inmegsmind - Tumblr blog

inmegsmind · 4 months ago

Text

the chokehold this series has on me 😭🥹

LOVED YOU AT YOUR WORST - r.c series - SIXTEEN

pairings: ex!sweethearts; rafe x thornton!reader; rafe x sofia. chapter warnings: angst; mentions of abortion; grief; mental and physical health issues;

Your last coversation with Rafe had been a week and a half ago.

It didn’t ruin you, nor did it magically fix you, but at least it didn’t leave you sobbing. That was progress.

In that time frame, you had three doctor appointments. Two for the anemia, which still left you weak even when the sun was out. And one for the baby.

Rafe offered to come; it mattered to him. But you didn’t let him yet.

You were okay with him or, at least, okay enough to look at him and not feel like screaming and “okay” didn’t mean ready. Letting him into that room—to hear the heartbeat, see the tiny body growing inside you—would be handing him access to the part of you that was still so new it trembled, the part that was what was hurting most.

The morning after your conversation, your phone buzzed earlier than it should.

You squinted at the screen.

Sarah <3 Calling...

You slide the answer button with a groggy sigh. “Hi?”

“Okay, don’t think I’m crazy,” she said immediately, “but… did something happen last night?”

Like clockwork, your brain started coming up with excuses. Say you went to bed early, you didn’t see him.

Your stomach dipped. “Uh… what do you mean?”

She huffed, “I called Rafe an hour ago. Wanted to make sure he was okay, y’know? I drove him home. But this morning, I checked in again. He picked up, and—he sounded different.”

You remained silent. Different how? You wanted to ask. But you already knew.

“Calm! Genuinely okay for the first time in months,” she emphasizes. “Which is rare for him lately. And the only time he ever sounded like that was when you two were—”

You chewed the inside of your cheek, weighing your options. You could lie, keep this between you and Rafe for a while longer, say maybe therapy was finally kicking in, or he got a good night’s sleep, or anything else.

“He came over last night.”

“…Oh.”

You stared at a spot on your ceiling, the memory of Rafe's voice spinning in your head. “We talked.”

“You talked?” Sarah repeats. You could practically hear the raised eyebrow. “Talked? Or did you throw something at his head?”

You let out a tired laugh, the first one of the morning. “No. Talked.”

“Okay. Wow. I mean… I’m happy. You two needed that.”

“Yeah.”

“And? Did you… tell him?”

You hesitated, letting your eyes drift shut.

“I told him everything, Sarah.”

“Wait. Everything, as in... everything everything?”

“…Yeah.”

“Everything?” She still wasn’t sure she heard you right the first time.

Your throat tightened. “Yeah.”

“Holy shit."

You had watched the blood drain from Rafe’s face the second you told him about how far it had gone, how sick you’ve been the entire time. You remembered his hands; they’d gone still, then started to shake.

You weren’t mad at him then, not how you used to be. You were tired of being the one who knew what it felt like to wake up in a body that could betray you at any moment.

Sarah’s voice cut back in: “And how do you feel now?”

You blinked back into the present.

“I don’t know. I think it broke him a little.”

“Good,” Sarah muttered, not meaning to be cruel, just matter-of-fact. “He should break a little.”

“I didn’t feel like I wanted to hurt him either.”

“That’s something,” Sarah said gently.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “It’s something.”

You sat up against the pillows, the room dim with morning light.

“He offered to come with me to the appointments. I said no, but he still offered. That’s new.”

“Do you wish you had said yes?”

You thought about it.

“No. I think I need to be in that room alone for a while.”

“You did something really brave."

You didn’t feel brave, though; you felt like someone standing on an isolated road with no map, with a body that hurt in ways it shouldn’t. A baby that might or might not make it and a man you used to love still orbiting you like a planet you couldn’t land on safely.

Sarah was quiet for a second, then said, “Are you gonna talk to Topper?”

You sucked in a breath through your nose, not surprised she brought him up. You swore she and Rafe were more alike than what they let on.

“I don’t know.”

It wasn’t a lie. You had thought about it, more than once, since Rafe mentioned it. You debated texting Topper, calling, and asking if he still kept that dumb contact name in his phone for you.

He had stopped being just a cousin when you lost your family, turning into your almost-brother.

But you've been so angry, in pieces. Letting yourself feel that anger had been necessary, you didn’t want to fake forgiveness before it was real; you had to be able to look him in the eye without flinching at the memory of what he’d done.

The bitterness in your chest had started to quiet after a while, not gone, but calm enough to think clearly.

After talking to Rafe, who’d torn your heart in such evil, deeper ways, you’d swallowed your pride, bitterness, and pain for the sake of peace. Your peace of mind, that is, not his.

You needed closure more than you craved revenge nowadays. Acting civil, even with someone who broke you, was a step toward healing yourself.

How could you give that grace to Rafe and not to Topper? Your cousin who hurt you, yes—but less. If you could offer space and civility to the boy who shattered your trust, you could extend honesty and an open door to the one who merely cracked it.

“I don’t know how to look at him. I don’t know if I’ll yell or cry.”

Sarah was quiet again.

You smacked your forehead. “It’s stupid. I forgave the guy who ruined my idea of love, but I’m still bitter at the one who flaked on family.”

“It’s not stupid,” she said. “You expected more from him.”

“I’ll talk to him eventually.”

Sarah didn’t push. “Okay.”

You texted Rafe five days later in the afternoon, not particularly eager to ask him for a favor, but alas. The conversation had to happen somewhere private. Your house, not a public scene. God forbid it happened in public again, where some kook could overhear—or worse, Ruthie.

You knew she was still lurking around him, trying to win him back; she never wasted time running off to her group chat, turning it into gossip.

“Tell Topper to come by my place Friday at 7.”

You stared at the screen before hitting send. No emojis or small talk, only instructions. Rafe read between the lines, you know he did—he always had. It didn’t take him long to reply.

“Okay.”

Topper showed up exactly at seven, not a second earlier or later.

You watched from the window as his car idled out front like it was nervous too. You left the gate and doors unlocked, so he had to open it himself. When he finally walked through the main door, you were on the couch, half-sunken into a pillow you didn’t like anymore.

“Hey,” he said, awkwardly waving from a distance.

“Did Rafe threaten you, or did you come willingly?”

Topper flinched. “I came 'cause you asked.”

“I told you. There’s a difference.”

He looked around your living room, scared you might bite him.

Fair.

“You look... tired,” he said, as if that was a neutral observation.

You arched an eyebrow. “Yeah, growing a human while hating most people around you is exhausting. Shocker.”

“Right,” Topper muttered, hands stuffed in his jacket, hoping he could disappear inside it. He was still standing there like a dog that got caught pissing on the rug, eyes never staying on you for more than a second.

“You want water or something?” You reached for your sarcastic vein, hoping to make him squirm. “A moral compass while you’re at it?”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t you dare say you didn’t mean to.” Your voice rose, not yelling yet. “You didn’t ask. You didn’t come to me or knock. You went through my shit like a creep, found one phone number, and assumed.”

“I thought you were sick!” he said, like that excused it. “Rafe said you were off, that you looked pale, tired, not like yourself—and I got worried!”

“No,” you snapped. “You got nosy. You played spy for Rafe because God forbid I have one fucking private thing in my life. You found that number and ran to him like a little lapdog.”

“I didn’t know it was—”

“But you told him anyway!” You retorted. “And guess what? You were right.”

He flinched as if you had punched him, but you didn't want a recurrence of the last time you saw each other.

“I thought he already knew.”

“Are you stupid?” You spoke through gritted teeth. “Why would he know? We broke up."

“I’m sorry.” He apologized again, this time with a smaller attitude. “I didn’t think. I just—I thought you needed help.”

“Help?” Your eyes narrowed. “I needed two boys whispering behind my back about my uterus like it’s public property?”

“Oh, come on,” he barked, shocking you into silence. “So you can forgive Rafe—Rafe!—who fucked you over in every way that matters—but I get crucified for screwing up once?!”

Your jaw had clenched in defiance.

“I didn’t forgive him, and that’s not the same.”

“Isn’t it?” He stepped forward now, finally showing some of the Topper you used to know—the one who didn’t roll over. “He broke your heart. You talked to him before you spoke to me; you’re texting him when you need something. You’re playing a fucking peace treaty with him.”

“Top—”

“I make one shitty call, yeah—a really bad one, I own that—but I thought you were in danger. And I don’t get a second chance? I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

You stared at him, the room pulsing with shame. There was the part you hated: he was right. You’d twisted the narrative to make yourself the victim in every corner, and yeah, you were the one who had been hurt the most—but that didn’t make you righteous.

You made peace with Rafe because it was easier than holding on to that brand of pain. But Topper? He was family, which made it worse when he hurt you—it made you hold him to a higher standard.

You sat back down, hating how much that hurt—how scared he looked of you, as if you were a landmine instead of the person he used to eat cereal with in pajamas on summer mornings. The girl who cried next to him because you got your period for the first time and thought you were dying, and he just sat there, pale-faced and googling it in a panic like you’d been shot.

Yeah, he fucked up. But not like Rafe, not with malice.

Topper didn’t want to hurt you; you knew that. You always knew that, but you’d been… scared. And so angry. That was what it was, wasn’t it? Not betrayal per se—exposure. You’d felt naked and defenseless, and Topper had been the one to fuck you over.

“I know I’m being unfair,” you admitted quietly. “I know. But I’m not mad because you were wrong, Topper. You chose to go behind my back.”

He didn’t say anything.

You sighed, “With Rafe...at that point, I expected it. No with you."

“I didn’t want to break anything. I panicked.”

“I know that now. But it was easier to stay mad at you. If I forgave you… I had to admit how scared I was that Rafe knew.”

“You’re allowed to be scared.”

You looked up at him.

He shifted awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. “So… you’re pregnant. And Rafe’s the—uh…”

You lifted your brow questioningly, not expecting the conversation to change tone.

"The donor?" he asked tentatively.

“What the fuck, Topper."

“I don’t know the terminology!” he argued. “I didn’t want to say ‘baby daddy’—that felt too Jerry Springer.”

You rolled your eyes. “You could’ve just said ‘the father.’”

“Oh.” He blinked. “Yeah, that’s—yeah.” He looked at you again, a little sheepish. “So… I’m gonna have a nephew?”

You almost wanted to laugh. It wasn’t funny, but for a second there, it felt like you were living in a cute movie moment, about to pull out an ultrasound and cry happy tears and pick out baby names.

Topper had always been softer than you.

You leaned into the couch again, head tipped to the ceiling. “I don’t know if it’s gonna…” Your throat locked up for a second. “If it’s gonna make it.”

Topper’s face dropped, and he was confused. “What do you mean?”

“I have anemia,” you say. “Severe. It’s why I’ve been so tired. I nearly passed out walking up the stairs last week.”

He swallowed. “But they’re treating it, right? Pills or something?”

You shook your head slowly. “Iron supplements aren’t enough. I’m doing treatments every week.”

The hope drained from his face, replaced with fear or guilt, trying to morph into protectiveness.

You kept going because once you started, it was easier to spill than stop.

“There’s a chance… a pretty decent one… that I won’t carry full term. And even if I do—if I survive that—there’s a chance the baby won’t.”

“But it’s a chance,” he said, almost begging. “Not a sentence.”

“It’s a gamble. I don’t know if my body’s strong enough to win.”

Topper looked gutted. He sank into the armchair across from you, hands clasped between his knees, looking like a kid who just found out the monsters under the bed were real the whole time.

“When were you gonna tell me?” he asked finally.

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “I didn’t want to make it real; it makes it harder to pretend I’m fine.”

“I don’t give a fuck what you said last time; I am your family,” he choked, eyes red. “You don’t get to die on me, do you hear me? You don’t.”

You stayed still, letting him spiral because he needed it. You knew what it felt like to be scared into saying too much.

“That shit’s not fair.”

His hands were shaking.

“I’m not dying, Topper,” you said, because he needed to hear it. Even if you weren’t sure.

He looked at you with wet eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered for the third time, and it was no longer about what he did. “Do you even… want this? Any of it?”

“No,” you replied, “I found out too late to get an abortion.”

You keep the rest of the information hidden away.

He nodded. “Yeah. That’s… fair.”

You let out a bitter laugh. “God, what kind of person does that make me?”

“The honest kind,” he added, without missing a beat.

“You’re not gonna try to make me feel better?”

“I figure if I try to wrap it up in some bullshit about silver linings, you’ll just want to throw something at me.”

You almost smiled.

“Did you tell Rafe all this?”

“Yeah. I did.”

“Really?

You nodded again, slower this time. “And more.”

Topper swallowed that. His mouth opened, then closed again, wanting to ask what “more” meant, but he thought better of it.

“Wow.”

You moved in your seat, arms tightly wrapped around your midsection.

"I was upset that he found out before I was ready to tell him. But a part of me also wanted him to see and feel it.

Topper looked at you, still piercing it all together. “So, why did you tell him?”

“I needed to.” You didn’t sugarcoat it. “It was gonna stay stuck inside me, and I was hoping that it would hurt less. That he’d carry some of the weight too.”

Topper ran a hand through his hair. “Did he?”

“Yeah.” You cleared your throat. “But that’s enough misery for one day, so...” You forced a breath that was exactly a sigh, forcing levity into your voice, “What have you been up to these past few weeks?”

Topper blinked, being the one caught off guard now.

“Uh—honestly?” He scratched the back of his neck. “I spent four days trying to get the stains off my Loewe shirt after you threw the drinks on me.”

You let out a snort. "Good. I hope it’s ruined.”

“Almost was,” he said, with exaggerated pain. “It was a limited drop. I tried vinegar, peroxide, baking soda paste—”

“And?”

“I couldn’t get it out,” he admitted. “But Sofia did.”

Hold on.

Your head snapped toward him, suddenly not blinking. “…Sofia?”

He paused, realizing the trap a second too late. “…Yeah.”

“As in Sofia, Sofia?” Your voice was constricted.

He responded with a nod at first.

"Yeah. She came by. She’s, uh, been around.” Topper’s face twitched. “We...talk? Sometimes, since that night. She saw the shirt and offered to try. She’s good at that kind of stuff—fabrics, whatever.”

You looked at him as if he had grown a second head.

Your eyes didn’t budge. “Uh-huh.”

You recognized the tone in his voice and the way he pronounced her name. Oh, my God.

This fucker cared about her.

You couldn’t process it at first—because it was Topper. You squinted at him, hoping that if you looked hard enough, the truth would pixelate into something different.

You knew that voice. You’d heard that every time your cousin fell for someone he shouldn’t, like when he said Sarah’s name at fifteen, high on the fantasy of her, long before she ever gave him the time of day. You heard it again when he stupidly gave Ruthie a chance.

And now…

Your voice sounded flat. “You like her.”

Topper flushed immediately. “I didn’t say that. She’s...pretty.”

“You don’t have to.” You had already sunk back into the couch, dragging a throw pillow over your face. “Pretty?” you echoed, sitting up straighter, hands dropping to your lap. “That’s the word you’re going with?”

He looked defensive, shrugging. “What? She is.”

“You’re unbelievable. Do you only fall for girls you’re not supposed to?”

"What does that mean?" he inquired.

You tossed the pillow at him. "Sarah? Ruthie?”

He scowled. “Okay, first of all—” He stood and rubbed his temples. “It’s not like that.”

“It is like that. You’re already defending her.”

You wanted to hate her, but she wasn’t a villainous bitch who went after your man for sport. She was a girl who saw an opportunity and seized it, openly expressing her emoticons. She was overly polite in groups. That made her a little pathetic in your eyes—but it also made her honest. Even so, you were never going to like the girl.

“I’m not—okay, I am, but that doesn’t mean—” He stopped himself. “It’s not serious.”

You blinked at him across the room, expecting resentment to bloom in your chest again, but it didn’t. This was not a backstabbing betrayal or a desire to one-up you. It wasn’t personal.

“You have a crush on Sofia.”

You felt exasperated. Maybe vaguely annoyed, but not mad. And shit, wasn’t that the strangest part? Your claws didn't come out for the first time in months.

You shook your head and let out a soft, disbelieving breath.

“Topper. She's—she’s not like us.”

“I know.”

“And what exactly are you planning to do with that information, Romeo? You gonna start bringing her to country club mixers?”

“I like talking to her. And she makes things feel less...”

You went quiet.

He looked at you again, brows drawn. “You think I like her?”

“I know you do,” you said, more tired than teasing.

Topper sat back down. “Shit.”

You hummed in agreement, "You know Ruthie's going to kill her, right?"

Topper groaned, “Don’t say that.”

You gave him a look. “Why? It’s the truth.”

“She won’t—she’s not—Ruthie wouldn’t actually—”

“Oh my God, Topper.” You leaned forward. “Ruthie keyed a girl’s car because she thought she flirted with you. What do you think she will do once she realizes the girl she has been having pool parties with and pretending to laugh with for months is talking to you?

“She doesn’t know yet!”

“She will.”

He nodded slowly, as if facing death. “Yeah. She will.”

You despised the part of yourself that understood Sofia, that knew that even if she was the one who stepped into Rafe's life after you had left, she did so with a genuine heart.

Your arms tightened around your stomach.

Topper was staring up at the ceiling. “Ruthie's going to destroy her.”

You scoffed.

He laughed dryly, devoid of humor. “Sofia’s sweet.”

“She better learn how to bite.” You weren’t trying to sound cruel, but maybe it came out that way because the second it left your mouth, Topper's gaze shifted to you.

"She is not like Ruthie," he explained quietly.

Or me, you thought to yourself. Sofia was good, not performatively.

She had goodness that still made you roll your eyes, hardly believing it could be real without strings or hidden self-interest. But that girl truly trusted that people meant well and rooted for happy endings.

That had to be nice.

You dion’t know what that kind of believing felt like; you had spent too long preparing for the worst. Hope got you here. Sofia would cry when she was hurt, but you would burn down the entire room before admitting you were bleeding.

“No. She’s not.”

Ruthie was always prepared to pout and smile as she stabbed you in the back. You knew because you would done it too. Once. Maybe more than once. But she was a different breed; she never got hurt and only hurt back.

“It’s not important,” he muttered. “It’s not like Sofia likes me anyway. We’re friends. She’s still in love with—”

He stopped mid-sentence and you only watched the words die in his throat.

“She’s still in love with Rafe,” you finished for him, letting out a small sigh, gaze flicking away, eyes fixed on nothing. “I know she is.”

Topper scrubbed a hand down his face. “How did we get here?”

You looked back at him, tilting your head. “Do you think you're the only one doing the falling?”

He grimaced. “I didn’t think I was falling at all.”

You hummed, nails digging into your sleeves.

“If it makes you feel better, I don’t hate her. I’d sleep better if I did.”

He looked at you sideways. “You don’t?”

You hesitated. “I don’t like her; I’ll never like her. But she didn’t steal anything from me.”

Topper opened his mouth to say something, then stopped. Whatever he was going to say, he must’ve decided it wasn’t worth the lie.

“I think she wants to move on,” he said instead. “She’s trying. She knows he’s in love with you, still. She’s angry about it,” he added, softer this time. “At the way it all played out.”

You swallowed. “She should be.”

God knows you would've done a lot more damage if you were in her shoes.

He let out a groan.

“Dude, it’s been so long since you’ve been a sappy bitch; this is making me uncomfortable.”

“Shut up.”

“Who are you, and what have you done with my cousin?” Topper teased, tossing a couch cushion at you as if you were thirteen again, trapped in summer vacation hell with only mosquito bites and each other for company.

You tossed it right back. “Don’t act like you didn’t cry during Marley & Me, asshole.”

He huffed, “I had allergies.”

You rolled your eyes. “Whatever helps you fall asleep at night.”

When he looked at you again, he was still smiling; you were both in this strange limbo of pain and healing, treading through all the shit that had happened.

"I missed this," he stated abruptly.

You cast a glance at him. “What?”

“This. Fighting over dumb shit. "Talking to you," he said, picking at a loose thread on his shirt's hem. “Felt like I lost you.”

You looked down at your lap. “You didn’t lose me.”

For a few weeks, it felt as if grief had permanently divided you, and neither of you knew how to get back to normal. But sitting there now, it didn’t feel so far away.

The old you would’ve let that comment slide, pretended you didn’t hear it, or made a sarcastic joke.

“I’m glad you told me,” you said quietly, nudging his leg with your foot. “About her.”

“Regretting it already.”

You smiled. “Shut up. I can understand why you like her."

You missed being someone who believed that those who loved you would never hurt you—at least not on purpose. Topper had been stupid, but he was trying. Genuinely trying to understand why it mattered so much.

He gave you a side-eye. “You just said you’ll never like her.”

“I won’t. But that doesn’t mean I don’t think you’d be good to her.”

A beat passed. “Are you sure you’re doing okay?”

"Today? Yeah.”

Topper let out a low chuckle, the familiar sound tugging on something deep within your chest. "You’re gonna be fine.”

"Yeah?" You raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah. You’ve got a good heart beneath that bitch exterior," he teased, but his eyes were genuine.

You didn’t want to admit how much that bit of vulnerability—shit, even just his words—meant to you.

"Missed you too, asshole."

"Good."

“But if Ruthie shows up with a baseball bat at your door, I’m not bailing you out.”

He snorted. “Noted.”

Rafe stared at the wood floors in his therapist's office, a vein in his temple showing.

"Rafe?" Dr. Keller called, pen still against her notebook. "You said you were ready to talk about it."

He wondered how the fuck he was going to get the words out.

"Yeah. I... I don't know where to start."

"You don’t have to say it perfectly."

Rafe nodded as his fingers twitched in his lap.

“She told me.”

Dr. Keller tilted her head. “She told you about...”

“The baby,” His eyes flicked to yours, “And everything else. What the doctors said.” His jaw clenched. “She looked so calm when she said it, she's already making peace with it. She was more worried about others than herself, and I…I don’t know what to do with that. How am I supposed to be okay with any of this?”

What if you died? What if you died and Rafe was stuck here—left with a crying newborn that was supposed to be yours but feels like a ghost of you? He exhaled shakily and violently shook his head, trying to push the fear that was crawling up his spine away.

“I swear, I—I can’t breathe sometimes, thinking about it. If she doesn’t—if she doesn’t come outta this, then what? What am I supposed to do? Raise a kid alone? Be the guy who tells the kid why their mom’s not there? Me?” He scoffed again, “I can’t keep my own shit together. You know what I did after? I drove to the docks and sat there. I didn’t realize I’d been there for hours until my phone died. Just... stared at the water. Tryin’ not to think about what it’d feel like if I jumped in.”

His eyes darted to Dr. Keller for a second before looking away shamelessly.

“I wouldn’t, okay? I’m not... I’m not gonna do that. But what if I mess the kid up the same way I got messed up? What if I scream, or drink, or disappear for hours, and the kid grows up thinking that’s normal? What if I become him?” The last word burned coming out of his mouth — him meaning Ward, the monster behind his bloodline.

Dr. Keller watched him, her pen resting motionless on the page now.

“Rafe,” she started, carefully, “you’re carrying a lot more than grief right now. You’re carrying fear, guilt, and a future you feel completely unprepared for.”

“Yeah, no shit.”

“You mentioned the thought of becoming your father,” she continued, gently. “That’s not a small fear. That’s generational trauma and you’re trying to break that cycle with zero margin for error in the middle of a crisis.”

“And what if I already am him and I’m just too stupid to see it?”

“You’re not him,” Dr. Keller gave him a tight-lipped smile. “You’re scared of becoming him. That’s not the same. Your awareness, the self-loathing, it's proof enough that you’re trying; you care."

Is that supposed to make me feel better? Rafe wanted to snap, but it stuck in his throat; he did want to believe her.

“Trying doesn’t bring her back.”

Dr. Keller nodded slowly. "You’re mourning her before she dies; this is called anticipatory grief. And it’s paralyzing. But… she’s still here.”

He closed his eyes; the words should have been reassuring, but instead felt like a curse. For now. But how long?

“Do you want to be there?” she asked softly. “If the time comes?”

His eyes snapped open. “What?”

“If something does happen...would you want to be in the room with her? Holding her hand?”

Rafe opened his mouth — then closed it. The image slammed into his chest: your hand going limp in his, that godawful beeping.

“I’d rather it kill me than let her go through that alone.”

Dr. Keller paused for a second before responding again, "Thank you for saying that.”

Rafe sneered. “Don’t thank me. It’s the bare minimum.”

His knee bounced, fingers drumming against it now, twitchy.

Classic Rafe.

“She was scared. I could tell, even if she was trying’ to be calm about it. That fake smile she gives when she is making things easier for everyone but herself." He laughed under his breath, “Always thinkin’ about everyone else.”

He dragged his hand down his cheek, the heel of his palm pressing firmly against his eye socket.

Dr. Keller’s voice was calm. "You said she appeared at peace with it. How did that make you feel?"

“It pissed me off,” Rafe snapped, sitting back hard in the chair, the memory shoving him. “It made me wanna shake her. I’m not even close to ready to let her go.”

“That’s not how this works, Rafe.”

“I know that. I do. But if I’d been anyone else, we wouldn’t be talkin’ about what happens if she dies.” He scratched at the back of his neck, agitated. “I should’ve protected her better."

“You can’t protect people from fate.”

“No,” he said, bitterly. “But I should’ve been the one to get hurt. Not her, never her.”

Dr. Keller leaned across her legs, as if talking to a child. Rafe hated that—that way she leaned in patiently like he was going to lose it if she used a firmer tone, as if he was a sulking boy. It made him feel smaller, somehow, back on the porch steps at seventeen, bleeding pride and fury while Ward talked over his head like he wasn’t there.

She must've noticed the change in his posture because she pulled back instantly.

“I’m not here to judge you. You’re not responsible for what’s happening to her. You didn’t cause this.”

"If I hadn’t gotten her pregnant in the first place, she wouldn’t be sick. She’s... she’s been so fucking sick, and I—"

"Stop."

Dr. Keller's voice was loud enough to stop him from spiraling.

"Rafe, you can’t keep doing that. You’re blaming yourself for things that you can’t change. Yes, the pregnancy put a strain on her body, but it wasn’t a choice that caused this. You were not the one who decided that she was going to have severe anemia, these things happen.”

“She almost didn’t tell me,” he muttered. “She was gonna go through all of it and not tell me she might—” His breath hitched, voice cracking.

Dr. Keller’s brows pinched in sympathy. “That’s because she cares for you.”

"I know. That’s what makes it worse; I don’t deserve any of it.”

“What happened after she told you?”

He swallowed hard, his throat tight, similar to swallowing broken glass. “I cried. In front of her. She held me. She’s the one whose iron’s so low she can’t stand some days, and she held me. I told her I’d take care of her, that I’d—” His voice faltered. “I meant it. I don’t know if she believed me.”

The silence fell like dust.

Dr. Keller spoke cautiously. “Do you want another chance to show her that you mean it?”

Rafe looked up, his eyes rimmed with red.

"I want every chance. I want her to hate me, scream at me, and call me selfish, if it means she’s still here to do it. I want her here.”

She waited for him to settle before pivoting.

“May I ask you something?”

He nodded, scrubbing his eyes with the back of his hand, angry that they remained wet. "Yeah. Go ahead.”

“When did you realize you were in love with her?”

His brows lifted, and he dropped his gaze back to the floor, a hint of a real smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, almost imperceptible.

"The first time I saw her," he admitted quietly.

Dr. Keller didn’t write that down.

“We were kids. She had these stupid braids in her hair and this pout on her face ‘cause her mom made her wear a dress she hated. And I remember thinking, 'Shit. That’s her’.”

He huffed a breathy laugh through his nose.

“I didn’t know what love was back then," His throat bobbed. "That night, I asked my mom—‘cause I felt weird. Not bad weird. Just... warm. And I asked her what it meant when someone made you feel like that. When you’d do anything to sit next to them or punch anyone who made 'em sad.” He paused, exhaling shakily. “My mom smiled and said, ‘Sounds like love, baby.’ I told her that was stupid; I was too young to be in love. She said, “It’ll wait for you’.”

Dr. Keller glanced up then, but still didn’t write. The recorder between them was already doing its job.

"The love you feel for her is your compass. Neither your guilt nor your fear. That’s what will get you through this. And it’s what will help you raise your child too, if it comes to it.”

“Just want her to know I’m tryin’. Even if I’m scared shitless, I’m want to be the guy she thought I could be.”

“You’re already becoming him,” She nodded. “The moment you walked in here and chose to speak instead of staying silent, you became him.”

“She waited for me, all these years. I’ll wait for her too, however long it takes.”

Rafe hadn’t been sleeping much.

He hoped that by finally letting it all out in Dr. Keller's office, something would settle. But if anything, he was restless.

He’d taken to pacing the house, rubbing his thumb raw over his knuckles. Anything to stop thinking. He was fed up with that shit.

When his brain got too loud, he felt it—the old itch in his bones. The voice that said just a drink. He’d gone down to the liquor cabinet once, stared at the bottle, hands shaking. Thought about calling Barry, just to talk. Or not talk.

But he didn’t pour the drink or make the call.

It was a little past noon when Sarah showed up at Tannyhill. He heard the front door open, the sound of her voice calling out for Wheezie, and he tensed where he stood in the kitchen. He wanted to back out to the dock, or into his truck, or anywhere her eyes couldn’t pin him down.

He stayed put.

Sarah came to a stop in the kitchen doorway.

“Rafe.”

He didn’t look at her, only ran his hand down his face, the skin along his cheek red from where he kept doing that—rubbing, scraping.

“Wheezie’s not here,” he mumbled. “She’s at choir practice.”

“I know.” Her tone was less accusatory than it had been the previous few times they spoke. “I came to see you.”

“Great. You’ve seen me.”

“You look like shit.” She set down her keys. “She told you.”

He nodded once.

In another life, you would’ve told him first. That thought looped itself over and over, winding tighter around his throat every time it passed through. If things had been different—if he had been different—you would’ve trusted him enough to say it before Sarah.

“She didn’t flinch,” Rafe said, more to the floor than to her. “Acted like it was another Tuesday.”

He braced for the lecture—a speech about stepping up or being better, some bullshit he already told himself every night.

Instead, Sarah walked over. "That’s how she is. You know that.”

He nodded again, stiffer this time. “I feel like if I blink, she’s gonna—"

Sarah gave him a look. “She didn’t want to tell you, but she still did.”

Rafe's throat felt parched as he burned holes in his hands. “I don’t think she expects me to stick around.”

“Can you blame her?”

He winced, curling his shoulders, hoping to make himself smaller.

“Did she...?” He had to stop himself. The words tasted wrong.

Sarah waited with arms crossed loosely.

"Have you seen her? Did she seem like she’s…” He clenched his jaw. “Like she’s getting worse?”

“She’s tired all the time. Can’t keep food down sometimes. Fainted last week during treatment and told the nurse not to call anyone.”

He averted his gaze and clenched the counter's edge until his knuckles turned white.

“I would’ve been there.”

Sarah arched her brow. “Rafe, you left her.”

He gave a rough sigh, tipping his head back. The ceiling provided little comfort. He had been staring at it a lot lately—at night, in the early mornings, whenever sleep refused to come.

“You can’t disappear and expect her to wait with the door open.”

“I haven’t been sleeping.”

“I know.”

He pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek. “I’m scared.”

Sarah’s expression didn’t change. “I know that too.”

“I don’t know what to do.”

“You already do. You love her.”

“She hardly cried, Sar. Is that normal?”

Rafe was aware of the consequences of ignoring it and continuing. That shit didn’t vanish; instead, it buried itself deep, carving its way around your entire being.

“She cried enough already,” Sarah confessed. “She’s tired.”

He didn’t want her to fall apart for him or cry so he’d feel better. But he was terrified you weren’t letting it out at all, that it was going to eat you alive like it had him.

He’d stared at the bottle that morning, stomach sick. Not because he craved the burn, the familiarity, but because drinking was easier than dealing with this helplessness, this love.

The urge was there, caged and pacing.

Rafe could feel it some mornings before his feet hit the floor, but therapy helped. At first, he thought it was bullshit, but when it was him and the silence and all the thoughts he couldn’t outrun, it started to make sense. And it worked—sort of. Worked enough to get him out of the house, to make him want to be good.

For himself. For you.

These past few days, however, he wasn’t sure if it was enough.

He’d done rehab before, for coke. Back when it was clear he was ruining his life at ninety miles an hour. He hadn’t needed anyone to spell it out for him—he’d looked in the mirror and known he wasn’t human anymore.

Drinking didn’t get that bad, at least not in the same explosive way.

He hadn’t driven drunk or gotten violent or collapsed in public. But it slipped in, and it started around the time Ward died—almost four months ago. Everyone kept telling him he was fine now because he had money, a house, and a second chance.

He decided to quit on his own.

What if it came back? What if he needed more?

He didn’t want to end up on that floor again, have you or his sisters walk in and find him like that. He wanted to be better.

Rafe clenched his jaw, dug his thumb into the same spot on his knuckle, “You think I’d be a better dad than Ward?”

Sarah clicked her tongue. “Low bar, don’t you think?”

“Sarah.”

“You think he asked himself that question? Lost sleep wondering if he was screwing us up?” She scoffed. “He just did it and moved on. You’re not Dad."

The screen door banged open right then, footsteps thudding across the porch like a stampede, which only one person ever managed to pull off in flip-flops.

“Hello?” Wheezie’s voice rang out. “Anybody home? I swear, Rafe, if you ate the last of the garlic knots again—”

She skidded to a stop in the kitchen doorway and blinked. Her eyes bounced from one sibling to another, and her mouth popped open.

“Wait. Are you two…” Her pupils shrank dramatically. “Talking? Like, with actual words?”

Rafe huffed.

“We talk sometimes.”

“No, you shout,” Wheezie said, grinning like a lunatic now. “Or someone storms out. Or something gets broken. This is… peace talks. Historic.”

“We’re not that bad,” Rafe argued, though his tone said even he didn’t believe it.

“You’re so bad,” Wheezie laughed, dropping her choir folder on the table and tossing her shoes into a corner. “This is beautiful. Sibling bonding. I might cry.”

“Dramatic much?” Sarah snorted.

“I’m underfed; let me have this.”

“You’re such a dork.”

“I live to serve,” Wheezie bowed. Then she perked up. “Wait. Are you staying? For dinner?”

“I hadn’t really—”

“Please,” Wheezie cut in, clasping her hands like a cartoon orphan. “We never all eat together. It’s always me and a sad grilled cheese and whatever Rafe finds in the freezer. We have chicken tonight! And mashed potatoes. Homemade, not the weird box kind.”

Sarah cast Rafe a suspicious glance. “You made mashed potatoes?”

"I peeled them," he flatly stated.

“He actually peeled them!” Wheezie was beaming. “With that weird frown he gets when he’s concentrating. It was adorable.”

“Jesus Christ,” Rafe groaned, turning away, hiding the flush crawling up his neck.

“Come on, Sarah. Please. One night! We’ll even let you pick the playlist.”

Sarah hesitated for a moment before sighing and returning her gaze to Rafe. He didn’t say anything, only gave a small nod.

“Fine,” she relented. “But I’m picking good music.”

“YES. Oh my god, this is the best day ever. Historic peace treaty, family dinner. I’m writing about this in my journal.”

She dashed off to set the table with the zeal of someone preparing for a royal banquet.

Rafe and Sarah watched as she left.

“You know she’s gonna talk our ears off the whole meal,” Sarah said.

“Better than the quiet.”

Sarah gave him a brief stare before nodding. “Yeah. I guess so.”

828 notes · View notes

inmegsmind · 6 months ago

Text

LOVED YOU AT YOUR WORST - r.c series - THIRTEEN

pairings: ex!sweethearts; rafe x thornton!reader; rafe x sofia. chapter warnings: mentions of severe anemia; pregnancy; abortion; anxiety.

💌MASTERLIST

You didn’t know what day of the week it was anymore.

A week had passed, you were still in Poguelandia, still crashing in some othere room, still avoiding Rafe like the plague. Easier that way—at least, that’s what you kept telling yourself. After Sarah walked in on your “conversation”, you bolted, no clue if they fought, no clue if she tore him a new one. Didn’t ask, didn’t wanna know.

Sarah hadn’t tried to prey either.

She wasn’t dumb, she knew something had gone down—you didn’t even have to tell her. She wasn’t blind. She’d seen the look in your eyes, the way you couldn’t even look at Rafe without feeling like you were about to rip his face off.

She just… let you breathe. Let you have your space, and that, in a way, felt like the kindest thing anyone had done for you in a while. She’d acted like nothing had changed, kept her distance for your sake, and made sure the others did too.

She’d told the pogues not to bug you, not to ask questions. They respected it, even though they probably wanted to know what was going on. No one pushed, no one crowded you.

You weren’t sure if you appreciated it, or if you were just tired of being alone with your thoughts. Sometimes it felt like you were suffocating under the silence, trapped in your own head. But it was still better than dealing with everyone’s questions.

You’d rather hide out, crash in random rooms in this ridiculous house, away from Rafe, away from it all. Easier that way

You only left once in a while, for hospital visits, which were non-negotiable.

Your hands were perched on that awful paper-covered exam table, waiting. The nurse had already sucked your blood like a fucking vampire, and you were exhausted just from that, the anemia was kicking your ass—had been for a while now.

Then came the ultrasound.

The gel was cold as, and you winced when they smeared it over your stomach. You hated this part, lying there, exposed, waiting for something you weren’t even sure you wanted to see.

The machine beeped, the screen flickered, and—there it was.

Your baby, tiny, barely anything at all, but real.

It looked more like a blur than a person, a shadowy shape in the middle of the black-and-white screen. You squinted, but the tech must’ve seen the confusion on your face because she pointed at the screen, tracing the small form with her finger.

“That’s the head,” she said softly. “And there’s the body.”

The words barely registered because then—

Thump-thump-thump-thump.

You forgot how to breathe, the sound—the heartbeat—filled the room, you flinched, it didn’t feel like you were supposed to be hearing it, it wasn’t meant for you. Maybe you’d accidentally tuned into someone else’s life, some other girl’s problem, except it was yours.

You stared at the screen, trying to figure out what the fuck you were supposed to feel. Relief? Panic? Some kind of deep maternal instinct kicking in?

The tech smiled. “Sounds good. Strong and healthy.”

Strong and healthy.

Your fingers curled into the paper sheet beneath you, nails digging in as you tried to process what the fuck you were feeling.

You hadn’t wanted this baby, you had wanted a choice. You had wanted the freedom to decide what your future looked like, and then you had that ripped from you the second the doctor said terminating wasn’t an option unless you wanted to risk your own life.

What kind of fucked-up joke was that? That your body could just… do this to you, force your hand, turn you into something you never planned on being? Even though you didn’t choose this, even though this wasn’t what you wanted—

You could still lose it. It was cruel, wasn’t it?

Now, staring at the screen, listening to that tiny, relentless heartbeat…This wasn’t remotely fair.

You should’ve had a say in this, should’ve been able to decide. But now, whether you wanted to or not, this baby was a part of you, and you could still lose it.

It was ironic, tragic, really...the one time you didn’t have a choice, you could still end up with nothing.

“I can print some pictures if you’d like."

You almost said no, but then—you thought about that night. Rafe’s voice, desperate, asking if it was a boy or a girl.

You’d scoffed, rolled your eyes, told yourself he didn’t deserve to know, didn’t deserve anything. But now, staring at that screen, why did you want to know? Was it a boy or a girl?

You hated yourself for even wondering, for giving a single, fleeting thought to what Rafe Cameron wanted. Why the fuck did you care? Why did you let his stupid voice creep into your head, his stupid concern, his stupid anything? He wasn’t here. He didn’t deserve to be here. He had no fucking right to anything about this.

But it was there, lodged in your brain.

Did you want to know? Would knowing make it harder? Would it make it worse if you lost it?

“Do you—” You hesitated, “Can you tell what it is yet?”

The tech glanced at you, a small smile tugging at her lips. “I can check, if you want.”

Want.

Such a simple word, and you had no clue what the hell you wanted. Actually, you weren’t sure if you wanted anything anymore—not in a real, tangible way. Wanting things only ever led to disappointment, didn’t it?

You took a slow breath, fingers curling against the thin sheet beneath. “Yeah. I guess.”

She moved the wand, adjusted the screen, you swore your heart stopped right along with the machine’s beeping.

“There,” she said, tapping a spot on the screen. “It’s a—boy.”

You shook your head, blinking too hard, trying to ignore the static fuzzing in your brain, but it didn’t work.

A boy.

Your fingers curled around the thin ultrasound printout as the tech ripped it from the machine, holding it out like it wasn’t poison, something that wasn’t going to ruin you the second you touched it.

Your hand shook when you reached for it, you hated that. Hated that it was already in your veins, that stupid, awful feeling creeping up your spine—attachment.

Your brain did that awful thing—that thing—where it started piecing together pieces that didn’t exist yet. Torturing you with possibilities. Would he have your eyes? Would his hair be like yours, or like—

No. Stop.

Fucking stop.

Your body had already made this decision for you, ripped the choice out of your hands, and now it had the audacity to dangle this over your head too? This maybe, this what if, this cruel, dangling thread of something you might not even get to keep?

Your fingers clenched around the ultrasound picture hoping you could crush the thoughts out of existence, but it was too late. You were already there, picturing tiny hands, wondering what his laugh might sound like, already cursing yourself for giving a single inch of your brain to something that could still be ripped away.

It wasn’t fair.

You must’ve gone quiet for too long because the tech’s voice snapped you out of the depressing daze.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Just—tired.”

Which wasn’t even a lie, the anemia had been kicking your ass for days now, making everything feel heavier, harder, kinda like you were constantly trying to wade through waist-deep water with bricks strapped to your ankles.

She gave you a look, one of those I’m not buying it, then glanced down at her chart.

“How’s treatment going? Dr. Harris still has you on the iron supplements?”

You blinked at her, treatment, right. Because your body wasn’t just growing a baby against your will, it was also betraying you in every other way possible.

“Uh, yeah,” you muttered. “Still on the supplements.” Not that they were doing much. You still felt like you could sleep for a year and wake up exhausted. Still felt like your limbs were too heavy, like your head was full of sand.

She nodded. “Dr. Madison couldn’t be here today, that’s why I’m here.”

You shook your head, biting the inside of your cheek. “It’s fine.”

The second you stepped out of the clinic, the sun hit you too bright, too hot. You winced, pressing a hand to your forehead, already exhausted even though the day wasn’t even close to over.

You made it two steps toward your car before your phone started buzzing in your bag. You ignored it at first, fumbling with the keys, trying to ignore whatever the hell had just happened in there. But then it buzzed again, and again.

With a sharp sigh, you yanked it out, “What.”

There was a pause, then a familiar, overly polite voice. “Well, hi to you too.”

Lily. Shit.

You ran a hand through your hair, exhaling through your nose. You’d been so caught up in everything—losing your mind, avoiding Rafe, pretending this pregnancy didn’t exist—that you hadn’t even thought about the foundation. About the events. About the part of your life where you were still expected to be the put-together daughter of a legacy family, even though most of them were dead.

“Lily,” you sighed, already knowing you weren’t going to like this conversation. “What do you want?”

“I’m assuming you forgot,” she said, voice dripping with that practiced patience she always had when dealing with you. “Because I haven’t heard a single peep from you, and the gala is in two days.”

Your stomach sank. “Gala?”

“The Bainbridge Charity Gala?” she repeated like you were an idiot. “The one we’ve been planning for months? The one honoring your sister’s work in—”

She had been a genius—actually a genius, not just the kind of smart that made people say oh wow, you got into Harvard?

She was a scientist, a biomedical researcher, someone who was going to change the world. The work she’d done before she died had been important. Something about neural regeneration, brain trauma—shit that actually mattered, not just another useless charity event to make rich people feel good about themselves.

You were being forced to go shake hands with donors and listen to people talk about her like she was a saint, some perfect, untouchable figure instead of your big sister, who used to sneak you sips of wine at dinner and let you cry on her floor.

It made you feel sick, the way people talked about her like a legacy instead of a person, all because she was dead. It was a family event, which meant Topper would be there, and you were not ready for that.

You were going to have to stand in the same room as him, act like things weren’t completely wrecked between you, pretend like you weren’t still furious.

This just kept getting worse.

“Okay, okay, Jesus.” You squeezed your eyes shut. “I forgot.”

"I know." She didn’t sound mad, mostly exasperated, she was used to this.

You pulled your car door open, collapsing into the driver’s seat. “Do I have to go?”

A beat of silence. Then a sharp laugh. “You’re joking.”

“I’m serious,” you muttered, already knowing the answer but asking anyway. “Can’t I just—send a check? A really big check?”

Lily groaned.

“This is not that kind of event, and you know it. It’s your family’s foundation, your sister’s research, which means you need to be there. People will expect you to be there.”

People. All the people who had known your parents, who still looked at you like you were their legacy wrapped up in a pretty little bow.

Lily, completely unaware, kept going. “Anyway, we’ll have press there, so it’s important that—”

“Who’s coming?” you cut in, voice tighter than you meant it to be.

She hesitated. “Uh. Well, obviously board members, donors, some local politicians—”

“Family,” you interrupted. “Who from family is coming?”

She made a small, confused noise. “I mean… Topper, obviously, since he’s—”

You tuned out the rest.

Fucking great.

Lily, still oblivious, sighed. “I know you hate these things, but just show up, smile, shake some hands, and you’re free. It’s one night.”

Yeah, right.

“Hey, uh—” You hesitated, suddenly unsure if you even wanted another answer. But you had to know. “Are the Camerons invited?”

Lily gave a soft 'mm-hmm’, probably flipping through a list. “Yeah, I think so. Ward was a big donor before, and Rose still keeps up appearances.”

“Are you sure Rafe’s not invited?”

Lily paused. “I mean, his name isn’t on the list, but if Rose comes, he might—”

“Fuck,” you muttered under your breath, rubbing your forehead.

“Why do you care? I mean, I know he’s your ex, but—”

“It’s complicated,” you said quickly.

Which was the understatement of the goddamn century.

Lily didn’t push, thank God. “Okay, if it makes you feel better, I doubt he’d want to go.”

You didn’t trust yourself to say anything without it coming out wrong, so you just muttered, “Yeah. Okay.”

“Good,” she said, relieved. “I’ll send details later. Don’t be late.”

Then it hit you…you didn’t have to show up alone.

“Hey, one more thing,” you said, tapping your fingers on the wheel. “Can I invite a couple of people? I, uh… I don’t really want to show up by myself.”

There was a pause on the other end, then Lily replied in that I’m being helpful tone of hers. “Of course! Do you have anyone in mind? Some of your friends from the internship in New York or Stanford, maybe?”

Stanford. Right, the people you used to know, back when everything was perfect, back before your life fell apart.

You blinked, slowly coming back to the present. “Actually… no.”

Here wasn’t the kind of place you were supposed to have friends anymore, here was temporary.

Lily’s voice turned curious. “Oh? Who, then?”

You closed your eyes, but said it anyway, the words coming out almost too fast. “The Pogues.”

There was a long pause, and you could almost hear Lily’s brain working through the mental gears.

“The… Pogues?” she repeated slowly, as if she had to make sure she heard you right, "As in...."

“Yeah,” you said a little defensive. “They’re, uh, the people I’m staying with. You know, Sarah’s friends. They’re… my friends too, I guess.”

Lily’s voice went higher, "Oh. I suppose that’s fine. I mean, as long as they can blend in and… behave.”

You raised an eyebrow, though she couldn’t see you. “They can behave.”

You hoped.

“Okay, just as long as they don’t start causing a scene.” There was a soft, almost apologetic laugh on her end. “It’s not exactly a… casual event.”

“Yeah, I got it.” You gritted your teeth, already picturing the way the Pogues would dress—probably something that had nothing to do with blending in at all. You could fix that, but you needed them there. You needed someone who would remind you of what it felt like to not be drowning in all this bullshit.

“I’ll make sure they’re added to the guest list.”

“Thanks,” you said, cutting the conversation short before you spiraled further into awkwardness.

All you could think about was that you were being forced to possibly see Rafe again, you couldn’t escape it.

"I love you.”

You let out a short, bitter laugh that sounded more like a snarl. Of course you did, Rafe.

Your hands were shaking, your mind kept dragging you back to him

What a joke. No, really, what a fucking joke.

You wanted to scream, to just rip everything apart, because how could he say that he loved you? How could he have the nerve to act like everything between you two was some epic love story when he turned around and chose someone else? Chose her.

Kissed her. Tied her fucking bikini top while you watched.

You saw it. You saw him kiss her neck like he had any right to do that, after everything. After that stupid shit where he pretended to care, as if you were supposed to forget that two months after he broke up with you, he was with her.

You bit down on your lip hard enough to draw blood, not even caring. You were still fucking furious. At him, at yourself for letting him get under your skin again, at the fact that you were even still thinking about him when you knew—you fucking knew he was never worth it.

You despised that a tiny part of you—just a small fucking piece of you—wanted to still wanted to believe him. Because when you were together? When it was just the two of you? God, it had been good. That’s why this whole thing hurt so much.

That stupid voice, that stupid fucking concern in his eyes when he found out about the baby. Rafe had always been good at pretending he gave a shit when it was convenient for him, but it pissed you off because you knew he wasn’t lying.

Why the fuck did he care?

You didn’t want him to, you really didn’t, it just made it worse.

When you got back to Poguelandia, the pogues were sprawled around like usual—JJ half-asleep in a chair, Kie flipping through a book, Pope muttering about something nobody was listening to, Cleo and John B were off to the side, arguing over the best way to cook the fish they caught earlier. But when you walked in, all of them sat up a little straighter.

It still felt a little weird being here, you were stepping into someone else’s world and hoping they wouldn’t notice you didn’t quite belong. It was stupid.

You did belong—at least, sort of. They liked you, they cared, or at least they cated like they did. But there was always that little voice in your head reminding you that it hadn’t always been that way. That you were a kook, and not the kind like Sarah or Kie, who had proven themselves. No, you were the kind that showed up with too-expensive clothes and family trauma no one really knew what to do with.

If it weren’t for Sarah, they probably wouldn’t have let you in at all. And even now, even with them joking around with you, watching your back, making space for you—it still felt… delicate.

Asking them to come to something like this? A gala? Your family’s gala? It felt like testing the limits of whatever friendship you’d managed to build with them. Still, the last thing you wanted was to go alone.

JJ was the first to speak. “Holy shit. She emerges.”

Sarah looked up from where she was sitting on the couch. “You’re… out of the house?”

You frowned, glancing between them. “Uh, yeah? Hi?”

“You okay?”

You hesitated. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”

JJ raised an eyebrow. “Dangerous.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t take the bait.

“I need a favor.”

That got their attention.

“From us?”

“No, from the other group of broke outcasts I’m living with.” You crossed your arms, ignoring the deep breath swelling your chest, “Yes, from you.”

Kie shut her book, giving you an expectant look. “What is it?”

You rocked on your feet, fingers tightening around the strap of your bag. “Uh—there’s this… thing. A gala.”

Pope sat up a little. “Like a charity gala?”

You nodded. “Yeah.” Then, clearing your throat, you added, “It’s for my family’s foundation. For my sister’s research.”

Cleo broke the quiet. “And?”

You sighed. “I was wondering if you guys would want to come.”

Kie’s brows lifted. “Us? Like—us?”

You gave a small, almost sheepish nod. “Yeah. You don’t have to, obviously. It’s not really your scene, and I know it’s last minute, but…” You trailed off, looking at them. “I just—I don’t really want to go alone.”

Sarah, who had been to a million of these with you back when her family was still normal, nodded. “Course I’ll go.”

Kie tilted her head, considering. “I mean, I’ve been to a few when my parents dragged me to promote The Wreck, so I know how painful they are, but if you want us there, I’m in.”

JJ squinted. “Wait, wait, wait—what even is a gala? Is it worse than Midsummers? Some Bridgerton-ass ball with violins and corsets?”

John B snorted. “Yeah, dude. You’re gonna have to wear a powdered wig.”

Cleo smirked. “Do we have to curtsy?”

“It’s just a bunch of rich people standing around drinking expensive champagne and pretending to care about things.”

JJ made a face. “That sounds awful.”

You shrugged. “Yeah, well. Welcome to my life.”

Pope, ever the rational one, nodded. “So, dress code?”

You exhaled. “Black tie.”

JJ groaned dramatically. “Oh, fuck no. I don’t even own a tie.”

“I’ll help,” Sarah said, already anticipating the disaster that was going to be getting all of them to look somewhat presentable.

John B gave you a look, “You really want us there?”

You nodded, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious. “Yeah. I do.”

That was all it took.

“Okayyy,” Kie nudged JJ. “Guess we’re going to a gala.”

He sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “If I have to wear a tux, I better get free food out of this.”

You laughed, a little nervous, self-conscious. “If you guys don’t have anything to wear, I can buy you something. Or you can borrow from what I have back home.”

That got you a few looks.

Pope blinked. “I forget you’re rich rich rich.”

Cleo let out a low whistle. “Damn, we got a sponsor now?”

John B shook his head with a grin. “This is some real-life ‘Pretty Woman’ stuff.”

You rolled your eyes, but your face was warm. “Shut up.”

Sarah just smirked. “You did just casually offer to clothe all of us like it was nothing.”

“See? Sugar mama.”

The laughter, the teasing, the way they all just accepted your ridiculous offer—it was nice. Nice enough that, for a couple minutes, you forgot about the ultrasound. about the tiny printout still tucked into your bag.

But then the fun started to settle, everyone breaking off into their usual nonsense—JJ trying to convince Pope that a suit with flip-flops was fashion, John B talking Cleo into a drinking game, Kiara and Sarah already scheming about dress options. And you realized you still needed to talk to someone.

Your eyes flicked to Sarah, she caught the look immediately, brow furrowing just a little. “Can we—uh, can we talk?”

“Yeah, course.”

You walked a little away from the others, far enough that they wouldn’t hear, but not so far that it would seem weird. You swallowed, your fingers pressing into your palm.

“So, um.” You exhaled sharply, “I asked.”

Sarah’s eyes narrowed. “Asked what?”

You hesitated. “The baby. I asked the tech if they could tell.”

Sarah blinked. Then her lips parted slightly. “And?”

You could already see it on her face—the way she was trying to figure out where your head was at before she reacted. Because she knew you, knew how you got when things started spinning too fast in your mind.

You swallowed, your voice quieter, whispering so no one else would hear you. “It’s a boy.”

“How do you feel?”

You shoulders dropped. “I have no idea.”

“You didn’t have to ask,” she said gently.

“I know. I almost didn’t, but then I just… did.”

Sarah let out a breath, reaching out to squeeze your arm. “I’m glad you told me.”

You nodded, unsure what else to say, because what was there to say? It didn’t change anything, not really. But it didsomething.

Sarah gave you a knowing look. “You’re in your head about it, aren’t you?”

You let out another breath, “Yeah.”

She sighed. “I figured.” She nudged you, “It’s okay.”

“It doesn’t feel okay.”

Sarah tilted her head, debating how much to push. “Because you weren’t ready to know, or because you were?”

You hated when she did that—ran straight through the mess in your head like it was easy.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, “Both?”

Sarah studied your face for a second longer, then squeezed your arm one last time before letting go. “C’mon,” she said, knowing you needed the subject to change. “We have a gala to survive.”

The next days were fun.

Watching the pogues absolutely lose their minds over the chaos of gala prep. JJ nearly fainting at the price tags, Cleo clowning Pope for standing so stiff in a tux, even Kie admitting (reluctantly, of course) that some of the dresses were kind of stunning. It was entertaining, watching them in your world for once, instead of the other way around.

Today was just you.

Sarah had work, so it was just you, Lily, and an entire styling team determined to make you look “gala-ready.” Which always required three different people touching your face, someone adjusting the fit of the gowns while you were still in them, and another hovering nearby, waiting for the perfect moment to pounce with a tray of diamonds from your family’s personal collection.

Lily watched you from her spot on the chaise, her legs crossed, she was posing for a Vogue shoot instead of just sipping her overpriced matcha. She was too good at that—looking effortlessly put together. Meanwhile, you were sitting there in a silk robe, hair half-pinned, letting some woman you didn’t even know literally paint your face.

“You’re weirdly quiet,” Lily mused, tilting her head. “What’s going on in that little head of yours?”

You could tell her how you weren’t thinking about the dress, how you weren’t just dreading seeing Rafe again, about the baby.

The little boy inside you, growing every single day. A boy who would have his father’s blood, his father’s name, and God, what if he had his father’s eyes? What if he didn’t even make it alive? Did you want that?

“Nothing.”

She snorted. “Lies. You have that face.”

“What face?”

“The one where you’re pretending not to be freaking out.”

You sighed, tilting your head back as the makeup artist tsked at you for moving. “I don’t know. This whole thing just feels so…” You gestured vaguely around the room. “When did I start hating this?”

She raised a perfectly manicured brow. “Probably around the time you started hanging out with them.”

You stiffened. “Lily—”

“No, I’m serious,” she sat up. “How did that even happen? You’re you, literally born for this life.” She waved a hand at our surroundings. “Now you’re, what? Running around with pogues? Wearing—” She gestured at your hoodie from yesterday, still draped over the chair. “That.”

“It’s just a sweatshirt.”

“Exactly.”

You chewed on the inside of your cheek, eyes flicking between Lily and your reflection. The version of you sitting there in silk and gold, getting touched up for a night of pretending. But then there was her, with sand in her hair and sea salt on her skin, laughing too loud at the wreck, the who didn’t feel so... watched all the time.

“Is it so wrong that I like it?”

Lily’s brows lifted, but she didn’t look as judgey as you expected. Maybe even a little sad.

“You mean… them?”

You nodded, picking at your recently done nails. “I don’t know. I just—I don’t have to worry about the right thing to say or the right way to stand or what’s gonna end up in a group chat the second I walk away.”

Lily hummed, “That doesn’t sound so bad.”

“What?”

She smirked. “You thought I was gonna tell you to stop and come back to the country club?”

You snorted. “Yeah.”

You could feel her stare even as the makeup artist tilted youor chin up, swiping something cool under your eyes, probably concealer. Or highlighter, whatever magic they used to make people look like they hadn’t been up all night staring at the ceiling, thinking about how you were supposed to be someone’s mother in six months.

Someone’s mother.

“You sure you’re okay?”

You tried to keep still as the makeup artist tugged your face to the side, blending something into your cheekbone. “Yeah. Why?”

Lily crossed her arms, “I don’t know. You’ve just been…” she trailed off, then sighed. “You and Rafe, actually. Last event, you guys were—”

Oh, that.

“You were about to kill each other,” she finally said. “And now you’re just… fine?”

The make artists tilted your chin the other way, pressing a soft brush against your jaw. “Close your eyes,” she murmured, and you did, grateful for the excuse not to meet Lily’s stare.

“We’re not fine,” You said eventually. “We’re just nothing.”

“Okay.”

You exhaled slowly as the brush dusted over your cheek, trying to pretend there wasn’t an huge weight pressing against your ribs.

Lily let the silence settle for a beat before smirking. “At least tell me you’re gonna make some actual effort tonight. You know, smile, flirt, pretend you don’t secretly wish you were barefoot on some dock with your new besties?”

You opened one eye, meeting her grin in the mirror. “I do not wish that.”

She just laughed, giving you a look.

The door swung open, and the stylist breezed in, arms full of sleek fabric. “Okay, we’re going with this one,” she announced,

You opened your eyes to take a peek, only to be thrown back into an old memory.

Your breath caught.

Not just because it was stunning—the way the silk draped effortlessly, the exact shade of deep, midnight blue that always made your skin glow. Not because it was one of a kind, custom-fitted to hug every inch of you like it was made to be unforgettable.

But because it was unforgettable.

The last night you wore it was last time things were good. He’d looked at you like he had the entire world and didn’t need anything else, he’d been sober that night.

You could hear his laugh, could still feel his hands as he unzipped it, the fabric pooling at your feet, his lips tracing every inch of skin it had just covered. You hadn’t known, then, that it was the last time.

Or that it was how this all started.

“Babe?”

You realized you hadn’t moved, hadn’t said a word.

You blinked fast, fingers unclenching. “Yeah,” you croaked, swallowing around the lump in your throat. “It’s—It’s perfect.”

Lily was still watching you, but if she knew something was wrong, she let it slide.

The stylist beamed. “I know, right?” She held it up against you, her eyes practically sparkling. “You’re going to be a vision in this.”

You forced a small smile, nodding even thought you were fighting the urge to be sick.

The makeup artist gave you one last spritz of setting spray, then stepped back, admiring her work. “Alright, ready to get into it?”

No, Rafe had gotten you that dress.

You felt his breath, a whisper. “You look so fucking beautiful tonigh.”

You’d spent so much time with Rafe by then—nights spent on his yacht, days by the water, wrapped up in each other. It had been a usual date for the two of you, nothing out of the ordinary, just the two of you.

All of the family drama, the expectations—it all disappeared in that instant. He had a way of making you forget the world, and maybe it was the fact that you were alone, just the two of you. But that night felt different.

His hands had been everywhere—your back, your arms, your face as he kissed you deeper. The feeling of his fingers tracing the neckline of your dress was burned into your memory, how he'd grinned against your lips when you'd gasped.

He’d been relentless, hands kneading, mouth working you over until you were writhing beneath him.

You’d said yes. Over and over again.

You weren’t sure who was more desperate that night, you or him.

You were pretty sure that’s when how you got pregnant with a baby that might not survive, and the torment of wondering why the thought of it dying hurt more than you'd imagined.

You let out a slow breath, coming back to the present.

This was stupid, thinking about him like this, remembering things you shouldn’t be remembering. You were supposed to hate him, not clinging to memories that only made everything worse. You hated yourself for thinking about it.

For remembering how good it was.

The stylist was saying something—about jewelry, or shoes, or whatever came next—but it was coming in and out of your ear.

You needed to snap out of it.

“Let’s get this over with,” you said, standing up.

The dress slipped over your shoulders like a second skin, the cool silk kissing your arms as the stylist fussed with the zipper, making small adjustments. You stared straight ahead at your reflection, you, poised, polished. Not the girl who had been wrapped up in someone else’s arms, whispering things she couldn’t take back.

It hugged every inch of you, molding to your body like it was meant to be worn only by you. They fussed over the zipper, smoothing the fabric down your back, pinning a piece of stray silk at your waist to get the fit just right.

All it did was remind you of his hands clunching your waist. How he’d leaned in close against your ear, murmuring things that made your entire body flush.

"You know what you're doin’ to me, wearin’ this, right?"

You had laughed, breathless, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. “What, looking pretty?”

You could still feel the cool metal of Rafe’s watch against your bare skin as he pushed you against the wall, his lips tracing a path down your neck. The dress had been in his way, but he’d been so careful, taking his time.

"Hold still," the stylist muttered, adjusting the fit around your stomach, smoothing the fabric with careful hands.

His weight had you pressed into the mattress, his mouth everywhere at once, the rasp of his voice, aching, whispering your name like a prayer.

His hands were greedy, roaming up your sides, palming your tits through the dress.

“You wear this just to fuck with me?” he rasped as his fingers trailed down, gripping the fabric at your thighs, gathering it up.

“Maybe.”

Rafe cursed, his breath coming out in gruff pants as he pushed the dress up around your waist. His palm smoothed over your bare thigh, then higher, until he was cupping you over your panties.

“Fuck,” he hissed.

You whimpered as he pressed his fingers against the damp fabric, teasing you with the lightest touch. Your hips followed instinctively, but he just chuckled, his free hand bracing against your stomach, keeping you still.

“Patience, baby.”

It was the hormones. That was all, that had to be it, there was no other explanation for why your body still burned with the memory of his hands, why your thighs pressed together, why you could still feel him, taste him, crave him—

Fuck.

“Hmm.”

The stylist’s voice yanked you back into the present. You blinked, dazed, realizing the room was still the same, Lily scrolling on her phone, a tray of diamonds still waiting on the vanity.

Something was wrong. The stylist’s hands were still at your waist, fingers pressing into the silk, she was measuring something.

“Did you put on weight?”

The question yanked you out of the past so hard you felt like you’d tripped over something. “W-What?”

You adjusted the waistband of your dress again, trying to make it feel more comfortable, but you knew it wouldn’t last.

The stylist frowned, smoothing the fabric again. “It’s just a little snug around the waist.”

Shit. Right now, it was easy to pass it off as bloating, but in a couple months—if you even made it that far—it would be much harder. You weren't even five months along yet, but the change was already starting to get hard to hide.

“I—uh—must’ve—” You searched for an excuse, anything, “I guess I haven’t been working out as much.”

“Not a problem, just a quick alteration,” she assured

Had you been gaining that much weight? Was it obvious? Could she tell? Could Lily? Or anyone else?

You felt her attention move to you from where she sat, the sound of her phone being set down making you want to run out of the room.

The stylist hummed, distracted, already moving on as she adjusted the straps at your shoulders. “You still look stunning.”

Lily exhaled through her nose, a little amused. “Obviously.”

You forced a half-smile, nodding as the stylist took a step back to survey her work.

Lily checked her phone, “Oh, by the way,” she said casually, “I got an RSVP update earlier.”

You didn’t look at her as you clasped a bracelet around your wrist, “And?”

“Rose sent one in.”

That got your attention. Your fingers stalled against the clasp as your eyes flicked to hers in the mirror. “Rose?”

“Mm-hmm.” She scrolled for a second, then shrugged. “She can’t make it. Something about a last-minute trip. She sent a replacement.”

A sick sense of inevitability creeping in before she even said it.

“Rafe’s coming instead.”

The clasp on your bracelet slipped through your fingers, you caught it before it could fall, forcing yourself to look unimpressed, unaffected—it’s fine.

You forced a breath out, shaking your head, it didn’t matter.

“Figures.”

Lily snorted, twisting her phone in her hand. “Yeah, I thought you’d love that.”

You didn’t answer, just focused on the bracelet, securing it around your wrist with fingers that were definitely not shaking.

Rafe was coming, and why wouldn’t he be? Why wouldn’t the universe just love to throw him in your face over and over again.

Lily was still watching you. “You’re gonna be okay?”

You forced a smirk, turning toward her. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

She eyed you, not believing a word of it, but then she just sighed, pushing herself up off the chair. “Try not to throw a drink in his face.”

You almost laughed—funny enough, that seemed to be your thing lately.

You hadn’t even thought when you did it to Topper, you’d just grabbed the nearest drink—yours, his, someone’s—and tossed it straight at his face, splashing it over his perfectly ironed button-down.

“Can’t make any promises.”

Rafe hadn’t planned on going to the fucking gala.

He knew you’d be there, and after everything that had gone down—especially now that he knew you were pregnant—the last thing he wanted was to make things worse.

Rose had other plans.

“I can’t go,” she’d said, stuffing another swimsuit into her overpacked suitcase. “I have Priya’s bachelor party in the Bahamas.”

He scratched his brow, “Okay…?"

“You’re going instead.” She said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Rafe let out a short laugh, “Yeah, no. Not happening.”

Rose looked up, giving him that stupid unimpressed stare. “Weren’t you the man of the family now?”

That shut him up.

He hated when she did that. The man of the family—as if Ward’s absence had somehow automatically made him responsible for everything. As if all the shit he’d done didn’t matter, slapping that title on him was supposed to fix anything.

Technically, she wasn’t wrong. Ward was gone, Wheezie was too young to care, Sarah was off doing her annoying pogue shit.

“No.”

He didn’t look up from his phone as he leaned back against the counter, one hand bracing the edge while the other scrolled mindlessly. Rose was talking, sure, but that didn’t mean he had to listen.

“I’m serious, Rafe.”

“So am I,” he muttered.

Rose sighed, meanwhile he could hear the way she tossed something—probably another one of her overpriced designer bikinis—into her suitcase with a dramatic flop.

He rolled his eyes.

She should’ve told him this sooner, not hours before the event, while she was too busy packing for some bougie bachelorette trip to even care about the fact that she was throwing him headfirst into the one thing he’d been trying to avoid.

“Why?” He pushed off the counter, hands gesturing vaguely as he scoffed. “What, because some old guys wanna shake hands with a Cameron? Just tell them I got malaria or something.”

Rose crossed her arms. “Malaria.”

“Yeah.”

She stared at him, unimpressed. “Try again.”

Rafe groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Rose—”

“This isn’t up for debate.”

“It should be.” He started pacing, arms flailing slightly as he spoke. “You don’t even want me there. You know how those people are, they eat that polite, classy shit up. You think I’m the guy for that? Me?” He pointed at himself, incredulous. “Seriously?”

“Yes.”

That was the dumbest thing he’d ever heard.

“Bullshit.”

Rose sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Rafe—”

“Bullshit,” he repeated, jaw clenching. “Just tell them you’re sick or whatever, it’s not that hard.”

“It doesn’t work like that.”

"Figure it out!”

“Rafe.”

“What?”

She paused. Then, with a pointed look, said, “Grow up.”

He knew what she was doing, she knew what she was doing.

Rafe swallowed, his gaze dropping for half a second before snapping back. “That’s not fair.”

“It’s not untrue.”

Satisfied that he had nothing left to argue, she turned back to her suitcase.

“Listen—”

“You’ll be fine.”

“No, I won’t.” His heartbeat kicked up. “Do you—do you get what you’re asking me to do?”

She gave him a look over her shoulder. “Attend a gala?”

Rafe let out a dry laugh, tilting his head back before looking at her again, eyes wild with disbelief. “She’s gonna be there.”

Rose didn’t react. “I know.”

“You know,” he repeated, exasperated. “And you still—”

“Rafe.”

His mouth shut.

Rose zipped up her suitcase with finality, turning to face him fully. “You need to go.”

He shook his head. “No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do.”

“No, I don’t!” He ran both hands through his short hair, pacing again. “You think she wants to see me there? She’s not gonna lose her shit the second I walk in.”

Rose shrugged, completely unaffected. “Then that’s your problem.”

“She’s gonna kill me.”

“She won’t.”

“She might.”

“The deposit has to be made,” she continued, slipping back into that neutral, unaffected tone. “If you want to be a Cameron, act like one.”

Low blow. He nodded once, tongue pressing against his cheek, before exhaling sharply through his nose. “Fine.”

Rose smiled. “Good.”

With a sigh, he pulled out his phone, scrolling through his contacts before pressing Topper’s name.

“You think I got suicidal tendencies?”

He huffed, running a hand down his face. “Man, shut the fuck up.”

“I value my life, thanks.”

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“Nah, you are. My own cousin nearly killed me last time we saw each other.”

Rafe sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “She didn’t kill you.”

“She tried.”

“You had it coming.”

Topper scoffed. “You had it coming worse, and I didn’t see you get jumped.”

Rafe rolled his eyes, ending the call without another word.

Now, here he was.

Standing outside the venue, staring at the doors like they were the gates of hell.

Rafe bounced his knee, jackhammering up and down, fingers tapping against his leg. He could hear the sound of classical music from inside, the meaningless chatter that filled these kinds of events, the ones he’d sat through his entire life.

It should’ve been easy.

Walk in, smile, hand off the deposit, leave.

Except he was about to see you for the first time since—

He ran a hand down his face, inhaling sharply. His reflection in the sleek black car window caught his eye—brows drawn, dressed the part but looking like he was ready to sprint in the opposite direction.

Jesus Christ. Pull it together.

It was fine.

You’d probably ignore him, act like he wasn’t there. That was good, much better than the alternative, better than seeing the look in your eyes.

He inhaled briskly, rolled his shoulders back, clenched his fists, and exhaled slow. Then, he walked in.

Once he stepped through the doors, the air inside hit different—warm, laced with the scent of money and champagne and something delicate, floral, something that smelled like you.

His therapist’s voice rang through his head.

"Slow it down before it starts."

Rafe clenched his jaw, doing what she taught him. Focusing, counting, a stupid method, but one that worked when he tried.

Four things he could see. The chandelier above, dripping in crystals; a waiter balancing a tray of champagne flutes; a cluster of old-money assholes in tailored suits.

You? Fuck. No. Next.

Three things he could hear. The conversation in the corner; the clink of ice in a glass; the music.

Two things he could feel. The fabric of his suit jacket, stiff under his fingers; the sweat starting to form at the back of his neck.

One thing he could control, his mind.

Breathe.

He flexed his fingers, loosened his shoulders, relaxed his face and it would’ve gone well if hadn’t spotted you from the corner of his eyes.

Rafe could handle a lot.

He’d handled fights, pressure, death, his father’s expectations, his own failures. The gut-wrenching knowledge that he wasn’t a good person, that maybe he never had been.

This was a whole different level of fucking cruel.

Not only were you here, not only did you look like that, not only did he feel like his entire chest cavity had caved in the second he saw you—but you were wearing that dress.

That fucking dress, the one he bought you.

The one you’d worn the last time he had you, really had you, before he ruined everything. And he knew—that was the night.

He could see it clear as fucking day, he remembered coming off the water that afternoon, still riding the high of being out with you on the yacht, when he saw it in the window of some overpriced boutique.

You hadn’t even asked for it, hadn’t even seen it.

But he had. And something about it made him stop, made his wallet slip out of his pocket before he could think twice. And when he gave it to you later—when he saw you in it—

God.

That night had been everything.

He remembered the way the fabric had felt under his fingers when he pushed it up your thighs, how soft it was—Rafe exhaled sharply, blinking rapidly, shaking his head hoping he could physically shake himself out of his stupor.

Now, you weren’t on his yacht, or looking at him with that soft, drunken, I-love-you look in your eyes, adoring him. You weren’t pressing into him, sighing into his mouth, telling him to keep going, don’t stop, I’m yours, Rafe.

You were across the room, wearing his dress, with his baby in you.

And you hated him.

His fingers flexed at his sides, then curled into fists, then flexed again, restless, twitchy, fucking useless because nothing—nothing—was gonna help him now.

Except maybe a drink. Or five.

He sucked in a slow breath through his nose, did that trick his therapist drilled into his head—four things you can see, three you can hear, two you can feel, one you can control—but his mind wasn’t listening, wasn’t cooperating, wasn’t doing anything except circling back to you, to that night, to the way your breath hitched when he—

No. No, no, no, fucking stop.

He needed a drink.

His eyes moved to the waiter passing by with the tray of champagne flutes, his fingers ached to reach out, take one, to fix the screaming in his head, the hammering in his chest, the shaking in his hands.

But he didn’t, he couldn’t.

Drunk Rafe was reckless, he would do something stupid. He would find you, would probably try to corner you, would get in your space, would let his mouth run wild, would say things he couldn’t take back, would beg—fuck, he’d beg—for something he knew wasn’t his to have anymore.

You looked, so fucking beautiful, so goddamn out of reach now. Your smile—it hurt to see it.

That’s when he noticed Sarah. And then the pogues.

His heart dropped into his stomach, all the blood rushing to his ears. You were with them, you were laughing with them.

John B. cracked some joke, and there you were, head tipped back, a chortle escaping your lips

You’re better off without him.

The panic scaled up his chest, not now. Don’t fucking lose it now, Rafe. He worked to keep his emotions balanced, to breathe, to not let anyone see him punch a hole in the wall. Still, his eye twitched again, that betraying moment where his body screamed what his mind disregarded.

Then, he did something he hadn’t done in years.

He sent up a prayer.

Not because he believed, Rafe didn’t even know what he believed anymore, not since his mom died. He’d prayed for her to get better, for his family to stay whole, for someone to save them. And then he’d watched as everything fell apart, piece by piece, until the last part of his soul had broken along with it.

So no, he didn’t believe in God anymore. But tonight, he needed something.

Please. Please just don’t let me fuck this up again.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder, momentarily relieving him to have his focus ripped away from you, but that didn’t mean the interruption didn’t come with its own set of problems. He turned slowly, the relief from not seeing you for replaced by the familiar face.

A man in his mid-forties, standing there with a business smile plastered across his face.

"Rafe, right?" The guy grinned. "Ward’s kid. Been a long time, I couldn’t attend the funeral.”

He forced a tight-lipped smile, he’d been training, “Yeah. Been a while.”

The man gave him a firm pat on the shoulder, acting like were old pals or something. Rafe resisted the urge to flinch. “Your father was a good man. Smart businessman. One of the best.”

If only this guy knew the half of it, but that’s what people did with men like Ward Cameron, wasn’t it? Remembered them as they wanted to, not as they really were.

“Sure he was,” Rafe muttered, eyes flickering back toward you, almost unconsciously.

The guy kept talking, something about Ward, about “big shoes to fill,” about how Rafe was "stepping up." Stepping up, that was fucking funny.

All he could think about was how badly he wanted to step the fuck out of here.

He let the guy ramble, nodding at the right moments, throwing out the occasional, “Yeah,” or “Mhm”.

He could feel it—He shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t have come. Because the second you turned your head—just slightly, enough for your eyes to catch his—he felt like crying.

You saw him, but then you looked away, not sparing him another second of attention.

Jesus Christ.

Rafe exhaled sharply, forcing himself to focus, to not let the voices in his head take over. You leaned into Sarah, said something to her, and just like that, he was gone again.

“Rafe? You listening, son?”

He blinked, turning back to the man in front of him. He had no clue what the guy had been saying. “Yeah,” he lied.

“Your father and I had a lot of respect for each other,” the guy was saying, oblivious to the fucking room. “He knew how to play the game.”

“Yeah. He did.”

The guy grinned, to him they were sharing some inside joke, but Rafe wasn’t in on it. He didn’t give a shit about business talk, or handshakes, or whatever bullshit Ward had left behind.

His eyes flicked back to you—couldn’t help it, wouldn’t stop. You were laughing now, looking like you hadn’t lost a single night of sleep over him, over what he did, over the fact that he was standing right fucking here.

God, that dress. That dress.

He swallowed hard, his throat dry.

He could still feel it—your smooth skin under his palms, your fingers tangling in his hair, how you sighed his name like it was the only word you knew. When the dress finally pooled at your feet, he didn’t spare it a glance. Nothing—nothing—looked as good as you did in that moment, lying there, waiting for him, trusting him to ruin you.

He was done for.

Completely, utterly, fucking ruined for anyone else.

Too bad he realized that too late. You were across the room, wearing his dress, carrying his baby—

Rafe couldn’t do this, stand here and make small talk about investments and business deals while you were across the room, looking like that, making him feel like his insides had been ripped open in tiny pieces.

“Excuse me,” he muttered, not waiting for a response before he stepped away, moving blindly through the crowd, past the men in expensive suits and women in glittering gowns.

He needed air, but it wasn’t enough.

His chest was jittery, hands shaking. He flexed his fingers, but it didn’t help. Nothing helped, his breathing was still too fast, he could feel the spiral coming.

"Breathe," he muttered to himself, hands holding the cold stone of the balcony railing. "Fucking breathe."

His therapist’s voice tried to make its way to the surface, but it was distant, not audible over the rush of blood in his ears. The tricks, the grounding, the counting—

Four things he could see. The dark sky, the city light, the white-knuckle grip he had on the railing. And his reflection in the window.

His chest heaved, his shoulders shaking, he looked like a fucking mess.

Three things he could hear. His own gasping breaths, the distant hum of traffic, the sound of laughter from inside.

Two things he could feel.

His lungs burning, and his feet fidgeting.

One thing he could control? Nothing apparently.

He was twelve years old again, locked in his room, curled into his sheets, wishing the screaming would stop. Trying to be good, to be enough.

“Rafe?”

1K notes · View notes