure if you should brace for another wave or let yourself sink into him.

He didn’t say a word — just stepped forward and pulled you into him. Arms wrapping tightly around you, one hand at the back of your head, the other around your waist like he could shield you from the whole world.

You melted into him, shoulders trembling slightly as you buried your face into his chest.

“Hey, hey,” he murmured, voice low and steady now, barely hiding the storm behind it. “You’re okay. I got you.”

You didn’t speak — you didn’t have to.

He felt everything in the way you clung to him, in the way your fingers fisted his shirt, in the way your breathing stuttered as you tried to calm down.

Then, after a few seconds, he looked up — over your shoulder — at Sarah.

His expression changed.

“Who did this?” His voice was ice. Controlled, but only barely.

Sarah’s lips pressed into a tight line. “Jordan. The one you fought a while back.”

Rafe exhaled through his nose, jaw clenched so hard it ticked. “He poured a drink on her?”

Sarah nodded once.

Rafe’s eyes darkened.

“I’ll handle it,” he said, quiet but full of promise. And rage.

But first — he looked down at you again, his hand brushing lightly over your damp hair, his voice softening instantly.

“You okay to stay here for a minute?”

You looked up, eyes red, lips trembling slightly. “Rafe…”

“I’ll be right back,” he said, thumb brushing your cheek. “Just need to go have a little conversation.”

He kissed your forehead, gently, like you were glass. Then he turned toward the door.

Because no one got away with touching you. Not his girl. Not his princess.

Not ever.

You were sitting on the bathroom counter again, this time wrapped in a towel Sarah had found in the cabinet.

Your hair was still damp, your shirt clinging uncomfortably to your skin, but the worst of the crying had passed. Mostly.

You stared at the door, stomach tight, listening for footsteps.

When it finally creaked open, Rafe stepped in — calm, but in that way where you could tell it was taking everything in him to stay calm.

His chest rose and fell a little faster than normal, and his jaw was set.

But it was his hands you noticed first.

Red. Like he’d been punching something — or someone. Knuckles slightly raw.

He followed your eyes and glanced down at them with a sigh, stepping past you toward the sink without a word.

He turned the water on and let it run over his hands, flexing his fingers under the stream like he needed to cool off before touching you.

“I didn’t hit him first,” he said suddenly, like it mattered. Like he needed you to know that. “But I finished it.”

You stayed quiet, watching him, heart heavy and full at the same time. You didn’t need him to explain.

He was always like this — fire and thunder, especially when it came to you.

You didn’t always love the explosion, but you never once questioned why he lit the fuse.

Once his hands were rinsed and dried, he turned around, calmer now. Softer. His voice was low when he said, “I’m taking you both home.”

Sarah raised an eyebrow. “I was supposed to sleep at John B’s tonight.”

Rafe didn’t skip a beat. “Okay. I’ll drop you off first, then.”

You blinked, surprised by the gentleness in his tone. No argument. No pushback.

Sarah looked between the two of you, clearly trying to decide if she should say something. Then she just nodded. “I’ll grab my stuff.”

Rafe stepped toward you, a little hesitant now that things had settled. He reached out, touching your hand lightly — fingers grazing yours like he didn’t want to startle you.

“You good to walk out with me?” he asked, eyes searching your face. “Or do you want me to carry you out dramatic movie-style?”

You gave him a tired smile. “I think I can walk.”

He nodded once, like that answer alone gave him enough peace to breathe again.

And as he helped you off the counter, you realized something: no matter how much fire came with loving Rafe, he never once let it burn you.

Only anyone who tried to hurt you.

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hrtfltslt · 4 months ago

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i'm sorry 💔💔

when reading smut and y/n says “daddy”

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hrtfltslt · 7 months ago

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i wish tumblr let you like replies. sometimes i don't have anything to say and how else are my beloved mutuals going to know i saw what they said if i can't leave a little virtual heart sticker on their forehead

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hrtfltslt · 7 months ago

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favorite part of the day

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hrtfltslt · 7 months ago

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in love with them already

Pink Petals

Chris Sturniolo x Reader

See pinned post for (series) masterlist and (oneshots) masterlist and more.

Summary: Chris had a past with a few girls who had left him burned. Y/n had succumbed to the utter tragedy of giving up on her high school sweetheart a while ago. Chris walks into Y/n’s flower shop, searching for a bouquet of flowers for a girl. A blind date takes the lovelorn pair into fate’s hands. Chris isn’t holding back his true colors anymore. He’s a true romantic. Handwritten letters, cheesy compliments…and maybe some flowers.

Warnings: 18+. This series contains mature themes, read at your own risk. (SMUT, angst, parental troubles, financial hardships, and more. Don't like, don't read.) This warning is made for all parts.

A/N: To be added to the taglist, send a request in my inbox or comment on the pinned post. I'm far more likely to see requests sent to my inbox.

With love and big tits, Rose.

PART ONE: Fucking Madison Beer & Man-Tits

The old bitch in front of me was less than happy. Fragrance of blooming florals did little to calm my teeth from clenching into the side of my cheek. I didn’t mind working. I had my dream job, my own flower shop just as I had imagined as a kid. Except, in my daydreams, this rude ass lady didn’t exist.

“Ma’am, we are closing early. I do not have the specific flower you are searching for either. I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but there is nothing I can do to help you with only fifteen minutes.” I say.

The lady scoffs, shaking her head as she whips around and walks out the door. As the bell rings from the door movement, I let out a sigh of relief.

It wasn’t often that rude customers came in, but it did happen occasionally. For the most part, it was the neighborhood crowd surrounding that stopped in. The majority of houses were owned by an older group of people.

This part of LA didn’t look like the rest. My shop fit into the tiny array of buildings that aligned the edge of the neighborhood. It was perfect. The glass windows of my shop outlooked the border between the houses and the sand.

I had made a habit of walking along the shoreline of the beach before work. It was peaceful. It wasn’t a beach for a lot of swimming, the public didn’t swarm in the dozens to crowd the area. Elderly couples or photographers typically visited. Occasionally, public personas also roamed into the peaceful space.

Including Madison Beer.

Social media wasn’t relevant to me other than the occasional post to boost my business. However, it’s Madison fucking Beer.

A random Tuesday a couple months ago, the woman walks in. My brain stutters as I urge myself to act normal. I go over and greet her. As soon as a simple ‘can I help you find anything’ question spilled from my mouth, I nearly fainted at her reaction.

Tears.

I made Madison Beer cry.

Not cry–sob.

It was funny now. We laughed about it to this day. After a brief awkward encounter, she had confessed she was trying to get over a really messy breakup. All her friendships had dissipated, taking the side of her ex. She was trying to buy herself flowers, hoping it’d cheer her up.

Although, her attitude shifted when realizing the horror written on my face.

Guilt erupted from her aura as she ramabled words my frozen mind couldn’t process. Thankfully, I had closed the shop, helping her make her own custom bouquet. During the process, the oversharing didn’t stop, but neither of us cared. A friendship only written in movies was formed that day.

Fortunately, Madison was able to heal from her previous relationship. In fact, I had set her up with a guy that came in every couple of months, Austin. His mother, Rebecca, lived in the neighborhood. She was sweet and her kindness definitely was apparent in her son. Austin had been nice to me, occasionally making conversation. I instantly connected the two people together as I got to know Madison more. I was right so far–they were a perfect match.

It was a blind date.

I mean–how the fuck do you tell someone you’re setting them up with Madison Beer?

Happily together for nearly three months, the couple made me promise to let them set me up on at least one blind date. Stupidly, I agreed.

I didn’t think it’d actually happen. Madison knew I didn’t really date. I had grown out of my phase of making out with a different guy at every party though. That was a rough one. My mind didn’t let me date. Some boy had to screw that up for me in high school.

I was over him. That wasn’t the issue. The issue was that I had his words engraved in my head. My mind came up with explanations for his behavior, everything inducing beliefs that made it hard to even attempt to open up to another person romantically.

But, the time had come.

Madison had apparently found my match. She nearly slapped me when I tried to make an excuse. She made it very clear that there was no bailing.

Deciding to deter her from violence, I was closing the shop early. Only ten minutes left until I could flip the sign on the door. The date was at five, but I was closing at 4 to freshen up beforehand. The condo I rented was only a five minute walk down the street, giving me enough time to get ready, but hopefully not enough to overthink too much.

Well, probably not.

I was overthinking all day already.

There really was no avoiding that aspect.

I start piling up the receipts from today’s transactions on the front desk. The bell rings, signaling my attention as I look up to see an unfamiliar man.

A really attractive unfamiliar man.

I swallow thickly, jumbling the receipts into a piled mess and shoving them beneath the counter. I wipe my hands off on my jeans, taking a deep breath as preparation.

“Hi, just a heads up we’re closing at four today, but what can I help you with?” I voice.

I mentally praise myself for the steadiness in my tone. My nerves die down, watching him anxiously scratch the back of his neck.

“I–uh, I just need to get flowers?” he says.

I bite the flesh on the inside of my cheek with endearment, fighting back a smile as he shifts his feet with uncertainty.

“Well, what kind of flowers? Are they a gift?” I say.

He nods, clearing his throat. “Yeah, they–um, for a girl?”

Why couldn’t he say they were for his mom or something?

God, the more I tried retracting my gaze anywhere but his face, the more my eyes stayed entranced by his stature.

He was very attractive–hot. But, somehow, the man was also adorably cute. The type of man you imagined reading books, soft yet breathtaking enough to make someone drool.

He has to be a model.

God, I need to chill. I urge myself to roll my lips together. He has a girl, I remind myself.

Although I had gone through an unhinged phase, I was very against cheating. Any sort. Didn’t matter who I played, cheater or the other girl. I wasn’t gonna participate.

My lips curl into the smile as I watch his cheeks blush into a rosy hue. “Okay, you’re looking for flowers for your girlfriend, what does she like?” I ask.

I start walking past him toward the open window lined with premade bouquets. Walking past him, the musky scent of his cologne reaches my nose.

He smells good too?

Damn, his girlfriend is lucky.

I gesture down to the flowers lining the window in the displays, noticing his eyes widening. “I don’t really know what she likes…” he trails off. The hesitancy in his voice makes my mind wander with clueless direction as I glance around the premade bouquets.

“Well,” I fiddle with the velvet petals as I glance over the premade bouquets. “--flowers and colors have all different sorts of meanings. What are you trying to tell your girlfriend with these flowers?” I ask, as my eyes move back to his face, I see him shyly scratching the back of his neck as he shoves his other hand into the pocket of his baggy jeans.

“Um…” his eyes glance around the shop. With a defeated sigh, his shoulders shrug down. “I honestly don’t know. I…what’s your favorite?” he asks.

I chuckle lightly at his question. I brush past him, moving to the center display of the store. I point down to the pink-petaled bouquet, simple and pretty. “I personally love pink, it’s simple, innocent…it doesn’t come off too strong like red roses either, but it’s up to you.” I point out.

The alarm on my phone starts going off in my back pocket. I pull it out, silencing the alarm before shoving it back into the back of my jeans, sliding the device into the denim pocket.

The guy lets out a light laugh, “I think the pink ones you pointed out are pretty….but what if she doesn’t like them…” he says, mumbling out the last part barely above a whisper.

I grab the bouquet, shoving it into his chest gently as he cages the brown paper around the stems with his hands. “There’s not many ways to mess up flowers. If anything–she’ll appreciate the effort more than the actual flowers.” I say.

He nods his head and looks down at the flowers with a relieved look. “Okay, yeah, you’re right. Could I get these? Or are you closed? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to–”

I cut him off, holding up my hands before starting to walk towards the front desk. “No, not at all. I’ll get you checked out. Cash or card?” I ask.

Shuffling through the options of the store computer, I pulled up his total. He holds up a credit card as I push the card reader further towards him. “Thank you. I would’ve been overthinking this all day, you have no idea.” he states.

As I reach back over to pull the card reader back, our hands brush slightly. I nearly jumped at the heat radiating off of his hands. Our eyes meet, his eyes wide with shock as I fight back a burning flush. “I–” I stutter, flinching at the wavering tone of my voice and squinting my eyes closed.

“Uh–sorry, I,” he pulls his hand back, cradling the bouquet in his hands as he slides his wallet back into his front pocket. “I, I’ll let you close up. Sorry for keeping you. Thank you for helping me out!” he exclaims cheerfully.

My heart clenches in my chest as he turns around. I hold myself back, admiring his bright smile as his arms swing by his sides, one of his hands adorned with the wrapped bouquet.

He slightly turns his body, waving as he settles a hand on the door. I give him a gentle wave, my cheeks burning with embarrassment as he exists. The ring of the door signals as I slowly step around the front counter. I follow his path toward the door, flipping the ‘open’ sign to say ‘closed’ with a heavy sigh.

I walk past the displays, fiddling my fingers onto the light switch embedded in the white walls. I flicker off the lights with the switch, hearing a car door shut. Before I can stop myself, I look out the window. My eyes immediately met his through his car window. His lips curl into a smile, his hand waving towards me as I look towards the ground sheepishly.

Why do the cute ones always have a girlfriend?

Nerves flooded my system as I anticipated the knock at my door any moment. I smoothed down my hands on my baggy jeans.

How bad could this possibly go?

Sure, Madison assured me that this man was nice. I trusted Madison. I really did. My anxiety didn’t. My anxious mind was screaming at me, telling me she only thinks he’s nice because he doesn’t want anything from her. Old beliefs resurfacing, ruining the present moment with the past.

I had been preparing for the worst.

It’s one date.

It’s only one date.

I had been on a handful of first dates. However, I had never really been on a second one. My high school sweetheart, Zach, just didn’t do those types of things. But, I would never settle for that again. I wouldn’t settle for anything, that’s why the first date was typically where things came to a stop before they could really begin.

It was why a second date was so foreign to me. The handful of first dates I had been on…weren’t great.

Some had been awful. Some had just been boring enough to nearly kill me.

However, I had never gone on a blind date. Madison knew my type, sure. She knew I didn’t find many people attractive. Looks were a factor, but it was mostly attitude. I couldn’t be with a guy too cocky or too shy.

The guy who had walked into the shop was a near perfect example. Excluding the fact that he has a girlfriend. Bitterness coated my tongue as I purse my lips and smoothed over some tinted lip gloss with the compact mirror in my hand.

A knock on the door interrupts my thoughts. I quickly close the tube of lip product, snapping the compact mirror shut and shoving both items in my small bag. My heart hammers in my chest as I hesitantly walk over to the door.

I take a deep breath as I feel the cold metal on my palm. I shake out some of the rushing anxiety in my shoulders, turning the knob. My eyes fall at level with the doorknob, a hint of pink petals catching my attention.

As I swing open the door completely, I let out a surprised huff followed by a soft laugh. My stomach knots with excitement seeing familiar pink florals clasped in brown paper. The smile clouds over my face as I look up to meet his eyes. “Oh fuck.” he mutters laughing. He holds out the flowers for me to grab. “--I hope the thought still counts.” he adds.

The familiar wording recollects the distant memory of our conversation in my mind. He didn’t say he had a girlfriend, he said he was getting them for a girl.

I nod, licking over my teeth as my smile widens. “Awww. You got my favorite! I’m Y/n, by the way. I’m assuming you’re Chris?” He nods at my question. “Hold on, let me put these away. Lucky for you, I have millions of vases already available and ready for use.” I acknowledge.

Our laughs echo in a chorus as I leave the door open. I shift my feet sideways, sliding over to the table lined up against the wall. I quickly unsnap the rubber holder around the stems and place them in a vase. The vase is nearly empty, only remnants of baby's breath from my last bouquet I had brought home for myself. I lay the brown paper next to the vase, making a mental note to take care of it later as I shift the individual florals in the vase, giving them appropriate placement to support the heavier flowers.

I dust off the grime from my hands, grabbing my keys from the bowl on the table next to the vase. My eyes wander to the velvety petals, smiling at the beauty and effort he had gifted me.

I let my feet wander back to the door, seeing his hands shoved into the pockets of his baggy jeans. “Hey, at least it was a good ice breaker,” he mentions. His fluffy hair is perfectly messy, accommodating a perfect contrast to his pale skin and sky-blue eyes.

Sucking in a harsh breath, I avert my eyes from his features in fear of lingering too long. My eyes nearly defy me, urging me to take in more of his face. I resist, letting my eyes fall to the keychain in my hand as I step through the threshold of the door, tugging the knob along behind me.

I shake my head with disbelief, letting out a soft laugh. “It really was. I…I’ve never gotten flowers on a first date, thank you.” I say. I hear the click of the door shutting behind me as I feel the knob hit my back gently. I turn around, my eyes going wide as I remind myself this is reality. I twist the key in the hole, locking the door and shoving the keychain into my small purse.

Madison, I really owe you one.

“Really? That’s all Madison told me about you. Your name, your age, and that you love flowers. She refused to tell me anything else. I’m, uh, really hoping you like mini golf though.” he mentions with a light chuckle.

I walk behind him as he guides us to a black car. He opens the passenger door, swinging it open and gesturing for me to sit. I smile gratefully, placing my purse in my lap as the door softly closes.

My eyes follow his figure as he walks around the front of the car. He got me flowers. He opened my door. He’s hot, he’s cute…so what’s wrong with him?

I shake off the anxiety protruding into my thoughts, willing the past beliefs to linger further in the back of my mind as I bring myself back to the present moment. The car door thuds shut, the closeness as he sits down allowing me to feel the heat radiating off of him as I let my elbow rest on the edge of the center console.

I wonder what it would feel like to touch him.

“Too hot? Too cold?” he asks, hovering his fingers over the air conditioning controls.

I shake my head lightly, holding back a smile at the thoughtfulness of his actions. “Nope,” I start, fiddling my hands as he starts driving down the street. I recognize the houses we begin passing by as soft music starts to play in the background.

“You know,” I start, glancing over to see his blue eyes trained on the road. “--I’ve actually never been mini golfing.” I admit.

His eyes dart to me, nearly bulging out of his head as he holds a shocked expression. “What? You’re kidding me, right?” he asks.

I shake my head, watching as he starts shaking his head with disbelief and turning his attention back to the road. “Well, I hope it won’t disappoint you.” he says.

My elbow nudges further onto the center console. I shift my weight, allowing my shoulder to nudge into his briefly. “I don’t think you’ll disappoint me. I mean, you’re already doing great so far.” I remark.

I sink back comfortably in my seat. I watch as his eyes shift toward me in my peripheral visions, whipping my head to the window. I see a brief reflection of his grinning eyes matching his curled lips as we pass under a bridge.

“Oh yeah?” he teases.

The subtle taunt in his words marks a movement of adrenaline in my veins, burning through my body with pure excitement as I bring my attention back out the front window. I struggle to keep my cheeks relaxed as I feel his eyes glancing over at me every so often.

I hear him shift in his seat. My arm resting on the center console is greeted by the warmth of his arm bushing against mine as my breath catches in my throat.

Fuck.

I had anticipated every possible bad scenario.

Not a thought had been spared to this going well.

“I’m just teasing, sorry.” he mutters.

I bite my tongue, letting out a laugh as I turn my attention to him. “It’s okay. I’ll just tease you about buying me flowers from my own shop.” I remark.

My shoulders tremble with giggles as I hear him groan dramatically. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding.” I let out.

The car comes to a gentle stop as I look up at him from my seat. His eyes are already trained on me, a grin spread across his face that makes my eyes widen before falling to my lap as heat travels up my neck.

I’ve never had someone look at me like that.

His gaze felt like drowning in an ocean of rose petals.

The drum in my chest calms as I hear him clear his throat, cutting the tension that seemed to have clouded the air thickly.

“So, um,” the soft look on his face drags my eyes towards his gentle words. “How do you know Madison?” he asks.

He turns the blinker on, pulling into a parking lot. “I, uh, she came into my shop. I greeted her, she started balling her eyes out, and the rest is history. We’ve been friends for a little over a year now. What about you?” I say.

“Well, I don’t know how much Madison told you about me, but I do YouTube. Apparently, she had been watching our videos and wanted to come on our channel. We kinda just clicked–it’s only been a couple of months though.” he explains.

My mind wraps around the spill of information, extracting the details of his statement. I had met a lot of famous people. Mostly those who came down to the beach near my shop for photoshoots. Most were fine, some were not. I didn’t judge them. Their career was theirs. Mine was mine.

“Our?” I ponder out loud.

Chris nods in my peripheral vision. As he puts the car into park, he looks over at me, leaning further into the center console. My skin grows warm at the lack of distance. His irises catch my glance, trapping me trained on his eyes. “Yeah, I’m a triplet. I have a channel with my brothers. Well, two of them.” he adds.

I nod my head in acknowledgement, peering up towards his perfectly messy hair as he runs a hand through the brown array.

His hair looks soft.

My hands claw at the denim material covering my thighs, holding back from reaching out. It was no secret that physical touch was my second nature. Madison thought it was funny. People had thought we were a lesbian couple because we had been holding hands in a grocery story for a late night snack run.

It was fucking funny.

Austin thought it was hysterical. He loved to joke about it, especially saying, ‘you think she could get Madison Beer? Yeah, right.’

He was never serious. He was never actually intimidated. Madison loved him for it, so much. Austin was a secure man who loved her whole-heartedly. What more could she ask for?

A pair of tits is the answer I had provided when we had bickered about the question.

Then, Austin flexed his man-tits.

Then, I almost threw up.

Even though they were a couple, they had quickly become my best friends with no awkward tension between it being the three of us at times. I never felt left out, I felt appreciated.

“How many other siblings do you have?” I ask curiously.

Chris shrugs, pulling his keys into his palm with a smooth swing. “Just an older brother. Well–and a dog according to my mom. What about you though? Any siblings?” he asks.

I nod. My hand gravitates towards the seat belt attachment as I hear his click undone. Pulling my own off, I smooth down my hands over my jeans. The bitter coldness ripped at my fingers, a typical occurrence that I always had to endure on a daily basis. Despite the warm breeze and beaming sun, LA still had no strength compared to my poor circulation. My hands and feet were almost always cold.

“Yeah, I have a sister, Taylor. She’s a bit older though, and she lives in Colorado with her wife so I don’t see her very often.” I announce.

I look over, seeing Chris nodding in acknowledgment to my statement. “Ready to go in?” he suggests.

With a nod, I guide my hand towards the car door handle. “Wait,” I hear. I look back in Chris’s direction, seeing him already out of the car and jogging around the front to my side. I giggle, biting the inside of my cheek as I realize what he’s doing.

As the passenger door opens, Chris holds out a hand for me. I slide mine in his, hearing a gasp leave his mouth. “Holy fuck, how are you so cold?” he remarks.

I nearly crumble while embracing the warmth of his hand against mine. Standing up next to him, I shrug. “My hands are always cold, sorry.” I remark, embarrassment caught in my throat as I strain the words through pursed lips.

“No, no,” Chris quickly says. “--it’s fine, I don’t mind. I just thought I had made the car too cold or something.” he mentions.

I shake my head from left to right bluntly. “No, I promise. I mean, here,” I guide his hand to my slightly exposed stomach. His skin delicately brush against mine makes my heart stammer with a drum in my chest. The slight knead of his finger catches me off guard. My eyes flicker upward, meeting his intense stare as I feel myself holding my breath.

The large huff of air stuck in my stomach makes my chest burn, urging for relief.

I can’t just sigh out and say I forgot to fucking breathe?

His plundering irises follow my face as I look to the side. I bring my hand upward, dropping his as I gesture to the building.

“Is this it?” I question.

I silently whisper a token of gratitude in my head for the avoided awkward situation. Swinging my arms back down by my sides, my fingers fiddle with the belt loops of my jeans. My eyes look back at his hand by his own side, missing the feeling of his skin against mine.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“Yeah, follow me.” he directs.

I follow his footsteps, side by side as our hands brush against each other swiftly.

Fuck. Fucking. Fuck. Fuck.

It not only was going good–it was going to uncharted territory.

Intimidating uncharted fields in foreign land.

I didn’t just want him in bed, making me feel good. I longed for his touch in a more intimate way than just sex. I wanted to know more about him, more about his personal life.

And that…that was scarier than any horror movie I had ever witnessed.

“I hadn’t gotten the chance to tell you yet, but I think you’re incredibly pretty.” Chris voices.

My lips purse happily as a flush crosses my face. “Thank you,” I mutter. “--I, um, to be honest…I was only asking who the flowers were early to see if you had a girlfriend. I thought you were really attractive.” I admit.

Chris cranes his neck, his eyes peering into mine for a split second before he reaches out and holds open the door to the building. “Really? I was too nervous to correct you, honestly.” he confesses.

I brush my hand along his chest whilst walking into the structure. My eyes train over his reaction, watching his eyes squint with a grin. As I avert my gaze forward, a front desk comes into view.

Time had passed too quickly. The beautiful day was starting to fade into a sunset. Mini golfing had been easier than I expected, well, pretty easy to practice based on watching other people around us too.

The conversation had yet to stop. It started with talking about our siblings. Chris was even more attached to his siblings than I was with Taylor, which I had yet to find a person who valued their sibling nearly as much as me. But, it was clear how much he relied on his brothers, especially Matt and Nick.

It was endearing.

Listening to him talk about the people he cared about brought a smile to my face. It made it easier to open up about my own circle of loved ones. Well, not the brutal details. He knew about my grandma who raised me like a mother, Donna. He listened with intent as I explained growing up and nurturing her backyard garden for her as her energy depleted with age.

One sentence in particular had warmed something untouched inside of me.

‘I hope I get to meet her someday.��

A glimpse of an illusion had drifted into my thoughts.

Maybe, he could someday.

“You covered his room in Liam Neson?” I screech.

My hand covering my mouth does little to mute the noise. I almost expect him to shush me as I shrink into my body with embarrassment. The stares of surrounding people makes my stomach curl with anxiety

“YES! YES WE DID!” Chris exclaims.

The volume of his voice exceeds mine. The stares quickly turn into people turning back to mind their own business, a relieving sigh escaping my lips.

Chris leans his weight sideways and downwards, his hair tickling against the side of my forehead. I glance up at him, his blue eyes barely visible through the smiling squint. “Don’t worry, you never gotta be embarrassed with me. Plus,” our foreheads brush together briefly as he stands up tall again. “--I get excited and too loud all the time. We’re a perfect match.” he points out.

A perfect match.

I make a mental note to never doubt Madison again.

She’s gonna love to hear about this.

Not as much as I'd love to tell her about it though.

The thought makes my ears flush red with excitement. “Madison was right, I owe her one.” I mention.

Chris nods his head as he walks in front of me, guiding us to the last course of the mini golf building. My heart sinks with disappointment as he hits the ball.

I don’t want this to end.

The golf ball lands centimeters away from the hole. I walk up, taking my turn. The ball darts out, following a similar path to Chris’s before landing nearly an inch next to it.

Chris walks up to his ball, aligning his club before glancing back up at me. “We should make a bet since we lost track of the score,” he suggests.

I laugh, nodding along to his offer. “I’m okay with that. How do you think we should do that? What are we betting on?” I pester.

Chris leans on the golf club, his body slanted as he shifts his weight. His free hand rubs at his chin, a sly grin replacing his expression. “Well,” he drops his hand back down to his side, “--if I win, I want to take you somewhere else after this.” he says.

I nod, licking over my teeth with excited eyes analyzing him. He wants more time–with me. “Deal. You first.” Chris nods affirmatively, swinging the club back and positioning it in front of the golf ball. The clink of the club hitting the ball echoes as I watch the small object tumble towards the end hole, stopping just short by a couple of inches.

Chris scoffs, turning around and holding his hands up in defense. My eyes wander to his arms, the veins apparent as he stretches his limbs cockily. “Good luck beating that, sweetheart.” he says.

My cheeks clench with a heat at the subtle name. The joking tone in his voice not playing much weight to the warm flutter of nerves bundling in my gut. My feet moved swiftly through the air that drifted down with tension. I line up my club, swinging the ball and watching it dart through the obstacle with more precision than intended.

As the ball starts to slow down, it stops nearly just a centimeter before Chris’s. “You know,” Chris starts, walking forward and lining up to hit his ball. “--you never said what you wanted if you won.” he points out.

I shrug, tilting my head to the side and flashing him a taunting smile. “Just hit the ball and if I win, you’ll find out, pretty boy.” I tease.

His eyebrows sway upwards on his face, a look of astonishment giving me a sense of pride. He adjusts his position, swinging his club and making contact with the golf ball. The soft nudge sends the ball directly to the rim of the hole, swirling around before sinking into it.

“I’m happy I won, but I’m still curious what you wanted if you won.” he says.

I stay planted in place as Chris walks over. He grabs my golf club in one hand, clutching it next to his own. His free arm slings over my shoulders, tugging me against his side as I let myself sway into his steps. My skin burns, urging me to pull him closer.

“Maybe if things continue going like this, you might find out.” I express.

I reach up, intertwinning my hand in his that rests on my shoulder. My cold hands embrace his warmth greedily. I feel his thumb start to caress over the back of my palm, a sudden movement that makes my eyes soften with curiosity.

I look over, seeing his eyes trained on me already. My teeth clench into the side of my cheek as I will myself to maintain eye contact.

"Yeah?" he says breathlessly.

The subtle word catches me off guard, dissipating any faux confidence I had to keep my eyes on his. Heat rushes up in tingles from my spine, crawling all the way towards my ears as I avert my gaze to the path in front of us.

"Shut up." I whisper out. His chuckle lightly vibrates against my ear as he rests his lips inches away from my head.

"Anything for you, sweetheart." he replies.

The glint of fake sympathy sends waves of excitement through my bones, my pulse nearly echoing in my ears as my heart pummels in my chest.

My eyes quickly glance towards his, darting back in front of us as his blue irises deter my attention back to the pulsating clamber in my chest.

His arm squeezes tighter around me as he places the clubs in the bin as we pass by the front desk. I nearly forget to breath as his fingers dance hesitantly along my exposed collarbone delicately.

"Ready?"

The question leaving his lips leads my mind into a fumble of anticipation as I nod my head eagerly.

I don't want this to end.

A/N: Hello! I hope you have enjoyed the first chapter of my new series! A couple things I need to mention though. One, I've never played mini golf and IDK how it works. Don't roast me if I didn't explain it right lmao. Secondly, this series will be HEAVILY different from Comfort Zone, so please don't expect the same thing from me over and over. Lastly, I'm debating creating a a whole mood board from pinterest and adding it to my profile so you guys can more clearly imagine what I picture for this series universe. This would include outfits, Y/n's flowers shop, and more. Let me know if this is something that you guys would be interested in!! Anyhow, thank you for reading!! Let me know your thoughts in the comments or in my inbox!! LOVE YA!

@sturniolosmind @freshloveforthefit @gnxosblog @sturnreblog @milasturniolo @mattscokewhore @melanch0lybby @stars4matt @samandcolbyfan22 @ruedowney @iluvm4ttsturni0l0 @greatooglymooglyyy

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hrtfltslt · 7 months ago

Text

obsessed with this

── ୨୧ !　MIDNIGHT COMPANY

chris sturniolo x reader

SUMMARY: While filming a car video, the triplets witness a girl - Y/N - arguing with her boyfriend. When he smashes her phone and leaves her alone at midnight in the middle of a random parking lot, Chris steps in.

WARNING: Toxic relationship, yelling, fighting, being hurt physically and emotionally, manipulation, panicking.

REQUESTED?: Yes, by anon.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: That is my work, I DON'T authorize any plagiarism, copy, or "inspiration"! | English isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

　　　༻✦༺ 　༻✧༺　༻✦༺

Y/N didn't meant for things to end up like that.

She really didn't.

She was just walking alongside her boyfriend through the Target aisles, her eyes darting nervously between the shelves and the floor.

But she should know better. He had already been irritated when they left the apartment - something about her taking too long to get ready - and now, every move she made felt like a mistake.

"Stick close." Her boyfriend had muttered, his voice low but firm. His eyes darted around the store, scanning the aisles of brightly colored products with an air of impatience. "I don’t want to spend all night in here."

Y/N nodded quickly, her throat dry.

"Okay."

They made their way down the main aisle, her boyfriend grabbing a few items and putting them into the cart with little regard. It was always like that; he made the decisions, and she just agreed and moved on.

He paused at the end of that same aisle, scanning the shelves with a discerning eye. She lingered a few steps behind, observing.

He grabbed a box of granola bars from the shelf, tossing it into the cart with a louder thud. She winced at the sound, her stomach knotting with unease.

"Why are you standing there? Do you see the cereal we get?" He asked, his tone clipped.

Her throat tightened. She scanned the shelves frantically, her eyes moving over the rows of colorful boxes. She wasn’t sure if it was the green box or the blue one.

"Um, I think..." She started, reaching hesitantly toward one of the options.

"Don’t think. Look." He snapped, already sounding exasperated.

Her hand faltered, and she pulled it back. Her heart was pounding, and her palms had grown clammy against the leather strap of her purse. She wanted to go home.

They turned into the household goods section, where shelves were lined with glass containers, picture frames, and other fragile items. Her boyfriend stopped abruptly, examining a set of drinking glasses with a critical eye.

"Do you think these match the ones we already have?" He asked, holding up a box with pretty crystal wine glasses.

Y/N hesitated, unsure if he wanted an answer or was just thinking out loud.

"I-I think so."

Her boyfriend sighed, setting the box down with a clatter.

"You’re not even paying attention."

"I am." She said quickly, her voice barely above a whisper, desperately searching for his free hand. "I promise."

"Whatever." He muttered, letting her squeeze his fingers once before dropping hers, moving on.

Y/N quickly followed, trying to stay out of his way, her eyes fixed on his tall figure, crossing her hands in front of her body and forcing her brain to pay more attention to anything he touched or pointed out. She couldn't risk him thinking that she didn't care.

As she passed by one of the shelves, her purse brushed against a precariously balanced display of small vases. Time seemed to slow as the first vase teetered, then fell, hitting the shelf below it and sending a chain reaction through the display.

Crash!

The sound was deafening. Glass shattered across the floor, the pieces glinting under the white lights. Y/N froze, her breath catching in her throat. She stared at the mess, her heart pounding so hard she thought it might burst out of her chest.

"Oh my god. Are you serious?" Her boyfriend hissed under his breath.

She dropped to her knees instinctively, trembling as she tried to gather the pieces with her bare hands.

"I’m sorry." She whispered, her voice trembling and desperate.

"You're fucking nbelievable." He muttered under his breath, loud enough for her to hear.

She stopped for a moment, tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. She wasn’t crying because of the spilled glasses. It wasn’t even about the moment itself. It was about the weight of knowing that every mistake she made was a reason for him to get tired of her. To leave her.

"I’m sorry." She whispered, again and again, the words tumbling out of her mouth as though they might undo the damage. "I’m so s-sorry."

But it wasn’t just an apology. It was an instinctive response, born from the fear of making him feel any sort of negative emotion at all. She knew that he wouldn’t brush this off, wouldn’t laugh, and say it was no big deal. He would be mad, and she couldn't let him get mad at her. Not again.

She desperately wanted to shrink herself down into something more digestible for him at that moment. Something he could chew up, spit out, and discard - like gum.

A woman at the end of the aisle glanced over, her expression a mix of surprise and concern. A man on the opposite side peeked around the corner, his eyes narrowing as he took in the scene.

Y/N’s face burned with humiliation. She felt their stares on her, for sure, full of judgment. Her hands fumbled over the shards, shaking too hard to pick them up properly.

Her boyfriend crouched down beside her, his expression now unusually calm. His hand landed on her shoulder, but the grip was firm, bordering on painful.

"Y/N, honey, stop. You’re going to hurt yourself."

"I’m sorry." She whispered again, the tears on her eyes starting to burn her orbs with the force she used to stop the drops from escaping. She couldn’t let him see her break. She’d learned the hard way that crying only made him angrier.

"Stop it." He said more firmly, moving his hand through her arm, grabbing her wrist and pulling her hand away from the glass. He looked up at the people looking back at them and forced a polite, almost apologetic smile. "She’s... a little clumsy. Always has been. Right, honey? I know you didn’t mean to. You can’t help it, can you?"

Y/N stiffened, her stomach churning. She forced her head to move up and down, the movement coming out almost robotic.

"You’re just... distracted. All the time." He continued, his smile cold and tight. "That’s why these things happen. You can’t focus."

She wanted to argue, to tell him that she wasn’t some careless mess, but the words died in her throat. What good would it do?

"Here." He said, taking an empty cardboard box near them and shoving the pieces to the side with it, taking it all out of the way. "There. Fixed. See?"

She nodded, swallowing hard.

"Now, get up."

She stood, her knees wobbling slightly as she adjusted the strap of her purse. He grabbed her arm, his fingers digging into her skin.

"It’s okay." He continued, speaking louder now so the others could hear. "She just gets a little overwhelmed sometimes. Don’t worry, we’ll take care of this."

The man at the end of the aisle nodded, giving her boyfriend a small, understanding smile. The woman pursed her lips and turned away, muttering something about how 'accidents happen'.

"Let’s go." He said through clenched teeth as he started walking toward the exit.

"But-"

"No." His voice was low, but the warning was clear. He smiled tightly at the few remaining onlookers as he dragged her past them.

Her face burned with humiliation, but she kept quiet, her eyes glued to the floor. His grip tightened when her feet seemed to disobey her brain, and she bit the inside of her cheek to keep from crying out.

The automatic doors slid open, and the cool night air rushed over her, but it did nothing to calm the storm inside her head. Her boyfriend’s pace didn’t slow, his hand still gripping her skin as he led her toward the parking lot.

Her heart was pounding, her thoughts spiraling into chaos. She felt like a child being scolded, small and powerless, her voice locked somewhere deep inside her throat.

When they reached the car, he finally let go of her arm, shoving her away as if she were a piece of garbage. She stumbled slightly, catching herself against the side of the car, waiting for whatever came next.

　　　　　༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

From the other side of their spot in the parking lot, the triplets were parked, their van slightly away from the main entrance. It was Wednesday night, and they were filming their weekly video, the interior of the van alive with yells and laughter.

"... No, seriously, people do that sometimes." Chris said, turning slightly towards Matt while trying to prove his point. "Patches O'Houlihan, he did that."

Matt scoffed, looking at him with an 'are you serious?' look.

"From Dodgeball? The fictional character?" He laughed incredulously, looking at Nick through the rearview, ready for another weird thing to come out of Chris's mouth.

Nick's attention, however, wasn’t on him - or them, for that matter. It was on the world outside. He always had a habit of scanning his surroundings, probably in a way of caring for himself and his brothers.

As Chris kept going, earning a loud groan from Matt, Nick’s eyes caught movement across the parking lot, almost exactly in front of their van. Near one of the parked cars, a couple stood in the golden glow of a streetlamp.

Nick’s stomach twisted. Something about the way the guy loomed over the girl, his gestures sharp and erratic, immediately set off alarm bells. The girl was visibly distressed, her arms crossed over her chest, her posture shrinking with every second.

Without thinking, Nick leaned forward and slapped Chris on the shoulder, interrupting him.

"Nick, what the-" Chris began, turning sharply, his annoyance evident.

"Shut up." Nick hissed, his voice low but firm, cutting through Chris’s protest. He nodded toward the couple. "Look."

Chris frowned but followed Nick’s gaze, his expression shifting from irritation to curiosity and then to concern. Matt, who had been in the middle of adjusting his hoodie, leaned closer to the windshield.

"What’s going on?" Matt asked, his voice quieter now.

Nick didn’t answer, instead reaching for the button to lower his window, easing it down. A faint, angry voice carried into the van, growing clearer as the man’s yelling intensified.

"... do you even understand how embarrassing you are?"

The girl stood frozen, her arms clutching her sides as though trying to hold herself together. Her head was bowed, her hair shielding her face from the world. She didn’t respond, didn’t dare to look up, and that only seemed to fuel his anger.

"What the fuck?" Matt muttered, leaning forward slightly to get a better look, his eyes glued to the scene.

"You think I’m joking?" He snapped, stepping closer to her. "You think I enjoy having every pair of eyes in that store on me because you can’t manage to walk without causing a damn scene?" The man continued, stepping closer to her.

Her response was so soft that it barely reached the triplets’ ears.

"I’m sorry..."

"Sorry?" The man laughed bitterly. "You’re always sorry. You’re sorry when you spill coffee, you’re sorry when you trip over your own feet, and now you’re sorry for knocking over half a shelf like a goddamn child?"

The girl flinched at his words, biting her bottom lip while taking a small - almost imperceptible - step back.

Chris tensed after watching her reaction, his jaw tightening.

"This guy’s a piece of-"

"Chris, shush." Matt snapped, his voice low.

"I told you before, didn’t I? Stop acting like a fool every time we’re out in public. This is for your own good." The man spat.

"I didn’t mean to-" She started, but he cut her off quickly.

"Shut up!" He barked, his voice echoing across the lot. She shrank back, her body trembling. "You know better than to talk back to me." He growled, taking another step closer.

"I wasn’t-"

"Stop talking!" He barked, his voice echoing across the empty lot probably louder than intended. "Every time you open your mouth, you make it worse. Do you even understand that? Or are you too stupid to figure it out?"

Tears accumulated inside her eyeballs, shining below the lights.

"Look, I’ll call an Uber, okay?" Y/N murmured, her voice cracking. "You can go home and calm down. Please."

"Oh, you’ll call an Uber? Sure, let’s waste more of my money on your screw-ups." The man’s laugh was sharp and bitter.

She reached into her purse, her hands shaking as she pulled out her phone, unlocking it and trying to search for tha app, being harshly interrupted when the man snatched the device from her grip with such force that she stumbled.

Chris shifted uncomfortably, his fists clenched on his lap.

"Do we step in?"

"I don't think we should, not right now." Nick whispered.

"Give it back. Please, baby." She asked, her voice weak, trembling.

"Why? So you can text your little friends about what a terrible boyfriend I am?" He sneered, holding the phone high above his head.

Y/N's mouth dropped open, her wet eyes widening as if he had just committed the worst crime.

"Baby, please." She begged, her tears now falling freely, causing her voice to break. "I would never ever do that. I love you so much, you know that, right?"

He ignored her. With a single, violent motion, he hurled the phone to the ground. The sound of glass and plastic shattering against the pavement echoed in the silence.

She recoiled as though the blow had landed on her instead of the device, a squeak involuntarily escaping from her mouth. Her arms wrapped tighter around herself as she stared at the broken pieces. Her whole life, broken.

"Should've had taken that shit from you sooner." The man spat, shaking his head. "Pathetic. Can’t do anything right."

Matt and Nick exchanged horrified glances through the rearview, Chris's face pale by their side.

"P-please, don't leave me here, baby. I love you, I'm so sorry." The girl begged, gluing her hands in a praying gesture in front of her body. "I promise I'll do better."

"I can't even look at your face right now." The man shook his head. "I need some time, okay?" He didn't wait for an answer before storming off to the driver-side of his car, slamming the door and speeding out of the lot, tires screeching against the asphalt.

Y/N stood frozen, her trembling figure illuminated by the lights and the moon.

Chris didn’t think. One second, he was staring at her, and the next, his hand was on the van door handle, yanking it open.

"Chris!" Matt hissed from the driver’s seat. "What are you doing?"

"Chris- what the fuck?!" Nick added, his voice urgent but not loud enough to stop him.

But Chris couldn’t wait. He couldn’t sit there any longer, watching this girl suffer alone.

He bolted from the van, the cool night air hitting him like a slap, but he barely noticed. His long strides carried him across the parking lot, his heart pounding not from his pace but from pure urgency.

"Oh my god, he's crazy!" Matt’s groan echoed from behind him, but it was distant, like background noise.

He didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop.

The closer he got, the more his stomach churned. Her face was streaked with tears, her cheeks blotchy and raw from crying. But she wasn’t just crying. She was panicking. He could see it in the way her hands trembled uncontrollably, and in the way her breath came in short, sharp gasps.

Chris slowed as he approached her, not wanting to startle her. She was staring at the exit of the parking lot, her wide, unfocused and tear-filled eyes locked on the gate arm as though it was the only thing anchoring her to the ground.

"Hey." He said softly, his voice gentle but firm.

She flinched, her head snapping up, and her gaze locked on him as she took a step back. For a moment, she looked utterly terrified, and Chris's throat tightened.

He quickly held his hands up, palms out, trying to show her he wasn’t a threat.

"Hey, hey, it’s okay." He said quickly. "I just... I saw what happened, and I wanted to check if you’re okay."

Her lips parted as if she wanted to say something, but no words came out. Instead, a fresh wave of tears spilled down her cheeks. She shook her head, taking another step back, her back almost hitting the metal post of the streetlight.

"You don’t have to be scared." Chris said, his voice softer now, almost pleading. "I’m not going to hurt you, I swear. I just want to help."

She looked at him again, her watery eyes studying his face as though trying to figure out if he was lying.

Chris took a cautious step closer, keeping his movements slow.

"You’re shaking." He said gently. "It's freezing out here. Can I... can I give you my hoodie?"

She blinked at him, her brows furrowing slightly.

"Why?" She croaked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Because it’s cold, and you’re upset, and I’d feel better if you weren’t standing out here like this." Chris said honestly, shrugging off his hoodie - ignoring how the hairs on his arm fully stood up with the cold air - and holding it out to her.

She hesitated, her eyes darting from his face to the piece of clothing, then back again.

"It’s okay." Chris reassured her. "You don’t have to take it, but I promise it’s clean. And warm."

After what felt like an eternity, she slowly reached out and took the hoodie from him. Her hands were trembling so much that she almost dropped it, but she managed to pull it to her chest, pressing it against her covered skin.

"Thank you." She mumbled, her voice shaky.

Chris exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

"Of course. What’s your name?" He asked in a soft tone. "I'm Chris."

She blinked her eyes at him, frowning, clearly surprised by the question.

"Y-Y/N." She said hesitantly.

"Y/N." He repeated, offering her a small, reassuring smile. "It’s really nice to meet you... Um, do you want to sit down? You look like you need a second."

She looked around the parking lot again before nodding slowly, and Chris gestured to the curb nearby. He waited until she sat down before taking a seat a few feet away, giving her space but staying close enough that she wouldn’t feel alone.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

"I’m fine." She finally said - even though it wasn't what Chris was expecting to hear, her voice cutting through the silence, hoarse and shaky.

Chris tilted his head slightly, his brows furrowing.

"I don’t think you are."

"I am." She insisted, but her voice cracked on the words, betraying her.

Chris turned his face slightly to the side to meet her eyes, curving his upper body, trying to make himself seem less imposing.

"I know you don’t know me. Well, only my name now." He said softly. "But I can tell you’re not fine. And that’s okay. You don’t have to be. Not after that."

She bit her lower lip hard, and for a second, Chris thought she might break down again. But instead, she straightened her spine, her trembling hands wiping at her tear-streaked face.

"It's not as bad as it looked. He was just angry." She said quietly, almost as if she was saying that to herself. "It’s not his fault. I... I messed up."

Chris’s heart sank at her words.

"You didn’t mess up." He said firmly, his voice laced with conviction.

She shook her head, her hands gripping the fabric of his hoodie tightly.

"I did. I dropped something, broke it, actually. It was stupid, and it drew attention to us, and... and he doesn’t like that. He was just trying to make me understand."

Chris stared at her, his chest tightening painfully.

"That’s not okay." He said softly. "No one should treat you like that, no matter what happened."

"You don’t understand." She said, her voice rising slightly as she hugged herself tighter. "He just... he gets frustrated sometimes, but it’s because he cares. He doesn’t mean to be mean."

Chris’s jaw clenched, a mix of anger and sadness boiling inside him.

"Love isn’t supposed to be like that, Y/N." He said gently. "It’s not supposed to hurt you and leave you standing in a parking lot crying, shaking, and alone."

Her eyes filled with fresh tears again, and she looked away, staring at the ground as if she couldn’t bear to meet his gaze.

"You don’t know him." She whispered, shaking her head vehemently.

Chris wanted to scream, to grab her shoulders, and shake her until she understood that what she was describing wasn’t love. It was control, manipulation, and abuse. But even though he had never helped a victim of a toxic and abusive relationship before, he knew he should keep his voice calm, so he did it, maintaining his tone soft and steady.

"You’re right." He said. "I don’t know him. But I know what I saw, and I can only imagine what it feels like to have someone make you think you’re the problem when you’re not."

Her head whipped toward him, her eyes narrowing.

"You don’t know anything about me."

Chris held up his hands.

"You’re right again. I don’t. But I’m not here to judge you. I’m here because I want to help. No strings, no expectations. Just... let me help. I can't leave you alone here for the rest of the night."

She shook her head again, her hands trembling as she brushed her hair out of her face.

"I shouldn’t even be talking to you about this. It isn't fair to him. He’d be so heartbroken if he knew."

Chris watched her for a second too long.

"But you deserve to talk to someone." He finally said. "You deserve to feel safe."

"I am safe!" She snapped, her voice ringing out in the empty parking lot. The declaration sounded hollow, as if she was trying to convince herself more than him.

Chris took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a second.

"I just want to help you." He said, his tone pleading. "Do you have someone you can call? A family member, a friend? You can use my phone-"

Her reaction was immediate and panicked. She shook her head furiously, her eyes wide with fear as her body tightened, seeming ready to stand up and run.

"No! No, I can’t call anyone."

"Why not?" Chris asked gently, though his heart was racing, his eyes traveling quickly to his car where his brothers were before going back to Y/N. "They’d want to help you, just like I do."

"I said no!" She cried, her voice cracking. Her breathing was shallow and quick now, teetering on the edge of hyperventilation. "You don’t understand. I can’t just call someone. And you... you need to go. God, you shouldn’t even be here."

Chris frowned, his brows knitting together.

"Please, I’m just trying to-"

"You don’t get it." She interrupted, her voice hushed but frantic. She glanced around the parking lot as though expecting her boyfriend to be there somewhere, watching them. "He’s going to come back. And if he sees you here, if he thinks... you need to leave. Now."

Chris’s stomach dropped at the sheer terror in her voice.

"Y/N, he won't hurt you in any type of way while I'm here with you. I can promise you that." He moved a bit closer again, careful not to make any sudden movement. "Let me do something for you. Anything, please."

"You can’t." She whispered, her voice barely audible. "No one can. Please, just go. He’s going to be here soon, and I-I can’t let him see you."

She was holding onto that story like it was a lifeline, but the way her hands trembled and her breath hitched betrayed her doubt.

"What if he doesn’t?" Chris asked gently. "What if he’s not coming back tonight?"

Her face fell for a brief moment before she quickly masked it, straightening up.

"He will." She said, though there was no conviction in her tone. "He always does."

Chris nodded, looking around dismissively.

"Okay. Maybe he will. But just in case... maybe you could let me help you. You don’t have to trust me, I get that. I'm a stranger. But let me offer you something. A safe place to wait."

"I don’t have anywhere to go." She admitted, her voice so quiet it was almost lost in the night air. "Just our house. And I don't think I should go back there now."

Chris’s heart twisted at her words and how uncertain they sound, but he kept his expression neutral, careful not to show pity.

"Okay." He said softly. "Then maybe you can just... talk to me. You don’t have to get in my car. We can sit out here. I’ll stay right here in the open where you can see me."

She hesitated, her eyes darting to the ground.

"Why do you care so much?"

Chris crossed his legs above the pavement, relaxing his posture further.

"Because I know what it’s like to feel like you’re on your own." He said simply. "And because I don’t think anyone should have to go through something like this alone. You don’t deserve that."

She hesitated, her gaze watching her hands above her thighs.

"I won’t call the police unless you want me to." Chris added. "I won’t push you to do anything you don't want to do. But you don’t have to deal with this alone."

Her lip quivered, and she closed her eyes tightly, her voice barely a whisper.

"I don’t even know what I’d do."

Chris’s heart ached for her, but he kept his tone steady.

"How about this." He said. "I’ll stay with you until you figure that out. If you want, I can take you to a hotel, or I can help you find somewhere else to stay for the night. But whatever you decide, I’m not going to leave you here."

She was silent for a long time, her shoulders rising and falling with each shaky breath. Finally, she nodded, just once.

"Okay." She said.

Chris exhaled slowly, relief washing over him.

"Okay." He echoed.

For the first time that night, she looked at him fully, her eyes filled with a mix of fear and cautious hope.

He opened his widest smile in response, leaning back slightly with his palms against the curb behind his back and glancing up at the sky.

"You know." He started, his tone casual. "This isn’t exactly the way I imagined spending my Wednesday night."

Her eyes scanned his face carefully, frowning, feeling like she was the one to destroy his day - or night.

"What do you mean?" She asked hesitantly, her voice hoarse.

Chris shrugged, being careful not to mention his career. He didn't want to overwhelm her.

"Well, usually on Wednesdays, I’m sitting in my van with my brothers, arguing over who gets to pick the fast-food spot. We’re probably debating something ridiculous, too."

That earned him the smallest, almost imperceptible twitch of her lips. It wasn’t quite a smile, but it was something. It encouraged Chris to continue.

"My brothers are idiots, by the way." He said, his tone light. "Don’t tell them I said that, though. They'll get big heads thinking I actually pay attention to their nonsense."

Her brow rose slightly, curiosity tugging at the edges of her expression, her body instinctively leaning towards him.

"What are they like?"

Chris chuckled, throwing his head to the side, laying his cheek against his shoulder and looking at her eyes.

"They're amazing. Weird, but amazing. They're so funny in their individual way, always making me laugh so hard that sometimes I feel like I could pass out."

This time, she let out a soft, breathy laugh, and Chris felt a flicker of warmth in his chest. It was small, but it was progress.

"You’re close with them?" She asked quietly.

"Yeah." Chris said, nodding. "It’s hard not to be when you all live and do everything together. But they’re good guys. Annoying as hell, but good."

She looked down at her hands, her fingers fidgeting with the frayed edge of his hoodie sleeve.

"Must be nice." She murmured.

Chris’s smile faltered for a moment, but he recovered quickly.

"It is." He admitted. "But, you know, we fight sometimes. Like, really fight. Last week, Matt threw a punch at me because I wouldn’t stop talking during his game."

Her lips twitched again, and this time, it was a small, shy smile.

"What were you saying?" She asked, her voice soft but carrying a hint of amusement.

"Oh, some random shit. Can’t even remember now. Probably something embarrassing, knowing me." Chris grinned. "Matt said I was ruining his concentration, but honestly, I think he just doesn’t appreciate my brain work."

She shook her head slightly, her smile lingering.

"You’re ridiculous." She said softly, almost reflexively, but as soon as the words left her mouth, her expression shifted. Her body tensed up, her shoulders pulling in as her eyes darted to him in alarm. "I didn’t mean-"

"Guilty as charged." Chris smoothly interrupted her, opening a smirk while looking at her, trying to express through his eyes that it was okay. "But, hey, if ridiculous is what it takes to make you laugh, then I’m all in."

Her looked down again at the pavement, scraping her shoes over the small rocks.

"Thanks." She said quietly.

"For what?" Chris asked, his voice gentle.

"For... keeping me company." She said, her gaze fixed on her lap. "I don’t feel... as bad right now."

Chris felt a lump in his throat but pushed it down, keeping his tone light.

"Anytime." He said. "I’ve got a whole arsenal of dumb stories and good jokes if you need them."

She looked at him then, her eyes softer than before.

"You’re really nice." She said, pressing her lips in a fine line.

Chris shrugged, a faint blush creeping up his neck.

"I just don’t like seeing people hurt." He said honestly. "And, I don’t know, you seem like someone who deserves a lot better than... all this."

Her eyes filled with tears, and for a moment, Chris thought she might start crying again. Instead, she took a deep breath and nodded.

"Thanks." She said again, her voice steadier this time.