mggssocks - Tumblr blog

mggssocks · 2 days ago

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The Eighth

the eighth masterlist

pairing: fem!kook!reader x Rafe Cameron

cw: oral pleasure (fem receiving) , angst

a/n: part eleven is here after forty days and forty nights :). Sorry for the wait! Also, I'm starting a tag list so if you'd like to be tagged whenever a new part is dropped, comment and reblog! that way I can keep track of who to tag! Enjoy.

You blink awake, lashes fluttering as soft morning light pours through the hotel window. The Eiffel Tower stands tall in the distance, hazy in the golden glow of dawn. For a moment, you just stare, letting the quiet sink in.. until everything from the night before floods back all at once. The way he touched you. The way he looked at you like he hadn’t been able to breathe until that moment. The intensity. The softness. The way it felt like coming home.

A small smile curves your lips.

You turn your head to the right, and there he is, lying on his back, one arm draped above his head, the sheet riding low on his hips. His mouth is slightly open, soft breaths escaping in faint little sounds. The sight of him this peaceful does something to your heart. You shift closer, resting your arm across his chest and propping your chin on your fist to study him. You could stay like this forever.

Your fingers trace lightly along the slope of his brow, down the bridge of his nose, and across the angle of his jaw. The touch makes him stir, eyelids fluttering as he blinks a few times before finally turning his head to meet your gaze.

His voice is rough with sleep. “Morning.”

“Sorry,” you murmur, smiling softly. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“It’s okay.” He runs a hand down his face, dragging it across his stubble before his eyes land back on you- warm, familiar, still a little dazed.

You lean forward and press a gentle kiss to the center of his chest, right over where his heart beats. Then another to his collarbone. Then you pepper kisses along his neck, up to the sharp edge of his jaw, finally finding his lips in a kiss that’s playful and affectionate, like the lingering echoes of last night’s passion now softened by morning light. His arms instinctively wrap around you, pulling you closer until you’re halfway sprawled on top of him, bare skin against bare skin, the world outside forgotten.

You know things aren’t perfect.

You know there are conversations waiting.. about what this means, about what comes next, about everything that hurt before it started to heal.

But right now? Right now, everything in your world feels exactly as it should. No questions. No second-guessing. Just him. Just you. Just this.

And for now, that’s more than enough.

You meet Rafe in the hotel lobby, both of you freshly changed after being in your separate rooms. He’s in a white T-shirt and dark jeans, looking far too effortlessly good for someone who only had a few hours of sleep.

“Ready?” he asks, his voice easy, almost too casual- as if last night hadn’t turned your entire world inside out.

You nod, quickly firing off a text to Allegra and Noel: Spending the morning with Rafe..don’t wait on me. You hit send, pocketing your phone.

Outside, the Paris air is unexpectedly warm and light. Rafe surprises you by taking your hand in his. There’s no hesitation- he just reaches out like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And somehow, it is. It’s unexpected, but not unwelcome. As you walk side by side down the stone sidewalk, he gives your hand a little squeeze, and you smile without realizing it.

You dip into a cozy neighborhood coffee shop, one of those tucked-away spots that smells like heaven and cinnamon. You order two cappuccinos and two croissants. The cashier looks slightly amused -maybe even a little pained- by your clumsy French, but you push through it with a sheepish grin. It was either you or Rafe, and you’re pretty sure his attempt would’ve been worse.

With coffee in hand and pastries warm in the bag, you both start toward the Eiffel Tower. You walk through winding streets, playfully bickering over directions.

“I’m telling you, it’s this way,” Rafe says, pointing confidently to the left.

“You’re just guessing,” you laugh.

“I’m intuitively navigating.”

“Following tourists doesn’t count as intuitive navigation.”

But it works. Eventually, the wrought iron lattice of the Eiffel Tower comes into view, rising into the sky like something out of a dream.

You start snapping pictures of the tower, trying to frame it just right. Rafe watches you with a faint smile, then reaches for your camera.

“Stand in front of it.”

“What? No- I didn’t even do my makeup today,” you say, hiding your face with a laugh.

He lowers the camera slightly, eyes soft. “Who cares? You still look better than anyone I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

It’s so smooth, so sincere, you don’t even register it at first..until you feel the blush blooming across your cheeks and creeping down your neck.

“Oh my god,” you grumble, flustered.

“Come on,” he chuckles. “Just one.”

You give in, holding up your coffee cup and half-eaten croissant with an exaggerated smile. He clicks a few shots. One with you mid-bite. Another of you pretending to hold up the tower with your free hand. You’re laughing through all of it, and he keeps snapping, clearly trying to capture every second.

Eventually, the two of you find a quiet spot on the stairs nearby. It’s shaded and calm, tucked just far enough from the crowd. You sit close but not quite touching, your legs pulled up as you sip the last of your cappuccino.

The silence feels full- not awkward, but charged. Rafe breaks it.

“So…” he begins, looking down at the last bite of his croissant like it holds answers. “Where does this leave us?”

You sigh deeply, staring out at the tower as you set your cup down by your feet. You hug your knees to your chest, voice soft.

“Honestly? I don’t know.”

He doesn’t push. Just waits.

You glance sideways. “I know I wanted to keep things… platonic, or whatever. But last night…” Your voice trails off.

He finishes it for you. “Last night kind of changed everything.”

You nod, quietly. “It did. I mean, we made love, Rafe. That’s not… nothing.”

He finally looks at you then, really looks at you. “I know. It wasn’t nothing.”

You take a breath, knowing you’re stepping into vulnerable territory. “I’m willing to try. To work things out. To make long distance work, if you are.”

He doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he shifts, scooting a little closer. His expression is thoughtful, but not guarded. “It’s not easy. Long distance never is.”

“I know,” you say, eyes on your shoes. “But I don’t want to regret not trying.”

There’s a pause. Then his voice is low, certain. “I’m one hundred percent willing to try long distance.”

You look up, surprised at the quiet conviction in his words. A slow smile spreads across your face.

“Then I guess… it’s official.”

“Round two,” he says with a crooked grin, pulling you gently into his side.

You rest your head on his shoulder, exhaling against the fabric of his shirt, breathing him in.

In front of you, the Eiffel Tower glows softly in the morning sun. It feels symbolic…something timeless and strong rising again.

Everything between you has been reignited. And somehow, this city ,the City of Love, feels like the only place in the world where that could’ve happened.

You’re back in New York, hunched over your sewing machine as a piece of ivory silk glides beneath the needle. The steady hum of the machine blends with the lo-fi music playing through your studio speaker, creating a rhythm that feels almost meditative.

Only a few days had passed since Paris, and it still didn’t feel real. The memory of the Eiffel Tower at dawn, his arms around you, the quiet promise of “round two”- it lingered like a dream you’d been reluctantly pulled from. Reality came fast: deadlines, fabric orders, fittings. But somehow, the shift back to routine wasn’t as jarring as you thought it’d be. Because Rafe was still there.

You talked every day- texts, calls, the occasional blurry FaceTime during his late nights. It felt like slipping back into something familiar, but deeper now. More intentional. Like neither of you was pretending anymore.

The glow of your phone lights up beside the machine, vibrating once against the wooden table. You glance over.

Rafe.

You smile before you even open it.

It’s a mirror selfie. He's brushing his teeth, shirtless, with white foam clinging to the corner of his mouth and the toothbrush jutting out like a lopsided cigarette and his expression is exaggeratedly serious.

Rafe: night, sweet cheeks. I love you.

You laugh, shaking your head as you reach for your phone. You open your camera and angle it toward your machine, pulling a dramatic, pouty pose next to the half-finished garment.

You: night, handsome. I love you too. please don’t ever call me that again though <3

The reply comes quickly.

Rafe: nah you’re right that was cringy. I’ll find a better name.

You smirk, already typing.

You: you called me “darling” when you phoned me in Paris. I liked that.

There’s a pause, and then:

Rafe: darling it is.

You stare at the message for a second longer than necessary, heart warming at how easily this feels. Like you’ve finally entered the chapter you were both too scared to write before. You tuck your phone under a swatch of muslin, return your focus to the whir of the machine, and let the rhythm take over again. But this time, there’s a smile on your face that doesn’t fade.

You’re out with Allegra and Noel, the three of you tucked into a booth at the bowling alley, neon lights casting a soft pink glow across the Formica table. Noel’s in the middle of telling a story, hands animated, her half-eaten pretzel sitting forgotten beside her.

“So I’m sitting at this bar in Paris, right?” she begins, already grinning. “The bartender is speaking perfect English to the couple next to me- like, flawless. But then it’s my turn, and suddenly he’s like, ‘Je ne comprends pas,’ acting like he doesn’t speak a word.”

Allegra raises a brow, sipping from her glass of water with a smirk.

“I’m standing there trying to mime out a vodka soda like an idiot, and then this guy -this stupidly hot guy- just appears next to me. Like, swoops in. Says my drink order in French without even blinking. Deep voice, sharp jaw, L.A. native, turns out. I was doomed.”

You laugh, leaning your cheek into your hand. “And let me guess.. him speaking French made him even hotter?”

“Obviously,” Noel says, deadpan. “I almost passed out on the bar.”

“Did you at least get his number?” Allegra asks, tilting her head, her voice casually nosy.

“I did,” Noel replies with a sly smile, just as a small wave of voices starts spilling into the bowling alley behind you.

The rest of the group starts filtering in- two more girls and three guys, including Owen. You catch his eye for the briefest moment before looking away, pretending to adjust your sleeve as you make space in the booth.

The first girl to slide in is short, with warm beige skin and a cascade of curls tied into a messy bun. Oversized square glasses frame her face, catching the overhead lights just enough to reflect the shine of her clear lip gloss. She squeezes into the booth beside Noel, offering a polite wave and an easy smile.

The second girl follows close behind, taller, with a lean, toned build. Her skin is a soft, medium brown, glowing under the alley lights. Her jet-black hair is styled in a short, perfectly curled 1950s bob, effortlessly elegant and cool. She’s dressed in a white ribbed tank and a denim mini skirt that shows off her gymnast-level legs. She slides in next to the other girl and lets out a soft sigh, adjusting the straps of her crossbody bag as she settles in.

You find yourself quietly observing them as greetings and introductions are exchanged across the table. The two girls look like they’ve known Allegra and Noel for a while- comfortable, easygoing. Owen is the last to sit down, a few spots away from you, his laughter already joining the chatter, casual and familiar like nothing’s changed.

Meanwhile, two more guys drift in behind the rest of the group. One of them- tall, brown-skinned, with a swag that seems unbothered by time, immediately launches into a half-whispered argument with the gymnast girl, the one in the white tank and jean mini skirt. They’re obviously siblings. Twins, by the look of it, and even more so by the way they bicker like it’s a second language. She swats his arm lightly as they slide into the booth, and he mutters something under his breath that makes her roll her eyes hard enough to shift the rotation of the Earth.

“Mario,” the curly-haired girl calls him out casually, like she’s used to reeling him in. He throws her a grin, all dimples and charm.

Mario looks like he stepped out of a 1995 R&B video in the best way. His mustache and goatee are sharp, his fade fresh, and a single diamond earring gleams in his left ear. He wears a vintage-looking track jacket, open over a tight black tee, and loose-fitting jeans cuffed just right over his sneakers. He’s got that low-effort charisma that makes you look twice without knowing why.

The second guy, Jack, is close behind, tall and lean with tousled dark hair and a half-hooded sweatshirt that looks like it’s swallowed him whole. He’s got an olive complexion, a faint tan that hints at time outdoors, and warm hazel eyes that scan the group with quiet amusement. There’s a silver ring on his finger, chipped black nail polish on one hand, and a camera hanging loosely from a strap across his chest like he forgot to take it off.

“Y’all ever stop arguing?” the curly haired girl mutters, sliding into the booth.

“Do you?” Mario shoots back.

“I’m literally always right,” she says sweetly, leaning back and stretching her arms across the seat.

“God, twins,” Jack mutters, dropping into a seat across from you. “It’s like watching two cats fight over the same sunspot.”

Noel laughs, tipping her head toward you. “You get used to it.”

You glance around the table as the group starts falling into conversation, the mood light and easy, buzzing with the kind of energy that only comes from a group that’s been friends way too long. Owen catches your eye again, briefly, before looking away and saying something to Jack.

“Uhh, guys,” Allegra says, cutting through the bickering with a sharp glance around the booth. “This is Y/N.”

Suddenly, all eyes are on you.

“Hey, Queen. I’m Sienna,” the short girl with the curls and glasses says warmly, flashing you a soft, sweet smile as she leans forward slightly across the table. Her energy is easy, inviting.

You return the smile shyly, offering a small wave. “Hi.”

“Myra,” the girl with the pin-curled bob adds, nodding once. Her tone is cool but not unfriendly, and you can already tell she’s the type who doesn’t waste words. She’s lounging with one leg crossed over the other, elbow hooked on the seat behind her brother.

“Mario,” the guy beside her follows with a lazy smirk and a chin tilt in your direction.

“Jack,” the last guy says, giving you a casual salute from where he’s messing with the settings on his camera. “Nice to meet you.”

You give another polite wave, suddenly feeling aware of how many people are squeezed into this booth, all watching you.

“So… how do you all know each other?” you ask, genuinely curious.

“Sienna and I go way back,” Allegra begins.. until Sienna cuts her off.

“She nearly shat her pants at a party and I helped her,” Sienna announces with zero hesitation. “We’ve been friends ever since.”

You blink, unsure whether to laugh or be concerned.

“Stop telling people that,” Allegra groans, slumping back against the seat. “She gave me a tampon. That’s the story.”

You nod slowly. “Ah. The sacred bond.”

“Exactly,” Allegra points at you like you’ve just scored a point.

“Yeah, but my version’s funnier. It’s a conversation starter,” Sienna shrugs unapologetically.

“In what world is that an icebreaker?” Mario raises a brow, clearly amused.

Sienna opens her mouth to answer, but Myra cuts in instead. “Allegra and I met in detention. She was arguing with a teacher about feminist theory, and I was in there for climbing the school roof.”

You blink. “Why were you on the roof?”

Myra shrugs. “It was a dare.”

“Of course it was,” Mario mutters.

“We met on a group trip to MoMA in high school,” Jack says, nodding toward Noel and Allegra. “I was trying to take a picture of this Warhol print, and Allegra walked right into the frame- then insisted it was better that way.”

“I was right though,” Allegra grins.

“You were absolutely not,” Jack replies flatly, though the corner of his mouth lifts.

“And Mario?” you ask, glancing toward the 90s heartthrob across from you.

“Oh, I’ve known them all through Myra,” he says, gesturing lazily to his twin. “She dragged me along to a game night once, and I ended up winning and getting banned from Monopoly forever.”

“He cheated,” Myra adds.

“I’m just strategic.”

“You flipped the board when you lost the rematch,” Sienna chimes in.

Mario holds up his hands like he’s not denying anything. “Passion.”

You laugh, the tension you hadn’t realized you were holding beginning to ease. The dynamic is chaotic but warm, like everyone’s had their share of squabbles and still shows up anyway. It makes sense that Allegra fits into this crew- and that she brought you into it.

“So, are we bowling or what?” Noel finally says, picking up a menu from the side of the booth. “Or are we just going to sit here and trauma-bond?”

“Trauma-bonding comes after the nachos,” Jack says without looking up from his camera.

“Obviously,” Myra deadpans.

After a handful of gutter balls, a few lucky strikes, and at least three complaints about the game being rigged, everyone’s a little tipsy and a lot louder than before. The table’s a mess of half-finished drinks, scattered fries, and stray bowling shoes no one’s claimed. You’re all laughing at the sight of Mario over at the bar, stiffly entertaining a woman who’s clearly old enough to have taught him algebra. She’s leaning in, touching his arm, and he’s shooting helpless glances back at the group like he’s begging for a rescue that isn’t coming.

“Should we go save him?” you ask, giggling.

“No,” Allegra and Noel say in unison, both sipping their drinks.

A few seconds later, you feel a tap on your shoulder. You turn to see Mario standing there, eyebrows raised, looking as exasperated as he is handsome.

“Did you seriously just watch me get cornered by someone’s divorcée aunt and not come help me?”

You shrug, grinning. “We thought you had it handled.”

“She asked me if I still lived with my mother.”

You snort.

“Anyway,” he says, running a hand over his fresh fade, “as a reward for not saving me, you’re officially invited to a rooftop party tomorrow night. My buddy’s place in Brooklyn. Open invite- music, lights, decent drinks. And no one over forty trying to make a move, I promise.”

You raise a brow. “What kind of party is this? Like… dancing-on-the-roof party or chill-with-a-solo-cup party?”

He smirks. “Somewhere in between. There’s a speaker and string lights involved. You can figure out the rest.”

Behind you, Allegra perks up. “Wait, you’re throwing something?”

“I’m not throwing it, but I am showing up with style,” Mario replies, tossing her a wink. “So… you in?” he asks, looking back at you.

You nod slowly, something about the offer, about this group, making it hard to say no. “Yeah. I’m in.”

“Good. Wear something cool. And no heels,” he adds, glancing down at your shoes with a playful smile before walking off toward the bar again.

You glance at Allegra, who’s already typing something into the group chat. Myra’s stretching her arms across the booth like she’s already claiming a spot on the rooftop. Noel raises her eyebrows like she’s got a new dress in mind.

You’re not sure what tomorrow night will look like- but for once, you’re actually excited to find out.

You’re leaned over your phone camera, the screen angled up so all Rafe can see is your midsection- bare skin and the faint rise and fall of your belly as you focus intently in the mirror. One hand holds a lash strip, the other fumbles with the tiny tube of glue. Your mouth is parted slightly in concentration, brows furrowed as you line it up just right.

From the screen, Rafe lets out a quiet laugh. “Whose party is this again?”

“Allegra’s… friend Mario’s… friend’s rooftop thing,” you mumble distractedly, still bent over as you press the lash into place.

“So not complicated at all.”

You sit back to inspect your work, blinking once to test the lash. “Perfectly simple,” you smirk.

Rafe’s eyes scan your reflection, then trail down the screen. “You look really good,” he says, voice softer now. “Like, really good.”

You tilt your head, smiling, “Thanks, babe.” You reach for the other lash strip, brushing glue carefully along the edge. The screen catches the glint of your necklace and the way your strapless top shows your collarbone just right.

“You know what would make it even better?” he asks after a beat, voice laced with teasing.

You glance at the phone screen, holding the new lash up to your eye. “What’s that?”

“If you wrote ‘I’m taken’ across your forehead,” he says with a smug little grin. “Just so everyone’s clear.”

You chuckle, placing the second lash carefully and blinking to adjust it. “Don’t need to do all that,” you reply, eyes still on your reflection. “I’ll be saying it all night anyway.”

He lets out a low laugh. “Good answer.”

You finally sit back, both lashes in place, giving the camera your full attention now. You tilt your head slightly, assessing your reflection with a flirty smirk.

“You sure you wanna let me out looking like this?” you tease.

His jaw clenches just slightly, and he exhales with a slow smile. “Not even a little bit.”

You laugh softly and snap a quick selfie for him, tossing your gloss into your bag before reaching for your shoes.

“Call me after?” he asks.

“I always do.”

“You always this quiet?” Jack asks, his voice low, just above the beat of the music pulsing through the rooftop.

You glance over at him as you pour yourself a drink- half Sprite, half vodka. The fizz crackles gently in the cup. You’re standing at the makeshift bar set up on an old wooden table, bottles scattered, solo cups stacked, a bowl of half-melted ice doing its best to stay useful.

Allegra is next to you, deep in conversation with a tall girl from her agency, both of them speaking in that effortless model shorthand- brands, show dates, gossip. You’re waiting for her to finish so you can go track down Noel, who vanished with Mario and the rest of the crew about twenty minutes ago.

You shrug, taking a sip. “Only when I’m with people I don’t really know.”

Jack nods slowly, leaning his elbow against the edge of the table. He’s wearing a washed-out grey hoodie under a leather jacket, camera strap slung lazily across his chest like he only half-committed to bringing it. His fingers toy with the edge of his cup, ring flashing under the string lights above.

“So…” he says, his eyes trailing up to meet yours, “you trying to get to know me?”

You raise your eyebrows, cup still pressed to your lips- just as Allegra turns, mid-laugh, and catches the tail end of his tone. Her smile fades instantly.

She plants a hand squarely on Jack’s shoulder and gives a firm shove.

“Back off, creep. She has a boyfriend,” Allegra says coolly, rolling her eyes before lacing her fingers through yours and pulling you away from the bar like it’s a rescue mission.

Jack stumbles back with a laugh, holding up both hands in surrender. “Just a question!”

“Don’t make me throw your camera off this roof!” Allegra calls back over her shoulder.

You laugh under your breath as she drags you through the dense maze of partygoers, the warm lights reflecting off half-empty bottles and glowing skin. You squeeze her hand as you follow, your drink sloshing slightly with each step.

“Thank you for the dramatic exit,” you say.

“I saw that glint in his eye. Don’t fall for the tortured art-boy charm, babe. They’ll write a poem about you and then date your cousin.”

You laugh harder at that. “Is that experience talking?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

The two of you finally break out into a more open pocket of the rooftop, passing a group of girls dancing barefoot and a guy freestyling terribly in the corner. The skyline stretches in the distance, glittering like something out of a movie. You can just make out the Eiffel Tower charm dangling from your bracelet, catching the light as you lift your cup.

Your phone buzzes in your bag. A single message:

Rafe: What’s a guy gotta do to get a photo of the hottest girl at the party?

Your heart lifts a little. You glance at Allegra, who’s still scanning the crowd for Noel.

“Hey,” you say, pulling out your phone and angling it slightly. “Hold this, he needs proof I’m still his.”

Allegra grins, already reaching for your drink. “Say less.”

You turn toward the skyline, letting your hair fall over one shoulder as you pose with a small, smug smile. The city behind you, the lights above, and Rafe in your mind.

Click.

You: [photo attachment] hope this helps ;)

You barely have time to sip your drink before your phone starts buzzing again- this time, FaceTime. You smile instinctively, already knowing who it is.

“God, you’re impatient,” you mutter under your breath, stepping away from the crowd a little as you slide your thumb across the screen.

The call connects and Rafe’s face pops up- sleepy, shirtless. His room’s dim, warm light pooling behind him. He stares at you, eyes narrowed.

“I thought we agreed to talk after the party,” you yell into the phone, grinning through the music and noise.

“Yeah, well,” he says, rubbing a hand down his face, “I don’t like the idea of other guys being able to enjoy your presence and not me.”

You laugh, turning slightly so he can get a better look at your outfit. “You mean this presence?” You give him a slow, teasing spin.

His jaw clenches. “You’re evil.”

“You FaceTimed me,” you point out, leaning against the railing, letting the city breeze kiss your bare shoulders.

He groans. “That photo wasn’t helping. You looked too good in it. Like… ‘getting free drinks from strangers’ good.”

You raise a brow. “And you think I’m out here scamming men for drinks now?”

“I think if I were there, none of them would even bother trying.”

“Possessive much?” you tease.

He shrugs, not even pretending to deny it. “With you? Yeah.”

You pause for a second, your smile softening. “You could’ve just said you missed me.”

“I do miss you,” he says instantly. “So much, it’s driving me insane.”

The vulnerability in his voice throws you for a moment. He means it -not just in a flirty, halfway way- but in that Rafe way that’s full-bodied, deep, and hard to ignore.

You glance back toward the crowd, watching Allegra and Noel dance dramatically to whatever remix is playing, arms thrown in the air like they’re in a music video. You look back at Rafe.

“Okay,” you say. “Give me five minutes. I’ll sneak off somewhere quieter.”

His eyes narrow again. “Alone?”

You roll your eyes. “Yes, alone. Unless you want Allegra to crash our call and hang up on you.”

He laughs, and it’s warm and familiar and makes your chest ache a little. He shifts the camera slightly, revealing the Eiffel Tower photo he printed and stuck to the edge of his mirror.

“I’ve been staring at this dumb since you left.” Your heart twists.

“I’ll call you back in five,” you whisper.

He nods once. “I’ll be here. Probably pacing.”

You grin and end the call, slipping your phone into your bag and scanning the rooftop for an escape route. A staircase, a balcony, a quiet hallway- anything, really.

Because suddenly, hearing him wasn’t enough. You needed to see him properly. Talk. Laugh. Maybe even cry. And for the first time all night, the party didn’t feel so fun anymore without him there.

Eventually, you slip away from the rooftop crowd, weaving past tipsy strangers, dim stairwells, and a hallway that smells like incense and someone’s cologne. You find a door slightly cracked open and push it wider, the bass of the music dulling the second you step inside.

The room is quiet- mellow, warm, and just dim enough to feel like a secret. Floor-to-ceiling shelves line the walls, packed tight with mismatched books. There’s a single vintage armchair angled in the corner beneath a brass reading lamp, its light casting a soft golden pool over the chair’s worn arms.

You exhale, finally alone, and sink into the chair, curling your legs beneath you. Your phone’s already buzzing -Rafe- like he couldn’t wait the full five minutes.

You accept the call.

His face fills the screen instantly, softer now under the glow of his bedroom lamp. He smiles like he’s relieved to see you.

“There she is,” he says, his voice low and raspy. “God, you have no idea how much better this is.”

You grin, tilting the camera up so he can see the space around you. “Found a secret room. I think it’s like a mini library or something.”

“You would find the book room,” he chuckles, eyes scanning what little he can see. “Looks cozy.”

“It is,” you say, settling deeper into the cushions. “Cozy enough to miss you more, unfortunately.”

His smile turns crooked. “Say that again.”

You raise a brow. “That I miss you?”

He nods slowly. “Yeah. I like how that sounds.”

The conversation flows easily after that. You tell him about Jack’s awkward attempt at flirting. He tells you about a meeting he barely survived. You both laugh at nothing and everything. It feels like Paris again- but quieter. More intimate. Less dreamy, more real.

Just when you’re mid-sentence -telling him how Noel disappeared with a bottle of wine and zero warning- the door creaks open.

You glance up. Mario stands in the doorway, brows lifted, a solo cup in one hand.

“Damn,” he says. “I thought this was someone’s weed break. Why are you hiding in here?”

“I’m not hiding,” you say, smiling up at him. “I’m on the phone.”

He walks in slowly, peering at your screen. “With?”

“My boyfriend,” you say casually, giving Rafe a soft smile and holding the phone up just enough for Mario to catch a glimpse.

Rafe’s face is unreadable for a second- mouth closed, jaw tight, eyes slightly narrowed like he’s trying to size Mario up through the screen.

Mario nods, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Say less.”

“You need the room?” you ask.

“Nah, just making sure you weren’t like… passed out on a bean bag or something.” He grins and steps out, closing the door behind him.

When you glance back at the screen, Rafe’s jaw is still set.

You raise a brow. “What?”

He shrugs, a little too fast. “Nothing.”

You smirk. “Are you jealous of Mario?”

“No,” he says immediately- and way too defensively. Then he catches himself, running a hand over his face. “Okay. Maybe a little.”

You let the silence hang just long enough to make him squirm before softening your voice.

“You know I’d never do that to you, right?”

He looks at you, really looks at you, and nods. “I know. Doesn’t stop me from wanting to knock on the door and pull you out of there myself.”

You smile, eyes soft. “Kinda hot that you care that much.”

“Yeah?” he mutters. “Good. Because I do.”

And there it is- that beat between laughter and longing. The ache of wanting to be somewhere else. With someone else. Together.

“I should get back out there,” you say quietly. “But I’ll call you before bed?”

“Promise?”

You nod.

“Okay,” he says, lingering just a second longer. “I love you.”

“Love you more.”

You end the call and stare at your reflection in the dark screen for a moment, the smile fading into something deeper.

This long-distance thing… might just work. But it’s not going to be easy.

—

You’re scrambling through your apartment like your life depends on it. Which, in a way, it does.

Your version of cleaning mostly involves shoving a mountain of clean clothes from the corner of your room into the hamper and praying Rafe doesn’t open any closets while he’s here. The candle you lit in the kitchen is burning faster than your nerves, and the takeout delivery is somehow taking longer than usual, of course.

He’s coming. Rafe is coming to New York.

Which is ironic, considering he’s always claimed the city’s “too loud, too crowded, too everything.” You’d shot back that you were always the one making the effort- flying down to the OBX, rearranging your schedule, hopping planes to see him while he barely left the island.

He’d paused. Smirked. Said, “Fair point.”

And just like that, he scheduled his dad’s plane to bring him up for the weekend.

Still, your apartment would’ve been spotless hours ago if Allegra hadn’t insisted (dragged) you to get your hair done first.

“You’re not letting a man with cheekbones like that see you with frizz,” she’d said, already booking your appointment for a full wash, treatment, and blowout.

Now, you’re racing against the clock. He’s due any minute, the car you sent for him already on its way up your street.

You shower at lightning speed and throw on the nightgown you swore you’d only wear if things were going really, really well. Sheer, black, and just barely clinging to modesty, it slips across your skin like a secret. You spritz your perfume -his favorite- and light the last few candles, the room now glowing in warm, flickering light.

Your phone buzzes.

Driver: ETA: 3 minutes

You glance at the mirror.. hair perfect, lashes curled, body draped in something that makes you feel like a walking fantasy. You smooth your hands over your hips and do one final check of the apartment: candles lit, playlist queued, dinner en route. You even made sure to order his favorite steak from that overpriced Manhattan place you know he’d love. Everything’s ready. Everything’s perfect.

You put something, anything, on the TV. A random cooking show hums in the background, just enough noise to make the space feel casual… even though nothing about tonight feels casual.

Not to you.

Despite the fact that you and Rafe talk every night, despite seeing him just two weeks ago in Paris, you’re nervous. That fluttery, electric kind of nervous. Like this is some sort of first date.

Then- you hear it. A knock. Your heart skips a full beat.

You pull yourself off the kitchen counter where you’d been perched, your sheer nightgown swaying around your thighs as you speed-walk -not run- to the front door.

Peeking through the peephole, you see him. Rafe.

Sunglasses still on, of course. Hood up. One hand gripping the extended handle of his suitcase, the other casually tucked into his hoodie pocket. He looks entirely out of place in your hallway, too expensive and too handsome. Which is saying a lot considering the location of your building and what you pay for rent.

You’re already smiling as you open the door.

He looks up- and there it is. That slow tug of a smile on his mouth when his eyes land on you.

You step aside, and he rolls his suitcase in with a familiar ease, like he’s been here a hundred times before. You barely let him clear the door before launching yourself into his arms. Legs around his waist, arms around his neck, face buried in the warmth of his hoodie.

“Mmmmmm, I missed you so much,” you moan into the soft cotton at his shoulder, clinging to him like you might float away if you didn’t.

“Oh really? Couldn’t tell,” he says dryly, though the way he chuckles into your neck gives him away. His arms tighten around your waist, grounding you to him.

You pull back just enough to reach for his sunglasses, sliding them off and tossing them gently onto the entryway table. His eyes -blue and sharp and a little tired- meet yours.

And you kiss him.

It starts soft, just a press of lips, but quickly deepens into something hungrier. You feel him exhale into you, his hands settling just beneath your thighs where he holds you effortlessly.

When you pull back for air, you whisper, “You look good.”

He tilts his head, eyes skimming you from your messy hair down to the barely-there fabric of your nightgown. “You look…” he exhales through his nose, shaking his head slightly.

“Dangerous.”

You grin and lean your forehead against his. “Wanna see your room?” you whisper.

He doesn’t answer. Just starts walking- you still wrapped around him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You guide him toward your bedroom, laughing softly when he stubs his toe on your coffee table and curses under his breath.

The moment he kicks the door shut behind you both, something shifts.

Rafe sets you down gently on the bed, his eyes locked on yours like he’s trying to memorize the way you look under this light. The candles flicker across his skin, catching the gold in his chain, the tension in his jaw.

He brushes his fingers down your arm. “This is better than I imagined.”

You raise a brow. “You imagined this?”

He leans in, lips hovering near yours. “Every night since Paris.”

Your breath catches. His mouth finds yours again- and this time, there’s nothing soft about it.

His mouth moves against yours like he’s starving for you- hands gripping your waist, your jaw, your thigh. You tug at the drawstrings of his hoodie, fingertips grazing the warm skin beneath his t-shirt, and it’s all heat and hunger and the kind of desperation that makes you forget how to breathe.

But then, he pulls back slightly, panting just a little, his forehead resting against yours. “Wait,” he murmurs, voice husky and low. “I should probably shower first. I’ve been sweating in that damn plane seat for hours.”

You bite your lip and grin. “Good call. I wasn’t gonna say anything, but…”

He narrows his eyes playfully. “You’re hilarious.”

You laugh as he presses one last kiss to your lips before standing, shrugging out of his hoodie and tossing it to the floor. You catch the way his shirt lifts slightly, revealing a sliver of skin that makes your stomach flip. Then he disappears into the bathroom, the sound of running water filling the space like a lullaby.

You lay back on the bed, letting your body relax for the first time all day. The candlelight flickers gently, the soft hum of the TV still playing from the living room in the background. You reach for your phone to check the time but never quite make it.

The weight of the day hits you all at once -cleaning, rushing, getting ready, the anticipation- and your body finally gives in. Your eyes flutter closed as your fingers loosen their grip around your phone, and within moments, you’re fast asleep.

Rafe steps out of the steamy bathroom a little while later, towel slung around his waist, hair damp. He runs a hand through it and grabs a fresh t-shirt from his bag- but when he walks into the bedroom, he stops.

There you are. Fast asleep, curled toward his side of the bed, one arm tucked under your cheek, the other resting on the pillow where he should be.

His chest softens.

He crosses the room slowly, careful not to wake you as he slips on his shirt and quietly pulls back the covers. You stir slightly when the bed shifts beneath his weight, mumbling something incomprehensible before settling again. Rafe smiles. He lies down beside you, warm and clean, and gently pulls you into him- your body fitting against his chest like muscle memory. His arm wraps securely around your waist, his lips pressing to the crown of your head.

“You really waited up for me, huh?” he whispers softly into your hair.

You don’t respond. Just breathe- slow and steady, safe and warm in his arms. And even though he flew across the coast, even though this city never quite felt like home to him…

Tonight, this… you, feels like exactly where he’s supposed to be.

You wake to the softest trail of kisses gliding along your neck, your collarbone, the curve of your shoulder. His lips are warm, deliberate, worshipful- and for a second, you think you’re dreaming.

The sheets are twisted around your legs, your cheek pressed against the pillow. Everything smells like him.

You smile, eyes still closed. “Mmm… this feels like a dream.”

“It is,” Rafe whispers against your skin, voice low and velvet-soft. His mouth trails lower, kissing down your arm and across the delicate fabric that clings to your ribs. He nudges the hem of your nightgown higher and gently rolls you onto your back, not once breaking contact.

Your breath hitches when his mouth moves down, kissing the inside of your thigh through the sheer material. You feel the warm exhale of his breath as he presses slow, reverent kisses closer to your center. Your hand instinctively slips into his hair, fingers curling as your hips shift.

He pushes the nightgown up fully and hooks his fingers under your panties, sliding them down with a slow, teasing drag. A pause -just long enough to make your heart pound- before his mouth replaces the space his hands just left.

Without warning, his tongue licks a firm stripe through your slick folds, and your whole body jerks off the mattress in a gasp.

Your head falls back into the pillow, eyes fluttering open for a moment before they roll shut again. His tongue works you with smooth, practiced strokes, alternating between soft licks and harder sucks against your most sensitive spot. You cry out, your thighs spreading wider on instinct, offering him everything. The sounds leaving your mouth are half-gasps, half-broken moans- your hips moving with a mind of their own, chasing each wave of pleasure he gives you.

“Rafe- oh my god…”

He hums in response, the vibrations sending another pulse of pleasure through your core. His hands grip your thighs to keep you from writhing too far away, but his touch is gentle, grounding, never too much.

You look down briefly through heavy lids and see him- his mouth, wet and glistening, working you like he’s starving, like he’s missed this part of you as much as he’s missed your laugh, your eyes, your presence.

He pulls back slightly, lips flushed, eyes burning. “You taste even better here.”

You groan, hands flying to your face in half-embarrassment, half-desperation. “Don’t say stuff like that.”

He smirks, dragging his mouth back over you again with even more hunger this time. The build is quick, undeniable. The tension winding tight in your belly, your chest rising and falling rapidly, thighs shaking under his palms.

“Let go,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you, baby. Just let go.”

It’s the way he says it tender and possessive, like he means it on every level- that pushes you over the edge. You arch up into him with a cry, body trembling, mouth parted in a silent gasp as your orgasm crashes over you.

Rafe holds you through it, never rushing. Only pulling back once your thighs twitch from oversensitivity and your breathing starts to slow.

He climbs up the bed beside you, brushing your hair back as he leans down to kiss your cheek, your jaw, your lips- slow and grounding.

You can barely speak, eyes still closed, mouth slack with bliss.

“I love waking you up like that,” he whispers into your ear, grinning against your cheek.

You laugh breathlessly, curling into his chest as he pulls the covers over your bare legs.

“I’m never letting you leave again.”

“Good,” he says, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Because I don’t want to.”

And you both fall back asleep.

The sun spills lazily through your sheer white curtains, casting a golden glow across the room. It dances along the walls, across the scattered clothes on the floor, and finally rests on the two of you tangled in your sheets. The kind of light that makes everything feel a little softer, a little slower.

You stir first -just barely- stretching your toes and adjusting your head on the pillow. And then it hits you, like it always does now: he’s here. Not a voice on the other end of the phone. Not a daydream in the middle of your workday.

Here. In your room. In your bed.

A slow smile curls on your face as you turn toward him.

Rafe is still half-asleep, one arm tossed over the pillow like he was reaching for you in his dreams. His lashes flutter, a sleepy groan slipping from his mouth as you nuzzle in closer. You press a trail of soft kisses across his chest -one, two, three- each one warmer than the last.

“Mm,” he hums, voice raspy and low, still laced with sleep. “Keep doing that and I’m never leaving.”

“Exactly the plan,” you whisper against his skin, your lips grazing just above his heart. You hook a leg over his, burrowing into his warmth like a cat curling into the sun.

He wraps his arms around you in response, pulling you flush against him. “How long have you been awake?”

“Just now,” you admit, letting your fingers lightly trace circles on his ribs. “But I knew where I was the second I opened my eyes.”

“You sound like a Hallmark card,” he teases, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

You grin. “A hot one, though.”

“The hottest,” he agrees with a sleepy smile.

There’s a long pause where neither of you say anything, but the silence is full- comfortable, like the weight of a favorite blanket. Your eyes flutter closed again, and you could stay like this for hours. Maybe all day.

“What do you want to do today?” he asks eventually, voice quiet against the crown of your head.

You shrug. “We could go to the Met. Walk around SoHo. Get brunch somewhere pretentious.”

He chuckles, chest vibrating against you. “Or we could stay right here and order in and make out between episodes of some dumb show.”

You lift your head just enough to meet his gaze. “Are you flirting with me, Cameron?”

“Always,” he says without missing a beat.

You kiss him- soft and slow and deliciously unhurried. When you pull back, you whisper, “Let’s do all of it.”

“What, brunch and makeouts?”

You nod, eyes gleaming. “Brunch. Makeouts. Lazy art museum wandering. And then more makeouts. Maybe dessert if you behave.”

His hand glides down your back. “I’ve never behaved.”

You grin against his mouth as he kisses you again, deeper this time, the kind of kiss that promises hours more of this- the heat, the teasing, the kind of love that wakes you up and wraps you in warmth long after the sun’s gone down.

—

It’s nearly noon, and you and Rafe are still in pajamas, camped out on the couch with plates of lukewarm brunch balanced on your laps and a half-watched Netflix series playing in the background- one Noel had insisted you had to try.

You’re giggling into your mimosa as Rafe delivers yet another dramatic roast of one of the characters.

“Oh my god,” you laugh. “Do you have to come for him every five minutes?”

“You’re the one who said he was cute,” Rafe shoots back, mouth full of eggs as he gestures at the screen with his fork. “I’m just making sure you know he looks like a brick.”

You toss a piece of croissant at him, just as a knock echoes through the apartment. You both pause and glance at each other.

“That’s suspicious,” you mutter, carefully setting your plate down and walking to the door. You peek through the peephole and instantly groan.

Everyone is outside. Literally everyone.

Allegra, Noel, Owen, Mario, Myra, Sienna, and Jack- all of them crammed into the hallway, probably concerning your other neighbors.

You crack the door and stick your head out, raising a suspicious brow. “Can I help you?”

“Yeah, we’re going to a bar,” Allegra announces like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “And you’re coming.”

You narrow your eyes and push the door slightly more closed as she tries to shoulder it open.

“No, my boyfriend is in town. I want to spend the day with him.” You point a firm thumb over your shoulder.

“You can spend the day with him,” Noel argues from behind Allegra. “At the bar. With us. Like a cute double…triple…whatever date.”

“Bring him with,” Jack chimes in.

You sigh, exasperated but slightly entertained, then lift a single index finger. “One moment.”

You shut the door and head back toward the couch, where Rafe is still lazily reclined with the blanket half-draped across his lap.

“They want us to go out with them,” you say, deadpan.

He glances at the clock on your microwave. “It’s noon.”

“Yeah. They day drink like it’s their job.”

He raises a brow. “And the bar?”

“No clue. Probably somewhere loud and ridiculous.”

Rafe exhales a slow breath, stretches, and then flips the blanket off himself. “Alright, sure. Let’s give them something to talk about.”

You grin and head back to the door, cracking it open again, just your face poking out. “We’ll meet you guys downstairs in twenty.”

A cheer erupts from the hallway before Allegra yells, “We’re holding you to it!”

You shut the door and lean your back against it, looking over at Rafe who’s already heading toward your bedroom to get changed.

You sigh with a small smile. “We’re gonna regret this, aren’t we?”

“Absolutely,” he calls back. “But at least we’ll look good doing it.”

The bar is louder than it has any right to be at 2 p.m. Music thumps lazily through the speakers, and sun filters through the tall front windows, catching dust in its golden rays. Glasses clink. Someone’s laughing too hard a few tables over. It feels like summer in the city- even if it’s not.

You’re perched on a high-top stool, legs tucked under you, nursing a fizzy cocktail Noel had forced you to try. Rafe stands beside you, hand loosely hooked around the back of your stool, watching the group with a detached kind of amusement.

Allegra and Sienna are attempting to teach Owen how to two-step with a drink in each hand. Noel’s filming it all. Jack is being shameless at the bar again. And Mario’s deep in conversation with Myra near the jukebox.

Rafe hasn’t said much, but he’s smiling. Still, it’s not the same playful, offhand cockiness he usually carries. It’s quieter. Reserved.

You lean into him slightly, sipping your drink. “You good?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Just…observing.”

You smile and turn to laugh at something Noel says, a joke about Owen’s dancing skills. When Rafe doesn’t react, you glance back- but he’s staring into the rim of his untouched glass.

You nudge his hip. “You sure? You’re quiet.”

“I’m fine,” he says again, but it’s thinner this time. “Didn’t realize it was a full reunion trip.”

You frown. “What do you mean?”

He shrugs. “Nothing. Just… I guess I thought it’d be more you and me. Not you and twenty of your friends and me on the sidelines.”

You blink. “I didn’t mean to make you feel that way. I just figured this is part of seeing New York, you know? Like… all of it.”

“Yeah,” he says, tone neutral. “It’s fine. I’m just adjusting.”

You study his face- something about it looks tired. Not angry. Not jealous. Just… off. He hasn’t touched his drink. He hasn’t made a joke in the past thirty minutes. And you can’t help but realize, he’s been here the whole time but not really with you.

Your chest tightens a little. “Rafe… I didn’t think it’d feel this separate.”

He nods slowly. “It’s not your fault. I don’t exactly blend into the chaos the way you do.”

You look down at your drink, guilt stirring. “I just thought you’d like meeting everyone.”

“I do,” he says quickly, like he doesn’t want you to feel bad. “I like them. It’s just- when I flew up here, I kind of thought we’d be spending most of it together. Just us.”

There it is. The real thing underneath it all. Not bitterness. Not blame. Just… disappointment.

Your heart sinks a little. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not a big deal,” he murmurs, rubbing your leg gently. “I know this is your life. I want to be part of it. I just… I didn’t expect to feel like a plus-one.”

That part stings a little. You hadn’t realized how little time you’d carved out for just the two of you. Maybe because you thought- being in the same city would be enough. But now, seeing it in his eyes, you know that presence doesn’t equal connection. Not always.

You open your mouth to say something when Jack drops back into the conversation, yelling about someone spilling a beer near the DJ stand and nearly slipping in it. The moment breaks.

You and Rafe both half-laugh, eyes glancing back toward the noise- but neither of you fully lean into the fun again.

The apartment is quiet again.

You’d left the bar earlier than the rest of the group, claiming you were tired- which wasn’t a lie. The emotional weight of Rafe’s words had been dragging behind you like a bag of bricks.

He’s on the couch now, legs stretched out, scrolling through something on his phone. You’re at the sink rinsing out your cup from earlier, your movements slower, more methodical than usual.

The silence feels heavy.

You dry your hands on a towel before walking over and sitting on the edge of the couch near him. He doesn’t look up, but you know he knows you’re there.

You tuck your leg underneath you. “So… that sucked.”

He glances up, meets your eyes briefly, then nods. “Yeah.”

You wait, then sigh. “I wasn’t trying to make you feel like a plus-one. I thought showing you around, bringing you into my world- that was the whole point.”

“I get it,” he says quietly, setting his phone down. “But it didn’t feel like your world and me. It felt like you were already in it and I was… i don't know… nowhere near it.”

That hits you harder than expected.

You lean back slightly. “Okay, well, I didn’t know I was supposed to build an itinerary around you.”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“Well, what are you saying then?”

He runs a hand along his buzzed hair, exhales slowly. “I guess I just thought I’d have more of you on this trip. Not the social version of you. Not the hostess or the fashion lady with a million people around. Just… you.”

You bite your lip, trying to keep the sting from leaking into your voice. “I didn’t think I had to separate myself like that with you.”

He shakes his head. “That’s not what I meant either. I’m not asking you to change. I’m just trying to explain how it felt.”

“Like I was too busy for you?”

“No—like maybe this whole us thing makes more sense when it’s in OBX.”

That’s the sentence that sits between you both like a punch to the ribs.

You blink. “Wow.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he rushes to say, sitting up. “I’m not saying it doesn’t work here. I’m saying maybe… we haven’t figured out how it works here yet.”

You nod slowly, swallowing the knot in your throat. “So what? You came all this way just to prove it can’t work?”

“No,” he says, voice gentle now. “I came because I wanted it to. I still want it to.”

“But?” you ask, and the word hangs in the air like a test.

He doesn’t answer for a moment. Then: “But I don’t want to feel like a visitor in your life forever.”

You look at him, finally understanding. He’s not angry. He’s not distant. He’s scared. Scared that this thing you have, this thing you both feel so deeply, can’t survive outside the little windows of time you make for it.

And you’re scared too. Because what if he’s right? But neither of you say it out loud.

Instead, you both sit there. Tired. Frustrated. Wanting the same thing, but in two different languages.

Eventually, he shifts closer and opens his arms just slightly. You move into them. But even as you settle your head on his shoulder, your mind is still racing.

You wake up first. Again.

The light is soft, peeking through the cracks in the curtains. Rafe’s still asleep beside you, one arm resting over his eyes, the other stretched toward where you used to be. You stare at him for a long moment, trying to will the warmth back into your chest. Trying to remind yourself how good this is. How good he is.

You slide out of bed and quietly get ready- pulling on a sweatshirt and fuzzy socks, brushing your hair into a loose braid. You order coffee from the place a few blocks down. His favorite breakfast sandwich. Yours too. The whole thing is done with muscle memory. Thoughtfulness. Familiarity.

When he finally stirs, you’re sitting cross-legged on the couch with the food laid out on the coffee table, the TV idling on some old movie neither of you has seen. He shuffles out, hoodie half on, hair sticking up. He gives you a sleepy smile.

“Morning,” he says, voice scratchy.

“Morning.” You smile back and pat the couch beside you.

He sits. You both unwrap your food. Take a few bites in silence. It should feel comfortable. But it doesn’t.

“So…” you say, looking over at him, “want to go to the Met later?”

“Sure,” he nods. “We can walk the park after, too.”

“Yeah. That sounds nice.”

But there’s no spark in the words. It’s all surface. Planned. Controlled. Half an hour later, you’re in the museum. He’s holding your hand, and every now and then he kisses your knuckles. You snap a picture of him pretending to reenact a painting, and you both laugh. For a second- it feels like it’s working.

But the silence that follows isn’t peaceful.

At one point, you’re standing in front of a sculpture, and you catch him looking at you instead of the art.

“What?” you whisper.

He shrugs. “You’re just… beautiful.”

Your heart aches a little at the sincerity in his voice. You step closer, brushing your fingers along his jacket. “I’m trying.”

“I know you are,” he says, softly.

You nod, looking down at your feet. “I feel like we’re dancing around something.”

“We are,” he admits.

“But we don’t want to say it.”

“Nope.”

You both chuckle, but it’s hollow. Because deep down, you know what you’re avoiding: that the magic of Paris is fading under the weight of reality. That the distance was always more than just physical.

You spend the rest of the day trying to reclaim something that won’t sit still. Every kiss feels a little too rehearsed. Every touch, a reminder that you’re not quite synced the way you were.

And that night, when you curl up in bed together again, you feel it strongest- the shift.

He’s here. He loves you. You love him. You’re still holding on.

But the version of love you had in Paris? It doesn’t fit in New York. Not yet.

The apartment is dim again. The flicker of a candle on the coffee table, some low instrumental playing from the speaker. The kind of setting that used to feel romantic. Intimate.

But you’re both quiet. Again.

You’re tucked into one end of the couch, legs drawn up, Rafe on the other, elbow resting against the armrest, staring ahead. The air is thick with everything unsaid.

Finally, you break the silence. “I feel like we keep trying to make it perfect.”

He looks over at you. “Yeah. And missing every time.”

You nod, swallowing hard. “Maybe we don’t know how to be in each other’s worlds. Like- we fit. But only when nothing else is going on.”

“I don’t want that,” he says, and you hear the crack in his voice. “I don’t want something that only works when it’s convenient or romantic. I want real.”

“So do I,” you say, voice low. “But this weekend hasn’t felt like real. Not in a good way. It felt like trying to hold on to something that was already slipping.”

He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “I thought we could just… push through the distance. That if we wanted it bad enough, it would just work. But I hate feeling like I’m visiting your life. I want to be in it.”

Your breath catches. “You are.”

“I’m not, though,” he says gently. “I don’t know your routines. I don’t know your favorite coffee order anymore or the names of the people you talk about every day. I don’t know who you are when I’m not here.”

You stare at him. “Then why didn’t you say anything sooner?”

“Because I didn’t want to ruin it,” he answers honestly. “Paris felt like a fairytale, and I didn’t want to be the one to pull us out of it.”

You nod, fighting the sting behind your eyes. “We’re different people now.”

“But I still love you,” he adds, almost desperately. “That never changed.”

“I love you too,” you whisper, your voice breaking. “And I don’t want to lose you.”

“But if loving each other still feels this lonely…” he trails off, eyes meeting yours. “Then what are we doing?”

That question splits your heart in two.

You don’t answer right away. Neither does he. You’re both crying quietly now, neither one of you trying to stop it. You reach for his hand, and he gives it to you- gripping it like it’s the only thing tethering him to the moment.

“I don’t know what to do,” you admit.

“Me either,” he whispers.

And that’s maybe the worst part of all: not the fight, not the anger- but the way you both want so badly for it to work… and it still doesn’t feel like enough.

There’s no sun streaming in, no soft kisses, no tangled limbs. Just the quiet sound of the city outside your window and the unbearable heaviness in the room. You’re both awake, lying on your backs, staring at the ceiling like it might offer answers.

Eventually, you speak. “I think… maybe we should take a step back.”

You hear his breath hitch slightly beside you. He doesn’t turn, but his fingers twitch against the sheet.

“Not because I want to stop loving you,” you add quickly. “Because I don’t. I don’t think I ever could.”

He finally turns to look at you, his face unreadable.

“I just don’t want us to keep forcing something that’s not ready to work right now,” you say. “We keep pushing and missing. And it’s hurting us.”

His jaw tightens. “So what does a step back mean? No calls? No texts?”

“No,” you shake your head. “Just space. Time. Let things breathe a little. Let us breathe. I’m not asking you to disappear, Rafe.”

He nods slowly. “I don’t want to disappear either. I don’t want to lose you.”

“Then let’s not lose each other,” you whisper. “Let’s just… pause.”

He’s quiet again. Then: “Okay.”

He doesn’t say anything else. Just rolls over and holds you. You don’t sleep again- but neither of you pulls away.

You’re folding the blanket on the couch when he comes out of your room, bag in hand. Your stomach drops.

“You’re leaving?”

He nods. “I booked the next flight back to OBX. Just now.”

“Just now?” You stare at him, confused. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I didn’t want to drag it out,” he says, shifting the bag higher on his shoulder. “I figured… if we’re taking space, I should actually give you space.”

You frown. “You could’ve told me.”

“I’m telling you now.”

The silence between you stretches tight.

“I’m not mad,” you finally say, but your voice cracks a little. “I just… I thought we’d have one more night.”

He walks toward you, setting his bag down. He cups your face gently.

“I wanted that too,” he says. “But if I stay, I’ll say something. Or do something. And then we’ll spiral all over again. I don’t want our last moment -for now- to feel like that.”

You nod, your throat tightening. “So this is it?”

“For now,” he repeats softly. “You said to let it breathe. So that’s what I’m doing.”

You lean into his hands, eyes shut, soaking in the way he smells, the feel of his palms against your skin. Your heart is breaking, but it’s also respecting this. Respecting him.

He kisses you once. Deeply. Reverently. The kind of kiss that says I love you even when I shouldn’t stay.

Then he pulls away. Picks up his bag.

And walks out.

You don’t chase after him. You don’t text when the door clicks shut. You just sit on the couch, blanket still half-folded in your lap, and let the silence settle. You said you needed air. Now you have it.

But it doesn’t feel like breathing yet.

You stare at your screen, thumb hovering over the red end button, but before you can back out, Becca’s face fills the screen.

She’s got a face mask on, hair up in a messy bun, and a spoon in her mouth.

“Oh my god,” she says around it. “She lives.”

You exhale a small laugh, leaning back against your couch pillow. “Hi.”

Becca squints. “You look like you’ve been crying… or like, emotionally wrecked and trying to keep it together with overpriced candles and oat milk lattes.”

You blink at her, lips parting.

Becca’s face softens. “Wait. What happened?”

You’re quiet for a second. You pick at the sleeve of your hoodie. “I need to tell you something.”

“Okay…” she sets the spoon down and leans forward. “Go ahead.”

You look away, embarrassed already. “Me and Rafe… we started back up again.”

Becca’s eyes widen. “Since when?”

You wince. “Since your birthday weekend.”

There’s a pause. A long one. “What?”

“I know,” you rush out. “I know I should’ve told you. It just… happened. One minute we were barely speaking, and then it was…” you trail off, almost slipping up about her laundry room. “It doesn’t matter. I’ve been lying, and I hate it.”

Becca doesn’t say anything right away. Her mask cracks slightly as she presses her mouth into a tight line.

You push on. “It started small. And then Paris happened and we just- fell back into it. And for a minute it felt perfect. Like we had a real chance. But then he came here. And it just… didn’t work. We’re not in sync anymore. We said we’d take space. He flew home today.”

Becca sighs, rubbing her temple. “Jesus. That’s a lot.”

“I know. I didn’t mean to keep you out of it. I just didn't want anyone judging me before I figured out how I felt. But now I just feel like a fraud. Like I’ve been living two lives.”

Becca’s face softens again. “Okay. First of all, you’re not a fraud. You’re just a dumbass.”

You snort.

“But I get it,” she adds. “And I’m glad you told me. Honestly? I knew something was up. I just didn’t think it was… that.”

You nod slowly. “I missed you.”

Becca smiles faintly. “I missed you too. I’m mad, but I’m not going anywhere. You’re stuck with me. And now that I know everything, I get to yell at you properly in person later.”

“Deal,” you whisper.

“Oh- and next time you’re sneaking around with Rafe Cameron? I’m your alibi. But I better get updates.”

You laugh, wiping under your eye.

“Love you,” you say.

Becca blows a kiss through the screen. “Love you more, trouble.”

It’s been two weeks since Rafe flew back to OBX.

You’ve thrown yourself into everything you’d been putting off- deadlines, emails, agency calls, castings, fittings, that internship your mom finally followed up about. You even let Noel drag you to a film student showcase just so you wouldn’t be alone in your apartment.

It’s not like you haven’t thought about him. You have. Constantly. But you haven’t reached out.

So when his name flashes across your phone while you’re sorting wardrobe returns and holding a half-eaten protein bar in your teeth, you almost don’t answer.

But muscle memory wins.

“Hello?”

There’s a beat. “Hey,” Rafe says, voice warm but unsure. “You busy?”

“Yes,” you mutter, trying to balance your phone on your shoulder while rifling through a pile of garment bags. “Like, drowning.”

He pauses. “Okay… I won’t keep you long. Just hadn’t heard from you.”

“I’ve been working, Rafe. I told you this week was insane.”

“Yeah. No, I know.” He clears his throat. “I didn’t mean to bother you. Just- figured maybe you’d wanna talk. Even for five minutes.”

You sigh too hard. “I don’t have five minutes right now.”

There’s another pause. He sounds quieter when he says, “Right. Got it.”

“I’ll call you later,” you say, more out of reflex than intent.

But you won’t. You already know it. The energy it takes to have a real conversation with him feels heavier than usual. It’s not his fault. You’re just… exhausted. From everything.

“Alright,” he says, like he doesn’t believe you. But he doesn’t argue. “Take care.”

And then he hangs up. No fight. No dramatic ending. Just… space.

You look down at your phone for a long moment, screen gone black, then shove it into your tote bag and keep moving.

What you don’t know is that he doesn’t text you the next day. Or the day after that.

He figures you’re mad. You figure he gave up. And neither of you are entirely wrong.

----------------

taglist: @maybankslover

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mggssocks · 9 days ago

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quick update. Soooo I know I owe you guys a chapter today but it’s no where near finished and I have two jobs which has made it impossible this past week. So sorry but I will get it out as soon as I possibly can!

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mggssocks · 16 days ago

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The Eighth

the eighth masterlist

pairing: fem!kook!reader x Rafe Cameron

cw: good ole love makin'

a/n: sooo...just a note, I've been trying to post every Sunday for the last few chapters and will continue along with that schedule. Also, I imagine Owen as Ross Lynch when he was brunette. And one last thing... I reached 200 followers the other day and just wanted to take a quick moment to show my gratitude for everything- the likes, reblogs, and comments. I'm glad this series is being enjoyed and loved. More to come.. stay tuned!

You’re seated on your flight back to New York, forehead gently pressed against the cool window. The sky outside is a wash of fading blues and soft clouds, but you barely notice. You’re not watching the scenery- you’re hiding behind it. Quietly crying in business class.You blink quickly, trying to keep your tears from becoming too obvious, even as one slips down your cheek. You dab it away with the corner of your sleeve, pretending to adjust your seatbelt. You’ve never cried like this over a goodbye before- not even the dramatic ones in the past. But this one? This one tore something out of you.

It was the hardest goodbye you’ve ever had to say.

By the time the wheels touch down in New York, you feel slightly more composed. Slightly. The kind of “fine” that’s just good enough to get you through baggage claim. But your face tells the truth- eyes puffy and rimmed red, your cheeks flushed, your nose sore from dabbing away tears for hours. Your driver says nothing, thankfully. Just nods and helps with your bag before dropping you off at your apartment. Once inside, you shut the door behind you and lean your forehead against it for a moment. The quiet of your place feels heavier than usual, like it knows your heart is too full and too empty at the same time.

You strip off your travel clothes and run a warm bath, letting the tub fill slowly while you pour in lavender salts, a few drops of oil, and a bath bomb that releases soft foam. You sink in and let your head fall back, the warmth wrapping around your body like a hug you didn’t know you needed. But even the water can’t wash away the ache in your chest. After your bath, you towel off, slip into your softest lounge clothes, and curl up on the couch. You don’t even bother opening the blinds. The apartment stays dim and cozy as you pull a blanket over your legs, open a fresh bag of snacks, and flip on Love Island- the kind of background noise that doesn’t require thinking.

You’d always judged the show a little, but now, in your raw emotional state, something about it feels… oddly comforting. You start to understand the appeal—- the longing, the messiness, the way people reach for love even when it’s complicated and loud and imperfect. You feel your eyelids grow heavy. The soft sound of accents and flirtations fades into the background as sleep starts to pull you under.

Knock knock.

The sudden sound jerks you awake. You sit up, blinking fast, heart racing slightly from the jolt of it. You weren’t expecting anyone. Not tonight. Not now. You glance at the door. Another knock.

Slower this time. More hesitant. You wipe your face with your sleeve again and stand, your breath catching in your throat as you quietly cross the room, wondering who could possibly be on the other side.

You press your eye to the peephole, squinting. The fisheye lens distorts everything, but there’s no mistaking the two figures on the other side of your door: Noel is practically pressed against it, her face magnified and wide-eyed, while Allegra stands a few feet behind her, effortlessly composed, arms crossed like she’s posing for the cover of a fashion editorial. You crack the door open.

Before you can even say hello, Noel throws herself at you with a dramatic squeal, wrapping her arms tightly around your neck. You stumble back a step from the force of her hug, the breath catching in your throat, but it’s a good kind of surprise.

“You’re back!” she says, squeezing you like she hasn’t seen you in years.

Allegra walks in behind her, cool as ever, letting the door click shut behind her. She doesn’t say much, just offers you a quiet, assessing look as she leans against the wall, arms still folded. She’s the final boss of emotional control, sharp eyes taking in everything without giving much away.

“I am,” you reply softly, finally letting Noel go.

Noel’s still smiling as she pulls back, but her expression shifts when she gets a better look at you. Her brows furrow and she tilts her head, the way someone does when they’re not sure if you’re about to laugh or cry.

“You okay?” she asks gently, one hand rubbing your upper arm in slow circles.

You nod automatically- an instinct, a reflex, a lie you don’t even mean to tell. You try to summon a smile, but it wavers before it can fully form. Allegra’s gaze sharpens a little, and Noel’s hand stills.

And then it hits you. Like a crack in the dam.

Your breath hitches, your chin trembles, and before you can stop yourself, you’re covering your face with your hands and sobbing- raw, quiet at first, then deeper, like something’s been waiting to escape. Noel immediately wraps her arms around you again, holding you tighter than before, rubbing your back and whispering something soft you can’t quite make out.

“Oh, Y/N…” she breathes, her voice a blend of sympathy and heartbreak.

Allegra crosses the room quietly, sitting on the arm of your couch. She doesn’t say anything just yet- but her posture shifts. Arms uncrossed, one hand resting on her thigh, the other hanging loosely. Still chill, but open. Present. The silence in the room is suddenly warm. Held. You’re not alone in this. You let Noel hold you for a little longer before finally exhaling against her shoulder, your body a little lighter for it.

After Allegra brews a pot of tea in your kitchen -her only domestic act of the week, probably- the three of you settle back onto your living room couch, mugs in hand and socks pulled up. The steam curls between you like fog over water, and for once, the room feels soft enough to confess in.

You tell them everything. About Rafe. About your parents. About how you lied to Becca yesterday- and how the guilt of it is still sitting on your chest like a paperweight.

Allegra takes a long sip of her tea and raises an eyebrow. “This Rafe guy better be hot for all that trouble.”

You let out a breath of a laugh, rubbing your fingers along the rim of your mug.

“He is. Unfortunately. He’s also an asshole… but like-” you shrug with a helpless smile, “in the most charmingly infuriating way possible.”

“Charming assholes are still assholes.” Allegra snorts, ever the realist.

Noel gives her a subtle side-eye, the way a tired mom might glance at a brash aunt during a family dinner. She turns back to you, voice softer.

“It was really sweet of him. All those gifts. The ring. And letting you set boundaries without throwing a tantrum? That’s… rare.”

She’s always been the optimist of the two. The one who looks for the stitch in the tear. They don’t press you for more. Instead, they stay for another half hour, chatting about upcoming shoots and weird subway stories before eventually gathering their things. You walk them to the door, hugging Noel tight and giving Allegra a playful side-eye when she calls you a “lovesick poet.”

Once they leave, the apartment falls into quiet again. You pad barefoot back into the kitchen, tossing the used tea bags in the trash and rinsing out the mugs before setting them in the sink. Your fingers trail across the counter. You pause a moment, just breathing. Letting the stillness settle.

Then you return to your dent in the couch, picking up your phone absentmindedly. There’s a missed call. Rafe.

Your heart jumps- not sharply, but enough to remind you it’s still tender. You hadn’t heard it. The phone was on vibrate. Without thinking too hard, you press redial.

He answers almost instantly, like he’s been holding the phone in his hand.

“Y/n,” he breathes. “Hey.”

“Hey,” you say softly, tucking your knees up. “Sorry I missed your call- I had some friends over.”

There’s a pause. You don’t say who. He doesn’t ask. But you can feel the question hovering there, unsaid, like smoke.

“I was just calling to see how your flight went,” he says finally, voice low and careful. It sounds like he’s lying in bed, speaking in that nighttime tone, halfway between sleepy and raw.

Your eyes sting suddenly. Not sadness exactly. But a wave of something, nostalgia, grief, longing, all braided together.

“It was fine,” you whisper, brushing away a tear. “Thanks for asking.”

He’s quiet for a beat. “Do you need anything?” His voice drops even gentler, like he’s checking on a sick child. A part of you aches at the tenderness.

You shake your head, even though he can’t see it. “No… I’m okay. Do you?”

“I’m good,” he says, though there’s something fragile behind the words.

The silence that follows is not awkward. It’s not heavy either. Just full. Like you’re both on the other end of something you don’t know how to name.

“I should let you get some sleep,” he says at last, even though neither of you want to hang up.

You nod, barely. “Okay.”

“Goodnight, Y/n.”

“Goodnight, Rafe.” You hesitate.

And then he says it, so softly you almost miss it: “Love you.”

You don’t know if it’s muscle memory or something he meant to say. But it leaves you breathless all the same.

“I love you too,” you reply without thinking, because it’s true, even if it’s not simple.

—

You walk the red carpet beside Celeste, the sharp hum of camera shutters creating a kind of rhythm beneath the clamor. Bright flashes go off from every direction, bouncing off the velvet ropes and polished shoes. You try to keep your expression neutral, composed, but your fingers are gripping the clutch in your hand like it’s a lifeline. Never in a million years did you imagine you’d be the one being photographed by paparazzi. The second you both step inside the venue, the sound dims behind the thick doors, replaced by a pulsing bass and the muffled chatter of a glamorous crowd. Glittering chandeliers hang overhead, and fashion insiders dressed in layers of perfectly executed effortlessness float from corner to corner.

“You’ll be doing this soon,” Celeste says, glancing over at you with a knowing smile. “Running around, getting people ready for a show. Styling chaos. Controlled panic. And the best adrenaline rush you’ll ever have.”

You nod, managing a smile. It’s genuine. But faint.

She notices. Of course she does. “You okay?” she asks, placing a gentle hand on the small of your back.

You nod again, shaking yourself out of your thoughts. “Yeah, I’m good. Just… feeling a little off today.”

Her eyes study your face, sharp and soft at once. “You sure? You’ve seemed… a little out of it. Since you got back from the OBX- what, two weeks ago?” She lowers her voice slightly, leaning in. “You’re not pregnant, are you?”

“What? No! God, no,” you whisper-shout, turning to her with wide eyes.

She lifts her hands in mock surrender, though there’s a glint of amusement in her expression. Still, she gives you a sympathetic look. Celeste doesn’t push -not when she knows you’re not ready- but she doesn’t stop noticing either.

“Well, if you ever want to talk about whatever’s causing that far-off stare of yours…” she taps the side of her own head before straightening. “Want to go backstage?”

Your eyebrows lift. “Wait, we can do that?”

“This is one of the perks, sweetheart,” she grins. “Come on.”

She leads you through a side corridor lined with moody lighting and abstract art, and suddenly, the glamour gives way to organized chaos. Backstage is a world of its own -flooded with fluorescent lights, the smell of hairspray and heat tools thick in the air. Models swerve around racks of clothes in six-inch heels. Stylists bark last-minute changes. There’s a distinct hiss of a steamer somewhere and the rhythmic click of someone power-walking in platform boots.

“This,” Celeste says, gesturing to the controlled whirlwind around you, “is what you’ll be knee-deep in soon.”

You blink, wide-eyed, taking it all in. “It’s like a beautiful war zone.”

She laughs. “Exactly. And you’re going to thrive in it.”

A voice calls out over the clamor. “Celeste, darling!”

You both turn. The woman approaching is unmistakably the designer- she wears a cropped white baby tee with a blue-and-green patterned shawl tossed over it, like a cape. A flowy cobalt skirt brushes the floor as she walks, her oversized glasses perched at the tip of her nose. Her hair’s twisted into a makeshift bun, held together by a pencil, and somehow it works.

She hugs your aunt tightly before turning to you. “And this must be the lovely Y/N I keep hearing about!”

Caught slightly off guard, you offer a shy wave before reaching out your hand. “It’s so nice to meet you. I’m incredibly honored to be here.”

She takes your hand with the grace of someone who knows the importance of first impressions.

“The honor’s all mine. Celeste tells me you’re the future of this industry.”

You let out a nervous laugh. “She’s being generous,” you say, glancing at your aunt.

“She’s being honest,” the designer corrects you with a wink. “And something tells me you’ll be running a show of your own soon enough.”

Celeste nudges you gently. “Told you.”

And for a moment, surrounded by talent and vision and the buzz of creativity, you almost believe it. Almost forget the ache of a boy back home, the tension with your mother, and the lie that still lingers between you and Becca.

Almost.

As you and Celeste settle into your assigned seats near the front row, a soft hum of anticipation buzzes through the room. Guests chat over glasses of champagne, glossy programs flutter in manicured hands, and the runway -clean, stark, and glowing under overhead lights- waits like a blank canvas about to come alive.

You glance down at your phone, unlocking it out of instinct, and see a notification: a text from Rafe.

Rafe: that’s good to hear. hope you enjoy it. love you.

Your stomach flips- not in a bad way, but not in a good one either. That sort of ache that reminds you of what once felt like home. This was his response to you telling him you were attending a fashion show.

Since you left the Outer Banks, the two of you have been… cordial. The texts are consistent. Soft check-ins. How are you’s. What are you up to today’s. The kind of gentle familiarity you might find between two people pretending they’re not standing on the remnants of something once intense.

There are no late-night confessions. No flirtatious remarks. No heavy moments of emotional weight. Just small conversations that carefully tiptoe around the memory of a shared summer.

But the “I love yous”- those still come from him. Regularly. Softly. Like muscle memory.

And you? You’ve stopped saying it first. You’ll echo it when you hang up the phone, maybe. Whisper it back sometimes when it feels right. But never more than that. Never like before. Because you’re trying to keep it friendly.

You’re trying to make it platonic. At least… that’s what you keep telling yourself.

You snap a quick photo of the runway -just the clean minimalist view, nothing filtered, nothing curated- and send it to him without a caption. Something casual. Easy. Just as the house lights begin to dim, you slide your phone into your purse out of respect, folding your hands in your lap. The music starts low and slow, and you take a steadying breath as the first model steps out.

Your eyes remain fixed on the runway. But somewhere in the back of your mind, you’re still thinking about that text. Still thinking about him.

——

After lunch with Celeste and a few others—publishers, models, someone who swore they’d “just flown in from Paris that morning”- you return to your apartment. You’re full, a little dazed from small talk, and even more exhausted from pretending to be okay.

As soon as you unlock the door, Celeste walks in behind you and pauses just past the threshold, surveying the space.

“You haven’t really decorated much, have you?” she muses aloud, toeing off her heels with a soft clunk.

“Not really, no,” you mumble, already flopping onto the couch with a dramatic sigh. She joins you, folding herself gracefully into the seat beside you, one leg tucked under the other. She leans her head on her hand, elbow perched on the back cushion, watching you quietly.

“I’m not going to push,” she starts, her voice gentle. “But I just want you to know that if -or when- you want to talk, I’m here. No pressure. I just… I’ve known you long enough to know you’re not being yourself. And it’s worrying me.”

You try to swallow it down, but the weight of her words hits something raw in you. Your throat tightens. “I just…” you begin, already blinking past the sting behind your eyes. “I like this life. I really do. The job, the city, the opportunity… I should be happy.” You pause, voice breaking. “But I left so much behind. And it hurts more than I thought it would.”

Celeste nods slowly. “It does hurt,” she agrees quietly, her tone warm and maternal. “Letting go of anything meaningful always does.” Then, she tilts her head, studying you carefully. “Is this about that Rafe character?”

You look at her, startled. “How did you—?”

She chuckles, waving a hand. “Your mom and I aren’t as estranged as you think. She said a name in passing. And you’re not exactly hard to read when something’s weighing on you.”

Your gaze drops to the coffee table, where your sketches and fabric swatches lie in a beautiful mess. You sigh, reaching up to scratch at your temple like you’re trying to get the pressure out of your head.

“It’s a long story,” you say finally, voice low.

“Good,” she smiles, already standing up and heading for the kitchen. “Because I’m putting the kettle on.”

You hear her rummaging through cabinets, the sound of water running, and it brings a small bit of comfort. The kind of comfort that makes you feel, even for a moment, like you’re not entirely alone in this big, beautiful, lonely city.

It feels like déjà vu- just like that first night back in New York, sitting across from Allegra and Noel, pouring your heart out. Only this time, it’s Celeste. And somehow, repeating the story doesn’t make it any easier to tell.

You walk her through everything- your parents, Becca’s party, the summer that blurred into something both painful and beautiful, and finally, Rafe. Every detail, from the high to the heartbreak, spills out between quiet sips of tea.

When you finish, Celeste sits quietly for a moment, her hands wrapped around her mug.

“I’m not trying to invalidate your pain,” she says carefully, “but… I think you did the right thing.”

You nod, slowly. “Yeah. I know.”

The silence that follows is thick. Not awkward- just heavy. You’re about to speak again when she gently lifts a few pages from the coffee table.

“These designs are really good,” she says, flipping through them slowly.

You glance up, grateful for the change in subject. You were dangerously close to crying again.

“You really think so?” you ask, wiping your cheek with your sleeve before she can notice the gloss in your eyes.

Celeste holds up one of your sketches- a slinky gown with layered mesh and delicate embroidery. “These could make it into a runway show someday, you know.”

You shrug, half-embarrassed. “I just… I drew them without thinking. Just something to get my mind off things.”

“Even better,” she says, looking up at you. “That just proves your talent. Some people spend weeks trying to force something that wouldn’t hold a candle to these.”

A soft smile tugs at your lips. You stare into your mug, letting her words settle. Then, she sets the drawings down and glances at you with a more serious expression.

“How would you feel about running the behind-the-scenes of a show one day?” she asks, casually, but you can tell she’s testing the waters.

Your stomach flips. The idea excites you- but it terrifies you more.

“Uhhh… I don’t know,” you admit, your voice slightly tight. “That sounds… intense.”

“It is,�� Celeste agrees. “But you don’t have to say yes now. Just think about it. It’s a good stepping stone- plus, it’ll give you more credibility when you’re the one running the show.”

You nod, biting the inside of your cheek. The idea lingers like the steam rising from your tea- hazy, warm, and a little intimidating. But maybe… maybe possible.

“You don’t want to do that though?” Rafe’s voice cuts through the quiet of your bedroom, low and pointed.

You’re mid-stride, walking around in a towel with under-eye patches stuck to your face, digging through your closet for something to wear. Your phone is propped up on the nightstand, plugged in and pointed at the ceiling. He’s FaceTiming you- his full face in frame as he lays on his bed, while yours is nowhere to be seen.

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” you say, tossing a rejected shirt onto the growing pile on your bed. “It’s just… it feels like too much, too fast.”

There’s a pause, long enough for you to wonder if he’s going to let it go. But then, his voice cuts through again- softer this time, careful.

“Isn’t that the whole point of walking away from the OBX?”

You freeze with your hand hovering over a pair of jeans. He’s not talking about the island. Not really. He’s talking about you and him. About how you pulled away- how you said goodbye. This is his quiet way of saying: Wasn’t that the reason you let me go?

You chew the inside of your cheek. Rafe Cameron holding up a mirror to you… yeah, you didn’t see that one coming. “I mean… yeah. I guess,” you admit, turning away from the closet. “I just didn’t think I’d get thrown into everything so fast. I needed time to… breathe.”

“What did you expect would happen?” he asks gently, but it still strikes a nerve- because he’s not wrong. And you hate that.

You sigh. “I don’t know.” You shrug as if he can see it. “Hey, um… I’m heading out in a sec. Can we talk later?”

“Yeah,” he says, quieter now. “Love you.”

You don’t say it back. Not this time. You just hang up before the silence gets any heavier. You finish getting ready in a rush, pulling on a gray miniskirt and a black corset top. The outfit is edgier than your usual, but there’s something about Allegra’s effortless cool that’s been rubbing off on you lately. Black platform Mary Janes, gold jewelry, a matching purse. You straighten your hair, swipe on a final coat of lip gloss, and give yourself a once-over in the mirror. You look good. You feel… almost good.

Phone in hand, you head downstairs. Owen’s already waiting in the lobby, leaning casually against the wall near the entrance. He smiles as soon as he sees you, stepping forward into a warm, friendly hug.

“Hey,” he says, pulling back with a quick glance over your outfit. “You look- wow.”

“Thanks,” you grin. “I see we’re still waiting on the girls?”

“Supposedly,” he chuckles, pulling out his phone. A moment later, both of yours buzz with the same group text.

Allegra: Change of plans. We’re bailing. Go without us. Have fun ;)

Noel: You’re welcome <3

You blink down at the screen, then glance up at Owen. He’s already smiling.

“They’re trying to set us up,” you say.

“Oh, absolutely,” he agrees.

A laugh escapes you as you both head toward the door.

“Well,” you say, pushing it open, “let’s give them something to gossip about.”

He laughs and follows you out into the night.

You swipe the last fry through the ketchup, popping it into your mouth just as Owen finishes telling a story that has you nearly choking from laughter.

“So then she looks at me -dead serious- and says, ‘You’re not even a real photographer, are you? You just pretend so you can sleep with models.’” He shakes his head, grinning at the memory. “Meanwhile, I’m literally holding a $5,000 camera and wearing a lanyard that says CREW.”

You snort. “No way.”

“I swear!” he says, still laughing. “And the craziest part is- she still tried to sleep with me.”

Your jaw drops in amused disbelief. “Wait. She thought you were some kind of fraud and still made a move?”

“Yep. Apparently, I’m just that charming.”

You narrow your eyes playfully. “And you, a man, turned that down?”

He leans back in the booth, mock-offended. “What can I say? I’m not easy.”

You burst into laughter. “Wow. The bar. It’s in hell. But go ahead, king of standards.”

He gives you a playful salute. “A man of honor.”

You shake your head, still giggling as you reach for your water. And then, in a quiet moment between jokes, it hits you—you’re genuinely having a good time. Like… a real one. The first time since you left the OBX after Becca’s birthday that your laughter doesn’t feel like a mask or a distraction. It’s light, easy. It’s not pretending.

You lean your elbow on the table, resting your cheek in your palm, and glance at Owen. He’s still smiling, stirring the ice in his drink with his straw.

“I forgot how nice this could be,” you admit softly, mostly to yourself.

Owen looks up. “What?”

You sit up straight. “Nothing,” you say quickly, brushing it off with a smile. “Just… this has been nice.”

His smile softens. “Yeah. It really has.”

You look down at your empty plate, fighting the urge to overthink the moment. For now, it’s enough to feel like yourself again- even if only for the night.

“You’re not going to laugh if I ask whether you need me to walk you upstairs, are you?” Owen asks, his voice teasing but sincere.

You laugh, turning slightly toward him on the sidewalk. “Only if you’re not offering just to stoop below your usual standards and try to get with me.”

He lifts his hands in mock surrender, a grin tugging at his lips. “I swear, that wasn’t the intention. Scout’s honor.”

You tilt your head at him, amused. “I won’t laugh at you,” you say gently, “but I will turn down your offer- kindly.”

You step into a hug before he can say anything else, and his arms come around your waist without hesitation. It’s warm. Uncomplicated. And you’re not mad at it. Not at all.

“Goodnight, Owen,” you murmur into his shoulder before pulling away.

He blinks at you, looking slightly dazed. “I -uh- goodnight, Y/n,” he stumbles, running a hand through his hair as you walk away.

You flash a quick, polite smile to the doorman as he opens the building’s glass door for you. Once inside, you step into the elevator, leaning your head back against the wall with a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

Your apartment greets you with familiar stillness. You kick off your shoes, toss your purse on the counter, and head into your room, where the city lights bleed softly through the sheer curtains.

You sit on the edge of your bed and finally let yourself smile- an honest, full one that spreads across your face like warmth.

It wasn’t fireworks. It wasn’t chaos. But it was something steady. Something light.

You think back over the evening -no pressure, no expectations, just genuine laughter and conversation- and a strange but welcome thought crosses your mind: this is the first time you’ve had a good time with a guy… without sex even being a part of the equation.

You exhale and nod to yourself, letting the realization settle. Maybe things really are starting to shift.

And for the first time in a long time, you don’t dread what comes next.

Between work, late-night hangs with Allegra and Noel, and your one-on-one outings with Owen, life had taken on a kind of rhythm again. Not perfect- but steady. Predictable in a way that felt safe. You were finally slipping back into your groove, and for the first time since leaving OBX, things felt… healthy.

You still talked to Rafe from time to time -brief check-ins, the occasional “hope you’re okay” text- but it wasn’t like before. You hadn’t told him about Owen. It didn’t feel like something he needed to know. And, thankfully, he hadn’t pushed. His texts had gotten less frequent, more respectful of your space. Maybe he was finally realizing what you both had been too afraid to admit: that chapter needed to close, or at least stay tucked away for now.

You’re leaned over the bathroom sink, eyeliner in hand, trying to keep your hand steady as music thumps from your portable speaker. Allegra and Noel move around you like you’re all sharing choreography, slipping between makeup bags and hot tools without saying a word. This time, they were actually going out with you -no surprise dates, no matchmaker schemes- just a girls’ night.

The three of you end up at a sleek bar in SoHo- marble countertops, candlelight glow, overpriced martinis in frosted glasses. You’re mid-sip when a guy walks past your table and you and Allegra both clock him. Tall, good hair, sharp jaw.

“Him.” Allegra whispers with a smirk.

“I’d climb him like a tree,” you murmur, setting your glass down.

Noel makes a face. “Ew. He looks like he cries after sex.”

You laugh, nearly choking on your drink. That’s when it happens.

“Is that ALLEGRA?”

You turn simultaneously with the girls, your stomach already twisting at the tone. The voice belongs to a tall brunette with rich-girl posture, all cheekbones and lip gloss. She’s model-pretty, and worse- she knows it. You instinctively straighten your shoulders.

Allegra sets her martini down slowly, her expression souring just for a second before she spins around with a sugary smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

“Miya!” she sings, stepping in for a hug. You and Noel rise behind her like backup dancers, exchanging a quick look of shared dread.

“How are you?! You look amazing!” Miya exclaims, holding Allegra’s arms like she’s about to auction her off.

“I’m great, how are you? You look… exactly the same,” Allegra replies sweetly.

The passive aggression between them is so thick you could ice a cake with it. You want to laugh, but you don’t. You’re a guest in this catfight.

“Oh, you know,” Miya says, flipping her perfectly waved hair over her shoulder. “Just climbing the ranks, going into my third year of Fashion Week. No big deal.” Her tone is drenched in false humility. “It’s been incredible.”

“That’s amazing,” Allegra says, all smiles. “I love that for you and your nepotism.”

You nearly snort. Oscar-worthy, the both of them- smiling like sorority sisters, clawing like alley cats.

Miya doesn’t miss a beat. “So… what happened to you following me on Insta?” Her voice turns syrupy-sweet. “I was scrolling through my one point two million followers and noticed you weren’t there anymore, and I got sooo confused. I thought we were, like, really good friends.”

You and Noel visibly cringe.

Allegra cocks her head. “You know what? That was probably my agent. She goes through my socials sometimes and deletes accounts with low engagement or… irrelevant reach.” Her smile never wavers. “But I’ll be sure to follow you again. Promise.”

This whole interaction is faker than a reality TV romance.

“That’d be amazing,” Miya beams, her pouty lip back in place. “Because I still follow you- even though I promised myself I’d never follow anyone with less than a million.”

Allegra laughs like Miya just told a great joke. “Well, so good seeing you, girl! You look…” she pauses, eyeing her outfit, “expensive.”

“Always,” Miya chirps.

Allegra turns on her heel, and you and Noel follow like shadows. The second you’re out of earshot, Noel mutters, “Was she real, or a Madame Tussauds wax figure come to life?”

“I don’t think she even knows we exist,” you add.

“She doesn’t,” Allegra confirms, rolling her eyes. “And thank God for that.”

You clink your martinis in quiet solidarity and head toward the other end of the bar.

The three of you sit drunk in a half-empty local pizza joint, the glow of the fluorescent lights bouncing off the red-and-white checkered tablecloths. Aside from a couple slumped over in the corner and a lone delivery guy picking up an order, the place is practically deserted- not surprising since it’s close to midnight.

Laughter bubbles at your table, the kind that only comes when you’re slightly sleep-deprived, full of carbs, and safe with people who get you.

“I hate her,” Allegra declares, rolling her eyes so hard you think they might get stuck. She drops her phone onto the table with a dramatic thud- Miya’s Instagram page still open.

You lean over to glance at the grid of glossy selfies, ad campaigns, and filtered story highlights, before taking another bite of your pizza. “Okay, but what is your deal with her? It’s giving frenemy vibes… minus the ‘friend’ part.”

“She thinks she’s untouchable because her dad’s on the board for what gets approved for final Vogue spreads or something insane like that,” Allegra huffs, crossing her arms. “Top-tier nepotism baby. Trust fund. Insta fame. The face people fawn over?” She gestures at the screen. “Put under the needle. Thrice.”

Noel snorts into her water and glances your way. “That still doesn’t answer Y/N’s question.”

Allegra sighs, like the story itself is exhausting. “Okay, fine. We used to be cool. Like, actually cool. She was one of those trust-fund influencers who vlogged her whole life- Coachella trips, sponsored hauls, tacky celebrity parties with every D-list person you can think of.”

“She’s a stereotype,” Noel mutters.

“Exactly. Meanwhile, I moved here trying to go to acting school, remember? My dad -a producer- was like, ‘You’re either singing, or I’m cutting you off.’ So I picked up a few modeling gigs to survive, ended up getting signed. Booked and Busy.” Allegra leans back in her chair with a shrug. “The second she saw I was doing something real with my life -more than just filming herself in crop tops- she got weird. Jealous. Next thing I know, she’s injecting her face, getting long-ass extensions, and suddenly she’s walking next to me at New York Fashion Week… for her first ever show.”

You and Noel exchange wide-eyed looks as Allegra continues, her voice rising slightly.

“Then she ghosted me. Pretended we were never close. But still acts fake nice every time we run into each other like tonight.” She lets out a sharp laugh. “Not me. That ship sailed. I think the fuck not, bitch.”

You can’t help it- you burst out laughing. There’s something deeply satisfying about Allegra’s unapologetic rage, especially paired with the dramatic flick of her wrist as she pushes the phone away from her. Curious, you pull out your own phone and type in Miya’s name.

Noel leans over. “You stalking now too?”

“Maybe,” you say, tapping through Miya’s photos- picture after picture of her posing outside art deco hotels and on rooftops in Paris. But it isn’t until you scroll to the top of the page that your heart skips.

You pause. Blink. Scroll back up to make sure you read it right.

Followed by RafeCameron_

You freeze.

“Something wrong?” Noel asks, catching your face change.

You force a half-smile and shake your head, but your stomach sinks slightly. You can’t help but wonder:

Did he just start following her… or has he been? And either answer feels worse than the other.

You lie on your bed, cross-legged in yesterday’s clothes, mind racing as you fiddle with your phone. Your fingers tap against the screen, then backtrack. You open Rafe’s contact. Close it. Open it again.

It’s almost 4 a.m. You know you shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t. But your brain won’t stop running laps. Miya.

You saw her name sitting right over that little “followed by RafeCameron_” on Instagram like it meant nothing. Maybe it does mean nothing. Maybe you’re spiraling for no reason. Maybe you’re just tired. Maybe it’s the pizza. Or maybe it’s the fact that no matter how hard you try to move forward, something about Rafe always drags you back into the undertow.

Logically, this isn’t your place. You’re the one who walked away. You’re the one who drew the line. You haven’t even told him about Owen. But this wasn’t about you right now. This was about her. Miya, with the high cheekbones and surgically perfected pout and the passive-aggressive grip on Allegra’s entire last nerve. Miya, who rubbed you the wrong way the moment she opened her mouth. And now she’s in his orbit?

You press the call button before your better judgment can slap the phone out of your hand.

The line rings. Once. Twice. Again. And again. No answer.

You stare at the screen for a while after it stops ringing, like you’re waiting for it to apologize for not fixing your heartache. You eventually set the phone on your nightstand, still face-up, still glowing. Then you pass out without even meaning to, mind whirring until sleep wins.

You wake up to your phone vibrating violently beside you and a loud, steady knocking at your front door. You groan, your limbs heavy and tangled in the blankets, and blink against the morning light cutting through your shades.

Your phone’s ringing. Celeste.

You swipe to answer just as you drag yourself out of bed, last night’s eyeliner smudged beneath your eyes like mascara war paint.

“Hey,” you croak, voice gravelly from sleep and dehydration.

“Open the damn door,” Celeste says flatly. “I’ve been knocking for ten minutes. I think your neighbors are about to call the cops.”

“Okay, okay, I’m coming,” you mumble, trudging toward the door as you hang up.

You swing it open and Celeste pushes in immediately, not waiting for an invitation. She’s in tailored pants, hair in a claw clip, and her lipstick is already perfectly applied- too put together for someone who’s obviously been up just as early.

In her hand is a rolled-up copy of something thick and glossy.

“Rough night?” she asks, eyeing your smeared makeup and pajama-level effort.

You shrug, barely functioning. “Didn’t sleep well.”

“Clearly,” she mutters. Then she holds out what’s in her hand. It’s a pre-release copy of Vogue.

You take it, brow furrowing- but then you see it. Right there on the glossy front page tag, in clean serif font:

“Spotlight: Valentina & Co.’s Meteoric Rise”

Your stomach drops. You fumble with the pages, flipping until you hit it. A full spread. Photos. Interviews. Details. Everything.

Valentina & Co. splashed across one of the most powerful pages in fashion- and you weren’t even sure how it got there.

You look up at Celeste. “How…?”

She shrugs a little, already sipping her iced coffee. “That’s what I was hoping you could tell me.”

Your fingers trace the corner of the page, heart thudding for reasons you can’t quite name. It’s not jealousy, exactly. Not fear. But something about it buzzes under your skin. You blink down at the glossy pages again, a strange unease creeping in. You have no idea why, but this doesn’t feel like just another spread.

It feels like the beginning of something. Something you can’t see yet.

You’re perched beside Allegra in the bustling prep area, watching as her glam team swirls around her like bees. She’s scheduled to walk for Christian Dior’s Fall/Winter collection, and thanks to your increasingly public ties to Valentina & Co., you’d been granted the rare honor of tagging along- though strictly as a spectator.

As a makeup artist smooths highlighter across Allegra’s cheekbone, she glances sideways at you. “So… when are you and Owen finally going to, you know, take things to the next level?”

You sigh, chest tightening. The question immediately calls up Rafe’s face in your mind like muscle memory- his laugh, the way he’d touch your jaw when he wanted your full attention, the softness you’d tried to walk away from. You shake your head gently, trying to dislodge the image.

“I don’t think I’m ready for… another relationship. Or a fling,” you mutter, sinking slightly lower into the chair.

Allegra’s lips twitch. “Don’t tell me you’re still hung up on-”

She’s cut off by a voice that grates like nails on glass.

“Oh. My. God. Don’t tell me we’re walking the same show!”

You both turn. Miya floats toward you in a voluminous silk robe with oversized feathered cuffs, her hair in rollers, her mouth already curled in a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

You sense Allegra tense beside you but watch her pull out a sugary smile like muscle memory.

“I guess we are,” she replies coolly.

Miya sinks into the chair across from you both, completely uninvited, dropping her phone onto the vanity with all the grace of a mic drop. Her legs cross, her lips pout, and her gaze flickers to Allegra.

“Still waiting for that follow baaack,” she sings.

Allegra’s smile doesn’t budge. “I don’t have Insta on my phone. My manager runs my account.” A bold-faced lie.

Miya hums. “Well, I’d really hate to unfollow you. But following someone with less than a million who doesn’t follow me back? It just, like, messes with the aesthetic, you know?”

“I like, totally get it,” Allegra replies in an exaggerated valley-girl drawl, barely concealing the mimicry. You bite the inside of your cheek to stop from laughing.

Miya lets it slide, adjusting her robe like she’s prepping for a photo shoot. “Anyway, crazy that we’re doing the same show. I haven’t walked in the States in forever.”

“Funds must be running loooow,” Allegra sing-songs under her breath, laughing as she flips her hair. Miya laughs too -way too hard- but there’s an edge to it.

“You’re hilarious. But no, I was just visiting my boyfriend.” She stands and brushes imaginary dust off her robe. “I’m off to change. See you out there!”

You and Allegra watch her leave like she’s a walking ad for artificial sugar.

“Fucking bitch thinks she’s Bella Hadid,” Allegra mutters once Miya is out of earshot.

You chuckle, the tension breaking for a moment. Allegra stands, smoothing down her robe.

“I’ve gotta get into my first look. You’ll be watching, yeah?” she winks.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” you smile.

She disappears into the chaos of racks and models, and you sit for a moment, letting the movement of the room carry on around you. Stylists bark orders, steam hisses from irons, and perfumes mingle in the air. It’s beautiful, frantic, and utterly intoxicating.

Your gaze drifts casually to the vanity across from you- where Miya’s phone still lies. It vibrates once, skittering slightly on the surface.

You look.

And then you freeze.

Rafe C.

The name flashes across the screen. Your breath catches in your throat. The blood drains from your face.

You take a shaky step back, mind racing, chest tightening. Of all the possible explanations, the most painful one settles in your gut like a stone. You’re halfway to spiraling when you turn- and bump straight into someone.

“Oh- sorry,” you mumble, blinking away tears as you look up.

Standing before you is Aïsha Bellamy- creative director of the house.

“Y/N Y/L/N? You’re here!” she says brightly, clasping her hands together. “I’ve been meaning to reach out to you.”

You try to collect yourself, forcing your expression into something that vaguely resembles polite interest.

“Oh, uh, hi. Wow, yeah. That’s me.”

“I’d love to have you assist on one of our international shows. Milan or Paris, maybe? That’ll give you time to prep. We could really use your eye.”

You nod before fully processing. Anything to get away. “Yes. Definitely. I’d love to.”

“Great! My assistant will be in touch.” She pats your shoulder and disappears into the crowd.

And you? You beeline for the bathroom. Not because you’re going to cry- Because you already are.

“You’re awful quiet today,” Rafe says, voice soft through your laptop speakers.

You’re lying on your bed, MacBook propped on your lap, head tipped back against the headboard. The room is dimly lit, the only glow coming from the screen- and from him. He’s calling from his kitchen, phone leaned up against a glass, a reheated steak on the plate in front of him. Shirtless, naturally. And looking every bit as good as the food he’s eating.

You twist the silver ring on your finger- one of the many pieces of jewelry he left in your childhood bedroom, the one you swore you’d put away but never did. “Just… long day,” you murmur, eyes drifting from his face to his hands, to the slice of steak he’s cutting with far too much sex appeal for a domestic task.

“You wanna talk about it?” he asks, biting a piece off his fork. He chews lazily, like he knows how pretty he looks doing absolutely nothing at all.

You glance at your screen, trying to gauge his expression, trying to figure out how to slip Miya into the conversation without sounding crazy.

“I, um… I went to a show earlier,” you start, keeping your tone light. “A friend of mine walked for Christian Dior.”

Nothing. No flicker in his expression, no shift in his tone. He just hums in vague interest, eyes still on his plate.

You try again, fingers fidgeting with the ring. “Anything exciting or… new in your life?”

He swallows, wipes his mouth on a napkin, and shrugs. “Nothing worth speaking about.”

And there it is- the first hit of disappointment. Not because you expected him to confess, but because some naïve part of you hoped he might.

There’s a silence that settles for a beat too long before you speak again. “I actually got invited to help on a show,” you say casually, like it’s not the biggest news of your week. “Christian Dior. One of their upcoming ones.”

Now he looks up.

His expression shifts immediately- his whole face lights up. “No way. Really?”

You nod, warmth spreading across your chest. His excitement is real. Genuine. And that makes you smile- not because of the opportunity, but because he’s smiling.

“Yeah… it’s either Milan or Paris. I haven’t gotten all the details yet.” You shrug like it’s nothing, but the pink in your cheeks gives you away.

“I’m seriously proud of you, Y/N,” he says, voice quieter, more sincere.

You lower your gaze, chewing the inside of your cheek, unable to suppress your grin. The feelings -the ones you’ve been trying to outrun in crowded rooms and through Owen’s easy smiles- are back, swelling in your chest, sharp and soft all at once.

“Thanks,” you murmur.

He squints at the screen. “Wait a second… are you blushing right now?”

You immediately cover your face with your hands, laughing. “Absolutely not.”

He grins. “You totally are. It’s ‘cause I’m shirtless, isn’t it?”

“You wish,” you shoot back, rolling your eyes.

His voice drops a little, suddenly more vulnerable. “I wish I was up there with you right now.”

Your breath catches. The words land like a stone dropped in still water, rippling through your chest.

You stare at your keyboard, picking at a faded Vans sticker near the touchpad. “Me too,” you say, just barely loud enough for the mic to catch it- like you’re admitting it more to yourself than to him.

The silence that follows is thick with everything unsaid. You look at each other for a moment longer than you should, and for a moment it feels like nothing’s changed.

“I should let you get to bed,” he says finally, voice a little softer now. “You’ve got a show to run soon.”

“Yeah…” you nod slowly. “Goodnight, Rafe.”

“Goodnight, Y/N.” He hesitates. “I Love you.”

You don’t even think- the words come out before you can catch them. “I Love you too.”

You end the call, your screen fading to black.

And you sit there for a moment, the weight of what just happened pressing in like gravity. You’ve been busy, sure- distracted with work, dinners, nights out, Owen. But suddenly, all that noise feels like exactly what it was: a distraction.

Because the truth is…

You miss him.

More than you’ve let yourself admit.

You lean against the cool stone of the balcony doorframe, watching as Noel enthusiastically snaps photos of Allegra, who’s draped effortlessly over the terrace railing like she’s shooting an editorial spread. The glow of the Parisian evening bathes the scene in gold, the Eiffel Tower twinkling in the background like a postcard come to life.

Tomorrow is the Christian Dior show -the first one you’ve ever been a part of- and “nervous” doesn’t begin to cover it. It feels like everything’s been leading to this, and yet the only people here to cheer you on are your two newest friends. Becca had family obligations. Marie’s back in school. Celeste wanted to come, but business wouldn’t allow it. Your parents haven’t said much beyond a vague “good luck.” And Rafe… well, he’s moved on.

You sip from your champagne glass, trying not to let the ache of that last thought linger too long. Instead, you laugh quietly as the girls bicker playfully on the balcony.

“Don’t get my bad side,” Allegra says, flipping her hair with practiced flair.

“Bitch, your bad side is still better than my good side,” Noel fires back, adjusting her camera angle without missing a beat.

The jazz you had playing through the speaker cuts off abruptly, replaced by your ringtone. You glance over to the side table and see Rafe’s name lighting up your screen.

Your stomach flips.

It’s six p.m. in Paris, which means it’s only noon in the OBX. You usually only talk late at night, when the weight of the day softens the edges between you. Midday calls aren’t your thing- and definitely not his.

You grab the phone and walk away from the balcony, your fingers brushing the screen as you switch off Bluetooth and press it to your ear.

“Hey, Rafe,” you say, voice low as you slip into a quieter corner near the door.

“Hey, darling.”

The way he says it -warm, careful, intimate- makes your breath catch. You’re used to affection from him, but this? This sounds like something heavier. Something older. Like you’re still his.

“What’s up?” you ask, pacing slowly in the little entryway between the bathroom and closet.

“I know your show’s tomorrow,” he says. “I just wanted to say I’m proud of you.”

That’s all it takes. Your chest tightens instantly. You feel it not just in your heart but somewhere lower too, deeper. His voice hits like a trigger, one you’ve been tiptoeing around for weeks.

You blink fast, trying to hold it together. “I just…” Your voice falters. “I wish you were here.”

The silence that follows is thick, but not cold.

“Mmm,” he hums softly, and somehow that sound says everything he isn’t- like maybe he wishes he was there too. “You’re going to kill it tomorrow,” he adds. “I mean that.”

The tears finally fall. You shut yourself in the bathroom, turning the lock and bracing your hand against the marble counter as you look into the mirror. Your reflection is blurred by glassy eyes. You swipe at them quickly, hoping your mascara isn’t ruined.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

There’s a pause, and you can feel it building- something unspoken taking shape in the quiet.

Then he says it. “Hey… I love you.”

It doesn’t sound casual this time. It doesn’t sound like a placeholder, or an echo, or a routine sign-off. It sounds like a confession. You close your eyes.

“I love you too,” you reply- and this time, you mean it the way he does. Not platonic. Not safe. Just… real.

And as the words hang there between you, soft and fragile, you wonder if they’ll still mean the same thing tomorrow.

Outside, the hotel hallway is buzzing. Assistants rush by with garment bags slung over their shoulders, stylists with clipboards tap frantically on phones, and someone is yelling in French about a missing pair of heels.

By the time you reach the venue -an opulent courtyard wrapped in white florals and shimmering lights- the transformation is already underway. The Christian Dior team has taken a historic Parisian building and turned it into a dreamscape. The long runway, slick with soft light, cuts through the center of the room like a river of silver. Rows of editors, buyers, and celebrities already line the velvet benches, air-kissing and crossing their legs in curated choreography.

But you don’t sit down right away.

Instead, you’re led backstage- your domain tonight. Controlled chaos unfolds all around you: models ducking into dressing areas, hairstylists curling last-minute flyaways, makeup artists applying lip liner with military precision. Fabric whispers. Heels clack. Someone is crying. Someone is screaming about time.

And yet, amid it all, you find a strange calm in the rhythm.

You spot Allegra getting her final touches done- her gown draping off her like it was stitched directly onto her body. She glances over her shoulder and lifts a brow.

“You surviving?” she teases softly.

You smirk, brushing a stray hair from your forehead. “Barely.”

A stylist taps your shoulder and asks for help pinning the hem of a jacket that snagged just before lineup. You kneel on the cold concrete floor and fix it carefully, your hands surprisingly steady.

You belong here.

Not because of your name. Not because of anyone else’s reputation. But because you’re learning how to make it work- quietly, efficiently. The designer, Aïsha Bellamy, passes through with her assistant and gives you a quick, approving nod. “Good,” she says simply, already moving on. It’s not effusive, but it’s enough. In this world, calm is currency.

Moments later, the lights dim and the music begins- haunting strings layered with a pulsing electronic beat. The show has begun.

From backstage, you watch Allegra take her first step onto the runway- measured, confident, seamless. Cameras flash in rhythm with her steps, and you find yourself exhaling a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

There’s no time to think about anything else- not Rafe, not what he’s doing, or if he somehow managed to stream the show. You’re too busy checking hems, smoothing collars, and nudging models toward the curtain at just the right time.

And when the final looks disappears down the runway, when the applause echoes faintly from the other side of the curtain, the energy backstage subtly shifts. The tension breaks -not with confetti or champagne- but with soft exhales, loosened shoulders, quiet grins. It’s done.

Allegra returns from the runway still glowing, stepping out of her heels the second she crosses backstage. She walks up to you and bumps your shoulder gently.

“No disasters. I’ll take that as a win,” she says, grabbing a bottle of water from a tray.

You smile faintly, too tired to offer anything more. It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t explosive. But everything went the way it was supposed to- and that, in this world, is everything.

And for the first time in a while, you don’t feel like you’re running from something. You feel like you’re standing still, right where you need to be.

As you make your way through the venue, weaving between guests, you find yourself in conversation after conversation- thanking fashion editors, shaking hands with designers, nodding politely at influencers you’ve only seen on your feed. You’re smiling, you’re gracious, you’re doing everything you’re supposed to do. But beneath it all, your heart’s still thudding from the adrenaline of the show.

You’re halfway through a light chat with a journalist from Elle when something in the corner of your eye makes you freeze.

That buzzcut. That height. That familiar tilt of his head as he scans the crowd.

Your eyebrows knit as you trail off mid-sentence, excusing yourself with a soft “just a moment” and turning sharply, threading through the throng of well-dressed strangers, heels tapping quickly against the stone floor.

“Rafe?” you call out when you’re close enough.

He turns- like he was waiting to hear your voice. His eyes meet yours, and then he smiles, slow and warm, holding a single rose in his hand.

Your breath catches.

“What are you doing here?” you laugh, disbelief curling through your voice as you reach for him.

He doesn’t answer right away- just pulls you into him. And you go willingly, arms winding around his middle, cheek pressed against his chest.

His voice is soft against your ear. “I wanted to support you. I couldn’t do that from the island.”

The hug isn’t polite. It’s full-bodied, long, grounding. His warmth seeps into your skin, and for a moment, everything around you -the lights, the cameras, the Parisian venue buzzing with couture energy- fades into static.

When you finally pull back, your hands stay at his sides, but your eyes roam over his face like you’re trying to convince yourself he’s real. The bridge of his nose. The slant of his mouth. Those damn eyes.

You blink, but the tears come anyway. He notices instantly.

“Hey…” His voice is barely above a whisper as he gently reaches up, brushes a strand of hair away from your face, and tucks the rose behind your ear. “Don’t cry.”

But you do. Quietly. Unstoppably. A single tear, then another. Not because you’re sad—but because he’s here. Because you missed him. Because you didn’t realize how much you needed this moment until it landed right in front of you. He lets you have it. No pressure. Just his eyes on yours, full of something that’s almost too tender to name. And for the first time in a long time, you’re not bracing for the goodbye.

You’re just… here. With him.

“This is Rafe,” you say, voice a little softer than intended, gesturing between him and the girls.

The venue has mostly cleared out now, just a few staff and cleaners buzzing around in the background, the glamour stripped away. It feels quieter, more intimate. You can sense Allegra and Noel already sizing him up before you finish speaking. They exchange a glance -one of those silent, telepathic girl-friend looks- and you swear an entire conversation just passed between them without a word.

Allegra steps forward first, extending her hand. “Allegra. Pleasure to meet you.” Her voice is smooth, a little too polite- but not cold. Surprisingly, this might be the most gracious you’ve seen her be to a man who wasn’t Owen.

Rafe shakes her hand with a polite nod before turning to Noel, who offers hers more hesitantly.

“Noel,” she says, her voice quiet, unsure, but curious. He takes it gently and nods again.

Then his attention returns to you- full, present, and almost boyish. “You doing anything tonight?” he asks, tone casual but familiar. It hits you with a strange wave of déjà vu. This is the Rafe from early summer- the one who flirted with ease and always felt one step ahead of your heartbeat.

You glance at the girls, who are very pointedly pretending not to eavesdrop, failing miserably. Their eyes are glued to the two of you.

“I didn’t exactly have anything planned,” you admit, glancing at them again. “We might do something later.”

Before Rafe can respond, Allegra pulls you aside, looping her arm through yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

As soon as you’re a few feet away, she whispers, “So that’s Rafe.” Her eyes flick back to him, then to you again. “I get it now. Honestly, I might fall for it too.”

Noel leans in from your other side. “He’s hot. Like, dangerously hot,” she murmurs. “But he looks at you like he’d burn the world down for you, so… maybe worth it?”

You stifle a laugh, cheeks warming.

Allegra gives you a knowing nudge. “You gonna go? He looks like he came all this way for a reason.”

You hesitate. “I mean… if you guys don’t mind…”

“Girl.” Allegra deadpans. “We’re not your babysitters.”

“Go,” Noel adds with a grin.

When you turn back around, Rafe is still standing there, hands in his pockets, watching you like he already knew how this was going to end.

“I know this spot,” he says before you can speak. “Private, low-key. Best steak in Paris. Let me take you to dinner.”

You pause. Just for a second. Then nod. “Okay,” you say, voice soft but sure.

And just like that, you’re walking toward him, heels echoing against the marble, leaving behind the remnants of the show -and the girls- who watch you go with matching smirks.

You’re silently grateful you didn’t let Becca convince you to swap out your private French lessons for Spanish back in tenth grade. The words still come slowly, sure- but you can read a menu without embarrassing yourself. That has to count for something.

After the show, Rafe insisted on taking you somewhere special. He let you stop by your hotel to change, and now you’re wrapped in a black backless midi dress with matching ballet flats, your hair left softly tousled from the night. You’d opted for simple gold earrings, no necklace. You didn’t need anything else.

Now you sit across from him in a dim, elegant restaurant near the Eiffel Tower. He’s still in the tux he wore to the show, the tie gone, the top buttons undone. The two of you are tucked into a quiet corner table by the window, and the glow of the tower outside filters in like something out of a dream.

You rub the goosebumps from your arms -more from the A/C than the view- and lift your wineglass to your lips. The burgundy liquid is velvety, expensive.

“I still can’t believe you’re here,” you say with a quiet smile, looking at him over the rim of your glass.

His eyes are lit in a way you haven’t seen in a long time. “I’m glad that I am.” His gaze doesn’t waver. It’s steady, reverent. Like he’s memorizing your face.

There’s a stillness between you -soft piano music drifting in from the far side of the restaurant, silverware clinking gently, murmured conversation filling the rest of the space- but you’re only aware of him.

Then he speaks. “I need to come clean about something.”

Your stomach twists, but you keep your face neutral. Calm. Ready. You nod once, bracing yourself.

He doesn’t meet your eyes. Instead, he reaches to adjust the knife on his side of the table, moves the candle an inch like it’s suddenly in the way.

“I don’t really know how to say it, so I’m just gonna… say it.”

“Okay,” you say softly, willing your breath to stay steady.

“I, uh… I was seeing someone.”

Your heart doesn’t just sink. It folds into itself. You look away, not trusting your face to hold itself together.

“It wasn’t anything,” he continues quickly. “Just-”

“You moved on,” you finish for him, the words more bitter than you meant.

“No.” His voice comes out louder than expected. Firm. Immediate. He glances around, then lowers his voice. “No. I never moved on.”

You look down at your lap, swallowing against the lump forming in your throat.

“That’s the thing,” he continues, voice low and slow. “Do you remember when Valentina & Co. got that full spread in that… Vogue magazine?”

You nod cautiously. “Yeah…”

His eyes meet yours. “That was me. Sort of. I… I dated this girl. Her dad’s one of the big players behind the scenes in that fashion shit. I convinced her to get it in front of him. To push it. I thought maybe it could help.”

You stare at him, mouth parting slightly. “Wait… you did that?”

He shrugs like it’s nothing. “Yeah.”

“Who was it?” you ask, though you already know.

He hesitates. “Does it matter?”

“It does to me.”

He sighs. “Miya. Something. I don’t even remember her last name.”

You nod slowly, letting it settle. “So… you used her to help me?”

“I mean…” he leans back, running a hand over his face, “yeah. I guess I did.”

Your lips twitch into a smile you weren’t expecting. “You don’t feel bad about that.”

A grin pulls at his mouth. “No. Not really.”

The two of you laugh -quiet and conspiratorial- until the tension dissolves, leaving something warmer in its place.

After a beat, your voice drops, uncertain. “You didn’t… sleep with her, did you?”

He gives you a look. “God, no.”

You nod again, your breath releasing without realizing you’d been holding it.

The waiter places your food in front of you, and for a while, the conversation falls into an easy rhythm. You eat. You laugh about his god-awful French and how he refuses to even try with the pronunciation. He teases you for being a language snob. You tell him he’s lucky he’s pretty.

It’s not just dinner. It’s a return. A rebalancing.

You don’t say it, but you feel it: you’re not sure where this goes next. But for now -just for tonight- you’re glad he’s here. And you’re glad it still feels like this.

The car pulls up to the curb, the soft glow of the hotel’s golden lights reflecting off its polished windows. The driver gets out to open the door, and you and Rafe step out together, the quiet hum of the city night wrapping around you like silk. You’re both staying at the same hotel, something neither of you planned but secretly feel grateful for.

Inside, the marble floors gleam beneath the lobby chandelier. Rafe glances at you, his hand brushing yours for a second too long as you both slow your steps.

“Want me to walk you to your room?” he asks, voice casual but eyes unreadable.

You smile, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Sure.”

The two of you cross the vast lobby and step into the elevator, the hush of the space suddenly intimate. A woman slips in behind you—a tall blonde, maybe late twenties, in heels and a fitted dress that says she’s not here alone. She turns to Rafe, completely ignoring you.

“What floor?” she asks, smiling with a little too much interest.

Something twists low in your stomach. Maybe it’s irrational. Maybe it’s not. But you feel it all the same.

“Six,” you say, stepping a little closer and sliding your fingers through Rafe’s. Your tone is light, but the message is not.

You don’t look at him, but you can feel the smirk forming on his face. You don’t have to see it- you can feel the smug heat of it in the air between you. When the elevator dings and the doors open, Rafe’s hand is still wrapped around yours as you step out into the hallway.

The door to your room is only a few steps away, but the moment stretches like static.

“So…” he says, once you’re standing in front of it. “Was that jealousy back there?”

You roll your eyes, key card in hand. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He leans a shoulder against the wall, grinning. “You grabbed my hand like you were staking a claim.”

You shrug, but your smirk is involuntary. “Maybe I was.”

Rafe lifts an eyebrow, clearly enjoying this too much. “You know, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you still like me.”

You tap the key card, the lock flashing green with a soft click.

You glance back at him, your voice quieter now. “Do you want to come in?”

His teasing expression shifts- still amused, but softer now. “Yeah. I do.”

You push the door open and let him follow you inside.

The suite is spacious, luxurious, and -thankfully- no longer a disaster. You kick off your shoes, the plush carpet soft under your feet as you step inside. The chaos you left behind that morning has vanished. The remnants of your half-eaten room service breakfast are gone, the bed is freshly made, trash bins emptied, and the crisp scent of something clean and citrusy lingers in the air.

You breathe in, grateful. When you’d rushed out earlier, it had looked like a hurricane passed through- clothes on chairs, towels on the floor, makeup scattered on the counter.

Now, everything feels quiet. Still. Intimate.

You walk over and sit at the edge of the bed, then let yourself fall backward with a soft thud, arms stretched above your head. Rafe is still near the doorway, hands in his pockets, watching you. It’s the first time in a while -maybe ever- that you’ve seen him without that usual air of cocky confidence. He looks… unsure. Out of place, even.

“You can sit, you know,” you say, casting him a lazy smile.

He huffs a soft laugh, like your comfort eases something in him, and walks toward you. Slowly, he drops down beside you, then leans back until you’re both lying side by side, staring up at the ceiling. Your faces are nearly aligned, breath mingling in the space between.

Silence stretches for a beat. Then he speaks, his voice impossibly neutral.

“You never moved on?”

Your chest tightens. The question is simple, but it lands like a weight.

“No,” you say, shaking your head. You turn toward him, propping yourself up on one elbow, hair cascading down the side of your face and brushing the bed.

“Never.”

Owen was sweet. He did everything right. But he wasn’t Rafe. He never could’ve been.

Rafe’s eyes flick toward you, catching you in the corner of his vision. “Never?” he repeats, a hint of disbelief -or hope- threaded through the word.

“Never,” you whisper, the truth sitting heavy in the space between you.

Your eyes stay locked, and something deep in your chest pushes you forward. You don’t kiss him. You don’t need to. Instead, you gently lay your head beside his, your nose brushing his cheekbone, your forehead pressing lightly against his temple. The warmth of him seeps into your skin, familiar and achingly missed.

He exhales slowly, like the words have been waiting years to escape.

“I’ll never not love you,” he murmurs.

Your eyes flutter shut. “I’ll never not love you too,” you breathe, the confession soft, reverent.

Another beat of silence, filled only with the hum of the city outside the window and the quiet thunder of your heart. Then you slowly sit up, crossing the room toward the en-suite bathroom.

You twist the handle in the shower, steam starting to rise almost instantly, curling in the air like ghosts.

When you step back out, he’s still lying on the bed, watching you.

You walk over, standing between his knees. No words. Just the water running in the background, the dim light casting a soft glow on your skin. You reach out a hand to him, no pressure, no performance. Just an invitation. He looks up at you, and then down at your hand. And when he takes it, it’s not just about the shower. It’s about everything that came before- and maybe, everything still ahead. You stand across from each other in the steamy glow of the bathroom, the sound of rushing water filling the space between you. Neither of you speaks as you undress, slow and unhurried, but there’s a nervous energy threading through the silence- your heartbeat is wild in your chest, and from the way Rafe stares down at the floor, jaw tense, you know he feels it too. He’s not smirking. Not teasing. Just quiet. Focused.

You step into the shower first, the blast of heat cascading over your skin and soaking your hair instantly. You tilt your face into the stream for a moment, eyes closed, grounding yourself in the warmth. Then you turn around- and he’s there. Rafe steps in behind you, and without a word, you wrap your arms around his torso, pressing your cheek to his chest. His arms encircle you in return, slow and sure, and he kisses the crown of your head like it’s second nature.

You both just stand there for a while, bodies swaying gently from side to side, water pouring over you like rainfall. Your eyes are closed, but your heart is wide open- his touch, his breath, the solid rhythm of his heartbeat against your cheek… it’s all too much and somehow not enough.

Eventually, you both shift- he reaches for the body wash, you grab the loofah, and the moment turns practical but no less intimate. You wash each other’s backs, slow strokes and soft touches in between shy glances and barely-there smiles. There’s something sacred about it. No performance. Just care.

After rinsing off, you each step out, wrapping towels around yourselves. You press one to your face, still damp and flushed, while Rafe wanders the room like he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. His towel hangs low on his hips, water dripping from the ends of his short hair as he stops in front of the dresser. He runs a finger over the surface, pausing at the decorative tray filled with little glass bottles, candles, and hotel trinkets. He’s quiet- like something’s heavy on his mind.

You walk up behind him, slipping your arms beneath his, hands curling gently over his shoulders. You press a kiss between his shoulder blades, then to the curve of his neck, your lips brushing warm skin still damp from the shower.

He watches you through the mirror for a beat, then turns his head, eyes locking with yours.

Without a word, he takes your hands and guides them down, turning around to face you fully. Then he lifts you effortlessly, and your legs wrap around his waist like instinct, like muscle memory. His eyes search yours- like he’s trying to find the exact words but knows he doesn’t need them. So you close the space between you, lips meeting his in a slow, deliberate kiss.

He carries you to the bed, laying you down with a tenderness that makes your chest ache. He hovers over you, brushing damp hair from your face, and you reach between your bodies to untuck the towel from your frame, letting it fall away.

You break the kiss just enough to speak, eyes locked with his.

“I want to make love,” you whisper, voice trembling but steady with intent.

His eyes open, wide and searching. You expect a smile, maybe another kiss, but instead, he stills. For a second, you’re afraid he didn’t hear you right- until you notice the tears brimming in his eyes, threatening to spill over.

Your brows draw together in concern. “Rafe…”

But before you can finish, he nods, that familiar furrow in his brow deepening as he leans in and presses his mouth to yours again- this time with more purpose, more emotion.

You kiss him back like it’s the only way to stay grounded, your hands sliding to the sides of his face, holding him as if he might disappear- like if you let go, this might all vanish, a dream you’ve conjured from missing him for far too long.

Rafe pulls you with him, guiding you both up toward the head of the bed, his towel slipping off and forgotten somewhere along the way. His lips leave yours only briefly, traveling down to the delicate skin of your neck, then just beneath your ear. Every kiss he places feels deliberate, reverent, like he’s rediscovering you inch by inch.

He gently urges your legs apart, settling his weight between them with ease. You feel the heat of him against you, the soft drag of his tip gliding up and down your entrance- not teasing, just savoring. His eyes stay locked on yours, lips brushing over your jawline like a promise. You keep one hand cradling his cheek, thumb tracing the curve of his cheekbone slowly, eyes blinking against the overwhelming rush of emotion as he finally pushes in. The stretch is familiar, but the feeling? The feeling is entirely different.

This isn’t like the times before. Not your bedroom. Not his. Not Becca’s laundry room. Not the backseat of his car.

This time feels sacred.

Your mouth parts on a soft gasp, brows drawing together in pleasure- but your eyes never leave his. He begins to move, hips rolling in slow, tender thrusts, like he’s syncing his body to yours. One of his hands fists the pillow beside your head, the other gripping the edge of the sheet as if anchoring himself to this moment.

The bed creaks softly beneath you, your bodies finding a rhythm that’s more than physical- moans and breathless gasps filling the space like whispers of things you’re too afraid to say out loud. Your legs stay wrapped around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back. Then he slides an arm beneath you, lifting you slightly so your chest presses to his, skin flush against skin. His head drops to the crook of your neck, breath hot and ragged.

“Rafe,” you cry out, arms locking tightly around him, holding him with everything you have left.

“I know, baby. Let go,” he murmurs, voice low and strained—like he’s barely holding it together himself.

That’s all it takes.

Your body arches against his as release takes over, your head falling back as a raw cry slips from your lips. Your eyes roll back, your chest trembling, and it feels like your soul is being drawn from your body- too much, too beautiful, too intense.

Rafe isn’t far behind. He lowers you both to the bed, staying inside just long enough to feel your shudders slow before gently pulling out. He finishes on your stomach with a soft grunt, then reaches for one of the discarded towels, careful and quiet as he wipes you clean. There’s no rush. No awkwardness. Just silence and something that feels a lot like love.

Eventually, the sheets are pulled up over your bodies, and you both settle beneath them, limbs tangled. The window offers a postcard view of Paris- city lights twinkling across the skyline, the Eiffel Tower glowing in the distance like a dream you forgot you once had. Rafe’s arm is wrapped tightly around you, the hand of the arm you rest on woven through your fingers. He rubs his thumb over your knuckles, chest rising and falling slow and steady beneath your cheek.

You don’t know what this means. Not for tomorrow. Not for when you both go back to the States. There are still questions lingering in the air, consequences waiting on the other side of sunrise.

But right now, none of that matters.

Right now, he’s here. You’re here. And nothing else in the world comes close to mattering as much as this moment.

113 notes · View notes

mggssocks · 23 days ago

Text

The Eighth

the eighth masterlist

pairing: fem!kook!reader x Rafe Cameron

cw: nsfw (fingering, penetrative sex), angst

a/n: ehhh.... enjoy? or at least try to :(

You’re dressed now, wearing a crisp white off-the-shoulder Chanel top that clings in all the right places, paired with a vibrant denim mini skirt that feels like summer. Your hair, finally tamed, is brushed into a sleek low bun. You feel more like yourself than you have in days- polished, composed, and present.

Marie is hugging Becca tightly in front of you, and there’s an ease between them- a magnetic pull you hadn’t noticed before but now seems undeniable. There’s a softness in Becca’s usually brash demeanor, and a subtle gleam in Marie’s eyes that tells you they’re in deeper than they let on. When Marie turns to you, she wraps you in a firm, grounding hug. It’s warm, unexpected. One of those hugs that you didn’t realize you needed until you were in it. You squeeze her back, holding on a little longer than you meant to. The three of you carry Marie’s overnight bags upstairs to Becca’s room, where chaos has already claimed the space- makeup bags, swimsuits, chargers, and half-zipped duffels all splayed out across the bed and floor like a war zone of girlhood.

It’s only early afternoon, just a few hours since you and Rafe’s not-so-subtle breakfast flirtation. And now, you, Becca, and Marie head down to the home theater to unwind.

The moment you step in, you’re met with the low whirring hum of a large fan, aimed at Beau and Rafe. They’re lounged across the recliners like they’ve been sun-soaked all morning. The air smells faintly of chlorine and sunscreen.

“Oh,” you murmur under your breath, startled by their presence.

Beau lifts his head lazily, clocking you three. “You can come in,” he says, waving a hand before flopping back down, sweat-damp curls pressed to his forehead.

Rafe doesn’t speak. He’s too busy staring- at you. More specifically, your skirt. His gaze is sharp, lingering, heated in a way that makes the back of your neck prickle. You look away quickly, pretending not to notice, even though you feel it all the way to your spine.

“We know,” Becca says flatly, heading toward the second row. “It’s not your room. We’re just watching a movie. Stay or don’t. We don’t really care.” She shrugs like she means it.

“You sound like an Adult Swim ad,” Beau quips.

Becca doesn’t dignify it with a response, already sinking into the middle seat. You sit beside her, Marie on your other side. Becca turns on the projector, the fire stick home screen casting a faint blue glow across the room.

Then the doorbell rings.

“I got it,” Beau says, suddenly springing to his feet with more energy than he’s shown all day. He practically bounces out of the theater room.

“What’s that about?” you ask, eyebrow raised, looking at Becca. But she’s not paying attention anymore, eyes glued to her phone. Rafe is behind you, reclined with his legs stretched out. You don’t know why, but you glance back at him. Maybe it’s curiosity. Maybe it’s muscle memory.

He’s changed into a plain black t-shirt, still slightly damp from the heat outside. It clings to him unfairly, and the definition of his chest and arms is criminal. He catches you looking and smirks- like he knew you’d cave and sneak a glance. You roll your eyes and turn back around, mostly to hide the traitorous smile threatening your lips. Not because you’re annoyed… but because you’re not annoyed at all. And that’s the problem. Becca elbows Marie, leaning over to show her something on TikTok. You lean back slightly in your chair, soaking in the moment, when you feel him. A quiet presence next to your ear.

“Meet me upstairs in five,” Rafe murmurs, low and smooth. His voice brushes against your skin like a secret. You stiffen just slightly as he steps away, stretching his arms overhead in an exaggerated yawn.

“I’m gonna lay down,” he announces casually.

He walks toward the exit with slow, deliberate steps, giving you one last look over his shoulder. And it lingers. You stare straight ahead, heart in your throat. Because you don’t know exactly what five minutes from now means. And you’re not sure if you’re ready to find out.

What the hell am I doing?

The question loops in your mind like a warning siren as you mumble something about needing to use the bathroom and quietly slip out of the theater room. Your heart is thudding against your ribs, and every step up the stairs feels heavier than the last. You bite your lip, anxiety simmering beneath your skin.

“Rafe?” you whisper as you reach the landing, your eyes scanning the dim hallway.

A door creaks open just ahead, and his hand appears- fingers curling as he beckons you forward.

“Come quick,” he murmurs, his voice low and urgent.

Your brow furrows with suspicion, but your feet move anyway, drawn to him like a tide to the moon. “What’s wrong?” you ask cautiously as he pulls you in, hand wrapping around yours. Before you can fully register where you are, you’re yanked gently into the laundry room, the door clicking shut behind you. It’s quiet. Warm. Too intimate.

“You wanted to meet me?” you ask, arms folded defensively across your chest.

“I just wanted to talk,” he says, leaning casually against the dryer like this isn’t the emotional equivalent of walking through a minefield. His arms are crossed, jaw sharp, and the shirt clinging to his chest only makes things worse. You hate how good he looks.

“What is there to talk about, Rafe?” you challenge.

“Us.” His voice softens, and he steps forward. One arm comes off the dryer, reaching for your wrist to pull you closer.

“There’s no us,” you shoot back, grabbing his hand and shoving it away. “And that’s your fault.”

Your tone is biting, but he barely flinches. Instead, his hands find your waist, slow and patient, pulling you forward until you’re standing between his legs.

And then he looks at you. That look. Those soft, aching blue eyes that used to unravel every piece of you. You should push him away. You want to. But God help you… you don’t.

He rubs your sides gently, the motion slow and familiar, and you tilt your head up, focusing on the ceiling like it might offer some kind of strength. Anywhere but his eyes.

“I know,” he murmurs. “It’s my fault. I’ve been trying to make it right, but…” He sighs. “You don’t really answer when I reach out.”

“I have a life outside of you, Rafe,” you say, sharper than you intend. His touch stings in how much it still feels like home.

“You do,” he agrees instantly. “And you deserve every piece of it.”

One hand rises to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, trailing softly down to your chin, coaxing it gently downward until your eyes meet his. “But I still think about you. Every day. I messed up… and I miss you so much.”

Your breath hitches. You want to stay mad. You should stay mad.

“You did mess up,” you whisper, your voice cracking with the effort it takes to hold it together.

“You hurt me.”

His hands drop briefly, clenching like he’s holding back more. Then he exhales and steps forward again, this time with more certainty. “Did you get my gifts?” he asks, quieter now.

You shake your head. “No. I haven’t been home.”

He leans in, his voice a whisper against your ear. “Then go home. Look at them.”

His hands return to your waist, gentle but insistent, and the air shifts. The room suddenly feels hotter, tighter.

“You’re the best thing that ever happened to me,” he whispers, and then his lips brush against the curve of your neck. Featherlight. You go stiff. You shouldn’t let him do this. But then his mouth finds that spot. The one just below your jaw- the one he always remembered. And it’s like your resolve shatters in a thousand quiet pieces. Your head falls back as Rafe’s lips trail slow, open-mouthed kisses down your neck, each one warmer and more intoxicating than the last. You bite your lip, desperate to hold back the sounds clawing at your throat. His hands are at your waist now, pulling you in closer, molding your body to his as he leans against the dryer. You’re pressed flush against him- your heartbeat frantic, his breath brushing the sensitive skin beneath your jaw.

“Rafe,” you whisper, your palms flat against his chest like you’re about to push him away. But you don’t. You can’t.

Instead, your hands slide up over the curve of his shoulders, wrapping around his neck, pulling him down to you.

“Say my name again, baby,” he breathes, his voice low and rough as his hands explore the length of your back- one sliding down to cup the curve of your ass.

“Rafe,” you murmur again, barely audible this time, but the way his name drips from your lips makes his grip tighten.

One of his hands slides forward, brushing beneath the hem of your skirt and slipping lower until it finds the warmth between your thighs. Your breath stutters. His fingers toy gently over your underwear, then slip beneath the delicate fabric, grazing the center of your need. You inhale sharply, your body jolting at the contact.

“You’re soaked,” he murmurs against your neck, his voice like velvet, threaded with awe. “God, I missed you.”

You moan softly, overwhelmed as one of his fingers dips inside you, then another. His palm presses against you, thumb teasing, slow and deliberate. Your head falls forward to his shoulder, and he kisses your collarbone- slow and reverent.

The pleasure builds with every pass of his hand. It’s dizzying, sinful, and too much all at once. Your back arches, knees wobbling, and before you can stop it- your body trembles through a release that leaves your skin buzzing and your breath shattered. Then -like a dream flipping into something darker- he turns you, bending you gently over the dryer, lifting your skirt as your breath catches. You hear the zipper. Feel the brush of him, thick and hard, teasing along your folds. You gasp at the contact, his tip nudging your oversensitive clit- just once, twice, and again.

And then he pushes in.

“F-fuck,” you whimper, voice catching as you grip the sides of the machine. Your face rests against the cold metal. His hand slides up your back in comfort, soothing, even as he groans low in his throat.

“I don’t remember you feeling this good,” he mutters, frozen for a moment, trying to pace himself. The compliment makes your ego spark. You smirk faintly into the dryer lid. But then he moves- deep, rhythmic thrusts that have you both exhaling like you’ve found air underwater. You can barely form a thought, let alone a sentence. The steady thud of the dryer beneath you mixes with the sound of your bodies meeting in waves.

“Rafe- I’m gonna-” you gasp, trying to warn him, your body already coiling again.

“Let go, pretty girl,” he says through gritted teeth, one hand still gripping the back of your shirt. Normally, you’d complain about wrinkles. Not now.

You come undone again, harder this time- like your whole body exhaled at once. Moments later, he lets out a strangled breath, pulling you up against his chest, holding your hips still as he finishes with a groan you feel in your bones.

You both stand in silence afterward, adjusting clothes, smoothing hair, catching your breath.

“I think laundry day just became my favorite day of the week,” he says smugly, grinning as he tucks his shirt back in.

You glance at him, a breath of laughter slipping out. “You’re so- ” You don’t even finish. There’s no point. The two of you head back down the hall toward the stairs like nothing happened, trying to act casual even though your pulse is still sprinting.

Just as you reach the bottom, Beau comes in through the front door with a girl on his arm. She’s stunning -warm brown skin, full lips, and eyes that could make you spill secrets. She looks like she walked out of an R&B album cover- a little bit SZA, a little bit supermodel.

Beau catches sight of you both and immediately slows. His eyes narrow slightly- subtle but telling. Like he can smell what you’ve just done.

“Guys, this is Rachelle- my girlfriend,” Beau says, the slightest edge to his tone. “Rachelle, this is Y/n- my sister’s best friend. And this is Rafe… good friend of mine.”

You smile politely. Rafe nods. But Beau? He’s still looking between you both like he’s solving an equation. And from the look in his eyes, he might already have.

The four of you walk back into the theater room. Becca and Marie are curled up on one of the recliners, Marie’s head resting on Becca’s shoulder as the two of them scroll and giggle through TikToks, their laughter echoing softly beneath the hum of the projector.

Becca looks up when the door opens, narrowing her eyes. “Where the hell were all of you?”

Without missing a beat, Beau casually throws the rest of you under the bus. “Rachelle and I were outside,” he says, guiding his girlfriend to the front row, his arm looped around her waist like it belonged there.

“I just came from upstairs,” Rafe adds with a shrug, settling back into the same seat he was in before. He pulls out his phone, the picture of nonchalance as he scrolls, like he wasn’t just-

All eyes fall on you next. Your cheeks are warm, your neatly slicked-back bun is slightly disheveled now, and your shirt has faint creases that weren’t there before. Your breath hitches for a second, but you force a relaxed smile.

“I told you guys I was going to the bathroom,” you say innocently, plopping down beside Becca and crossing your legs like nothing happened.

Becca squints at you. “Mmmhm.”

Before the interrogation can resume, Marie glances up. “Are we still watching a movie?” You could kiss her for the save.

But Becca shakes her head. “I think we should finish setting up for the party tomorrow,” she says, already sitting up straighter. “We still need more snacks, party stuff… and the party starts early.”

“What time is it again?” Rachelle asks as Beau peppers kisses along her cheek, causing her to giggle.

“Eleven in the morning,” Becca groans. “Which means I have to get up at like eight to do my hair and makeup.”

“Calm down,” you say, placing a soothing hand on her lap. “We’ll get everything taken care of, I promise.”

By evening, the house hums with music and motion. You’ve all split up to tackle different parts of the setup. The boys assemble a ping pong table in the backyard. Rachelle taps a keg like she’s done it a hundred times. You, Marie, and Becca string up the last of the lights and haul out the karaoke machine, setting it up beneath a white sheet screen for makeshift projector karaoke. At some point, the playlist switches to something upbeat and nostalgic, and the sun starts to sink, casting everything in gold.

“Ugh, finally!” Marie groans, flopping down dramatically once the karaoke machine is fully hooked up.

“Sing us a song!” Beau shouts from across the yard, cupping his hands around his mouth.

“Absolutely not,” you laugh, waving him off.

“Sing! Sing! Sing!” Becca starts the chant, nudging Marie who quickly joins in.

Soon Rachelle’s clapping and swaying along with them, and then -surprisingly- Rafe joins in too, his voice low but unmistakable. You roll your eyes and huff dramatically, but step up to the mic anyway.

“You’re all so annoying,” you mutter, scrolling through the song options. You pick something soft and sweet: ‘No Other Heart’ by Mac DeMarco.

The instrumental kicks in, and they all clap like proud parents as you clear your throat and shyly begin to sing.

“Well, for one… her heart belongs to another,” you croon, your voice a little shaky from nerves but not bad- just raw and real. “And no other heart will do…”

You don’t dare look at anyone at first, your eyes fixed on the lyrics, but then you catch a glimpse of Rafe.

He’s sitting in the lawn, arms resting on his knees, fingers loosely laced. There’s a subtle smile tugging at his lips, soft and warm like he’s watching something sacred. His eyes don’t leave you. You quickly glance away, trying to play it cool, trying to pretend your heart isn’t beating faster just because of him.

They all clap and sway along. You laugh through the second verse, embarrassed, covering your face for a beat with your free hand. But Rafe’s still watching you like you hung the stars.

“What were you and Rafe doing earlier when you both disappeared?” Becca asks, her tone casual, but the look she gives you through the mirror says she’s fishing for something.

The two of you are seated on the floor in front of her large vanity mirror. You’re curling her hair, strand by strand, while Marie sits beside you, carefully rolling and pinning each curl as you finish. Becca is watching you closely in the reflection, and there’s no use pretending she doesn’t already know. She always knows.

You pause mid-curl, eyes dropping as your fingers falter on the hot barrel. “We… talked,” you admit. It’s not a lie. But it’s not the whole truth either. You didn’t tell her how easily you let him pull you in again- how fast your body betrayed your brain.

Becca hums thoughtfully, picking at the carpet with her nails. “Talked about what?”

You shrug, trying to play it cool, even though you can feel Marie glancing between the two of you. “He asked why I hadn’t responded to his messages… or about the gifts he left at my parents’ house.”

“And?” Becca asks again, eyes flicking up through the mirror.

“And… what?” you deflect.

“That’s it?” she raises an eyebrow.

You keep your eyes fixed on the curling iron, focusing on wrapping the next piece of hair. “Yeah.”

Becca doesn’t press any further, but the air shifts slightly, a shared silence blooming between the three of you as the curling continues. Eventually, all the rollers are set and the lights go out. The three of you pile into her oversized bed like old times, tangled in layers of throw blankets and half-whispered goodnights.

Becca and Marie drift off quickly, their soft breathing the only sound in the room. But you lie awake.

The soft glow from your phone screen lights your face as you scroll aimlessly through Instagram, avoiding your thoughts- until a notification drops down from the top of your screen.

Rafe: hey

You stare at it for a moment, heart tightening. It’s been weeks. And yet, some things never change.

Your thumb hesitates, then moves. You tap on the message and scroll up. It’s only now that you truly see the thread- messages you ignored.

“I miss you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Still thinking about you.”

“How are you?”

They weren’t just casual check-ins. They were quiet, desperate attempts to reach you. Your chest aches. He really did try. Your fingers hover, then type:

You: hey

You don’t even have time to blink before the typing bubbles pop up.

Rafe: come to my room. Guest room, down the hall to your left.

Your pulse skips. You stare at the message.

You: why should I?

You wait.

Rafe: I miss having you next to me when I sleep.

That’s all it takes. You glance once at your sleeping friends, then slowly ease yourself out of bed, slipping into the hallway and quietly closing the door behind you. The house is quiet except for the distant thrum of the AC and the occasional creak of old floorboards. Rafe is already waiting for you in the doorway of the guest room, forearm leaned against the frame, a familiar grin spreading across his face the moment he sees you.

“So you just knew I’d come, huh?” you whisper, walking toward him.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he wraps one arm around your waist, pulling you into him before

guiding you inside. The door shuts behind you with a soft click.

You fall back into the bed, kicking off your socks and crawling under the covers without hesitation. Rafe follows, climbing in after you, moving on top just enough to press slow, unhurried kisses to your cheeks, your forehead, your jaw.

It’s not sexual. Not rushed. It’s tender- like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your face with his mouth.

You laugh quietly beneath him, your fingers brushing his hair back. “You’re being so dramatic.”

“I missed you,” he says into your neck. “Let me be dramatic.”

Eventually, he settles behind you, arms slipping around your waist, legs tangling with yours like muscle memory. His chest rises and falls against your back in rhythm with yours. It’s soft. Still. Familiar.

And just like that, the noise quiets- for now.

You’re up early. Earlier than anyone else.

The sky outside the window is still dark, bruised with the soft lavender and ash-blue of an impending sunrise. You slip quietly out from under Rafe’s arm, careful not to stir him. His brows twitch slightly in his sleep, but he doesn’t wake. You hesitate for a breath -watching him, soaking in the peace on his face- before silently gathering your things and tiptoeing into the hallway.

Becca’s room is exactly how you left it, save for the soft snores of the two girls still fast asleep in her bed. You slip into the ensuite bathroom, closing the door gently behind you before turning on the light.

By the time you emerge, you’re fully dressed in your outfit for the party- something stylish and pool-appropriate, your hair done and makeup just enough to give you that glow. You move like a ghost across the room, collecting your phone and bag, then tiptoe back into the hallway. No one stirs.

The house is still cocooned in the silence of early morning. You quietly slip out the front door, letting it click shut behind you.

The bakery smells like heaven -fresh buttercream, warm vanilla, and sweet fruit glazes. The cake is ready, a two-tier creation with blush pink icing, fresh florals, and little gold accents that scream Becca. You double-check the name is spelled right (last time, it wasn’t) and thank the baker before carefully carrying it to your car.

On the way back, you stop by a party supply store that just opened. You grab the last few things that were left off the original list: a box of biodegradable confetti, extra cocktail napkins, a few sets of polaroid film, and a pack of pink and gold pool-safe cups. You even pick up a few satin sashes just for fun -Birthday Girl, Hot Mess, Designated Flirt- knowing Becca will eat it up.

By the time you pull back into the driveway, the sun is fully up. The house is buzzing. Music is playing faintly through the windows, and the faint clatter of pans and movement echoes from the kitchen.

Inside, the air smells like breakfast- bacon, eggs, rosemary potatoes. The catering team is already working, dressed in black polos, busy at the stove and plating fruit trays. Rafe is nowhere to be seen, and part of you is grateful. You’re still processing the softness of last night, the way he held you like he didn’t want to let go.

You quietly slip the cake into the freezer, making sure it’s safe and level, then turn to head upstairs. Upstairs, the energy is chaotic- but good. Becca is awake now, standing in front of her mirror with Marie helping her with lashes. Her hair is wrapped in a silk scarf, makeup half done, and she lights up the moment she sees you.

“Where did you disappear to?” she asks, not accusatory, just curious.

“Picked up the cake and grabbed the rest of the decorations,” you say, holding up the shopping bag like a trophy.

“You’re a godsend.” Becca walks over to peek in the bag and squeals when she sees the sashes. “Okay but this one is mine,” she says, immediately claiming the Birthday Girl sash.

Marie laughs, lifting her roller brush. “You were gone before sunrise? Damn. You’re like… really committed to the maid of honor vibes.”

You just smile, brushing it off as you lay the rest of the decorations on Becca’s bed.

As you unpack, you glance at yourself in the mirror. You look well-rested. Glowy, even. And you know it has nothing to do with sleeping.

The party’s been in full swing for over an hour, and instead of basking in the sun or lounging on one of the floats you helped test earlier, you’re weaving through clusters of people, mentally checking off every party detail like it’s your job.

The music is bumping, laughter echoes from every corner, and someone’s already spilled something suspiciously sticky on the tile by the patio doors. Classic.

You pass Becca- who currently has her feet held in the air by a girl you don’t recognize, her head tilted back as she expertly chugs from a keg spout to the roar of a surrounding crowd.

“Go, Becs,” you think with an amused grin as you breeze past her, weaving through the mass of half-dressed party guests.

It’s packed. People are dancing, talking, laughing too loudly, clinking plastic cups, and enjoying the chaos in all the ways you’re currently not. You’re glad to see the pool floats you and the guys worked so hard to inflate are actually being used- two girls are posing on the flamingo for selfies while a guy attempts to flip a swan float for absolutely no reason.

Beau and Rachelle are locked in a heated game of beer pong near the outdoor bar. Marie sits at the edge of the pool, legs in the water, while some guy clinging to a floaty tries -and fails miserably- to flirt with her. From the way she’s smirking, you can tell she’s entertained but not interested.

You duck into the kitchen, relieved to be alone for half a second. Or so you think.

It’s crowded in here too. A few guests hover by the counters, pretending to “just be looking” while casually stealing hors d’oeuvres off the trays as the catering team tries to prep. A guy actually has the audacity to open the oven.

“Hey! Out of the kitchen, please!” you say, waving your hands gently like you’re herding overly confident sheep. “Our caterers will be walking around with hors d’oeuvres. Please don’t crowd the space.”

As people shuffle out with guilty looks, someone else sneaks in behind you.

“You’re working way too hard for someone who’s not even being paid,” a familiar voice says.

You turn around to see Rafe leaning against the counter, looking far too relaxed with a cup in his hand and that signature half-smirk on his face.

“Just trying to make sure everything runs smoothly,” you reply, grabbing a mini bruschetta off a passing tray and popping it into your mouth without shame.

Rafe chuckles, stepping closer as you chew. “You’re literally the only person here not drinking or dancing.”

“I am drinking.” You hold up a mostly-melted iced mocktail as evidence.

He reaches over and gently brushes a crumb from the corner of your lips. “Mmm. Dedication to the role.”

You freeze for a second- not from the touch, but from how casual it felt. How familiar. Like the two of you never broke up. Like he never let you down. It’s dangerous, that comfort.

“Parties aren’t really my thing,” you say with a shrug, trying to shake it off.

“They don’t have to be your thing to enjoy them,” he replies. “You’ve earned it. Let go. Just a little.”

Before you can argue, he places his cup down and grabs your hand.

“Come on.”

“What are you- Rafe-?”

He pulls you gently into the open kitchen space and starts to slow dance with you to the completely out-of-place Migos song blasting from the speakers outside. You can’t help but laugh.

“This is soooo ridiculous,” you giggle, trying to keep up with the ironic, half-serious rhythm he’s creating.

“Shhh.” He smiles, his hand firm on your lower back, his voice soft and teasing. “You’re ruining the moment.”

You roll your eyes but can’t help the smile tugging at your lips. His hand fits perfectly against yours, and even though the music doesn’t match and the kitchen smells like jalapeño poppers, the moment somehow works.

He spins you gently and pulls you back in, your bodies close, the air warm.

“You look beautiful today,” he murmurs lowly, just loud enough for you to hear. You don’t reply.

You just let yourself sway in his arms for another beat, wondering how long you can enjoy this before the reality of everything sets back in.

Next thing you know, Becca is sitting cross-legged in the center of the room, surrounded by torn wrapping paper and gift bags, the candles blown out on her cake. She’s glowing, laughing as she tears into another present.

Your phone buzzes in your back pocket. You pull it out, still grinning at a sarcastic comment Becca makes about someone’s questionable taste in perfume. But the smile vanishes the second you see who’s calling: Mom.

Your stomach tightens. You slip quietly out of the room, the sound of laughter and chatter fading behind you as you step into the hallway, where it’s quieter.

“Hello?” you answer softly.

Your mom doesn’t waste time. “So after being away for weeks, you weren’t going to tell us? Let alone visit when you came back?”

You roll your eyes, turning your back to the room like it shields you from the pressure crawling up your neck. You weren’t going to tell them. That was true. But you lie anyway, out of habit.

“I was. I just got caught up helping with Becca’s birthday party,” you say, keeping your voice neutral. It’s not a total lie- you had gotten caught up in the party. But you also hadn’t planned on calling or stopping by.

Your mom doesn’t acknowledge the excuse. “Chelsea made your favorite. I expect you here for dinner. No later than seven.”

You sigh. “Mom-”

But the line clicks off before you can finish. She’s already hung up. You stare at your phone for a second, weighing your options. You could rebel- just not show up, make a statement. But then you remember: the gifts. The ones Rafe gave Chelsea to hide in your room. You haven’t seen them yet. Your jaw clenches as you pocket your phone. You’re not going for them, you tell yourself. You’re going for the dinner. You’re going because it’s polite. Because it’s easier than dealing with the aftermath.

You check the time- 4:03 PM. The party would be winding down soon anyway. You step back into the living room where the energy has already shifted. Marie and Beau are picking up scraps of wrapping paper and discarded ribbon, trash bags open between them. Becca is moving through the room, thanking people, hugging friends as they gather their things. The music is softer now, the daylight starting to slip into late afternoon.

You plaster on a soft smile as you walk back in. No one notices the change in your expression. Not even you, really.

“We were just about to watch a movie!” Becca whines as you make your announcement in front of the small group still lingering after the party- just the same five who were there before it started: Becca, Marie, Beau, Rachelle, and Rafe.

The house has quieted, the sun long gone. Empty cups and a few soggy pool floats are the only lingering signs of the chaos from earlier. Everyone had helped clean, but eventually, Becca and Beau waved it off and insisted they’d just get a cleaning service in the morning.

The plan was to watch a movie together in the theater room- a cozy wind-down after the day’s madness. But now your phone call with your mom has pulled you away, and your announcement casts a dull shadow over the moment.

“I know, I know…” you sigh, slinging your duffle over your shoulder. “But my mom’s being- well, you know how she is.” You try to laugh it off, but the weight of obligation tugs at your shoulders.

Becca frowns as she pulls you into a hug. “Come back later, okay? Or at least see me before your flight tomorrow.”

You nod against her shoulder, spotting Rafe from the corner of your eye. He’s standing in the corner of the room with his arms folded, jaw tight. He hasn’t said a word since you made the announcement, and you can’t tell whether he’s indifferent or bothered- or both.

Marie hugs you next, followed by Beau, then Rachelle, who gives you a quick smile and a casual “Nice meeting you,” before returning to whatever quiet conversation she and Beau had been having.

You make your way to your car, phone in hand, eyes skimming your notifications when you hear it-

“Y/n!”

You stop, turning just in time to see Rafe jogging down the walkway toward you. You wait, holding your breath, like you already know something heavy is coming.

“You’re leaving again?” he asks as he slows to a walk, the look on his face unreadable.

“I was only in town for Becca’s birthday,” you say, adjusting your bag in the passenger seat as he steps closer.

There’s a pause. His mouth opens like he wants to say something else but hesitates. Then-

“Come to Tannyhill tonight.”

You blink, surprised by the offer. “Rafe, I told Becca I might come back here.”

He leans against your window frame, eyes locked on yours now that you’re in the driver’s seat.

“Well, Becca got to talk to you for months,” he says quietly. “I didn’t.”

You try to look away, but it’s hard when his voice drops like that- like he’s afraid he’s losing you all over again.

“I don’t know, Rafe…” you say, sighing as you start your car.

“Please.” One word. But it’s enough to knock you off balance for a moment.

You grip the steering wheel tighter, glancing at him through the open window. “I’ll think about it.”

It’s not a promise, but it’s not a no either.

He steps back, giving you a small nod -one you’re not sure is hopeful or resigned- and you pull out of the driveway, heading toward your parents’ house, heart heavier than it was just minutes ago.

“Oh, she lives,” your dad mutters sarcastically the moment you step into the kitchen.

You freeze, one foot still mid-step. “I’m really not going to stay if this is how the rest of the night’s gonna go.”

“Gerald,” your mother says sharply, giving your father a warning look.

“Y/n,” she continues with a softer tone, “please. Just sit down.”

“Not if I’m going to get jumped on the second I walk in the door.” You’re already bristling, tired and annoyed and very much over the games. “It’s always you two against me- even when he can’t keep his dick in his pants.” You toss a sharp glance toward your dad as the words leave your mouth, unapologetic.

Your mom gasps, a hand flying to her chest like you just flipped the dinner table. “Y/n-!” she says, horrified at your language.

Your father exhales hard, his jaw clenching. You can tell he’s biting his tongue, a muscle ticking in his cheek.

“Please,” your mom says again, deflating. “Just sit. We just want to spend time with you.”

You roll your eyes and walk over to the dining table, choosing the seat farthest away from them like a child in protest. You cross your arms after you sit, huffing slightly, surprised by how immature you feel- but also too exhausted to care. You’re tired of the forced smiles, tired of pretending things are normal when they’ve never been.

Chelsea quietly moves around the room, setting down the last dish and placing silverware. Her eyes avoid everyone’s, and when she gently sets your plate in front of you, you mutter a soft, “Thanks.” She gives you a small, sympathetic nod before quickly returning to the kitchen. She doesn’t want to be in the middle of this any more than you do.

Silence hovers heavily until the clinking of cutlery begins. Everyone fills their plate without a word until your mother clears her throat, trying -unsuccessfully- to inject lightness.

“So… how’s New York going?” she asks, her eyes flicking between you and her untouched food.

You shrug, eyes on your plate, wishing you could fast-forward through this entire evening. “It’s going well,” you answer, voice flat.

She nods. “Celeste says you’re doing well.”

“Yep.”

You continue picking at your food- slow, bored, passive-aggressive. You know your mom hates that. But you also know you don’t owe her a performance.

She stiffens a little. “Would you care to expand on that?” Her tone sharpens just a bit, still hiding behind polite interest but teetering on the edge of frustration.

You sigh, louder than necessary. “It’s going well, Mom. What more do you want me to say?”

“I want to talk to my daughter,” she snaps, finally letting the frustration surface. “Is that too much to ask for?”

You meet her gaze. “I don’t want to talk right now.”

And for a split second, nobody says anything. The room falls still again- tense, thick, airless. The clatter and voices from the catering staff in the background are the only things breaking the silence.

You look down at your plate, wishing more than ever that you hadn’t come. You didn’t come here to be a daughter. You came here for Rafe’s gifts- and suddenly, that’s the only thing keeping you at the table.

You don’t say it out loud, but your expression does: Just let me eat, and then I’ll leave.

Dinner ends in a haze. The moment you’re excused from the table, you find yourself standing in front of your old bedroom door, hand hovering just inches from the knob. You hesitate—not because you don’t want to see what’s waiting on the other side, but because you already know.

You already know the second you walk in, it’s going to undo you a little.

There’s no mystery. You’ve known for weeks that Rafe had been leaving things with Chelsea, asking her to sneak them into your room. You just don’t know what, or how much. You also know that opening this door doesn’t just lead into your old bedroom- it leads back into something you’ve tried, with every bit of your stubborn heart, to close off.

You take a breath, press your fingers against the cool metal knob, and turn it. The door creaks open and instantly, the familiar scent of white roses hits you- fresh, crisp, and overwhelming. Your breath catches.

There, arranged neatly at the foot of your bed, is a bouquet so large it looks like something out of a bridal catalog. Delicate white petals spill from the glass vase like waves. Surrounding it are high-fashion gift bags with tissue paper still puffed and perfect, jewelry boxes with velvet lids left slightly ajar, catching the low glow of your bedroom light.

You step inside, shutting the door softly behind you, as if any sudden movement might break the delicate spell of the moment. Your eyes flit from one item to the next, but it’s not just what you’re seeing- it’s what you’re feeling.

Gratitude. Pain. Longing. Guilt. Love.

And all of it crashes into you at once like a rogue wave, dragging memories of the summer behind it- warm days tangled up in laughter, late-night whispers under shared sheets, whispered promises you didn’t want to believe but did anyway.

You sit down at the edge of your bed and reach for the roses. They’re cool against your fingertips, dewy and vibrant. They couldn’t have been here more than a day- two at most. You swallow hard, realizing now why Rafe had been so persistent about you coming home to see them.

As you lean back slightly to get more comfortable, something digs into your lower back. You jolt and immediately sit forward, brow furrowing. Your hand pats the spot, then you turn and see it- a tiny black box, almost lost in the folds of your duvet.

Your fingers wrap around it, your heart already knowing it’s not just some jewelry. You open it. It’s a ring.

Not just any ring- the ring. The same one Rafe had slipped onto your finger weeks ago in a spur-of-the-moment game of pretend, when he looked the hostess dead in the eye and said,

“We should have a reservation. Under Mr. and Mrs. Cameron.”

It had been a joke. But only half of one.

You stare at it, stunned, your heart thudding in your chest. It’s not a diamond or anything flashy- just a thin silver band with a tiny sapphire embedded at the center. Still, it means something. Meant something. Maybe still does.

You blink hard, trying not to cry as you fumble for your phone. Without thinking, you open your message thread with Becca and start typing.

You: Hey, I can’t come back tonight. My mom’s being her usual self… so sorry.

You bite your lip, thumb hovering over the screen, then hit send before you can talk yourself out of it. Your heart clenches in guilt.

You didn’t mention the flowers. Or the ring. Or how you’re sitting on your childhood bed wearing a piece of your past like a brand-new wound. A few seconds later, your phone buzzes with Becca’s reply.

Becca: well that fucking sucks but okayyyy :( I love youuuu

You clutch the phone against your chest and close your eyes for a second. She’s being the best friend anyone could ask for. Supportive, kind, understanding.

And here you are, lying to her face.

“If my parents ask where I am, tell them I went to Becca’s,” you say quietly, standing at the front door, hand on the handle.

Chelsea pauses mid-step in the hallway, concern flickering across her face. “Are you… sure?”

You offer her a small, fragile smile- the kind that doesn’t reach your eyes. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

She studies you for another second before softening. “I won’t tell a soul,” she promises, her voice gentle.

You reach out and give her arm a light squeeze -a silent thank you- before stepping out into the warm night air.

The walk to Tannyhill feels longer than you remember. Maybe it’s the weight of the small black box clutched tightly in your hand, or the storm of emotions swirling in your chest. Every step feels like a countdown.

By the time you reach the house, your heart is pounding. You hesitate only a second before knocking.

The door swings open quicker than expected, and there he is- Rafe. A soft blue-green sweater clings to him like it was made for his frame, and his face lights up the second he sees you.

“You came,” he breathes, like he wasn’t sure you really would.

He pulls you into a hug before you can even reply. It’s not sexual. It’s not performative. It’s real- warm, grounding, like he’s exhaling for the first time all day. You close your eyes, letting yourself melt into it for a moment. His scent is familiar, comforting, and you breathe him in like oxygen. When he finally pulls back to let you in, you follow, but just past the threshold, you stop. You reach for him again- this time, wrapping your arms around his middle and pressing your forehead into his chest.

Not because he needs it. Because you do.

And without question, he wraps his arms around your waist, tucks his head into the crook of your neck, and holds you like it’s the only thing anchoring him.

“Rafe…” you whisper.

“Yeah?” His voice is low and careful, like he already knows something’s coming.

“We need to talk.” The words are soft, but they still break the moment. He pulls back slightly, eyes scanning yours.

“Of course,” he says gently.

Time stretches after that. The two of you lie down on his bed, facing each other under the softest silence. You’re not touching at first, but eventually your fingers find his, threading together naturally. Your legs entangle beneath the blanket, your heads propped on your arms.

And somehow, this -this stillness, this closeness- hurts more than anything else. Because it’s pure. And real. And utterly untouchable. There’s a quiet knowing in your heart: things between you feel deeper now than they did even before the breakup. The emotional intimacy -the pull- is stronger. Which makes what you came here to do feel like slicing through your own skin. You slowly unthread your fingers from his and reach behind you, pulling the small black box from your back pocket. You hold it between both hands for a second before gently setting it on the blanket between you. His gaze drops to it. Then back to you.

“What’s this?” he asks softly, though you can tell he already knows.

“My mom’s ring,” he says after a beat. The simplicity of the answer makes something inside you twist.

“Yeah… I know that,” you murmur. “But why did you give it to me, Rafe?”

You push it toward him. He doesn’t take it at first.

“I wanted you to have it,” he says finally, eyes drifting down to the bed. “You’re the only person who deserves it.”

The tears build in your eyes before you can stop them- not because of what he said, but because it makes this even harder. Makes the ending even more cruel.

“I don’t…” Your voice cracks, and you look down, blinking quickly.

He lifts his gaze slowly. “Why?” The question lands soft but heavy. “You’ve been nothing but amazing.”

You pause, then say it:

“I think we should start over. Make things… strictly platonic. Friends.”

The word friends feels like a betrayal in your mouth. A poor substitute for everything you’ve had with him. But you say it anyway.

He blinks at you, processing. “Friends?” he repeats, like it doesn’t sound real.

“We’re going in completely different directions,” you continue. “And I just… I don’t see how it works anymore. That’s the only option that makes sense.”

He scoots closer. “I’m willing to fight for it now,” he says, voice laced with fragile hope.

You shake your head as more tears fall. “It’s too late,” you whisper. “I’m sorry. It just… it won’t work.”

His expression breaks then, in the smallest of ways. He reaches up, brushing the tears from your cheeks, then presses soft kisses to the ones he can’t catch in time. You let him. Because it’s not about sex. It’s not even about romance anymore. It’s about grief. And love. And the strange way the two are so often tangled.

“I love you,” you whisper through your tears. “And I think it’s in both our best interests to let this go.”

He closes his eyes, forehead pressing gently to yours.

“I love you too,” he murmurs. “And if this is what you want… then I’ll try. I’ll try to want it too.”

The ring box stays between you, untouched. A silent artifact of a future you almost had.

116 notes · View notes

mggssocks · 28 days ago

Text

The Eighth

the eighth masterlist

pairing: Fem!Kook!Reader x Rafe Cameron

cw: a little nsfw smut but it's quick. that's it.

a/n: last chapter got so much love my heart is exploding so much rn. here's my appreciation: an extra long chapter five days before it was supposed to drop. lol thanks again.

“What?!” Becca’s voice shrieks through your phone speaker, nearly making you drop the blouse in your hand. You’re halfway through unpacking your suitcase- this time, for good.

“I just don’t see any point in going back to the OBX,” you say, folding the blouse and placing it into the drawer like it’s the final brick in a new chapter. “I mean… besides you. But even then, you’re about to start your whole family-business journey. I’d just be a distraction.”

“No, you wouldn’t! Stop saying that,” she argues. “And what about my birthday? You promised you’d help me set up.”

You sigh and sit on the edge of the bed. “I’ll be back this week to grab the rest of my stuff. And obviously I’ll be there for your birthday. But after that… it just doesn’t make sense to move back. My future’s here. You know it is.”

There’s a beat of silence on the other end before she groans. “You’re the worst. But I love you, so I’m letting it slide.”

A small laugh slips from you. “Fair enough.”

“You’re gone. Marie’s going back to Charleston once summer’s over…”

“She lives in Charleston,” you tease. “Did you forget?”

“I know,” she says defensively. “But now I won’t have any real friends around.”

“Since when are you and Marie so close?” Your brows lift in amusement, even though she can’t see you.

“We’ve… gotten to know each other,” Becca answers carefully, her tone softer, layered.

There’s a pause -just a second too long- but you let it go.

“Well, at least thank you for finally taking my advice,” you say, flipping through the hangers in your closet. “Anyway, I gotta go. Celeste and I are heading to the spa.”

“Ohhh, remember when we used to go to the spa together?” Becca replies in a playfully jealous voice. There’s still a hint of something real beneath the teasing.

“Bye, Becca,” you say with a smile, shaking your head.

“Bye, Y/N. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

You hang up and sit back for a moment, looking around the room. Your new room. For the first time, the thought of not going back doesn’t make your stomach drop. It just feels… like the beginning.

Fashion shows. Board meetings. Watching designers drape, pin, and sketch. It all flies by in a blur of espresso, stilettos, and showroom lighting. Before you know it, it’s Thursday evening, and your driver is pulling up in front of your parents’ house.

You step out of the car, instinctively glancing at Tannyhill across the lawn. Same wraparound porch. Same house you used to sneak out of just to crawl into his bed.Now it just feels… far away. Like it belonged to a different version of you.

“Thank you,” you murmur as the chauffeur shuts the car door behind you.

The house is quiet when you enter. Too quiet. The type of silence that tells you no one’s home- and for once, you’re grateful.

You don’t have the patience for your mother’s smug “I told you so” about how much you enjoyed your New York experience.

You head upstairs and start packing two more suitcases. and when you go to look for your sewing kit, you remember exactly where it’s at and your heart sinks. You’re folding dresses when the sound of raucous laughter and revving engines cuts through the calm.

You pause. Walk to the balcony.

The street is packed. People line the sidewalk with their phones out, filming and laughing. A car crawls in reverse down the road, someone splayed dramatically across the hood, exhaling a bong rip toward the sky like it’s a music video.

You don’t need to guess whose party it is. Typical Rafe.

You roll your eyes, grab your hoodie, slip into your shoes, and snatch your keys. You’re not doing this for him. You just need your sewing kit. Nothing more.

You drive the short distance. Park a few houses down, out of sight. The place is chaos. Drunken twenty-somethings everywhere- red cups in hand, bass shaking the ground.

Children, you think to yourself, and you’re caught off guard by the word. Just a couple months ago, you were them.

Now? You feel different. Older, somehow. Maybe not wiser- but definitely not the girl who used to show up at these parties.

You slip through the front lawn, head down, hoodie up. You move like muscle memory through the crowd, avoiding faces, avoiding his face.

You know exactly where your kit is. In the sitting room. The one where you told each other you loved one another for the first time.

The memory stings, but you keep moving.

You round a hallway corner—and pause. There he is.

Rafe.

He’s laughing with some guy, drink in hand, head thrown back. Effortlessly magnetic. You duck your head and detour down another hallway, heart hammering.

In the sitting room, your kit is still there. Tucked in the corner behind the couch. Moved, definitely. He didn’t throw it out, though. He kept it. You spot the mannequin with the fabric still pinned in place. Part of you considers taking the whole thing, but it’s too bulky, too obvious. You rip the fabric off, fold it quickly-

“Hey, don’t touch my shit-”

You freeze. You know that voice. You turn slowly. There he is.

Rafe Cameron.

Arm draped casually around Sofia’s shoulder. Her expression shifts the moment she sees you. She steps slightly out of his hold, discomfort flashing across her face.

His entire demeanor changes. The laughter’s gone. His eyes soften, like he didn’t expect to see you again, especially here.

You feel your throat tighten, but you won’t let yourself cry. Not in front of him.

You hold up the sewing kit wordlessly, forcing out a quiet explanation.

“I left this.” You don’t meet his eyes.

He blinks. Swallows. “Oh.” It’s all he says.

The weight of the summer sits heavy between you. He doesn’t move. Neither do you.

“I’m gonna-” you start, voice barely above a whisper.

But then you stop. There’s nothing left to say.

You push past him before he can see you fall apart, the sewing kit clutched tight in your arms like it might hold you together.

You move through the crowd. Down the porch stairs. Out of the noise.

You toss your things in the back seat, climb behind the wheel, and slam the door shut. You don’t know where you’re going. Just that it’s anywhere but here.

Somehow, you end up at the marsh- the one Rafe brought you to that first night. The place where everything started, when the both of you stopped pretending and actually saw each other for the first time.

Now, your knees are pressed tight to your chest, your arms wrapped around them, staring blankly at the dark water stretching in front of you. The marsh is quiet, save for the occasional chirp or rustle in the trees, but all you hear is static in your own head. A buzzing from the weight of it all crashing down on you.

Life is moving too fast. Too much.

And you’ve been trying to outrun it since the second you landed in New York.

That phone call. Her voice answering his phone. You shoved it so far down in your brain it doesn’t even feel real anymore. Probably some sort of trauma response. But seeing him tonight -really seeing him- with her?

His arm draped so effortlessly around Sofia, like it belonged there. Like the last two and a half months never happened. Like you didn’t say “I love you” in that exact same room where he stood tonight, letting another girl anchor herself to him like she knew him better than you ever could. It burns.

Your chest aches as the tears start to come. Slow at first, and then all at once. The memories, the pain, the humiliation. It feels like mourning a life that barely even had time to exist.

And then—

“You’re here.”

You don’t need to turn around to know who it is. It slices through the silence, warm and familiar, even now.

But still- you do. You turn. And there he is.

Buzzed hair damp, probably from the humidity or maybe the beginnings of rain. Eyes glassy. Breath uneven. His party-boy sheen is gone. It’s just him, stripped down in the moonlight.

You look away quickly, wiping your tears with the sleeve of your sweater, praying the darkness hides the wreckage on your face.

“Yeah… I am,” you say, trying to sound indifferent. You fail.

He steps closer. “Mind if I sit?” he asks, nodding toward the spot beside you.

You barely respond, just shift slightly to make room.

A flash of lightning splits the sky above, casting everything in sharp silver for half a second. A warning, maybe. Or a sign.

He settles beside you. The space between you is small, but it feels like miles.

“I didn’t expect you to come back,” he says, voice low, eyes locked on the water like it’s safer to look at something else.

You let out a hollow laugh. “I’m not really back. Just picking up some more stuff.” You pause. “So… yeah. I guess I made up my mind.”

He turns to say something, but before he can-

“You moved on pretty fast,” you say, finally meeting his gaze.

He blinks. “I’m not moved on.” His voice sharpens. Defensive. “You think I wanted this?”

“You didn’t not want it,” you fire back. “You gave up, Rafe. You didn’t fight for me, you didn’t call, you didn’t even text. You let Sofia answer your phone like nothing between us even mattered.”

He stands now, breathing harder. “You think that’s what this is? Me moving on? I was drunk. She picked up my phone because I was too messed up to know where it even was.”

“Don’t,” you say, standing too. “Don’t blame the alcohol or the party or anything else. You ended things. You pushed me away. You told me if I left, we were done. So I left.”

“And that was a mistake,” he mutters.

“Yeah, no shit.”

The thunder rumbles in the distance. Rain starts. Light at first. Barely more than a drizzle.

“You said you loved me,” you say quietly, eyes on his. “If you did -really, truly did- you wouldn’t have ended things the way you did.”

His eyes shimmer, but he doesn’t let the tears fall. Not yet. “I thought I was doing what was best for you.”

“I wanted you.” Your voice cracks. “I would’ve fought for us. You were just… too scared to fight with me.”

Silence. The kind that feels loud. And then it starts pouring. A heavy, curtain-like rain that soaks your hoodie and your short and makes the whole world blur around the edges. You’re crying again. But you don’t care.

You step closer. “You say you love me, Rafe, but when it mattered- you shut down. You ran. You always run. So no. I don’t believe you ever loved me. I don’t think you ever could.”

He’s silent. Frozen. Staring at you like he wants to say everything but can’t find the words.

You scoff through your tears. “That’s what I thought.”

You turn, soaked, heartbroken, shaking..but then-

His hand wraps around your wrist. Firm. Certain.

“Wait,” he breathes, spinning you around so fast your chest bumps his.

Your breath catches.

His voice drops, rough and shaking. “What do you think about this?”

And then- He kisses you. Not soft. Not sweet.

It’s everything. Angry. Desperate. Like he’s trying to prove every word he couldn’t say. And for a moment, the rain, the hurt, the heartbreak- It all stops.

You’re soaked- and not just from the rain.

The moment your back hits the leather seat of Rafe’s car, it’s clear where this is going. His mouth crashes against yours, urgent and unrelenting. There are no words. None needed. You’ve both already said too much, and yet not nearly enough.

His hands roam under your soaked hoodie, gripping your waist, peeling the fabric off like he’s starving for you. Your tank top follows, tossed somewhere into the front seat. And then it’s him- his shirt, his jeans, every barrier between you stripped away until all that’s left is skin and heat and rain-slicked desperation.

You don’t even remember climbing into the back seat. Maybe he pulled you. Maybe you pulled him. But it doesn’t matter now. His body is between your legs, his glistening tip sliding slowly along your entrance, teasing you, taunting you. Your hands brush against in his damp hair as he trails kisses down your neck, grazing your collarbone, biting gently at the shell of your ear.

And then-

He thrusts into you.

A broken moan escapes you both, loud and raw. He holds you closer than he ever has during sex- like he’s trying to crawl inside you, like he’s trying to stay. His thrusts are deep, slow, and intentional, hips grinding against yours with every movement. It’s not just sex- it’s something else entirely. Something heavier. More dangerous. More real.

Your lips find his again, mouths moving in sync, tasting each other through moans and shallow breaths.

Rain drums hard against the roof of the car, but it’s not loud enough to drown out the sounds between you. The wet slap of skin, the soft gasps, the cries of pleasure. Steam fogs the windows, wrapping you both in this cocoon of lust and love and unspoken heartbreak.

“Rafe,” you whimper, breath shaky.

He hears you this time. “I’m here, baby,” he breathes against your lips, biting gently on your lower one, then trailing kisses along your jawline.

Your head falls back. Eyes roll. One hand braces against the fogged window, streaking down with condensation. The car rocks beneath you.

“I’m so close,” you cry out, voice trembling. You pull him closer, your lips finding his in a messy, desperate kiss.

“Cum for me,” he growls, holding your face in one hand. “Cum all over my dick, pretty girl. Show me how much you missed me.”

He laces his fingers through yours, grounding you, anchoring you.

“That’s it -right there-” you gasp, eyes fluttering shut. “I’m cumming-”

Your thighs clamp around his hips, and your body goes rigid- completely still as the orgasm rips through you. White-hot. Paralyzing. Perfect.

“Oh, baby,” he moans into your neck. His thrusts grow sloppier, more frantic. He’s close. So close.

And then he stills. A soft curse under his breath, followed by a deep, guttural moan as he spills inside you, hands gripping you like he never wants to let go.

The only sound now is your breathing. Heavy. Labored. Quiet.

You both move slowly, silently, gathering your clothes in the dim light, pulling them back on like armor. No words exchanged. Not yet.

You clear your throat, adjusting your hoodie. “I should get going,” you murmur, eyes fixed on the rearview mirror, not on him.

He nods and opens the car door, stepping into the wet gravel. He reaches a hand out to help you down, knowing your knees are shot. You take it. His touch still lingers when you let go.

“Yeah,” he says quietly, walking with you to your car parked nearby. The rain has lightened, but the world still feels heavy.

Thank God you’d put the top up on the convertible earlier.

He opens the door for you. You slip in. He doesn’t close it right away. Instead, he leans against the window frame, chin resting on crossed arms, staring at you like he’s memorizing your face.

“I love you,” he says softly.

It almost breaks you. You want to melt into him. You want to say take me with you or come with me. You want the whole fairy tale. But this isn’t a story with a perfect ending. Not tonight. So instead, you give him a small, pained nod.

“I love you too,” you whisper.

He steps back as you start the engine. But just before you shift into gear-

“Hey,” he says again, and you look up. His eyes are pleading. “Promise me you’ll keep in touch.”

You pause. The words claw at your throat. You wish you could say yes. God, you want to say yes. But you know better.

“I can’t,” you say truthfully.

And then you’re pulling away.

You drive off into the night, the sound of gravel crunching beneath your tires. Tears blur your vision, but you don’t stop.

Not this time.

The familiar weight of landing in New York hits your chest the second the plane touches down- though this time, it doesn’t feel like a trip. It feels like a turning point. You stare blankly out the window as the chauffeur navigates through the familiar rush of yellow cabs and honking horns, the skyline rising in front of you like it’s daring you to start over.

When you arrive at Celeste’s building, the doorman greets you by name this time. The little things -like that- make it feel real. Permanent.

You step into the penthouse, expecting to feel overwhelmed, but instead, it’s like the city has exhaled just for you. Celeste is, as always, dressed like she’s about to be photographed for Vogue- today in tailored wide-leg trousers and a silk blouse, sorting through a stack of mail with a glass of green juice in hand. She glances up as the door clicks shut behind you and offers you that signature smirk of hers. Knowing. Effortless.

“Hey, you,” she says, setting the mail aside, fully turning her attention to you. “Back in the city for good?”

You try to sound upbeat. Normal. Like your heart isn’t still bruised. “Hey. Yeah, looks like it.”

You nod once, tight and unsure, like saying it out loud might make it more real. Celeste reads you like a book but doesn’t push. Instead, she lights up like she’s been waiting for this moment.

“I actually have a little something for you,” she says, opening a drawer and pulling out a small black box.

Your brows lift. “What’s this for?”

“Just open it,” she insists with a twinkle in her eye.

You walk over, the heels of your boots clicking against the marble, and open the box. Inside, nestled in soft velvet, is a gleaming silver key.

You blink. “A… key?”

“To your own apartment!” she grins, practically bouncing.

You blink again, this time slower. “Wait, seriously?”

“Dead serious.”

You laugh, stunned. “Is this your really polite way of kicking me out?”

She gasps playfully. “Never! I just figured you’d feel more creatively free in your own space. You’re building something. You deserve to do it in your own place.”

You look at the key again. It shines like a new beginning. “When do I move in?”

“Well, I’ve got to get to the studio for a shoot, but this weekend for sure. Oh! And we are definitely going furniture shopping.”

The weekend blurs into a frenzy of shopping for fabrics and furniture, installing bookshelves, choosing wall art, and figuring out if you’re a “scented candle girl” or not (you decide you are). The apartment is high above the chaos of the city- quiet, sunlit, and breathtaking. A place that feels like yours. You barely have time to think about Rafe. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t think about you.

Chelsea texts to say Rafe stopped by. Brought flowers. A little box. A note. You promise to respond. But you don’t. You tell yourself you’re busy. The truth is, you’re scared of what answering him might do to the carefully built walls around your new world.

Nights are harder. You unpack your OBX things alone, piece by piece, item by item. A hoodie. A half-full sketchbook. The sewing kit. The mannequin.

You sit on the edge of your bed at 1:03 a.m., phone in hand, his contact open. You think of calling.

But instead, you imagine him asleep. At Tannyhill. Or not asleep at all. Maybe with someone else. Either way, you lock your phone and press it to your chest.

The weeks slip by like water- fashion meetings, showroom launches, networking brunches. You’re productive. Pulled together. Floating between espresso machines and editorial boards like you’ve been doing it your whole life. There are flashes where you feel like yourself again. Then there are moments where you wonder if you’ve just gotten really good at pretending.

You’re wandering the halls of the Met one late afternoon, alone, trying to trigger some spark of inspiration for your next collection. You linger in front of a massive piece that feels too abstract to be brilliant but too deliberate to be random.

“This is stupid, right?” The voice pulls you out of your thoughts.

You glance to your side. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, tousled dark hair and that New York City jawline. He’s beautiful. Effortlessly so.

You raise a brow. “Stupid’s a strong word for a piece that’s hanging in the Met.”

He grins. “Alright, pretentious, then.”

You cross your arms, turning slightly toward him. “It’s commentary on chaos versus intention. Maybe it’s not meant to be pretty. Maybe it’s just honest.”

His smile deepens. “Okay, art school. I stand corrected.”

You laugh -actually laugh- and it surprises you. The tension in your chest loosens a little.

“I’m Owen,” he says, offering a hand. “Photographer. Born and raised here. Are you one of those impossibly cool transplants?”

You take his hand. “Y/N. Designer. Recently relocated. And yes, impossibly cool.”

He tilts his head toward the museum café. “Can I buy you a coffee to make up for calling your art stupid?”

You hesitate, glancing down at your phone. “I actually have to be somewhere in a few. But… I wouldn’t mind keeping the debate going sometime.”

He grins again, slower this time. “You’re smooth.”

You shrug. “I’ve been told.”

He pulls out his phone and opens a new contact. “Then let’s make it official. Number?”

You trade phones and type in your info. A moment later, your phone buzzes with a text.

[Unknown]: I owe you a latte and a second opinion on pretentious modern art.

You glance up at him with a soft smile. “Looking forward to it.”

You smile softly as you step back out into the golden hush of early evening. The sidewalk is bustling. The city smells like roasted peanuts and ambition. But as you make your way through the crowd, your mind drifts.

You think of Rafe.

You shake your head and try to focus on the present- the sound of car horns, the art still swimming in your head, Owen’s text lighting up your phone.

But the ache? It lingers anyway. Like a bruise in a place only you can feel.

The city glows below, windows lit like stars scattered across the skyline. You’re tucked up at your desk by the window, sketchpad in front of you, a soft pencil dragging across the paper as you bring a new design to life. Your Mac is on in front of you, FaceTime connected to Becca, who’s lying across her massive bed back in the OBX.

“I swear to God,” she says, mid-rant, “if my mother tries to set me up with another guy who ‘owns his own landscaping business,’ I’m committing to girls only. I’m done.”

You grin without looking up. “So girls only now?”

“Girls only,” she confirms, sighing dramatically and rolling onto her back. “Men are exhausting.”

At that moment, both your phone and Mac ding. Instinctively, your eyes lift to your Mac screen.

Unknown Number: You doing anything tomorrow night?

You pause, blinking. You don’t recognize the number, but you already know. A smirk tugs at

your lips as you pick up your phone and type back:

You: I’m sorry… who is this?

“Who’s got you smiling like that?” Becca’s voice cuts in, amused.

Your eyes flick back to the screen just as the reply comes in.

Unknown: You’ve gotta be kidding me. Camera guy? Bad at reading art? Does any of that ring a bell? You schooled me earlier today on it.

You laugh to yourself, shaking your head.

“Y/N!” Becca’s calling again, waving a hand in front of her camera.

You type quickly:

You: Ohhh. Yeah, you were pretty bad at reading art.

“Okay, spill,” Becca says, sitting up and propping her phone on her bed. “Who is he?”

You tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Just this guy I met earlier today at the Met. I was looking at one of the new installations and he came up and started talking trash about it. I couldn’t not correct him.”

Becca gasps. “You schooled a stranger?”

“I couldn’t help myself.” You grin as another message pops up:

Unknown (now saved as Owen): So???

You: ‘So’ what?

“What’s his name?” Becca asks, practically bouncing.

“Owen,” you say, and you can’t stop yourself from smiling. Not on purpose- just instinct.

“Owennn,” Becca drawls teasingly. “I like that. Is he cute?”

“He’s actually really cute,” you admit. “And a photographer.”

“Oooh, artsy. That’s very New York of you.”

Owen: You doing anything tomorrow night?

You: Most likely not doing anything. What’s up?

Owen: A friend of mine is hosting an art exhibition. You should come.

You raise an eyebrow at your phone.

Becca watches you with narrowed eyes. “So is Rafe just… gone? Like, totally out of the picture now?”

You pause, your pencil hovering above the sketchpad. “I don’t know,” you say with a shrug. “I mean… what picture is there to be in? He ended it.”

Becca makes a face, then hesitates.

“What?” you ask.

“Speaking of him,” she says slowly, “he won’t stop harassing me about you.”

Your heart dips unexpectedly. “What?”

“I wasn’t sure if I should even tell you or if you wanted to hear it. But he keeps texting, asking how you’re doing, if I’ve heard from you. He’s… kind of a wreck.”

You don’t know what to say. Your chest tightens but you quickly sit up straighter, clearing your throat. “I don’t know what he expects,” you say. “He made his choice. And I made mine.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“I just thought you should know,” Becca says gently. “I didn’t want to keep it from you.”

You nod, eyes flicking back to your phone. Owen’s message is still glowing.

Owen: It’s in SoHo. Chill crowd, I promise. Come have fun.

You press your lips together, then type:

You: Okay. I’m in.

Becca catches the subtle shift in your mood but doesn’t press.

“Owen better be worth it,” she teases instead.

You smirk and shake your head, looking back down at your sketchpad. “I’m just trying to make friends.”

You step into the warehouse, the scent of paint and champagne mingling in the air. The space is dimly lit with warm amber bulbs that hang loosely from the ceiling, casting a soft glow over the exposed brick walls and concrete floors. Occasional bursts of flash from both professional cameras and iPhones flicker through the room like fireflies.

Clusters of people sip from slender champagne flutes and laugh in that low, throaty way that only people born into wealth seem to perfect. At a glance, you could almost believe they’re just normal twenty-somethings living the starving artist dream. But it only takes a few seconds to tell- these aren’t broke New Yorkers chasing artistry. These are the children of CEOs and hedge fund managers, reveling in the aesthetic of struggle like it’s performance art.

You shift slightly in your powder blue backless halter top and tailored black capris that kiss just below your knees. The outfit is simple, elevated, and perfect for the fading end-of-summer warmth. And yet, you feel entirely out of place. You can feel the stares, subtle but unmistakable, trailing you like perfume as you walk further into the gallery.

You pull out your phone.

You: I’m here. Where are you?

As you lower your phone, your eyes scan the artwork- colorful, chaotic, interesting in a raw kind of way. You pause in front of one, arms crossed as you tilt your head thoughtfully.

Then you hear it- an enthusiastic voice floating across the room.

“Thank you! Thank you so much for coming! You guys are amazing!”

You glance toward the source and spot her. She’s moving from group to group like sunlight, radiating ease. She’s got blonde hair styled in a messy ponytail tied with a vintage scarf, a pale pink off-the-shoulder t-shirt tucked into white bloomer shorts, and beat-up, hand-drawn Converse covered in doodles and signatures. She looks like Gigi Hadid if Gigi had a passion for art school critiques and lavender incense.

She sweeps her bangs out of her eyes and makes direct eye contact with you, her bright smile catching you a little off guard.

“Well, I know I haven’t seen you before,” she says, walking right up to you.

You offer a polite smile and extend your hand. “Hi, I’m-”

“Oh, sorry- I’ve got this germ thing.” Still, she takes your index finger between hers in a loose little shake that somehow feels more genuine than any firm handshake you’ve had. You laugh.

“-Y/N,” you finish.

“Noel,” she replies, her cheekbones practically casting shadows in the moody lighting. “Thanks for coming to my exhibit. I seriously appreciate it.”

“Y/N!” a voice calls from behind you.

You turn and spot Owen, striding over in a white long-sleeve layered under a black T-shirt, well-worn jeans, and his camera slung around his neck. He looks like he just walked off a ‘cool guy at an indie film festival’ Pinterest board.

“Ah, I see you’ve met Noel,” he says.

“I have,” you smile, glancing between them.

“Oh, you two know each other?” Noel asks, pointing between the two of you with a curious look.

“Barely,” you tease.

Owen clutches his chest like you’ve wounded him. “Wow. That’s bestie to you.”

You laugh -really laugh- and feel some of your nerves melt away.

“We met at the Met yesterday,” you explain.

“She schooled me on art,” Owen adds with a shrug.

“I like you already.” Noel loops her arm through yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You’re surprised- but not unwelcome to it.

“Wait, wait- Noel, are you cheating on me already?” another voice rings out.

You turn to see a tall, stunning girl walk over. She looks like a young Kimora Lee Simmons- statuesque, glam without trying, dressed in sleek trousers and a cropped blazer with a diamond tennis bracelet that sparkles every time she moves. Her presence is commanding in that effortless New York way.

“Don’t pay her any mind,” Noel says with a grin, squeezing your arm lightly.

“Hi,” the girl says to you with a slow smile, already assessing your vibe with ease.

“Y/N, this is Allegra, my roommate. Allegra, Y/N, Owen’s friend,” Noel says.

Allegra narrows her eyes at you, then points a manicured finger in your direction. “Wait a second… you’re the girl who moved in at Lucent apartments, aren’t you?”

You blink. “Um- yeah, I guess I am.”

“I knew you looked familiar. I saw you coming in with Celeste the other day. She’s basically Manhattan royalty, by the way.” Allegra smirks. “Nice to finally meet our mystery neighbor.”

You nod with a nervous smile, but she’s already waving it off like she’s claimed you as one of her own.

The rest of the night becomes a blur of laughter, art debates, and light gossip. You find yourself trailing after the trio like a lost puppy- Noel’s bright warmth, Owen’s quiet charm, and Allegra’s bold confidence make it easy to fall into step. Somewhere between sips of rosé and Noel dragging you to see her favorite piece (“it was inspired by a dream I had after eating expired cheese”), you realize something surprising.

You could really see yourself being friends with them. Allegra reminded you so much of Becca’s attitude and Noel had that same sweetness of Marie.

“Do you ladies need me to walk you up?” Owen asks as the four of you step out of the cab in front of your building. The city hums quietly around you, late-night traffic whispering in the distance. He’d been sweet enough to cover the ride, despite Allegra’s half-hearted protests.

Noel raises an eyebrow, a few stray paintbrushes and a folded sketch in her hand. “What, to like… protect us?”

Owen shrugs. “Well… yeah.”

Noel bursts out laughing. “What are you gonna do? Blind someone with the flash of your camera?”

Allegra tosses her hair over one shoulder, smirking. “Or maybe hit them with an aggressively artistic critique?”

The two of them crack up and you stifle your own laugh, trying not to completely gang up on him- though the image was funny. Still, there’s something endearing about his concern.

“We got it,” Allegra says with a wink as she slips her arm through yours, leading you and Noel toward the front entrance.

“Bye,” Owen calls, one hand in his pocket and the other lifting into a lazy wave.

“Byeeee!” Noel chimes back, her voice echoing slightly in the quiet street. You glance over your shoulder and smile, waving with the hand not tangled up in Allegra’s.

The elevator ride up is slow and golden-lit. Allegra leans casually against the mirrored wall, like she’s in a Vogue street-style spread without even trying.

“So,” she starts, eyeing you with genuine interest, “where are you from?”

“Outer Banks. North Carolina,” you reply, shifting your weight slightly.

Noel perks up. “Is that like… beachy?”

You smile at her phrasing. “Yeah, it’s a string of barrier islands off the coast. Small town. Lots of boats. Lots of gossip.”

Allegra hums. “Sounds like an Instagram dream but also my personal nightmare.”

The elevator dings softly and the doors glide open.

“You guys from here?” you ask, stepping out into the hallway.

“Born and raised,” Noel says proudly, tucking her brushes into her tote. “Well, technically Westchester, but still. Close enough.”

“I’m from L.A. Originally,” Allegra says. “Moved here at eighteen to kickstart my modeling career. Got bored of having palm trees in every picture.”

You knew it -her bone structure, that effortless confidence- she had to be a model.

As you approach your door, Noel strides across the hallway and grabs the handle of the one directly across from yours. She stops suddenly and gasps.

“No way!” Her voice is way too loud for nearly two in the morning.

Allegra quickly shushes her with a finger to her lips. “Noel,” she hisses. “It’s 1:47 AM.”

Noel ignores her, spinning back to face you. “You live here?”

You nod, slightly amused. “Moved in a few weeks ago.”

Allegra’s eyes widen slightly. “Small world.”

“Astoundingly small,” Noel says in a much more hushed tone. Without warning, she wraps you in a tight, excited hug. “We’re literally neighbors!”

Allegra raises an eyebrow and gives you a more reserved, almost too cool hug- the kind where her arms barely touch you but still somehow feel polite.

“Well,” she says, flipping her hair over her shoulder, “welcome to the building. And thanks for showing up for the art show. That meant a lot to her.”

“Of course. Thanks for kind of adopting me for the night.” You grin, unlocking your front door.

The three of you exchange quiet goodbyes before you slip inside and click the door shut behind you.

The heels come off first.

You lean against the wall for a second, the silence of your apartment washing over you like a long exhale. Then you smile -genuinely, softly- as you realize that for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel like an outsider.

You feel… home.

It’s officially one week before the first day of fall- and just two weeks before you’ll have to head back to the Outer Banks. You’re trying not to think about that too hard. For now, you’re tucked inside a thrift store in the East Village with Allegra and Noel, weaving through tightly packed racks of vintage coats and worn-in leather jackets.

You tug on a long camel trench and examine yourself in the dusty mirror near the corner.

“You’re giving cool-mom-at-school-dropoff,” Noel comments, deadpan as ever, while she flips through a rack of oversized corduroy blazers.

“She needs something edgier,” Allegra declares, sweeping over with a ridiculous faux-fur bucket hat that looks like it crawled out of a 90s music video. She plops it on your head without warning. The three of you burst into laughter as you turn to face the mirror, your reflection looking like someone who accidentally time-traveled from a Beastie Boys tour.

Then your phone starts ringing. Becca. She’s FaceTiming you.

You quickly swipe to answer, tugging the bucket hat off your head. “Hey, Becs!”

“Hey,” she replies, slightly breathless. Her phone is propped up on a treadmill at the gym- she’s mid incline walk, cheeks pink, hair up. “Where are you?”

“Thrift store. Jacket shopping. It’s about to get cold and I’m wildly unprepared,” you say, brushing a lint-covered sleeve off your shoulder as Noel places another tragic-looking hat on your head, sending both girls into another fit of giggles.

Becca squints. “A thrift store? In New York?”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t start.”

“I mean, I get the ones in Kildare. They’re basically curated. But New York City thrift stores? That’s… bold.”

Allegra immediately grabs your wrist and flips the camera so it faces her.

“It’s a New York thing,” she says smoothly, flashing Becca a perfectly casual smirk. “You wouldn’t understand.”

There’s no venom in her tone, but it still makes your stomach twist slightly.

Becca presses her lips together, raising her eyebrows like she’s biting back an opinion. You know her well enough to read her thoughts before she says them. So before any passive-aggressive digs can happen, you swipe the camera back to your face.

“Anyway,” Becca says, changing the subject. “Just calling to remind you my birthday is in exactly two weeks.”

“I know, Becca,” you say with a smile, balancing your phone on top of the shelf of racks as you flick through a rack of quilted jackets. “I don’t need reminders for things I’d never forget. I already bought my ticket- I’ll be there two days early to help set up.”

“Okay, well… that’s the other thing,” she says, tone dropping. Her pace on the treadmill slows.

You freeze a little, glancing up at Allegra and Noel, now throwing what they’ve dubbed “ugly hats” at each other across the aisle. One lands on the floor and earns them a death glare from the teenage employee behind the counter.

“What ‘other thing’?” you ask cautiously.

“Rafe is also helping.”

You blink. “I’m sorry… in what world is Rafe Cameron helping set up for your party? And why?”

Becca exhales. “Apparently, he and Beau are friends again. I don’t know all the details. But if you ask me? He’s using Beau to get to me to get to you. Classic Rafe move.”

You sigh deeply, head tilting back slightly as you stare at the ugly fluorescent lights above.

“Anything else I should know before I book a hotel instead of staying with you?”

Becca hesitates. “Yeah… but I’ll save it for when you get here.”

“Great,” you mutter, sarcasm clear. You say your goodbyes, and after the call ends, you slip your phone into your pocket, shoulders heavy.

“So…” Noel starts, her voice light and curious. “Who’s Rafe?”

“And seriously, what kind of name is that?” Allegra adds, tossing a vintage wool beret back onto the hat rack.

You exhale slowly, stepping toward the exit. “He’s my ex. And I honestly don’t know.”

Allegra and Noel exchange a look as the three of you step back out onto the sidewalk, empty-handed.

“He’s gonna be at your friend’s birthday?” Noel asks, already adjusting her oversized denim jacket.

“Apparently,” you say with a tight, exhausted smile. Just the thought of seeing Rafe again has your stomach in knots. Not because you miss him -though you do, in ways you haven’t admitted- but because you’re not ready to answer the question of why you haven’t responded to him. Why you’ve left all his texts unread. Why you’ve made it so easy for him to believe you’ve moved on.

“You need a pick-me-up,” Allegra says, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Sushi? I know a place in SoHo. It’s low-key but their spicy tuna rolls are transcendent.”

You nod quickly, grateful for the change of topic. “Yes. God, yes.”

The three of you link arms, laughter trailing behind you as you disappear into the golden hour glow of the Lower East Side, pretending -for now- that your past wasn’t about to catch up with you in two weeks.

Your stomach twists as you turn into the long, curved driveway of Becca’s house, the gravel crunching beneath your tires like it’s warning you to turn back. Familiarity should bring comfort, but today it just heightens your nerves.

You don’t see Rafe’s black SUV anywhere- your eyes scan the area twice just to be sure. But there is a new, sleek Porsche parked off to the side. You can’t tell if it’s his or Beau’s. It could belong to either of them, and honestly, that uncertainty only makes your anxiety worse.

You kill the engine and sit for a second, hands still on the wheel. Just breathe.

Grabbing your duffle bag from the back seat, you walk up to the house. You don’t bother ringing the doorbell. Her parents are out of town, conveniently avoiding the chaos of their daughter’s birthday weekend. Classic. Still, even after all these years of friendship, they never quite warmed up to the idea of you letting yourself in like this was your second home. Maybe it was a wealth thing- boundaries and status, even among best friends.

The front door clicks shut behind you, muffling the sounds of muffled music and distant voices. You head straight down the hall, past the grand staircase, through the foyer lined with glossy family portraits, and toward Becca’s favorite part of the house- the theater room. Well, favorite aside from her bedroom, which was more like a curated showroom of mood boards and mid-century modern dreams.

As you round the corner, you collide -hard- with a firm, familiar chest. The contact knocks the breath out of you, and your fingers tighten reflexively around your bag strap. You look up. Rafe.

His hair is more buzzed than you remember, and he smells like expensive cologne and laundry detergent and summer. Your throat tightens. For a second, neither of you moves.

“…Hey,” he says, voice low and uncertain. He doesn’t sound surprised you’re here- more like caught off guard by how early.

“Hi,” you say, stepping back quickly like distance will give you composure.

He stares at you, jaw clenching slightly, like he’s holding back words that have been sitting on his tongue for weeks.

“Rafe! Can you grab more waters for the cooler?” Becca calls from inside the theater room, her voice cheerful and oblivious to the sudden tension in the hallway.

You take the moment to sidestep around him, not looking up again until you’re safely inside the room. And when you do glance back -just for a second- he’s still standing there. Still watching you. Like he hasn’t seen you in months. Like he’s afraid to blink. And just like that, your heartbeat kicks up again.

You hate how much it still affects you.

“Becs!” you shout, dropping your duffle bag to the floor as you step into the theater room.

Becca is halfway up a ladder, taping a curly string of party décor to the ceiling. She looks down at you and beams.

“Y/N!”

She doesn’t even think- she jumps from the ladder without a second thought and launches herself at you. You yelp as the two of you tumble backwards, collapsing onto the plush theater chairs in a heap of limbs and laughter.

“Ow!” you cry through a laugh, clinging to her. “Are you trying to kill me before the party even starts?”

“She’s trying to kill herself,” Beau calls from the other side of the room, where he’s fiddling with some laser lights near the stage setup.

“Hush, Botox,” you tease without looking at him.

Becca gasps dramatically but doesn’t snap back- she’s too giddy. She’s hugging you like you’ve been gone for years, not weeks, and you hug her back just as tightly.

Once you’re both upright again, she brushes glitter off her leggings while you catch your breath- only to glance up and freeze.

Rafe’s just walked in, a heavy case of water bottles balanced in his arms. The moment your eyes meet, something sharp twists in your stomach. You drop your gaze just as quickly.

“Over here,” Beau calls, gesturing to the snack bar setup.

Rafe silently detours, dropping to one knee as he begins loading the bottles into the mini fridge. His shoulders are tense, but his gaze flicks up to you more than once as he works.

Beau comes over and throws a one-armed hug around your shoulders. “Glad you made it, trouble.”

You smile, distracted, and glance back toward Rafe before turning your attention to Becca, who’s unplugging the vacuum and wrapping the cord in her arms.

“You could’ve warned me,” you mutter under your breath, lips barely moving as you smile in that painfully fake, we’re-in-front-of-other-people kind of way.

Becca glances at you and mimics the exact same forced smile. “You knew he’d be here.”

“Not this early!” you hiss, still smiling, both of you locked in this weirdly telepathic girl-code exchange of facial expressions and fake grins before you break into real laughter.

“We’re going up to my room,” Becca announces to the guys as she tosses the vacuum cord over her shoulder.

Beau nods. “Cool. We’re ordering pizza- what do you want?”

“Pepperoni, please,” Becca calls back.

“Pi-” you start to say, but Rafe cuts in from behind the counter, not even looking up.

“Pineapple,” he mutters.

Your eyes snap to him.

Beau looks between the two of you, eyebrow raised, clearly clocking the tension.

“Yeahhhh,” Becca says quickly, clapping her hands. “We’re going upstairs now.”

She grabs your wrist and guides you toward the hallway. “Call us when the pizza gets here!” she tosses over her shoulder as you both leave the room, her voice a little too bright, a little too fast.

As soon as the door swings shut behind you, you exhale.

She doesn’t say anything for a few steps. Then: “Well, that wasn’t as awkward as it could’ve been.”

You groan. “It’s barely been two minutes.”

“And look at us- already surviving.”

You bump her shoulder lightly with yours. “We’ll see.”

You and Becca are sitting cross-legged on her bed, knees almost touching, her hands gripping yours like she’s about to deliver life-altering news. She’s got that look on her face- eyebrows pinched, lips pursed, eyes dancing like she’s fighting the urge to burst.

“Becca, you’re scaring me,” you say, narrowing your eyes.

“Just… don’t freak out, okay?” she pleads, squeezing your hands once before pulling hers back to brace herself. Her eyes squeeze shut. “Marie and I slept together,” she blurts, then immediately shoves her fist into her mouth, eyes wide and panicked like she just confessed to murder.

There’s a full five-second delay in your brain. Like a loading sign. Spinning. Spinning.

“Like… slept slept together?” you ask slowly. “Or just… same bed, passed out after a movie…?”

Becca groans. “Slept slept together,” she repeats, cracking her eyes open, waiting for your judgment.

You blink at her. Then again. “Wow,” you finally breathe. “I have so many questions.”

She exhales sharply, half laughing, half still bracing. “Remember when you and Rafe went to breakfast that one morning? And you told us to hang out?”

You nod slowly. “Oh, trust me, I now know exactly what kind of ‘hanging out’ went down. Ew.”

“I was gonna tell you,” she insists, flopping back onto the bed. “That night we were on your balcony? When you were crying and I told you to go after him instead? I had the perfect opening!”

You lean back on your palms, eyes wide. “Wait… is that why you said you were done with guys?”

She blushes instantly. And then bursts into laughter, covering her face with her hands.

You laugh with her, shaking your head. “Oh my god, Becca.”

“I mean… girls are still men, in some ways,” she groans into her hands. “But like, at least this one moisturizes and smells like lavender.”

“I need a minute to recover,” you say, pretending to fan yourself.

The two of you fall into light chatter, laughter trailing into comfort. Eventually, Becca groans and hops off the bed.

“I think I have an eyelash stabbing my retina,” she says dramatically, disappearing into the ensuite bathroom to investigate in the mirror.

Just as she closes the door behind her, there’s a soft knock at Becca’s bedroom door.

“Y/N!” she calls from the bathroom, voice muffled. “Can you grab that?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m getting it,” you mutter, rolling off the bed. You open the door- and freeze.

Rafe is standing there, a plate in each hand and two bottles of water awkwardly tucked beneath his arm. His eyes unreadable, flicking from your face to somewhere over your shoulder and back again.

You’re surprised. But not really.

“I brought these up… for you guys,” he says, his voice low, like he’s not sure if this is going to earn him a thank you or a door slammed in his face.

Your mouth opens a second before your brain catches up. “Thanks,” you say dryly, reaching for the plates.

He nods, then grabs the water bottles from under his arm and reaches past you to set them down on the dresser near the door. You notice the way his arm brushes yours- probably not by accident.

As you start to close the door, he hesitates. “I, uh-” he points to one of the plates, the one clearly meant for you. “I picked the ham off the pineapple. I know you don’t like it.”

You glance down at the plate. Then back at him. Your walls threaten to slip. “Thanks… again.”

He shrugs, shoving his hands deep into his pockets like it’s the only way to stop himself from saying more.

And then -because of course he can’t help himself- he leans a little closer, that smug half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You always get that look when you’re about to close the door on me,” he murmurs. “Just like you did that night in the rain- right after you let me fuck you in the back of my car.”

Your breath catches. Heat shoots to your cheeks.

Your eyes widen. “Oh my god,” you whisper, scandalized.

Rafe raises both eyebrows innocently, clearly smug.

Without another word, you slam the door in his face- not hard, but not gently either.

From the bathroom, Becca calls, “What was that?!”

You walk back to the bed with the plates and water, cheeks burning. “Rafe being Rafe,” you mutter, flopping down and groaning into the pillows.

Becca pokes her head out from the bathroom, eye red and watery. “Was he shirtless? I feel like that is something he’d do.”

You throw a pillow at her, laughing.

You’re in the kitchen flipping pancakes, the warm scent of butter and syrup wafting through the air. You’re dressed in a black bikini, a semi-sheer white sarong tied low on your hips. Your hair is out, natural and untamed, curls soft and framing your face. You hadn’t bothered to style it today- and somehow, that made you feel more like yourself. More like home.

Behind you, Becca dances barefoot around the island, her playlist blasting through the portable speaker as she chops a medley of strawberries, kiwi, and mango into a giant fruit bowl.

“With how loud your music is and how good those pancakes smell, you better be making some for us too,” Beau’s groggy voice cuts through the beat. You turn your head and laugh as he steps into the kitchen, shirtless and rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“I’m making damn near the entire box,” you say with a grin. “Trust me, Becs and I aren’t about to eat a dozen pancakes on our own.”

“Speak for yourself,” Becca calls from across the kitchen.

You flip the final batch onto a plate and start assembling them into four neat servings, layering fruit for yourself and Becca and leaving two plates plain.

That’s when Rafe walks in. He’s in a white ribbed tank and low-slung shorts,he clearly just rolled out of bed. Your eyes meet for a brief moment- just long enough to make your heart flutter in spite of yourself.

You quickly pass a plate to Becca. “This one’s for him,” you say under your breath.

She raises an eyebrow but takes it anyway, walking it over to Rafe without a word. Still, when you turn around, you nearly crash into him.

“Sorry,” you mumble, stepping back.

He steadies the plate in one hand. “Thanks… for the pancakes.”

You nod once. “Yeah… No fruit?”

“Not today,” he says with a shrug, then glances at your plate and back to your face. “You think I should get some?”

The question is simple, but something in the way he asks it makes your stomach tighten. You raise an eyebrow and smile, unsure why it feels like middle school-level flirting all over again.

“You should probably get some,” you say softly.

His grin creeps in slowly. “Do you want me to?”

You bite your lip, trying not to look too amused. “Yeah.”

“Yeah?” he repeats, that teasing lilt in his voice now, like he’s enjoying this more than he’ll admit.

You chuckle. “Yeah.”

“I’ll get some just for you.” He’s already reaching for the fruit bowl, the muscles in his forearm flexing as he scoops a generous helping into a smaller bowl. You catch him glancing at you from the corner of his eye.

You take the bowl from him and set it on his plate, your fingers brushing his in the exchange. His gaze lingers for a second longer than it should.

“You look really pretty,” he says suddenly, looking down as he adjusts the bowl next to his pancakes like he’s trying to hide the heat rising to his face.

You freeze for half a second. The compliment lands heavier than you expected.

“Thank you, Rafe,” you say quietly, warmth spreading through your chest and up your neck.

“Y/N!” Becca calls through the sliding door, already stepping out toward the patio with her plate and a drink in hand.

You grab your own plate and cup, your pulse still dancing from the interaction.

“Yeah! I’m coming,” you call back, but your eyes flick back to Rafe one last time before you follow her out. He’s watching you walk away.

And for a moment, it feels like everything -the tension, the history, the attraction- is suspended in that charged space between pancakes and fruit.

You push the door open, the summer air hitting your skin as you step outside, trying to shake the feeling that you’re still carrying Rafe with you. Even out here.

“Tell me you weren’t just in there flirting with him,” Becca says flatly, popping a strawberry into her mouth as she reclines back on the lounge chair beside you.

You roll your eyes, chewing on a bite of pancake. “We were having a normal conversation, like functioning adults. Shocking, I know.”

“Reminder: he broke up with you. Over the phone.” Her tone is calm but edged with just enough sass to land the blow.

You wince and narrow your eyes. “Jesus, Bec. You don’t have to remind me like that.”

“I’m just saying,” she shrugs. “Don’t let him sweet-talk his way back into your life. You’ve come too far for that.”

“I ignored him for weeks after the breakup,” you say, your voice tight. “And that was after we slept together.”

Becca’s head snaps toward you so fast her sunglasses nearly slide off. “Wait… what?”

You freeze, a half-chewed bite of pancake turning to dust in your mouth. “Oh.”

Her brows shoot up. “Did you just say you had sex with him after you broke up?”

You swallow hard and glance away. “Technically, yes.”

She spins on the lounge chair to fully face you, abandoning her plate altogether. “Y/N.”

“Okay, fine,” you groan, pushing your sunglasses to the top of your head. “We did.”

Her mouth drops open in pure betrayal. “When? When the hell did this happen?”

“Shhh!” You reach over and swat her arm, scanning the patio door nervously. “Keep your voice down.”

“Well maybe don’t drop breakup bombshells like that poolside and I wouldn’t have to yell.”

You sigh and tuck your legs underneath you. “It was when I came back to grab more stuff. I wasn’t planning on seeing him- swear. But I went to the marsh to clear my head and… somehow he showed up too.”

Becca raises a brow. “You’re telling me this was a coincidence?”

“I don’t know, maybe.” You shrug, embarrassed. “One minute we’re arguing, the next it’s pouring rain, and we’re in the back of his SUV and he’s-” You pause, waving a hand vaguely. “-doing things.”

Becca blinks. “Okay. First of all? Public, post-breakup sex in a rainstorm? Iconic. That’s some Titanic level drama. Love that for you.”

You smirk in spite of yourself.

“But second of all,” she continues, “how did you not tell me this? I’m your best friend. This is the kind of stuff we live for.”

You groan and sink deeper into your chair. “Because I’ve been trying to forget it happened myself, that’s why.”

“Forget what?” Beau’s voice interrupts as he and Rafe push through the patio door, both holding plates stacked with pancakes.

Your eyes widen. You glance at Becca like please say nothing.

“None of your business,” she says breezily, standing up as she spots the massive wheelbarrow full of bright pool floaties behind them. “What are you two doing?”

Beau sets his plate down on the nearest table. “Blowing up floaties. We got dolphins, flamingos, one of those ridiculous oversized pizza slices-”

“Wanna help?” Rafe asks, looking mostly at you.

Becca doesn’t miss a beat. “Absolutely not.”

You take a long sip from your iced coffee and look away, pretending to suddenly find the trees in Becca’s backyard fascinating. Because if you look at him again, even for a second, you might not be able to keep pretending last time wasn’t unforgettable.

You and Becca are waist-deep in the pool, rotating through floaties under the guise of “testing” them. In reality, the boys are doing all the heavy lifting -Beau manning the electric pump, Rafe handling the ones that need manual inflation- while you and Becca lazily drift around, swapping floaters every now and then.

You’re currently slung over a giant yellow banana float like a sleepy panda on a tree branch, arms and legs draped dramatically, your sunglasses hiding the fact that you’re shamefully watching Rafe.

Why did he have to take off his shirt? And why does he look so hot blowing up pool floats? You’re pretty sure no one’s ever had that thought before, but here you are.

The sun reflects off the water, and you feel yourself slowly drifting toward the pool’s edge, still clinging to the banana float and trying not to stare too hard as Rafe finishes with a donut-shaped one.

He walks over to the edge where you’ve floated, shirtless, tan, and looking maddeningly unbothered. His hand wraps around the front tip of the banana float, halting your journey. The water ripples against you.

“Heyyyy,” you whine, startled from your daydream. “I was floating.”

He laughs, low and amused, and plops the donut float into the pool beside you. “Time to switch out,” he says with a smirk, like he’s talking to a child refusing to get off the swing.

“I don’t feel like switching.” The protest barely leaves your mouth before he’s stepping into the pool with zero hesitation, water sloshing around him. In one smooth motion, his arms are around your waist, lifting you like you weigh nothing. You let out a small yelp as he gently drops you into the donut float.

“I would’ve gotten up,” you grumble, adjusting your position. “This is just… a lot. All these float switches? I think my fingers are officially prunes.” You lift a hand for dramatic effect and flop your head back.

“Oh yeah,” Rafe says, climbing out of the water again, his shorts clinging to his legs. He shoots you a playful look over his shoulder. “You’ve definitely got the hardest job here. Lounging in the pool while we blow up thirty inflatables.”

“You forgot the part where I also have to rotate every five minutes so my tan doesn’t get uneven,” you add.

“Tragic,” he calls back, grabbing another deflated float from the pile.

Becca, across the pool on a flamingo float, calls out, “If she complains one more time, throw her

on the pizza slice and spin her around.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Rafe says with a teasing glance your way, his lips tugging into a familiar smirk- the kind that makes your heart beat faster than you’d like to admit.

You sink a little deeper into the donut float, willing your pulse to chill out.

Because God help you… he’s still got it.

93 notes · View notes

mggssocks · 29 days ago

Text

The Eighth

the eighth masterlist

Pairing: Fem!Kook!Reader x Rafe Cameron

cw: angst? rushed writing lol. lmk if I missed anything.

a/n: this week has been hell so sorry if this feels rushed. at least it's a long one? (that's what she said)

You’re in your usual spot in the back of the yoga studio, stretching with quiet ease. Becca is on your right, Marie on your left, and the three of you whisper over the calm voice of the instructor- not about anything important, just whatever floats into your heads.

“A month of dating and your head’s still in the clouds,” Becca teases, nudging you with her elbow as you lift your leg effortlessly into the air.

“He makes me feel good,” you murmur, unable to stop the smile that creeps onto your face. “And not just physically.”

Marie groans. “We didn’t need to know that.”

You laugh, swapping legs with ease. “Why are we always talking about me anyway? Marie, what happened to that girl you were seeing?”

Marie exhales like she’s been waiting to vent. Her curls fall forward as she stretches, partially hiding her face. “This is gonna sound shallow. But… her kook doesn’t match my kook.”

You blink. “Marie. No one on Figure Eight matches your kook, not even us.”

“No offense,” she says breezily, adjusting into the next pose. “But she has even less money than you both. I just couldn’t do it.”

“That is pretty shallow,” Becca mutters under her breath, not loud enough for Marie to hear. You glance over but say nothing.

Later, the three of you walk through the studio lobby, yoga mats tucked under one arm, water bottles in hand, and gym bags slung casually over your shoulders. You’re laughing about some ridiculous comment Becca made, something about your yoga instructor’s perfect ass.

Then you spot it- his car. That familiar sleek black SUV, parked right in front like it’s waiting for no one else. Your stomach flutters and you can’t help the way your face lights up.

“Oh god, here we go,” Becca says playfully, rolling her eyes as you start toward it with a barely concealed skip.

Rafe steps out just as you reach the curb, wearing a black collared shirt that hugs his chest a little too perfectly and beige slacks that somehow make him look like he walked out of a fashion campaign. You bite your lip. The man is infuriatingly hot.

You wrap your arms around his neck with zero hesitation, and his arms come around your waist naturally, swaying you side to side in a familiar rhythm.

“How was yoga?” he asks softly into your ear.

“Really good.” You pull back just enough to give him a quick kiss.

Becca and Marie catch up slowly, lingering behind, exchanging a glance. Marie raises an eyebrow.

“I’m stealing her for breakfast,” Rafe says, unlocking the car. “Hope you two don’t mind.”

“Not like we had plans or anything,” Becca jokes, but her voice is a little too tight around the edges.

You don’t notice. You’re too busy tossing your gym bag into the back seat. “You two should hang out! Get coffee or something.”

There’s a short pause. “Sure,” Marie says, too quickly.

You climb into the passenger seat, adjusting your leggings. As Rafe pulls away, you’re already mid-story about how Becca nearly fell asleep in child’s pose, totally missing the faint silence between the girls as they stood on the sidewalk, watching you go.

“My mom would kill me if she saw me out to eat in sportswear,” you laugh softly as Rafe pulls your chair out for you.

He grins, that boyish smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Good thing she’s not here.”

You slide into the seat and smooth your napkin into your lap, eyes following him as he rounds the table and takes the spot across from you. There’s a natural ease between you. Your conversations always start off light, like skipping stones across water- effortless and playful.

After placing your orders, the chatter quiets. The ambient noise of the restaurant fills the space, forks clinking against plates, soft jazz humming in the background. Then, Rafe breaks the silence, voice low and thoughtful.

“What are you doing later?” he asks, his fingers tapping lightly against the bridge of his nose. It seems like a nervous habit, something unconscious.

You smile. “Still doing that sewing class. We’re learning a new pattern today.”

There’s a little spark in your voice when you say it, and Rafe picks up on it. He nods, resting his elbow on the table. “Still following through with that internship, I see.”

“I told my mom I would. And when you say something to her, you better mean it. That woman doesn’t forget a promise.” You let out a dry laugh, shaking your head.

He raises his brows, giving a short nod. Then a beat of quiet passes before he speaks again, a little more gently this time.

“Is it… something you actually want to do?”

You blink, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice. You glance down at your hands, fingers playing with the edge of your napkin.

“I mean… not at first. I only started going to the classes to shut her up, honestly,” you admit.

“But once I actually sat down and started sewing, I don’t know- it felt kind of good. Like… calming. Like I was doing something for me.”

Your shoulders rise with the confession, a little self-conscious. Rafe watches you carefully, then leans forward.

“That’s all that really matters, right? If you enjoy it.”

You meet his eyes again, softer now. “Yeah,” you say. “I think so.”

There’s a pause -comfortable, not awkward- where you both just sit in the weight of what wasn’t said. Maybe about parents with strong expectations. Maybe about doing things because it makes sense versus doing them because they feel right.

Rafe doesn’t push the conversation further. He just gives a small smile and lifts his water glass toward you. “To not doing things just because you’re told.”

You clink your glass against his. “I’ll drink to that.”

You kiss Rafe after he opens the passenger door for you, a quick but affectionate press of your lips against his. He hands you your yoga mat and water bottle, then steals another kiss before mumbling, “I’ll see you later.”

Your heart is still fluttering as you walk up the steps to your front door, the corners of your mouth twitching with leftover smiles. But that bubble of warmth pops the moment you step inside.

Your parents are in the kitchen- your mom standing near the island with her usual cup of tea, your dad leaning against the counter. Both of them glance up as the door closes behind you.

“Hi,” you mutter, trying to keep it casual as you toe off your shoes.

“You’re with that… Rafe Cameron,” your mother says flatly, eyes locked on her teacup like she might find the answers to her disapproval swirling inside it.

“Yeah. I was,” you answer, a little sass edging into your tone. You sling your bag onto the stairs, heart already beginning to race.

“I want to meet this boy,” your dad says, arms crossing over his chest.

You scoff. “You already know him. You’ve been to his house a hundred times with Ward—”

“I know of him,” he corrects sharply. “There’s a difference. And if he’s going to be sneaking in and out of my daughter’s bedroom, I’d like to make sure he’s someone worth letting through the door.”

You feel heat rise to your cheeks, part embarrassment, part fury. “Judgment day. Great,” you mutter under your breath as you brush past them, heading for the stairs.

“Like you have any room to talk,” you add bitterly, voice low but not low enough.

Your mother’s spoon clinks sharply against the rim of her mug. “Next Saturday. Our annual brunch,” she says coolly. “He needs to be there.”

You stop with your foot on the bottom stair, your jaw tightening. You want to argue. You want to scream. But instead, you swallow it down and nod once, curtly. “Fine.”

And without another word, you head upstairs, the weight of their judgment sticking to your skin like humidity.

You’re standing just outside the beachside clubhouse, your arms crossed loosely as your eyes scan the sea of white tents and drifting fairy lights. Soft music hums beneath the chatter of well-dressed guests, and the scent of citrus and sea salt lingers in the breeze. The annual brunch is in full swing- open bar, catered hors d’oeuvres, white linen tablecloths fluttering under the shade of the tents, and not a single guest wearing anything but the expected palette.

You shift your weight anxiously, brushing invisible specks from your gown. The sheer, form-fitting dress clings delicately to your curves, a soft cream base adorned with light floral embroidery that catches the light just so. Spaghetti straps tie neatly at your shoulders, and your hair is swept into a curly, low bun that looks effortless even though it took you nearly an hour to perfect.

“Calm down, he’ll be here,” Marie murmurs beside you, gently rubbing your arm. Her voice is soft, grounded. She looks radiant in a white two-piece set: a cropped blouse and flowing maxi skirt that catches the breeze. Her curls are freshly wet and perfectly defined, still glistening from whatever leave-in magic she swears by.

You roll your eyes, not at her, just at the stress building in your chest. “Tell that to my parents,” you mutter, smoothing the fabric over your waist. “If he’s even five minutes late, they’ll take it as a personal insult. Like him sneaking into my room wasn’t bad enough.”

“You look stunning,” Marie says, nudging you with her elbow. “I wouldn’t want to face your parents either. You’re intimidating like this.”

You laugh softly, distracted when you spot Becca jogging back from the parking lot, a small bottle in hand. She’s wearing a white mini dress-tight, short, and completely inappropriate for a parent brunch, which of course means it’s exactly what Becca would wear. Her expression is unreadable.

“You didn’t see him in the lot?” you ask quickly, taking a step toward her.

“Nope. But that doesn’t mean he’s not coming,” she says, casually squeezing a bit of shimmering gold lotion into her hand. She rubs it along her toned arms, catching the sun like a goddess on vacation. “Relax. You’ll scare him off before he even shows.”

You sigh and hold your palm out. “Give me some.”

She squirts a dollop into your hand, and you work it over your arms and collarbones, trying to distract yourself from the gnawing feeling in your stomach.

Then- “Oh! There he is!” Marie taps your shoulder with the excitement of someone spotting a celebrity.

Your heart jumps. You turn quickly- and there he is.

Rafe’s walking toward you from the edge of the beach, cutting through the white-sand path with the easy confidence only he could pull off. He’s in a crisp white button-up, the sleeves casually rolled to his elbows, paired with off-white tailored shorts. His hair is wind-tousled, his jaw clean-shaven. The sight of him makes your chest expand like a held breath finally released.

You lift the hem of your gown and begin to make your way toward him, bare feet kicking up little clouds of sand. The moment you reach him, you fall gently into his arms.

“Hey,” you exhale into his shoulder, his hands instinctively curling around your back.

“You’re half an hour late,” you whisper, pulling back slightly, your eyes searching his. “What happened? Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he nods, voice low. “Just had to deal with a few things before I got here. Sorry, didn’t mean to worry you.”

You frown a little but nod, not wanting to press too much in the middle of all this. You thread your fingers through his as you guide him toward the tents, where Marie and Becca wait, the latter raising an eyebrow that says You better have brought your A-game.

As the four of you walk together, the brunch crowd takes notice. Rafe’s presence is hard to miss, and so is the way you’re glowing beside him. Your parents glance up from their table. Your mother’s expression doesn’t change- but your father’s eyes narrow slightly.

Judgment day, indeed.

Rafe is settled beside you at the absurdly long table, the white tablecloth pressed and perfect, candles flickering in elegant hurricane vases every few feet. The breeze ruffles the edges of the menus and makes the crystal glasses clink gently against each other.

Becca’s on your other side, already halfway through her first glass of wine despite the eye your mother gave her when she poured it. Marie’s next to her, draped in conversation with someone’s older cousin. Across the table sits a careful mix of your peers and their country-club-practiced parents. At opposite ends, your mother and father sit like royalty- her at the head nearest you, posture ruler-straight; him at the far end, already deep in conversation with one of the board members from the marina.

It’s theatrical, really. Like some modern aristocratic parody.

You feel Rafe lean closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Why’s she here?” he murmurs low.

You furrow your brow, confused- until he subtly tips his chin in a direction past your shoulder.

Your gaze follows, and your stomach drops.

Sofia.

She’s posted behind the bar, laughing as she flips a bottle for the other bartender, the movement fluid and practiced. Her white blouse is fitted, her makeup done just right, like she knew who would be here tonight.

You force a tight smile and shrug, eyes flicking back to your empty plate. “My parents probably

hired the country club staff,” you say. “Didn’t even think to ask.”

Rafe doesn’t say anything, but his hand finds your thigh beneath the tablecloth. His thumb rubs a slow, grounding circle there, and for a second, you can breathe again.

“Rafe,” a voice calls from further down the table. It’s your mother, her wine glass delicately lifted in her hand. “We were just saying it’s strange not seeing your father around anymore. Kildare feels different without him.”

There’s a subtle shift in the energy around the table. Conversations quiet just slightly, enough to hear the waves in the distance.

Rafe straightens, his jaw tight for only a second. “Yeah,” he says simply. “It does feel different.”

Your mom hums, like she’s trying to smooth over the moment. “I’m sure he’d be proud of how you’re carrying yourself.”

Rafe offers a small, tight smile. “I appreciate that.”

Your mom smiles tightly, and your dad chimes in from across the table. “Still following in his footsteps, then?”

Rafe leans back with a casual smile. “Not quite. I think I’m figuring out what my path looks like.”

There’s a beat of silence. The kind only moneyed people are trained to fill without seeming awkward.

“I heard from Elizabeth St. James that you’ve been keeping busy,” one of the women across the table says, tilting her head. “Is it true you’ve been spending time at Sel de Mer?”

“I stop by sometimes,” Rafe replies smoothly. “Good food. Good people. Better company now that Y/N’s around.”

That earns him a couple of amused, polite laughs. You fight the urge to squeeze his hand under the table.

“Oh, yes,” your mom says, seizing the moment like a hawk. “Y/N’s been quite busy too. She’s actually starting her internship soon with Valentina & Co.”

“She’s mentioned it,” Rafe says, proud. “She’s been looking forward to it. She’s got real talent.”

You glance over at him, surprised -and touched- by how genuinely he says it. But before you can thank him, your mother drops the bomb like it’s casual dinner talk.

“In New York City, no less. It’s such a competitive program, you wouldn’t believe how many girls applied.”

Your fork stills in your hand. Rafe pauses too, but just for a second. You feel your breath catch.

He doesn’t flinch.

“Mom-“ you begin.

“That’s amazing,” Rafe cuts you off, cool and effortless. “New York’s going to eat her up in the best way.”

Someone further down the table toasts your name. Becca shifts in her seat, and you catch the flicker of surprise across Marie’s face. You hadn’t told them. You hadn’t told anyone- because you didn’t know. Because your mother hadn’t told you either.

You glance at her now, but her attention is already somewhere else. Smiling. Conversing. As if she hadn’t just rewritten your next few months in front of your boyfriend.

Rafe leans in, voice low and meant only for you. “You knew it was in New York?”

You swallow hard. “I didn’t. Not until now.”

He doesn’t say anything at first- just squeezes your knee gently.

“We’ll figure it out,” he murmurs. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And for the first time all night, you don’t care that everyone is watching. Because the only person who really sees you just proved it.

Dinner is quiet between you Rafe and your friends. Once servers swoop by to pick off the emptied dessert plates, Rafe gets up.

“I’ll be at the bar.” He whispers into your ear before heading off.

You watch him for a moment, debating on whether or not you should follow him or let him cool off.

“New York?” Becca looks at you. Marie is leaned over the table to look at you past Becca. Marie has less to be worried about as she usually spends the rest of her year back at home in Charleston. But Becca- you two were together all the time. She was going to lose her head without you.

“I didn’t know” your eyebrows furrow.

She doesn’t say anything else, just hugs you.

You watch Rafe stroll away from the bar, drink in hand, the last hints of sun casting a warm hue on his shoulders. He turns back once to give you a smile -soft, almost shy- before disappearing behind the line of white tents that snake toward the back of the beach clubhouse.

You linger for a moment, basking in the comfort of the night: the soft chatter of guests winding down, fairy lights flickering above, the last of the catered desserts being passed around.

Meanwhile, Rafe is weaving through the side path toward the patio doors, intending to loop around to find you again. But as he nears the house, he pauses.

The glass doors are half open, spilling golden light onto the wooden deck. Inside, your mom, your grandmother, and two women he vaguely recognizes from past fundraisers are huddled near the kitchen island, wine glasses dangling loosely in manicured hands.

They’re laughing. Louder than they probably realize.

“I’m just saying,” your grandmother says, swirling her wine, “we all did a double take when we saw her show up with him.”

Your mom sighs.

“It’s a phase. She’s always needed something to rebel with- this is just more expensive than those… Doc Martens and silly hair dye.”

Laughter.

“Ward Cameron’s son though?” one of the women adds, almost gleeful in her gossip. “God rest him, but that family’s cursed. And she’s not built for that kind of mess.”

Your mom again, quieter now, like she’s tired:

“Once she’s in New York, focusing on her internship, she’ll come to her senses. There won’t be space for all this… distraction.”

The word slices clean.

Rafe doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. His hand tightens slightly around the sweating glass in his hand.

Inside, no one notices.

“She has real potential,” someone else says. “Let’s just hope she doesn’t throw it away on a psychopath’s kid.”

Laughter again. Warmer this time. Familiar. Like they all agree.

Rafe turns before the rest can land. He steps off the deck and disappears around the side of the house, face calm but unreadable.

You catch up to him moments later near the back lot. He’s already at the car, door open, hand on the roof.

“Hey,” you say gently. “Leaving already?”

He nods, managing a half-smile.

“Yeah. I think I’ve had enough mingling for one night.”

You frown. “You okay?”

“I’m good.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “I just remembered I’ve got something I need to take care of in the morning.”

He leans in, kisses your cheek, then whispers, “Text me when you’re home, alright?”

And then he gets in the car and drives off, leaving the sand swirling in his wake and your heart starting to ache in a way you can’t quite place.

Not yet, anyway.

“I can’t believe you’re leaving,” Becca sighs, her head tilted back against the hammock as it gently sways. The night air is warm but forgiving, a breeze rustling through the palm leaves overhead. She lifts the nearly half-empty bottle of tequila to her lips before passing it to you.

“I can’t either,” you murmur, eyes locked on your phone screen. Rafe’s contact stares back at you- untouched since last night. You’d called, once. When he didn’t pick up, you sent a single text. No reply. And you refused to be the girl who begged.

The silence from him sat like a bruise under your ribs.

Becca shifts beside you, brushing your arm. “Can I tell you something?”

You glance over. Her voice is quieter now, lips slack with the weight of alcohol and something heavier. You lower the bottle and place your hand over hers, grounding her.

“Anything. Anytime,” you say.

She opens her mouth, then falters. Her eyes flick toward the door- something unreadable passes across her face.

But before either of you can say more, your phone lights up in your lap. Rafe. Calling.

You both stare at it.

Becca blinks slowly, then gives you a nod, her chin tilting toward the screen. “Go on. Answer.”

“You sure?” you ask, searching her face. You don’t want to be that friend, the one who ditches the moment a boy calls. Especially not when Becca looked like she was on the verge of saying something important.

“He can’t wait forever,” she says. Her voice is soft, but her meaning is clear. “You’ll hate yourself if you don’t.”

You give her a grateful look, silently mouthing thank you as you slide off the hammock.

Phone still pressed to your ear, you answer. “Hey.”

There’s a pause. Then his voice, quiet. Almost like he doesn’t want to be saying it at all.

“Hey. I’m outside. Can we talk?”

You freeze in place for a second, heart skidding into motion again.

“Yeah. Yeah, of course,” you breathe, already slipping your feet into your sandals.

Becca watches you from the hammock, silent now, the bottle cradled between her knees like it’s the only thing steady.

You pull your door open and slip into the night, heart thudding, not knowing what version of Rafe you’ll find on the other side.

You slide into the passenger seat as Rafe opens the door for you, the warm interior lights of the car casting soft shadows across your face. It feels oddly secretive, like some kind of late-night rendezvous, even though you’re parked just feet from your front porch. Still, he made sure to pull up beside the curb, half-concealed behind the row of bushes- just outside the view of your house’s security cameras.

Even now, when things feel… off, he’s still a gentleman. He shuts the door behind you quietly before rounding the hood and slipping into the driver’s seat. The silence stretches between you, thick but not hostile. The car hums faintly beneath you. You’re not going anywhere- just talking.

You glance down at his hand, resting on his thigh, fingers idly twitching against the fabric of his shorts. You want to reach for it. But you hesitate, unsure of where this is heading. There’s something unreadable in his face tonight. Something careful.

“I didn’t want to do this like this,” he finally says, voice low, barely above the car’s quiet rumble.

“Do what?” you ask, eyes on him now, even as his remain fixed on the windshield.

He exhales through his nose. “Talk about what happens next.”

You lean back in your seat slightly. “If this is about New York-”

“It is,” he says, cutting you off gently. Not sharp, but firm. “You’re really going through with it?”

You don’t answer right away. You shift in your seat, arms folding in reflex. “It’s not like I had a choice. You know how my mom is.”

“That’s not what I asked.” He finally turns to face you fully. “I’m asking if it’s something you want.

If you’re going because it’s right for you- not because you’re trying to hide from something or prove something.”

“I don’t know,” you admit. “I think… I think I might actually be good at it. And I do want to see where it leads.”

Rafe nods, but you can tell it’s not what he wanted to hear. Not really.

“But,” you add, reaching for something soft between the cracks of tension, “we still have the rest of summer.”

He’s quiet for a beat. Then, “I don’t want the rest of summer.” That catches you off guard. Your breath hitches. “I want the rest of our lives.”

You turn to him, eyes wide.

“Not in a clingy way,” he adds quickly, with a crooked little smile. “I’m not trying to trap you or make this some dramatic ultimatum. I just… I don’t want to pretend this is casual. Or temporary. Not when it hasn’t felt that way from the start.”

You don’t say anything at first. You just look at him. Really look at him. And then you reach across the console, taking his hand gently in yours.

“I don’t want temporary either,” you whisper. “I don’t know how it’s going to work. Or what’s going to happen in New York. But I know I don’t want to lose this.”

He lifts your hand to his lips and kisses your knuckles, lingering for a moment before resting them back on his thigh- your fingers still tangled with his.

The silence after that isn’t heavy anymore. It’s warm. Hopeful.

Figure Eight’s drive-in movie theater. Late-night carnivals. Dock picnics at golden hour.

Summer was slipping by faster than either of you could hold onto it- but you were making the most of every second with Rafe. There were sand-slicked fingers and sunburnt shoulders, lazy afternoons spent floating in the ocean, and quiet moments where he looked at you like he couldn’t believe you were real.

Sometimes, when the night was too warm for sleep, you’d sneak out to his boat. He’d stretch out beside you on the cushioned deck, and the two of you would look up at the stars in easy silence. The hush of the water rocking around you made everything feel distant- his past, your future. Just the now.

“My sister likes stuff like this,” he murmured one night, eyes squinting at the night sky as you gently guided his hand upward.

“Sarah or Wheezie?” you asked, your cheek nestled against the curve of his chest, one leg draped over his.

“Sarah,” he said with a little laugh. “She used to make me lie on the lawn and look for constellations with her. I always pretended to care.”

You smiled, lifting his hand toward the sky again. “That one’s the North Star. Right there.”

He didn’t respond, just turned his head and kissed your temple.

A few days later, you were at Tannyhill, sunlight flooding the sitting room-turned-workspace. Your sewing kit was cracked open beside you and a mannequin stood dressed in half-pinned fabric. Rafe stood behind it, brow furrowed, a pin in hand.

“No, not there, here.” You giggled, stepping in close and taking his hand. You gently moved it to the side seam, showing him where the fabric needed to be secured. “See?”

He wasn’t into fashion. Not even a little. But he was trying- and not in the performative way guys do when they want something. This was different. It felt like love in the quietest form. He cared because you cared.

“You’re gonna poke your eye out,” you teased as he squinted, sticking the pin in crookedly again.

“Better than poking you,” he muttered, concentrating.

You let out a laugh, reaching up to fix it.

It had become routine. Your stuff was slowly migrating into his space- fabric bolts rolled up in the corner, your sketchpad under the coffee table, pins in the carpet no matter how many times you swore you’d clean them. He never complained.

You hadn’t been home much. Not since the brunch. Rafe never said it outright, but you knew he didn’t want to set foot in your house again.

You thought your parents had at least tolerated him that day. But Rafe? Rafe could still hear the judgment in your mom’s careful phrasing, the way your dad’s questions were just veiled warnings.

He hadn’t told you that- but you saw it in the way he avoided even driving close to your house..

To him, your house was a reminder. That no matter how close you held him this summer, fall was still coming. And you might wake up one morning in a new city, chasing a new life, one that didn’t have space for someone like him.

You’re kneeling between his legs, carefully gathering the trail of spilled pins scattered across the hardwood floor like glittering confetti. The room is quiet except for the soft hum of the ceiling fan and the occasional clink of metal against glass as you drop each pin back into the jar.

Rafe is seated on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, watching you. Not helping- just watching. Admiring, really.

You tuck a loose curl behind your ear, not even meaning to look up- but you do. And when you do, you find his eyes already on you. Steady. Intense. Like he’s memorizing you.

“What?” you ask softly, a shy smile tugging at your lips. You tilt your head, a bit breathless under the weight of his gaze.

He doesn’t smile back. Not at first. His expression is unreadable for a moment- like he’s on the verge of saying something but not sure if he should.

Then he shrugs, barely, and the words fall out of his mouth without hesitation. Quiet. Steady. Certain. “I love you.”

There’s no dramatic pause. No swelling music or grand gestures. Just him, sitting there with the sun casting gold across his cheekbones, saying it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

You freeze, one pin still between your fingers, heart skipping a beat.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t take it back. If anything, he leans forward a little- like he’s daring you to say something, to feel the weight of those words and decide what to do with them.

“I didn’t mean to say it like that,” he adds after a beat, his voice lower, almost unsure. “But I’m not sorry I did.”

And he means it. You can see it in his eyes. This wasn’t some spontaneous moment he’d regret later. It was the quiet truth finally finding a way out.

You look back down at the single pin between your index finger and thumb, turning it slowly as if it holds the answer to something unspoken. Your heart thuds in your chest, loud enough you’re sure he can hear it, but your mouth won’t move. Not yet.

“You don’t have to say it back…” Rafe starts, voice low, vulnerable in a way you’ve never heard before. “I just…”

He trails off with a heavy sigh, dragging a hand over his buzzed hair in frustration. You catch the muttered, “It’s stupid,” barely audible under his breath- but it hits you anyway.

Your chest aches. Not from uncertainty- but from how certain you are.

You finally look up at him, the smallest smile forming on your lips. Then, with quiet certainty, you stand and step over to him, carefully straddling his lap. Your hands find his shoulders, warm and tense beneath your palms, and you start rubbing them gently- trying to coax the tension out of his body.

You rest your forehead against his, your noses brushing lightly. He stills.

“I love you too,” you whisper, voice soft and sure. “A lot.”

His arms wrap around your waist, holding you like he’s scared to let go, and for a second everything feels perfect- timeless.

But then it hits you. The weight of the words. Of time. Of what’s coming.

Your heart drops into your stomach. Not because you regret it—but because now it’s real.

You’re in love. And soon, you’ll be gone. The future -New York, the internship, everything you’ve been working toward- suddenly feels like a threat to the thing you just admitted out loud.

He feels your body shift ever so slightly against him.

“Hey,” he says, voice barely above a whisper, “I meant it. And I’m not going anywhere.”

But neither of you says the other thing aloud: You are.

“Hey lovebirds, why don’t you get a room?” Topper shouts across the bonfire, his voice slurred and smug.

You don’t even bother looking up. You’re curled sideways in Rafe’s lap, your head resting against his chest while you quietly murmur how exhausted you are. The bass of a hip-hop song thumps from a nearby speaker, red Solo cups are scattered along the sand, and the orange glow of the fire flickers across the faces of a dozen Kooks doing what they always do- drink, party, talk too loud.

Rafe doesn’t flinch at Topper’s comment. He just smirks, his eyes on the red cup in his hand, index finger lazily circling the rim. You, however, groan and roll your eyes.

“Don’t pay him any mind,” Rafe says softly, brushing your hair away from your face.

“I don’t understand how you’re friends with that,” you mutter, finally sitting up in his lap.

Rafe shrugs, exaggerated, rocking side to side like he’s literally weighing it out. “Eh, he’s not that bad. I used to be worse.”

You raise a brow, teasing. “Sure you did.”

He grins around a sip of his drink.

“Wanna go for a walk?” you ask, tugging gently at his hand.

He sets his cup down into the sand. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

You stroll away from the fire, the warmth fading behind you as you walk closer to the waterline, your hands intertwined. The cool breeze tousles your hair, and for a while, the conversation is sof- jokes about how Topper will end up on someone’s Snapchat passed out face-first in the dunes, how the guy dancing by the speaker has zero rhythm but one hundred percent confidence.

But then the laughter fades. The mood shifts.

“So,” Rafe says after a beat. “You still planning on doing that internship?”

You nod slowly, eyes forward. “Yeah. I mean… it’s Valentina & Co. It’s kind of huge.”

“I know,” he says. Quiet. Supportive. Kind of.

“But?”

“But nothing.” He kicks a rock in the sand. “Just trying to figure out where that leaves… us.”

You stop walking, turning to face him. “We still have the rest of summer.”

He holds your gaze, voice low. “I don’t want the rest of summer. I want the rest of our lives.”

Your heart stutters. There’s so much weight behind his words -more than you’re ready to unpack right here, barefoot in the sand. But before you can say anything- “Cops!” someone yells in the distance.

You both turn. Flashing lights cut across the dunes, blue and red dancing against the sea of white linen and sunburnt skin. The music cuts, people scatter, some dive into cars, others bolt toward the tree line.

“Shit,” Rafe mutters, already tugging you back toward the bonfire.

When you return, two police cruisers are parked in the sand. Deputy Shoupe is standing beside one of them, flashlight in hand, looking more annoyed than alarmed.

As you and Rafe approach, he lifts the light toward you.

“Y/N Y/L/N” he calls out.

You freeze. “Yeah?”

“You need to come with us. Your parents filed a missing persons report.”

“What?” your voice cracks. “I wasn’t missing, I was-”

“She’s not going anywhere with you,” Rafe cuts in, stepping in front of you. “I’ll take her home.”

Shoupe eyes the two of you. For a second, it’s hard to tell if he’s going to argue. But then he sighs, like he doesn’t want the paperwork.

“Fine. Straight home. And tell your parents to keep their phones on next time before they make us run around the island.”

You nod, heart still racing. Rafe puts a hand on your lower back and gently guides you to the car.

As you slide into the passenger seat, the weight of the night catches up with you- Topper’s bullshit, Rafe’s words, the internship, your parents. It’s all pressing in now.

And you’re not even home yet.

“Wanna tell me why you had the cops out looking for me?” you shout the second the front door slams behind you.

Rafe lingers silently in the entryway, clearly reluctant to come in. He’s not the kind of guy who backs down from confrontation- but he’s here for you, not a screaming match. Still, the tight set of his jaw and the way he keeps twirling that thick gold family ring with his thumb says enough.

“Do not raise your voice at me!” your mom fires back, pointing an accusatory finger like a weapon.

Rafe shifts awkwardly, eyes flicking between you and the floor. This isn’t him- quiet, tense, still.

Normally, he’d be the one going off. Yelling, pacing, throwing your father’s antique paperweight at a wall. But he’s holding it in for your sake. You can tell. And it makes your chest ache.

You grab your mom’s wrist and tug her down the hall, desperate to argue out of earshot, but your words are sharp, hot, and carrying anyway.

“You knew I was at Tannyhill,” you hiss. “It’s literally next door. You didn’t think to walk your ass over and knock?”

“You were gone for a week, Y/N! You ignored every call, every message. We were worried! What else were we supposed to do?”

“I don’t know- use basic human logic before filing a missing person’s report?” you snap.

“I shouldn’t have to beg my daughter to respond to me,” she bites. “You’re letting him derail everything you’ve worked for. You’re going to ruin this internship over a boy!”

“He’s not just some boy!” you shout. “I love him!”

Your dad’s voice cuts in, dry and cold. “What the hell do you know about love?”

You whip your head around. “What the hell do you know?”

“I know you don’t love him,” he says simply. Like it’s fact.

The silence afterward is deafening—until the faint click of the front door swinging shut makes your stomach lurch. You freeze. Then bolt.

“Rafe!” you yell, running down the steps barefoot as he pulls open his car door.

He turns at the sound of your voice. His face is tight, unreadable- but the hurt is there, buried behind his eyes. Your parents’ words hit harder than he’s letting on.

“I’m so sorry,” you breathe, throwing your arms around his neck. You cling to him like you can hold this moment in place. His arms come around you slowly, carefully, like he’s unsure if he

should even be doing this.

“I’m sorry, Rafe. They’re idiots. They don’t get it,” you mumble into his chest.

He presses a kiss to the top of your head. But when he pulls back, his voice is too calm. “Go home.”

“No.” You shake your head, eyes wide. “I want to go with you.”

He shakes his head right back, more resolute. “I don’t need to give them any more reasons to hate me.”

“I don’t care if they hate you. I love you. That’s all that should matter.”

“Do you?” he asks, his voice suddenly different. Cold.

You blink. “Of course I do. Why are you questioning that?”

“You didn’t seem so sure when I first told you I loved you,” he says, eyes flicking away like he doesn’t want to look at you anymore. Like the words themselves are too risky.

You take a step back, stunned. “So what- you think I’m lying now? You think I’m just throwing away my relationship with my parents, risking my entire career, just for fun?”

He lets out a bitter laugh and shakes his head. “You’re not risking shit.”

“That’s not fair, Rafe.” Your voice rises, desperate now. “You talk like you’ve got nothing. Like you’re stuck here forever. But you’ve got money, connections, your name alone opens doors. You’re not some forgotten local- you’re a Cameron.”

He doesn’t flinch. He just looks at you for a long moment, and then quietly says, “Yeah, and this? This place? This is home.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s a cage.”

“No, it’s a choice. My choice.” His jaw tightens. “I’m not trying to chase some big life somewhere else. I already had that life- you think I haven’t seen what it looks like? What people like your parents think success is? I don’t want it.”

“You don’t want it or you’re afraid of not fitting into it?” you ask, voice trembling.

He looks off into the distance, then shrugs. “Maybe both.” And then, more quietly, “But you? You do want it. And you will get it. And I’m just the detour you’ll look back on one day and forget.”

“You think so little of me,” you whisper.

“I think just enough to know how this ends.”

And then, without another word, he gets into the car and slams the door.

You’re left standing in the street, tears slipping hot down your cheeks, his taillights disappearing down the road.

And for the first time- you’re not sure he’ll come back.

“Can I come in?”

Beau’s standing in the doorway in gray sweats slung low on his hips, his signature blonde curls flattened on one side like he’d just rolled out of bed. You’re in jeans and a t-shirt, somewhat casual, but your puffy eyes and red nose betray the night you’ve had.

His expression softens the second he sees you.

“Yeah, of course.” He steps aside without hesitation, his usual sarcasm nowhere to be found.

You step into the familiar foyer. The house is unusually quiet- power out again, no surprise there. Their dad’s probably off closing deals in Europe and their mom likely hosting brunch at some overpriced garden patio, pretending everything’s perfect. It’s always been like this. Cold luxury.

Beau closes the door behind you, glancing over his shoulder at you when he hears you sniffle.

Before you can get a word out, tears well up again, your throat tightening.

“Hey- hey, hey,” Beau murmurs, stepping forward and wrapping you in one of those rare, warm big-brother-type hugs. “What happened? Who do I need to fight?”

That makes you laugh through the tears, even if it’s short and shaky.

“I’m fine. Just… need to talk to Becca.” You step back and wipe your cheeks, trying to collect yourself.

He nods and gestures over his shoulder. “She’s upstairs. Door’s closed, though, which is weird.”

You head up without another word, your feet moving on autopilot as you make your way to Becca’s room. Her door is closed, which never happens. Becca doesn’t do privacy- at least not with you.

You hear the shower running and hesitate only for a second before pushing the door open.

What you’re not expecting is to see Marie.

She’s sitting on Becca’s bed, legs crossed, flipping through a fashion magazine like she lives here. Becca’s voice calls faintly from the bathroom over the water, and Marie looks up when she hears the door creak open. For a split second, the room stiffens.

“Oh,” you say, caught off guard. “Hey… I didn’t know you guys were…hanging out.”

Marie closes the magazine slowly. “Just keeping her company.”

Becca emerges a few seconds later, towel wrapped around her body, damp hair clinging to her shoulders. She freezes when she sees you- like she wasn’t expecting anyone, let alone you.

“You okay?” she asks, voice cautious but concerned. “You look like hell.”

You glance between the two of them, still confused. “Since when do you and Marie hang out?”

Becca throws on a robe quickly, avoiding your gaze. “It’s… recent.”

Marie doesn’t offer anything else. The tension is thick- like you’ve walked in on something, but no one’s saying what.

You blink the question away. You didn’t come here to pick a fight about their dynamic. You came here because your world is cracking apart.

“I just—I needed to talk to you,” you say, your voice breaking as your eyes well up again. “I don’t know what to do.”

Becca crosses the room immediately, wrapping her arms around you without hesitation. “What happened?”

You sit on the edge of her bed, Marie scooting slightly to give you space but still watching carefully. You’re too raw to care.

You start talking. About your parents. The fight. The screaming. How Rafe left. How your dad told you that you didn’t love him- and how, for a second, Rafe might’ve believed it.

You tell her how Rafe told you to go home. How he looked at you like someone preparing to let go.

Your voice cracks again. “And I just… I don’t know what to do. I love him. I chose him. But I think he’s convinced himself I won’t stick around.”

Becca nods slowly, listening closely. “What do you want?”

You wipe your eyes. “I want him. But I want me, too. And I’m scared I can’t have both.”

There’s a long pause before Marie speaks- quietly, but without judgment. “You can. You just have to be willing to fight for it.”

You glance over at her. Maybe this isn’t the same Marie from a few weeks ago. Maybe you were wrong about her. Or maybe she’s just the one person who knows exactly how hard it is to want something that doesn’t make sense on paper.

Either way, you’re glad someone said it.

Becca squeezes your hand. “We’ll figure it out. Whatever you need, we’re here.”

You get home early in the evening, the scent of dinner -probably Chelsea’s doing- lingers warm and fragrant in the air. Something with garlic, maybe rosemary. But despite the comforting aroma, the house feels… still. Too quiet, even for a three-person household.

You toe your shoes off at the door, your movements slow, unsure. As you pad softly through the foyer, you catch a glimpse of Chelsea in the kitchen, humming softly as she stirs a pot. You offer her a smile before heading for the stairs, but you’re stopped mid-step by a voice that makes your shoulders tense.

“Y/N? Can you come into the living room?”

You sigh under your breath and step backwards, descending the stairs in reverse. There’s a sharp click of your heels on the floor, even though you aren’t wearing any- just the echo of being summoned like a child. Your feet carry you toward the living room, where your mother sits elegantly on the couch, spine ruler-straight, knees pressed together, her signature air of effortless control intact.

Spread across the coffee table are a few issues of Valene, the glossy magazine extension of Valentina & Co. You can tell she’s trying to decide which cover design best captures “August.” All perfectly posed models, wind-blown hair, and expensive smiles.

You drop your canvas tote beside the armchair as you sit across from her. “What’s up?” you ask casually, letting your arms rest on the seat’s sides.

She barely glances up at you, but the flash of disapproval is evident in her eyes. You’re not sitting properly. You’re not dressed “right.” You’re not the girl she curated.

Still, she forces a smile. “I have a surprise for you,” she says, reaching beside her for a white envelope. The gesture is polished, rehearsed. Like a magician before a trick.

You eye it warily before accepting it. “What is it?” Your fingers are already breaking the seal, but your eyes linger on her a beat longer than necessary, studying the false ease on her face.

She just nods toward it. “Go on. Open it.”

Inside, you find two slips of thick, glossy paper. Plane tickets.

“Plane tickets?” Your brows pinch as you hold them up, squinting at the destination.

“Look and see where to,” she says, her voice laced with pride.

“New York?” you read, blinking. A weekend round trip.

“Yes!” Her smile brightens, but you can tell it’s more for herself than for you. She thinks she’s done something wonderful. Something selfless. Something motherly.

“The internship doesn’t even start until the end of next month,” you say, confusion bleeding into your tone.

She waves her hand dismissively. “It’s just for the weekend. Your Aunt Celeste is excited to show you around. She’ll give you a sneak peek at the showroom and introduce you to a few of the stylists. I just think it’ll give you a head start.”

Your stomach twists. “Mom-”

“It’s not a big deal, sweetheart,” she cuts in gently but firmly. “Just the weekend. You’ll get a feel for the city, for the brand. You’ll really see what you’re capable of.”

But that wasn’t the problem. You knew what you were capable of. You just weren’t sure this was your dream anymore.

Your fingers loosen on the envelope in your lap. “I didn’t know we were pretending the other night didn’t happen,” you say, quieter now, your eyes not meeting hers.

She brushes her hand over a magazine cover. “It’s time to focus, Y/N. Distractions come and go- but this opportunity? This is what matters.”

You stare down at the tickets again.

You didn’t want to go.

Not because you were afraid.

But because, for the first time in your life, you weren’t sure if going meant walking toward your future- or away from the life you were building for yourself here.

With him.

“Take me with youuu,” Becca groans dramatically, folding her petite body into your half-packed suitcase like she’s auditioning for a traveling circus act.

You laugh, tossing a stack of clothes on hangers onto your bed. “You can come too, you know. I’m sure there are plenty of first-class flights heading to New York this weekend. Just bat your lashes and book it.”

“I would, but…” she climbs out of the suitcase with a pout and flops onto your mattress with a dramatic sigh. “My parents froze my card.”

You don’t even try to hide your smirk. “I told you not to buy those shoes.”

“So did I,” Marie chimes in from the edge of your bed, eyes glued to her phone as she scrolls.

“Prada will always be worth it,” Becca argues, flipping onto her stomach and hugging your pillow like she’s in mourning. “Even if it comes at the cost of my financial freedom.”

You chuckle, shaking your head as you fold another top and place it neatly in your suitcase. The room falls into a brief, comfortable silence, broken only by the soft hum of music from your speaker and the zip of your toiletries bag.

Then Marie speaks, her tone casual but pointed. “Have you talked to Rafe?”

You freeze for just a beat too long, your hands pausing over a stack of bralettes. “No.”

Both girls look up now.

“Seriously?” Becca props herself up on her elbows, squinting at you. “You’re really leaving tomorrow and you’re not even going to talk to him?”

“I don’t have anything to say,” you shrug, keeping your eyes on your packing like it might somehow shield you from the conversation.

“Come on,” Marie presses, finally setting her phone down. “You two haven’t spoken in five days. He was your everything all summer.”

“Yeah,” Becca nods. “One little fight and you’re ready to cut him out like it didn’t happen?”

“It wasn’t a little fight,” you say, a little too quickly. “It was…” You pause. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not going to chase after someone who clearly doesn’t believe in me.”

Becca tilts her head. “Are you sure he didn’t believe in you? Or are you just scared that he’s right- that you’re not sure what you want?”

That stings more than you’d like to admit.

You close your suitcase with a snap, standing a little too straight. “I’m not scared. I’m focused. I leave in less than 24 hours. That’s what matters.”

Marie exchanges a look with Becca, but neither of them push further. At least not right away.

After a few seconds, Becca speaks up again- softer this time. “You know you can be focused and still love someone, right?”

You don’t say anything.

Because deep down, of course you wanted to talk to him.

You missed him every second.

But something inside you -pride, fear, hurt- was too stubborn to let you make the first move.

Instead, you zip your suitcase closed and plaster on a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes.

“Well. Time to conquer New York, right?”

Becca sighs. “Right.”

But no one in the room really believes that’s all you want.

Your suitcase clicks against the tiled foyer as you wheel it toward the door. The scent of espresso and citrus wafts from the kitchen, but your mom’s voice echoes from her home office, sharp and focused- already on her third call of the morning. You’d hoped she might at least walk you out, say good luck or I’m proud of you, something… but of course not.

You hover in the doorway, one hand resting on the handle of your suitcase, the other clutching the plane tickets tucked into your phone case. You glance toward the hallway where her voice grows fainter behind a closed door.

Nothing.

Chelsea gives you a sympathetic smile as she hands you a thermos. “I packed your favorite tea. Something for the nerves.”

“Thanks,” you say softly. “And… can you tell my mom I said goodbye?”

Chelsea nods, eyes warm but tired. “Of course, sweetheart.”

The driver is waiting by the car out front, door already open. You move toward it, but your feet feel heavy. Your chest heavier.

As you slide into the backseat, you hesitate before giving the driver your destination.

“Actually,” you clear your throat. “Can we stop at Tannyhill first?”

He doesn’t ask questions. Just nods and pulls out of the driveway.

You pull the note from your bag, fingers grazing the worn crease. You wrote it last night- when you couldn’t sleep. When the ache of leaving without seeing him felt too loud to ignore. You’d told yourself you’d just leave it in the mailbox or under the doormat. Something quiet and easy. Something you could pretend never happened.

But when the car pulls up to the familiar white house and your feet hit the gravel, the paper suddenly feels too small to say all the things you wish you’d said to his face.

You walk up the steps slowly, note trembling in your hand. And then… you ring the doorbell.

The sound echoes inside the quiet house. You wait. Nothing.

You ring it again, softer this time. Still nothing.

You press your lips together and glance at your Apple Watch. Your flight boards in just under two hours. If you don’t leave now, you’ll miss it.

A dull ache builds behind your eyes, but you blink it away. You crouch and tuck the note just inside the doorframe- right where you know he’ll see it.

“I love you,” you whisper, even though he can’t hear it. “I really hope you read it.”

You walk back to the car, wiping a tear off your cheek with the sleeve of your hoodie. As the driver pulls away from Tannyhill, you can’t help but look back one last time.

He wasn’t there. But you tried.

Rafe,

I didn’t know how to say this out loud. Maybe I should’ve, but the truth is, it’s easier to write it down when I’m afraid of what your face might say back.

I’m going to New York. Just for the weekend. For the internship. It wasn’t planned. I didn’t even have time to talk things out and explain or ask you how you felt about it, and I hate that. I didn’t want to leave like this.

Things between us haven’t been simple. But even when it’s messy, even when it’s hard, you’re the only part that’s ever felt real. I meant it when I said I love you. That hasn’t changed.

I don’t know what’s waiting for me in New York. I don’t know what’s going to happen next. But I do know that what we have is rare. And I don’t want to lose that.

If you’re still in this, if you still want us, I’ll be waiting.

— Y/N.

You walk briskly through the fast pass security lane, nerves already frayed. After placing your carry-on back onto the ground and slipping your jacket over your shoulders, your phone begins to buzz from the plastic bin beside you.

You grab it without thinking, the screen still lit with an unknown number. “Hello?”

There’s a short pause, then his voice -sharp, low, and unmistakably wounded- cuts through the line.

“So you’re just leaving?”

Your breath catches. You squeeze your eyes shut for a second, gripping the handle of your suitcase.

“Rafe,” you whisper, “I didn’t know if I’d even hear from you.” You keep your voice even, though your chest already feels tight.

“You didn’t even say goodbye,” he replies, cool and low. “Did you even plan to?”

You glance around at the strangers passing you, suddenly hyper aware of how loud your heartbeat feels.

“I left you a note. I was going to say something, but-”

“But what? You ran out of time? Or you just didn’t care enough to face me?” His voice cracks, just barely, and that’s what hits you the hardest.

“That’s not fair.” You blink hard. “You didn’t text. You didn’t call. You made it seem like you were done with me.”

“You’re walking onto a flight like I meant nothing.” He exhales like he’s trying to stay calm. “If you leave right now, then I’ll know. I’ll know I never really mattered to you. That you never loved me.”

You freeze, standing still in the middle of the terminal.

“That’s not true,” you say, voice trembling. “And if you really loved me, you wouldn’t be doing this. You’d let me go… just for the weekend. You’d trust me.”

There’s silence on the line. But the kind that fills you with dread.

“Rafe?” you ask quietly, voice barely above a whisper.

“Safe flight.” That’s all he says. Cold, distant, final.

The line goes dead. You stare at your phone, throat tight, vision blurry. A muffled airport announcement echoes overhead, but you can’t hear it over the ache in your chest.

You don’t move for a long second. Then, finally, you do- shoulders squared, eyes glossy, suitcase rolling behind you.

The chauffeur opens the car door, and the moment your foot touches the pavement, the city swallows you whole. Horns blare in the distance, heels click against concrete, and someone curses loudly from the corner. You breathe it all in- New York in all its gritty, gorgeous chaos.

Aside from the quick bathroom-stall cry session back at the airport, you feel…better. Not good, exactly, but like you’re in motion, like maybe forward is the only option left.

The doorman greets you with a smile as you step into the pristine lobby. The air conditioning kisses your cheeks and the marble floor gleams beneath your feet, not a single scuff or smudge in sight. Everything smells like bergamot and money. Even just standing here makes you feel a little bit cleaner, a little bit more like the version of you your mom always hoped would emerge.

The elevator ride is swift and silent. When the doors open with a soft chime, your aunt is already waiting- stunning, of course, in a silk off-the-shoulder blouse and tailored pants that hug her frame like they were made for her (and they probably were). Her jewelry glints under the recessed lighting, a quiet flex of effortless wealth.

“Darling!” she beams, walking toward you with arms open. Her heels don’t even click like normal heels. They glide.

You step out of the elevator but freeze on the threshold. The penthouse is… breathtaking. You haven’t been here in years, and it’s undergone a complete transformation. Gone are the older traditional pieces. In their place: curved designer furniture, bold jewel tones, brushed brass finishes. It’s modern, but not minimal- more like Totally Spies meets Architectural Digest with the taste of a stylish thirty-something who knows exactly who she is.

You feel wildly out of place.

Still, you smile and walk into her arms. “Aunt Celeste.”

Her hug is warm. Solid. Less stiff than your mother’s, more real. The kind that makes you want to stay a little longer, not pull away.

“I’m so glad you decided to come up for the weekend,” she says, linking your arm with hers as she starts guiding you through the space. “Remember, there’s no pressure. None. If you decide this life isn’t for you, that’s perfectly okay. I just want you to see it firsthand, see if it sparks anything. Maybe it’ll be something you fall in love with- or maybe it’ll help you realize what you don’t want. Either way, that’s a win.”

You nod, grateful. You wish you heard things like that more often.

She gives you a brief tour of the penthouse, pointing out art pieces and moodboards she’s working on for the next season. Everything is intentional, right down to the curated stack of coffee table books.

Then she pours you a glass of wine- real wine, not the watered-down kind you drink at beach bonfires. “We’ve got a busy but fun weekend,” she says, handing it to you. “Tomorrow’s brunch with a few of the designers, then a private showing at the showroom. Sunday, a few board members are flying in for a Valene meeting. We’re finalizing cover options for the fall issue, so I’ll let you sit in. No pressure to speak- just observe and absorb.”

She finally leads you to your guest room -yes, guest room, not some cramped cot in the corner- and leaves you to settle in.

You shut the door gently behind you and walk toward the massive window overlooking the city. The sun is beginning to dip low, casting a warm orange over the skyline. Taxis dart through the streets like blood cells in a living organism.

You should be thinking about how lucky you are. About opportunities. About building a future.

Instead, all you can think about is Rafe.

His hands. His laugh. The sound of his voice when he told you not to leave.

You press your forehead to the glass and whisper to yourself, “I’m sorry.”

The salon chair spins slowly, and for a moment, you barely recognize yourself in the mirror. Your curls have been blown out to perfection—glossy, bouncy, and undeniably 90s. You look just like your aunt did in old pictures, the ones you used to study as a kid, secretly hoping you’d grow up to be just like her.

Shopping with her is unexpectedly fun. Normally, you’d complain about spending hours in boutiques with anyone over the age of twenty-five. But Celeste isn’t just anyone. She’s cool. Sharp. Effortlessly glamorous. She knows how to talk to people and how to talk to you- without making you feel like a child. By the end of the afternoon, you’re carrying a curated wardrobe of fitted dresses, tailored trousers, satin blouses, and sleek shoes that make you feel less like a girl from the South and more like a woman meant to take over the city.

It’s strange. You’ve always lived comfortably -more than comfortably- but this feels different. This isn’t just wealth. It’s womanhood. Ownership. It’s you, upgraded.

When you return to the penthouse, glowing from head to toe, Celeste kicks off her heels and tosses her keys into a gold dish by the door. “Okay,” she says, “I’m ordering pizza, we’re opening a bottle of wine I’ve been saving, and we’re watching Love Island.”

You laugh. “Love Island? Seriously?”

“You haven’t lived until you’ve judged hot people making bad decisions in real time,” she grins, already pulling out her phone to place the order.

And just like that, the night takes on its own rhythm.

You change into pajamas, pop your hair into rollers, and slather on under-eye masks while she does the same. You both settle onto her velvet sectional with throw blankets wrapped around your legs. She pours generous glasses of wine -red, velvety, expensive- and you sip while watching the chaos unfold on screen.

The pizza arrives, and although it smells amazing, you only have one slice. Something about being next to your aunt’s flawless figure in silk loungewear makes your appetite shrink a little.

Not in a bad way, just… subconscious. Still, you’re having fun. For once, your mind isn’t racing

about your parents or Rafe or the fact that you’re supposed to be “figuring it all out.”

The two of you talk, laugh, sip more wine, and trade commentary like best friends. Eventually, Celeste yawns, says something about a morning brunch meeting, kisses your forehead, and disappears into her bedroom with her wine glass in hand.

You stay on the couch.

Somehow, the wine bottle ends up in your lap. Just a little left. It’s smooth, warm, numbing.

You’re not even fully aware you’re doing it until your phone is already pressed to your ear. You called him.

It rings once. Then twice. Then-

“Hello?”

But it’s not Rafe.

It’s her. Sofia. Your stomach drops. You blink, suddenly sobering, but the wine doesn’t let you catch up fast enough.

“Oh,” she says, realizing the silence is you. “He’s not here right now.”

Your heart is already in your throat.

Thankfully, the wine doesn’t hit you too hard. When you wake up the next morning on Celeste’s couch, your head’s a little cloudy, but not pounding. You blink against the soft sunlight filtering through the massive windows, stretch your arms above your head, and sit up slowly, the velvet throw blanket pooling in your lap.

The penthouse is calm. Peaceful. Like the city outside is still holding its breath.

You and Celeste get ready together, the vibe relaxed and almost therapeutic. You take your rollers out and let your curls fall in soft, glossy waves down your back. You slip into a pale blue silk dress that falls just below the knee, paired with a structured cream blazer and dainty heels that make your legs look endless. Celeste throws on a flowy designer jumpsuit and oversized sunglasses, her hair pinned into a perfect bun.

By the time your chauffeur opens the car door for you both, it feels like you’ve stepped into a scene from a movie.

The brunch is held on the rooftop of a high-rise hotel in SoHo, with panoramic views of the skyline and an obnoxious amount of crystal glassware. From the moment you arrive, you realize one thing: your people may be bougie, but this? This is another level entirely.

These are capital-P people. Name-dropping. Bragging. Laughing a little too loudly at things that aren’t that funny. Even the way they sip their drinks feels calculated. You’re used to snobbery back home -fake smiles and casual one-upping at dinner parties- but at least there, everyone thinks they’re being polite.

Here, the entitlement is worn like perfume.

You and Celeste are among the few who actually thank the waitstaff and make eye contact. At one point, she leans in and whispers, “I guess that’s where Southern hospitality still wins,” and you stifle a laugh behind your champagne flute.

The brunch food is incredible -caviar-topped deviled eggs, avocado mousse, mini lobster rolls- but you don’t eat much. The table of girls your age looks like a Pinterest board come to life. All tailored outfits and designer sunglasses perched on their heads like crowns. They’re not outright mean, just… closed off. The kind of girls who’ve known each other since age five, who spent summers in Montauk and winters in Aspen.

No room for a newcomer.

Back home, you were that bitch. The one everyone looked at when she walked in. The one who set the tone. Here? You’re just another girl trying to keep up.

You glance over at them, and for a fleeting moment, you think of Sofia. The night you, Becca, and Marie went out to that bar and she was on the sidelines. You remember the ache in her expression. The way she looked like she didn’t belong.

Is this how she felt? You push the thought away. You’re not here to make friends.

You’re here to figure out if this is something you could see yourself doing for the rest of your life.

And just as that thought crosses your mind, another one follows closely behind: You already have a leg up. This empire? It’s literally being handed to you. Valentina & Co. will have your name on it someday. You’re not here trying to prove yourself- you’re here sampling your inheritance.

You catch your reflection in the floor-to-ceiling window and give yourself a little smile. This isn’t about who’s the coolest in the room. It’s about whether or not you belong in this world.

And slowly, as the day goes on, it starts to feel like you might.

Later that afternoon, Celeste takes you to a private showroom across the street from the Valene offices. The walls are lined with racks of unreleased pieces- couture-level garments with intricate stitching, hand-sewn beads, and fabrics so soft they feel like clouds. You get to speak with the head of creative, take notes on upcoming designs, and even give light feedback on a few color palettes.

You post discreet snippets to your Instagram story- only a few muted clips: the edge of a sketchbook, your latte art from brunch, the hem of a beaded gown twirling around your ankles. Nothing flashy. Just enough to let the world know you’re somewhere important.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, you’re not thinking about Rafe. Not with every breath, at least. His name isn’t ringing in your ears like it usually does. You’re too busy. Too present.

You’re surprised by how much you’re actually enjoying yourself. And yet -just like that- everything crashes down.

The high of the day, the glamour, the laughter, the brief sense of freedom… it all evaporates the second you and Celeste step back into the penthouse. The door clicks shut behind you, sealing in the silence of the space.

Celeste kicks off her heels, groaning dramatically as she stretches her arms over her head. “God, I’m exhausted,” she says, padding across the glossy floor with a yawn.

You smile softly, unzipping your blazer and folding it neatly over your arm. “Me too.”

“You hungry?” she asks, pulling her earrings off and tossing them into a little dish by the door.

You shake your head. “I’m okay.”

She gives you a knowing look, then leans against the kitchen island, already in wind-down mode. “Alright. Let me know if you need anything, okay?”

“I will,” you promise.

“Love you, sweetheart,” she calls gently as she disappears down the hall, her bedroom door clicking shut a moment later.

You head into the guest room, the moment stretching out in eerie quiet as you cross the threshold. You don’t bother turning the lights on. The glow from the city outside is enough- soft, golden, distant. You toe off your shoes and sink onto the edge of the bed, your limbs heavy from the day, your mind still buzzing.

And for a second, you think maybe you’ll sleep. But then you lie back. And everything catches up.

All day, your head was Rafe-free. You were in motion. Distracted. Surrounded by glitz and possibility.

Now? Now it floods in. His voice. His eyes. His laugh. His silence.

The way he looked at you. The way he let you go. The way he ended things like it didn’t ruin you.

A sharp breath catches in your chest, and then the tears come- slow at first, then faster. Your throat tightens as you curl onto your side, tucking your knees up toward your chest, arms wrapped around yourself like you could hold your own heart together. Your sobs are muffled by the comforter, raw and aching.

You don’t know what you are anymore- angry, heartbroken, guilty. Maybe all of it. Maybe something else entirely.

All you know is that it hurts. It hurts like hell.

And in this beautiful penthouse, in the middle of the greatest city in the world, you’ve never felt more alone.

170 notes · View notes

mggssocks · 1 month ago

Text

The Eighth

the eighth masterlist

pairing: Fem!Kook!Reader x Rafe Cameron

cw: i'm not sure... lmk if I'm mistaken.

a/n: sorry for the wait... life has been... life-ing me harder than I imagine how Rafe Cameron fucks.

Your feet dangle over the edge of the dock, lightly swinging above the water as you nervously smooth down the hem of your powder-blue dress. The fabric flutters slightly in the breeze, the same breeze that tosses strands of your hair around your face. You don’t bother fixing it. The sky in front of you is melting- orange, pink, and soft gold bleeding into each other, casting a dreamlike glow on the surface of the ocean.

You can hear Rafe approaching before you see him- his footsteps on the wood, slow and quiet. He settles beside you, legs stretching over the water like yours, the scent of salt and his cologne drifting into your space.

He’s wearing blue swim trunks and a loose, striped shirt in blue and white. You don’t look at him right away.

“You wanted to meet me?” he asks, voice softer than usual.

You nod, fingers curling in your lap. “Yeah. I, um… I wanted to ask you something.”

He shifts slightly to face you, eyes scanning your profile. “Shoot.”

You turn toward him, meeting his eyes for just a moment before looking back out at the water. The sun is lower now, dipping closer to the horizon, and your heart seems to dip with it.

“When you asked if I wanted to be your girlfriend…” you trail off.

“Yeah?” he prompts, brows furrowing.

“Were you asking because you actually wanted me to say yes?” You glance at him again. “Or were you just curious to see what I’d say?”

He’s quiet for a second, caught off guard. He licks his lips, turning his head to face the horizon. “You really think I’d ask just to mess with you?”

You shrug. “I don’t know. You joke a lot. And you’re never that serious about… anything.”

He sighs, like he’s tired of being understood only halfway. “I wasn’t playing with you.”

“So… you want me to be your girlfriend?”

Another pause. The water ripples gently beneath you, warm-toned light dancing across its surface.

“I like you,” he says finally, voice low. “More than I should, probably. More than I meant to.”

You turn your head to look at him. He’s still not looking at you.

“But that’s not a yes,” you point out quietly.

His jaw flexes. “It’s not a no either.”

You let out a soft breath, more disappointment in it than you mean to show. “Rafe…”

“I’m just not great at this, okay?” he says suddenly, looking at you now. “I know what I feel, but I also know I’m not always the guy someone like you should say yes to. And if I make it official, I can’t screw it up. And I will. Eventually.”

You study him in the fading light- his vulnerability, his fear, how carefully he’s trying to say the right thing and still somehow get it wrong.

“So you’d rather keep it in limbo?” you ask. “Stay in that gray area where you get what you want without having to actually risk anything?”

His silence is answer enough.

You nod to yourself and look back at the water. “Okay.”

He looks at you, searching for something in your expression. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Make it sound like I don’t care.”

“I’m not,” you say. “I’m saying I’m not going to sit here pretending I don’t want more. If you don’t know what you want, that’s fine. But I do.”

You don’t mean for it to come out sounding final. But maybe it is.

The sky is streaked with fire now, the sun disappearing behind the ocean line.

Rafe doesn’t speak. He just keeps swinging his feet gently beside yours, and for a while, that’s the only sound between you.

—

You’re burying yourself in work- if you could even call it that. Sketches and half-finished designs are scattered across your desk like a storm passed through. Fabric swatches are layered over your sketchpad, your laptop is open to Pinterest inspo you’re not even looking at, and your pencil’s been tapping against the edge of your notebook for the last ten minutes without touching the page.

You’ve been holed up in your room for two days now. No texts. No calls. No one’s seen you. Your phone’s screen is littered with notifications- missed messages from Becca, a couple from Marie, and more than a few from Rafe you still haven’t opened. You scroll past them like they don’t matter, but they do. They absolutely do.

Your dad hasn’t checked on you, probably because he’s still pissed. And your mom… who knows what she’s off doing. Hosting, shopping, pretending the cracks in this family aren’t there. You lean back in your chair, letting out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, and stare at the ceiling. Becca was right.

Maybe you didn’t get the answer you wanted from Rafe. Maybe you wanted him to look you in the eye and say yes, no hesitation. Say he wanted you, without fear or conditions or disclaimers.

But what he gave you- that uncertain half-answer, that moment of silence after you asked- it was still an answer.

It’s better than not knowing. It’s better than staying in that gray, aching space where every touch and look could mean something or nothing. At least now you know where he stands. Or doesn’t.

A knock interrupts the rhythmic tapping of your pencil and the mental fog you’ve been stuck in.

“Mom, I’m in the middle of a brainstorm right now. Maybe later,” you call without turning around, eyes still fixed on the blank page in front of you.

“Not your mom,” a voice cuts through- familiar, sharp, and low.

You swivel in your chair to find Rafe standing in the doorway like he’s done this a hundred times before. At this point, his unexpected appearances don’t even surprise you anymore. He does this too often, like your house is just another one of his haunts.

“What are you doing here? And how’d you even get in?” You sigh, your tone more weary than annoyed. Rafe Cameron was a lot of things- beautiful, complicated, intoxicating- but above all, he was exhausting.

“Your mom let me in. Said you’d been holed up in here for days. You weren’t answering my texts,” he says, stepping inside and gently shutting the door behind him. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

You let out a short chuckle under your breath, eyes falling back to your half-drawn design. “I’m okay.”

“Yeah?” His footsteps are slow but deliberate as he makes his way across the room.

You nod without looking at him, trying to convince yourself more than him. And suddenly he’s right there- bent at the waist, face hovering close to yours, his hand planted beside your sketchpad on the desk.

“I don’t think you are.”

You blink, your breath catching slightly at how close he is. His cologne -clean and slightly salty like the sea- lingers in the air between you.

“I said I’m fine,” you murmur, though even you can hear how weak it sounds.

“Then why are your eyes red like you haven’t slept? Why haven’t you left this room in two days?” His voice is quieter now, edged with concern, but you can tell he’s trying to keep it from becoming something more.

You set your pencil down slowly, pushing back from the desk just enough to create space- but not too much.

“I’ve just been working. Processing. Thinking.”

He leans in a little closer. “About me?”

You scoff, trying to roll your eyes but failing because he’s too close and it’s too intense.

“I think you’re aware you’ve taken up more space in my brain than you probably deserve.”

That makes him smile, but it’s faint. Not cocky, not smug. Almost… sad.

“You asked me a real question the other night,” he says quietly. “And I gave you a shitty answer.”

You look at him then, really look at him. His eyes aren’t guarded like usual. There’s no teasing glint, no smirk playing at his lips. Just him- unmasked, unsure.

“And why was that?” you ask.

“I think I was scared of giving you the wrong answer,” he says. “Or maybe the right one, and screwing it all up.”

The room is silent for a moment, save for the faint ticking of the wall clock and the hum of your laptop.

The weight of what he said settles between you both like fog.

You break the silence first. “You still haven’t said what the right answer was.”

He leans just a little closer, and for a second you wonder if he’s going to kiss you, but he doesn’t.

“I like you,” he says. “And not just in the ‘we have great sex and you look hot in that dress’ way. I like you… in the ‘I think about you even when I don’t want to’ way.”

You swallow, unsure if your heart is breaking or blooming.

“So…” you whisper. “Do you want me to be your girlfriend?”

His eyes flicker over your face- your lips, your eyes, the worry behind them. “Yeah,” he finally says. “I do.”

You sit back in your chair, staring at him like he’s some puzzle you’ve been trying to solve for weeks. Maybe months.

“Then say it like you mean it next time.”

He grins. “Okay. Be my girlfriend.”

You smile a little despite yourself. “Let me think about it.”

“Fair.” He leans back and starts to walk toward your bed like he’s planning to make himself at home.

“Where do you think you’re going?” you ask.

“To wait for your answer.”

“I need time,” you blurt out before you can stop yourself.

It’s not that you didn’t want to be his girlfriend- you did. But not like this. Not with him asking you like it was a casual suggestion. Not while you were still unsure if Sofia was really out of the picture. You needed clarity. You needed space to breathe.

“What?” he asks, one brow lifting. He was sprawled comfortably on your bed a second ago, but now he props himself up on his elbows, frowning slightly like he didn’t hear you right.

“Time,” you repeat, more firmly this time. “You had time to figure out what you wanted before you came to me with that question. I need mine.”

He watches you carefully. You can tell he’s trying to read your expression, to see if this is a game or some kind of revenge. But it’s not. You’re not trying to get even- this isn’t a power play. You just need to be sure.

“I’m not saying no,” you clarify, softer now. “But I’m not saying yes until I know it’s the right thing.”

For a beat, he doesn’t say anything. Then, slowly, he stands and crosses the room toward you. He swivels your chair to face him and leans down until he’s level with you again- his presence still maddeningly close, his eyes locked on yours.

“Okay,” he says simply. “Think about it.”

And before you can respond, he leans in and presses a quick kiss to your lips. It’s gentle, but it still takes you by surprise. When he pulls back, there’s a smug smile tugging at his mouth, like he knows exactly what kind of chaos he’s leaving in his wake.

Then he turns and strolls out of your room like he didn’t just upend your entire train of thought.

You stare at the door after he leaves, heart thudding against your ribs. He was going to make this ten times harder than you originally thought. Maybe more.

And yet, you can’t help but touch your lips, still tingling from the kiss, wondering if maybe- just maybe- this wasn’t a terrible idea after all.

—

You’re sitting at a shaded table outside a cozy café, the kind with string lights overhead and mismatched chairs that somehow make everything feel more personal. Your plate is half empty -your fork dragging through the last of the pesto pasta you’ve barely tasted- while Becca’s lemonade sweats beside her untouched sandwich. Marie’s poking at her salad like it personally offended her.

Most of the lunch had been you and Becca tag-teaming a chaotic recap of everything that had gone down with Rafe: the fake anniversary dinner, the ring, the conversation on the dock. Now, you’re at the part you’re still unsure how to phrase.

“So…” Marie pauses, glancing between you and Becca, “are you going to be his girlfriend or what?”

You press your fork against your plate, thoughtful, then shrug. “I don’t know.”

Marie raises a perfectly shaped brow. “What do you mean you don’t know? Isn’t this what you wanted?”

You open your mouth, but Becca jumps in before you can answer. “It’s not that simple.”

“Thank you,” you say, grateful for the backup.

Becca leans back, arms crossed. “Look, we’re not blind. Rafe’s hot- like, unfairly hot- and he definitely has a soft spot for you, which is rare because, let’s be real, Rafe doesn’t do soft spots.”

Marie snorts. “Right? The guy’s basically a walking red flag in designer clothing.”

You can’t help but laugh. “Exactly my concern.”

“But…” Becca points at you, “you’re not just any girl. You’re the only one he’s actually tried for. That fake anniversary thing? That’s effort. Real, insane effort.”

“And he didn’t deny it when I said I wasn’t his girlfriend,” you add quietly.

“But he also didn’t say you weren’t important,” Marie says, suddenly more serious. “Some guys don’t know how to say what they want. Rafe’s probably scared too, just in his own… emotionally constipated way.”

You blink at her. “That’s the most insightful thing you’ve ever said.”

She shrugs, stabbing a cucumber slice. “Therapy’s expensive, I listen to podcasts.”

Becca grins. “All jokes aside, you just need to ask yourself if this thing with Rafe -whatever it is- makes you feel good. Safe. Wanted.”

“It does,” you admit softly. “Most of the time.”

“And the other times?” Becca asks gently.

You pause. “Confusing.”

Marie hums. “So, wait and see. But don’t shut the door just because you’re scared.”

“Yeah,” Becca nods. “Guard your heart, but don’t build a fortress around it.”

You smile, glancing down at your now-empty plate.

“I’m proud of you,” Becca adds. “You didn’t jump into it. You’re thinking it through. That’s growth.”

Marie raises her glass. “To emotional growth and potentially toxic relationships!”

Becca groans, clinking hers. “To hoping it’s not toxic.”

You laugh, feeling a little lighter. Maybe you still didn’t have all the answers- but you had people in your corner, and that counted for something.

——

Unfortunately, you had a bottle of wine to yourself when you got home from lunch with the girls. One turned into two glasses. Two turned into you draining the whole thing. You were supposed to be relaxing -thinking things over, maybe watching a movie- but instead you sat cross-legged on your bed, overthinking until the wine made your limbs feel loose and your judgment fuzzy.

And now you’re here. Well… almost here.

You’re tipsily climbing over your balcony railing, muttering a quiet, slurred curse as the old wooden ladder wobbles under your feet. You practically stumble into the grass once you reach the ground, the hem of your skirt hitching up slightly. You adjust it with a huff, steady yourself, and walk -boldly, drunkenly- across the lawn and toward the road. For once, you don’t even care about the cameras. Let them catch you. You were on a mission.

By the time you’re knocking on the front door of Tannyhill, it occurs to you this might not be your smartest idea- but definitely one of your boldest.

The door swings open faster than expected, and there he is. Rafe.

His brows lift slightly in surprise. “Seriously?”

You blink up at him, swaying a little. “Hi.”

He leans on the doorframe, arms crossed. “Did you just sneak out of your mansion and walk here drunk?”

“Tipsy,” you correct, pushing past him. “And emotionally motivated.”

Rafe closes the door behind you, watching as you toe off your shoes and plop down on his couch like you

own it. “You could’ve just texted.”

“I did.” You point at him dramatically. “That’s boring. Sometimes, I like to be spontaneous.”

He smirks. “Fair.”

You sit up straighter, trying to look serious, even if your words come out a little mushy around the edges. “Listen. I’ve been thinking. About… everything. About us.”

That gets his attention. He steps closer, tilting his head. “Yeah?”

You nod. “I want a relationship. With you. But I have terms.”

Rafe blinks. “Terms?”

“Yes. Rules. Boundaries.” You hold up a finger for each one as you go. “One- no more Sofia. Not just no hooking up. I mean no more late-night convos, no checking up on her. She’s… she’s done. Deleted. Archived.”

He nods slowly, trying not to smile. “Okay…”

“Two,” you continue, voice wobbling slightly, “you don’t get to ask me to be your girlfriend like it’s a casual suggestion in the middle of lunch. I deserve better than that.”

Rafe’s smirk fades into something more sincere. “You’re right.”

You wait. He doesn’t speak again right away. Your eyebrows raise. “Well? You gonna do it properly or not?”

He laughs under his breath, stepping closer until he’s kneeling in front of you.

“Okay. Let’s do this the right way,” he says, looking up at you. “Will you be my girlfriend? Officially?”

You blink at him, swaying slightly as emotion and alcohol hit all at once. “Yes.”

The smile that spreads across his face is rare -unguarded and real. He leans in and kisses your cheek, then your temple. He would’ve gone for your lips, but- You groan suddenly. “Oh no.”

Rafe pulls back. “What?”

Your stomach lurches. “I’m gonna be sick.”

You bolt up and barely make it to the downstairs bathroom before you’re throwing up everything you ate- and drank. Rafe is behind you instantly, holding your hair back gently, rubbing small circles into your back.

“Shhh, I got you,” he murmurs. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

Mortification floods you even more than the nausea. “This is not how I imagined this going.”

He chuckles. “Could’ve been worse. You could’ve puked on me.”

Once it’s over, he hands you a damp towel and a glass of water, still crouched beside you like he’s been there a million times. It’s quiet for a beat, the only sound your sipping and embarrassed sighs.

“I’ve never seen this side of you,” you mumble.

He shrugs, brushing hair off your face. “That’s ‘cause you’ve never needed me like this before.”

Somehow, in your dizzy, wine-sick haze, that hits harder than anything else he’s ever said.

Maybe this is real. Maybe it’s messy. But maybe, just maybe, it’s exactly what you both needed.

——

“Y/N??? A boyfriend?” Becca gasps dramatically, grinning as she drops into the seat beside you in sewing class. Her voice is just loud enough to make the woman across from you glance up from her bobbin threading.

You give Becca a side-eye and laugh under your breath, cheeks flushing pink. “Would you keep your voice down?”

She wiggles her brows, clearly delighted. “Sorry, I just never thought I’d live to see the day. Rafe Cameron, boyfriend material? Look at you, breaking generational curses.”

You roll your eyes, but the smile tugging at your lips betrays you. “I didn’t say boyfriend boyfriend. It’s still… new.”

Becca leans over your shoulder, watching you feed a soft lavender fabric through the machine with surprising ease. “Mhm. That smile says otherwise.”

You try to frown, but you end up giggling instead, guiding the needle with practiced fingers. “Shush. I’m focusing.”

“Don’t act like you’re not loving this class now,” she says, popping a piece of gum in her mouth. She hasn’t touched her own machine since she sat down, and her workspace is completely empty, but she’s still acting like she’s supervising your progress. “You’re getting good.”

You shrug. “It’s actually kind of calming. Therapeutic.”

“Exactly,” she says, clearly proud even though she hasn’t sewn a single stitch. “See? I know you didn’t want to follow in your mother’s footsteps but you are good at this fashion stuff.”

You laugh again, the fabric slipping a little as your mind drifts back to last night. “It was cute. I mean, he asked me for real this time. Like, the proper way. Kneeling and everything.”

Becca melts. “Stop. That’s disgustingly adorable.”

You snort. “It was. Until I threw up like, five minutes later.”

“No.”

“Yep.” You nod, wincing. “All over his bathroom. I didn’t even make it dramatic. Just ran mid-sentence and hurled like I was in a rom-com gone wrong.”

Becca’s cackle earns another glance from the woman across from you, but she doesn’t seem to care.

“That’s so gross… but like, kind of iconic? He still likes you after that?”

You smirk, sewing machine humming beneath your hands. “He held my hair back. Gave me water. Tucked me in. Very nurturing. I barely recognized him.”

Becca clutches her heart. “Okay now I’m actually jealous. That’s boyfriend behavior with a capital B.”

“Don’t make it weird.”

“I’m not!” she protests, then eyes you with mock suspicion. “Wait… did you guys-”

“No!” you cut her off before she can finish the thought, laughing as you swat her arm. “God, no. I was in full post-vomit shame spiral. He just stayed with me till I fell asleep.”

Becca sighs dramatically. “Chivalry is alive and apparently very hot. Ugh.”

You smile to yourself, heart fluttering as your foot eases off the pedal. “It was a good night. Weird and gross and unexpected, but good.”

Becca grins. “Honestly? That sounds like the start of a real relationship.”

You nod slowly, still smiling. “Yeah. I think it might be.”

“So are we grabbing lunch together or what?” Becca asks, popping her gum loudly as she leans her chin on her palm.

You shoot her a death glare, your fingers still guiding fabric under the sewing machine. “Can you not do that while I’m trying to be productive?”

She grins, unapologetic. “Sorry. Force of habit.”

“Uh-huh.” You don’t believe her for a second.

“Anyway… what’s this ‘maybe’ nonsense?” she presses, eyes narrowing. “You’ve been all smiley and flushed since class started. That’s not ‘maybe’ behavior.”

“I might eat with Rafe,” you say casually, shoulders lifting in an innocent shrug as your eyes stay focused on your stitching. “I don’t know yet.”

Becca gasps like you just betrayed her. “Rafe? Oh, so now I’m chopped liver?”

“I didn’t say that,” you mumble.

“You implied it,” she pouts, flopping back in her seat. “I can third wheel. I live for third wheeling. It gives me a sense of purpose. Please?”

She says it a little too loud and, predictably, the woman across from you both gives her a pointed look.

Becca shrinks slightly into her chair, whispering, “That woman hates me.”

“She probably just hates the fact that you’ve been chewing gum and talking for the last twenty minutes instead of sewing like everyone else,” you mutter, snipping the last bit of thread and pulling the fabric free.

Becca pouts dramatically. “I paid to be here. Doesn’t mean I have to participate.”

“You’re the worst,” you laugh, smoothing your newly finished swatch. “Why not have lunch with Marie? She’s free today, isn’t she?”

Becca makes a face like you suggested she eat gravel. “Marie and I have nothing in common. We don’t even know each other.”

“That’s kind of the point of lunch,” you deadpan.

“I don’t want to network, I want to gossip.”

You roll your eyes. “Then maybe try being friends with her instead of using me as your bridge to human connection.”

She gives you a dry look. “Wow. Therapy tone. Are we okay?”

You smirk. “We’re fine. I just think it wouldn’t kill you to make a new friend without needing me to hold your hand.”

Becca frowns for a beat, then blows a bubble with her gum and lets it pop loudly. “Rude. But noted.”

“Thank you.”

She leans in, softening. “So… are you gonna text him? Or just hope he magically shows up like he always does?”

You hesitate, glancing down at your phone on the table.

“Ugh,” she groans, dramatic as ever. “You’re hopeless. Hand it over. I’ll text him for you.”

“Absolutely not.”

Becca grins. “Fine. But if he doesn’t ask you to lunch, I’m dragging you to a diner, and you’re paying for my fries and milkshake as emotional compensation.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Deal. But only if you actually touch that sewing machine before class ends.”

She stares at it like it’s a foreign object. “…I hate you.”

“You love me.”

“Only when you’re not dating Rafe Cameron.”

Your phone buzzes just as you’re trimming the last of the excess thread from your project. You glance down at the screen and can’t help the smile that spreads across your face.

Rafe: you free after class?

You bite your lip, trying to hide your grin, but Becca sees it instantly.

“Oh my God,” she groans. “Is that Loverboy again?”

You turn your screen toward her without saying a word. The victory smile on your face says everything.

She rolls her eyes so hard it’s a miracle they stay in her head. “Unbelievable. You’ve been a girlfriend for like, five minutes and you’re already insufferable.”

You type back quickly:

Yeah, I’m free. What’s the plan?

Becca mutters, “God help me if he says ‘just wanna see you’ or something equally vomit-worthy.”

Your phone pings again.

Rafe: Meet me at the dock. Got something better than lunch planned.

You turn to Becca, smug. “He says something better than lunch.”

She pretends to gag. “You are so lucky I like you.”

Two hours later, you’re stepping onto his boat, the salt-heavy breeze kissing your skin and tugging at the hem of your skirt. The water glimmers like scattered glass under the sun, and it smells like summer- warm wood, sunscreen, and the ocean.

Rafe is already there, barefoot and tan, casually tying off something near the wheel. He turns the second he hears you step on, his grin immediate and easy.

“There she is,” he says, walking over and pressing a kiss to your cheek like it’s the most natural thing in the world. It kind of is now.

You laugh. “So this is the better-than-lunch plan?”

He shrugs, handing you a bottle of water. “It’s not sushi, but I figured some sun, a little alone time with my girlfriend, and a view wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.”

Your stomach flips at the word girlfriend, even though you’ve heard him say it a few times now. It still feels brand new.

“I think it’s perfect,” you admit, settling beside him. The boat rocks gently under you, and the world feels quiet in the best way.

Rafe bumps your shoulder with his. “I missed you. And before you say anything- yes, I know it’s only been a day. Still counts.”

You smile at your lap, trying not to let your cheeks give you away.

“Fine,” you mumble. “I missed you too.”

“Say it louder.”

You shove him lightly, laughing. “You’re the worst.”

He leans closer. “Still your worst, though.”

The engine hums softly beneath your feet as Rafe slows the boat to a gentle drift, anchoring it far enough from the shore that everything behind you feels small and distant. You both lean back against the cushioned bench, shoulders touching. A breeze picks up, warm and salty, and for a while, the only sound is the soft lapping of waves against the hull.

Then Rafe exhales -long and slow- like he’s been carrying something heavy for too long.

“My mom used to love the water,” he says, staring straight ahead. “Said it made everything feel softer.”

You glance over at him, surprised by the quiet shift in his tone.

“She used to bring me and Sarah out here when we were little. Just us. Before… everything got messy.”

He rubs the back of his neck. “I think it was the only time I really felt like a kid. Like I didn’t have to prove anything.”

Your expression softens. “You don’t talk about her much.”

He shrugs, then hesitates. “I guess I don’t talk about a lot of things. It’s easier to just… be who people already think I am.”

You turn toward him, knees brushing. “You don’t have to do that with me.”

He finally meets your eyes. “I know. That’s why I brought you out here. Feels like I can breathe when it’s just you.”

Your chest tightens, and you don’t say anything- just let him keep going.

“My dad…” he trails off, jaw clenching. “I don’t know what I ever did to make him look at me the way he does, but it’s like -no matter what- I’m never the one he picks. Never the one he trusts. It’s always Sarah. Golden child. He gives her the house, the money, the benefit of the doubt. I screw up once and I’m a lost cause.”

He’s not looking for pity, you can tell. Just someone to hear him.

“I’m sorry, Rafe,” you say softly. “That’s not fair. And it’s not true.”

He nods a little. “Still feels like I’m playing catch-up in a race I didn’t sign up for.”

You sigh, eyes dropping to your hands in your lap. “I kind of get that. My mom’s been pressuring me to intern at her company- Valentina & Co. It’s this big, polished machine of a business that’s been in her family for generations. Fashion, marketing, design. All that.”

“You’re good at that stuff,” he says without hesitation. “I’ve seen your sketches.”

You smile faintly. “Yeah, but I don’t know if I want to be her. You know? She’s intense. Everything’s about control and image. And for a while I thought I was just bad at it, or lazy. But the truth is, I just… didn’t care. Until recently.”

He raises an eyebrow. “What changed?”

“I started sewing.” You shrug. “It’s small, but it’s mine. It feels like creating something that doesn’t come with strings attached. It actually makes me… happy.”

He looks at you like you’ve just said something sacred. “That’s huge.”

You nod, then pause. “I also told my dad I knew about the affair.”

That gets his attention.

“I wasn’t trying to blackmail him or anything,” you add quickly. “I just- I caught him, and then he caught you, so it kind of turned into this mutual destruction kind of thing.”

Rafe laughs under his breath. “Classic.”

“I made him promise not to tell my mom about you if I didn’t tell her about his… side project.”

“Sounds fair.”

“I think he respected me more after that,” you say quietly. “Or maybe he was just scared of me.”

Rafe bumps your shoulder again. “Good. About time someone was.”

You lean your head on his shoulder for a moment, and he doesn’t flinch away. He just rests his cheek against your hair and lets the silence say everything else.

Eventually, he murmurs, “You make me want to be better.”

You pull back just enough to look at him. “You already are.”

His lips tug into a half-smile, not cocky this time- grateful. “I’m really glad you said yes,” he says.

You grin. “Even if I threw up right after?”

He laughs, eyes crinkling. “Especially because of that.”

And just like that, things feel a little lighter, even out here in the middle of nowhere.

“Wanna get in the water?” Rafe asks, lifting a brow at you, the corner of his mouth twitching like he already knows the answer.

You smile, eyes gleaming. “Only if you get in with me.”

“Deal,” he says, already tugging his striped shirt over his head and tossing it onto the bench behind him.

You join him at the edge of the boat, slipping off your top and skirt to reveal the bikini underneath. The sunlight warms your skin, and for a moment, it’s just the two of you against the backdrop of shimmering waves.

“On three,” he says, nodding toward the water.

You nod back, ready. “One… two… three!”

Without hesitation, you leap- splashing into the cool, salty water. It takes your breath for a second, but it feels good. Refreshing. You push up to the surface, wiping the water from your eyes.

But when you look up at the boat, Rafe’s still there. Bone dry. Arms crossed. Smirking.

“You asshole,” you laugh, flipping your wet hair back.

“What?” he calls innocently, his voice dripping with amusement. “I said I’d get in. Never said I’d jump.”

“Well, you tricked me!” you protest, paddling closer to the boat, the sun glinting off the water around you.

“Should’ve seen your face,” he grins, grabbing his shirt again like he’s about to put it back on. “Classic.”

“At least help me out then,” you say, stretching one dripping hand up toward him, your voice sugar-sweet.

He squints at you suspiciously, but steps closer to the edge. “Not falling for it,” he mutters, though a smile is creeping in as he watches you tread water.

“Falling for what?” you ask, all wide-eyed innocence. “I’m not even strong enough to pull you in.”

He raises an eyebrow at that, clearly not convinced.

Still, he takes your hand.

You immediately give it your best effort, tugging with all your might, legs kicking beneath the surface for leverage. But it’s no use- he’s way too strong, firmly rooted on the boat, not budging an inch.

You pout. “You’re like a brick wall.”

“Years of dealing with Sarah,” he says, smug. “I’ve got reflexes.”

“Ugh, come on!” you groan, still clinging to his hand.

Rafe chuckles and then -without warning- lets out an exaggerated sigh, muttering, “Fine. I’ll let you think you won.”

He leaps in with a splash, drenching both of you in a wave of water.

When he surfaces, you’re already laughing, and he swims closer until your shoulders bump again. The heat between you isn’t just from the sun now- it’s something slower, more deliberate.

“Happy now?” he asks, brushing water from his face.

“Extremely,” you grin, splashing him once for good measure.

“Just so you know,” he says, mock serious, “next time I’m the one doing the tricking.”

“Oh, you mean like pretending to be the emotionally unavailable golden boy and then turning out to be kind of perfect?”

He blinks, then smirks. “You think I’m perfect?”

You roll your eyes and start to swim away. “Don’t push it, Cameron.”

His laughter follows you across the water.

You’re walking back toward the house, wet hair clinging to your back, skin still warm from the sun and salt. After Rafe docked the boat behind Tannyhill, you slipped away, feet bare and sandals in hand, hoping to sneak in unnoticed.

But as you approach your house, you glance up- and your stomach sinks.

The security camera’s little red light is blinking. Watching. Recording. There’s no point in tiptoeing now.

Still, you open the door as quietly as possible, slipping inside and easing it shut behind you. The cool air hits your damp skin and makes you shiver. Water drips from you in tiny splashes across the floor as you pad through the hallway. Maybe if you’re fast enough, you can make it upstairs before- “Y/N?”

Your mother’s voice stops you cold.

Soft. Tired. But sharp around the edges in that way you know too well. It’s coming from the living room.

You backtrack slowly, the trail of wet footprints betraying any effort at stealth. When you round the corner, you freeze.

Your parents are both there. Standing. Not sitting.

Your mother’s arms are crossed tightly over her chest, her eyes puffy, mascara faintly smudged. Your dad stands a few feet away from her, stiff like he’s bracing for something. The air in the room is heavy, suffocating. You instinctively pull your towel tighter around yourself.

Your mom’s eyes rake over you- soaked, in your bikini, hair a mess. She doesn’t speak for a moment, and that silence is worse than any yelling.

“Were you with him?” she asks, her voice tight. “With Rafe Cameron?”

You open your mouth but hesitate. “Yes… but-”

Her expression hardens. “So it’s true then. He’s been sneaking into the house. Using your balcony.”

Your eyes widen. You glance at your dad- he’s not looking at you. Not even trying to defend you.

“Wait, how do you even- ”

“I reviewed the camera footage,” she says bitterly. “You think I wouldn’t notice someone climbing out of a window in the middle of the night?”

“I- I didn’t mean to hide it like that,” you say, heart racing. “We were just hanging out- ”

“And the affair?” she snaps, suddenly louder. “Did you know about that, too?”

Your stomach drops. “What?”

“Your father’s affair.” Her voice cracks, eyes shining with fresh tears. “You knew. Didn’t you?”

You go still, unable to lie.

“I found out after. I didn’t want to tell you like that, Mom- ”

“So you kept it from me?” she spits, stepping forward like the betrayal physically stings. “You let me go on thinking everything was fine while you snuck around with him, and he snuck around with her?”

“I didn’t ask for any of this!” you shout, frustration bubbling to the surface. “I didn’t want to be caught in the

middle of your mess, or Dad’s mistakes-”

“Don’t speak to your mother like that,” your father warns, his voice cold, distant.

You whip toward him. “You don’t get to play parent right now. You broke this family.”

“Watch your tone,” he bites out, stepping forward.

Your mom holds a hand out to stop him, tears slipping down her cheeks now.

“I just… I needed one person in this house to be honest with me,” she says, voice cracking.

“I am being honest now,” you say, softer. “I didn’t know what to do. I’m not the villain here.”

Silence. For a beat, none of you speak.

Then your mom turns away, rubbing her eyes. Your dad walks toward the hallway without saying another word.

You stand there in your bikini, dripping saltwater onto the hardwood floor, the sting of what just happened heavier than anything the ocean could’ve left behind.

——

You’re curled up on your bedroom balcony, the soft sway of the hammock doing little to calm the storm inside you. The tears have long since dried, leaving salty streaks across your cheeks, but the ache in your chest hasn’t budged. You hold your knees to your chest, chin resting against them, eyes blankly scanning the yard below. The sky is dimming -gold fading into gray- but you don’t move. You’ve been sitting there long enough to watch the sun shift across the trees.

You want to call someone. You need to call someone.

But who? Rafe?

The thought lingers longer than you’d like. He’d come -of course he would- but the weight of everything that just happened feels too heavy, too raw to throw at him. You’ve barely been together for twenty-four hours. What if it’s too much, too soon? What if he thinks you’re needy? Or worse- damaged?

Your chest tightens. Becca?

You’d blown her off for lunch. Blown her off for Rafe. Would it be selfish to crawl back now, hours later, unraveling? What kind of friend does that?

You rub your hands over your face, frustrated. Torn.

You don’t want to be alone, but you don’t want to burden anyone either. The silence around you only makes it worse. The only sounds are the soft creak of the hammock ropes and the occasional chirp of a bird too stubborn to settle down for the night.

You blink slowly at the horizon, fighting back a new wave of tears that threatens to push past your restraint. It’s lonely, this in-between- this place where you have people, but don’t know how to need them.

You exhale shakily, whispering into the quiet, “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

And you really don’t.

Moments later, your phone is in your hand and you’re FaceTiming Becca.

She answers almost immediately, a chip halfway to her mouth. “Yo,” she says through a crunch, clearly mid-snack.

“Hey,” you sniffle, voice low.

You’re still outside, curled up in the hammock, but now there’s a thick blanket wrapped tightly around your shoulders like a shield. Your eyes are glassy, red-rimmed. You don’t bother hiding it.

Becca stops chewing. “Wait- what happened? You okay?” Her expression shifts fast, concerned now.

She sits up straighter, the bag of chips forgotten beside her.

You nod, then shake your head. “No. Not really.”

She waits.

“My mom found out about my dad’s affair,” you say quietly. “And somehow… I’m the bad guy in it. Like I knew and just decided not to tell her.” You pause, swallowing thickly. “And on top of that, she found out about Rafe sneaking up to my room. So, yeah- pretty sure any chance of them ever approving of him is dead in the water.”

You shift, lying down fully now, the hammock rocking slightly beneath you. “It was a mess, Becca. A complete disaster.”

Becca exhales. “Shit, Y/N. I’m sorry. That’s a lot.” Her voice is softer now, steadier. “Do you want me to come over?”

You shake your head immediately. “No. My parents are still downstairs, and they’re both in the worst mood. I don’t want you caught in the crossfire. Seriously.”

There’s a long pause. Becca doesn’t push. She just stays on the screen, her presence steady even through the pixels.

“I’m sorry,” you say suddenly, voice cracking a little.

Becca blinks. “For what?”

“For being a shitty friend,” you murmur. “I bailed on you today. And I don’t want to be that girl- the one who ditches her best friend the second a boy shows interest.”

Becca rolls her eyes fondly, reaching for another chip. “Y/N. Come on. First of all, I can’t even remember the last time you had a boyfriend. And second- look, it’s fine. You like the guy. You deserve to spend time with someone who makes you happy. As long as you don’t ghost me for, like, three months straight and forget my birthday, we’re good.”

You let out a weak laugh.

She grins. “Besides, I’d rather third wheel you two than listen to Marie talk about crystals and soul contracts over lunch ever again.”

“Becca.”

“I’m just saying,” she shrugs.

A beat of silence. Then: “Thanks,” you whisper. “For answering.”

“Always,” she says, gently. “Now get some rest. And if you need me -even if it’s two in the morning- I’ll

be here. For real.”

And for the first time all night, you start to believe that maybe -just maybe- you’re not alone in this.

——

You’re sewing again- this time in a better mood, or at least a quieter one. Your thoughts are muted, your mind humming softly, half-lost in the rhythm of the machine. It’s nice, almost meditative. The gentle whirl of the needle moving through fabric, the way your hands guide the material, stitch by stitch. For a while, it’s just this. No parents. No arguments. No pressure.

Just you, the machine, and the soft glow of your desk lamp.

Then you glance at the clock.

“Shit,” you whisper, squinting. 5:03 AM.

You blink hard, suddenly aware of the stiffness in your shoulders and the heaviness in your eyes. With a sigh, you finish the final seam, snip the thread, and power off the machine. The silence that follows feels too loud, like the world had been waiting just outside your bubble.

You shuffle across the room and crawl into bed, pulling your blanket over you and curling onto your side.

The fabric is still warm from your body heat, and the lamp’s glow lingers in the back of your eyelids even after you switch it off.

But sleep doesn’t come.

Instead, your thoughts do. Loud, tangled, relentless.

You can’t stop thinking about what your life has become. How quickly everything unraveled -your family, your peace, your plans- and how, somehow, through the chaos, you stumbled into something unexpected. Something kind of terrifying. Something named Rafe Cameron.

You grab your phone from the nightstand, the screen lighting up your tired face. You’re tucked beneath your covers like you’re thirteen again, sneaking screen time after bedtime. Your thumb hovers over his name at the top of your messages.

Rafe.

Would he even want to talk this late- or this early, technically? Would he roll over and ignore it, or text back without hesitation?

You hesitate, thumb still suspended above the screen.

You’re not sure if you’re scared of waking him… or of needing him more than he needs you.

And that thought alone makes your chest tighten.

You sigh, locking the screen and setting your phone down without sending anything. You roll onto your back, staring at the ceiling, the quiet pressing in again.

Maybe in the morning, everything will make more sense.

Or maybe not.

But at least for now, you’re still here. You’re trying. You’re stitching something together, piece by piece- even if you’re not sure what it is yet.

——

The blanket is ripped off you in one swift motion.

You groan, your hand flailing to grab it back, but it slips through your fingers and lands on the floor with a thwump. You curl tighter into yourself, folding into a fetal position in a desperate attempt to hide from the icy chill of the air conditioning.

“Get your ass up. It’s three in the afternoon,” Becca’s voice cuts through the quiet, loud and unbothered as always.

“Go away. I’m tired,” you grumble, dragging a pillow over your head like it’s a shield.

“Nope. Not happening. I’m not leaving until you’re up. And maybe fed. You’re starting to smell like sad.”

“You’re relentless,” you mutter. Slowly, you lift a corner of the pillow and peek out. Becca stands at the edge of your bed, hands on her hips, fully dressed and smug like she’s already won.

“How’d you even get past my parents?”

“They’re not even home. Chelsea let me in,” she says casually, like breaking and entering is just part of the routine.

You sigh and roll onto your back, staring up at the ceiling. “You’re the worst.”

“And yet, here I am. Come on. We’re getting coffee and going thrifting. I left you alone yesterday. Now it’s time to put on pants and be alive.”

She drags you out of bed -literally, by your ankles- and doesn’t let you argue your way back in.

An hour later, you’re in Kildare, sipping overpriced coffee from a minimalist café that Becca swears is “aesthetic as hell,” even though your iced drink is basically melted. The two of you wander through one of the higher-end thrift stores tucked between galleries and curated boutiques.

You hold up a vintage skirt. “Cute or weird?”

“Both. That’s why I love it,” Becca says, already juggling two jackets and a purse she doesn’t need.

As you make your way toward the fitting rooms, she glances at you over the rim of her sunglasses. “So… has Rafe even checked in on you?”

You hesitate, adjusting the hanger in your hand.

“He doesn’t know what happened with my parents,” you say finally. “And honestly… I don’t think he’d know what to say even if he did.”

Becca raises an eyebrow. “He is your boyfriend.”

“I know,” you reply quickly. “It’s just- he’s never had a real relationship, I don’t think. Like, ever. I don’t think he knows how to act in one.”

Becca scoffs. “Please. Most guys don’t. But that’s why you talk about it. You don’t just sit in silence waiting for him to read your mind. He’s not a mind reader. He’s just hot.”

You laugh softly, though it fades as you trail your fingers over the embroidery on a linen blouse. “It’s not just that. I think I’ve been waiting for him to disappoint me. And now that things are actually… okay, I don’t know how to be okay. Is that weird?”

Becca tilts her head. “No. That’s trauma, babe. Welcome to the club. But also- let the guy try. If he screws it up, fine. You can say you gave it a real shot. Just… don’t push him away before he even gets a chance.”

You nod slowly, letting her words sink in.

She tosses a leather purse into your arms. “Now try this on with that skirt. I’m building your depressed-but-still-hot aesthetic.”

——

Hours later, you’re standing at Rafe’s door, knuckles gently knocking even though you texted him ten minutes ago. It’s just past 7 p.m., and the golden hour light casts a warm glow across the porch. You adjust the handles of your shopping bags, already second-guessing whether this was a cute idea or a slightly unhinged one.

The door creaks open, and there he is- barefoot in swim shorts, a white T-shirt clinging slightly to his skin, hair damp like he just showered or got out of the water. He looks… stupidly good. He grins when he sees you, eyes flicking down to the multiple bags hanging from your arms.

“Hey, you,” he says, voice easy and warm.

You want to throw your arms around him, kiss his cheek, rest your face in the space between his neck and shoulder. But… you’re still trying to figure out what kind of boyfriend he is. You’re not sure if he’s the “public affection” kind. Or even the “private affection” kind.

So instead, you settle for a crooked smile and step inside past him.

“I went shopping,” you announce, holding up your arms like a trophy display.

“I can see that,” he says with a soft chuckle, closing the door behind you.

“Can I try them on for you?” you ask, kicking off your shoes by the door and padding barefoot across the floor.

He raises a teasing eyebrow. “You’re gonna put on a show for me?”

You shoot him an unamused look, though your lips twitch. “Not like that, creep.”

He smirks and shrugs. “Hey, just making sure.”

You roll your eyes and head into the living room, dropping the bags beside the couch. Rafe follows behind you, watching as you begin to pull out the pieces- tops, skirts, vintage jeans, a soft little cardigan still smelling like the boutique you got it from.

“I need honest opinions,” you say, already rifling through for the first outfit.

“I can do that,” he nods, flopping onto the couch with a dramatic sigh. “But just so we’re clear, I think you’d look hot in a trash bag.”

You shoot him a glare over your shoulder. “Helpful. Really.”

You disappear into the bathroom and come out a minute later in a slinky black tank and vintage cargo pants. His eyebrows lift slightly, and he gives a low whistle.

“Okay, okay. That’s solid.”

You strike a silly pose, complete with finger guns. “Very ‘90s R&B music video, right?”

“Very hot girl who doesn’t even try,” he says, more serious now, watching you with a fondness you weren’t expecting.

You go through a few more outfits- one he teases you looks like you’re auditioning for a role in Clueless, another that makes him actually sit forward and say, “Wait, that one. That’s the one.” By the end of it, there are clothes draped across his couch and you’re breathless from laughing.

He stretches back, arms behind his head, watching you with a sleepy grin.

“You’re really doing this sewing thing, huh?”

You nod, plopping beside him in one of the outfits. “Yeah. I thought I’d hate it. I thought it was just something my mom was forcing on me. But… it’s weird. I kind of like it.”

He looks over at you, his voice softer now. “I like seeing you excited about something.”

You glance at him, a little caught off guard. He rarely says things like that. He’s quiet for a second, and then adds, “It’s nice, y’know? Seeing you… like this. Comfortable.”

You pause. “It feels nice. Being with you.”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment- just looks at you. Then he leans in, slow and hesitant, like he’s still figuring this whole boyfriend thing out too. When his lips touch yours, it’s light and easy and over before you even have time to register how badly you missed it all day.

“You’re really pretty,” he says against your cheek.

“Stop,” you murmur, but you’re smiling as you lean into him.

Your kisses continue, slower this time. Not rushed or frantic the way they’d been before. These are different. Soft. Deliberate. Like both of you are finally learning how to be with each other- without masks, without defenses.

You feel it in the way his lips brush yours like they’re memorizing the shape. In the way his hand doesn’t roam, but stays anchored gently against your side like he’s holding something fragile.

“I can’t go home,” you whisper into his mouth, barely pulling back.

Rafe freezes. His lips hover just above yours before his brows draw together and he leans back slightly to look at you.

“What?”

You blink, realizing what you’ve just said. Your throat tightens as you try to pull yourself together.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur quickly, brushing your hair from your face with trembling fingers. You hadn’t meant to ruin the moment.

But Rafe shakes his head immediately. “No- don’t apologize.” His voice is quiet but firm.

You drop your head into your hands and exhale shakily. The tension you’ve been carrying for the past twenty-four hours weighs heavy on your shoulders.

“What’s going on?” he asks gently, sliding his hand to the small of your back. His touch is warm, grounding.

You open your mouth to explain, but the words stick. “My mom… my dad… they…” Your voice trails off.

Your eyes burn.

“Hey. Hey- look at me.” His fingers brush your cheek and tip your chin up, coaxing your gaze to meet his.

Your voice breaks as you finally speak. “My mom found out about my dad’s affair. And somehow I’m the bad guy- like I betrayed her because I didn’t say anything.”

Tears spill over as the weight of it all tumbles out. You curl against him, crying quietly into the crook of his neck. His arms wrap around you immediately, protective, unwavering.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers into your hair, his hand smoothing along your back.

You shake your head against him. “Why didn’t I tell you?” you repeat his question aloud, voice small. “I don’t know. I just… didn’t want to be a burden. Didn’t want to bother you.”

He pulls back slightly so he can look at you, and his thumb catches a tear rolling down your cheek.

“You’re not a burden,” he says firmly. “I’m your boyfriend. You can come to me for anything. Okay?”

You sniffle, blinking up at him. “Even if we’ve only been dating for, like, forty-eight hours?”

He huffs a laugh, his expression softening. “Yeah. Even then. That’s kind of the deal.”

You both laugh quietly, the tension finally loosening. For the first time all day, your chest doesn’t feel so tight.

There’s a beat of comfortable silence before he nudges your knee with his.

“What do you say we put on a movie and you stay the night?”

You nod, your voice a whisper. “That sounds really good.”

Rafe kisses the side of your head and stands to grab the remote. You tug the blanket off the back of the couch and pull it over yourself, curling up in the corner of the cushions.

And for the first time in a while, you feel safe.

145 notes · View notes

mggssocks · 2 months ago

Text

The Eighth

the eighth masterlist

pairing: Fem!Kook!Reader x Rafe Cameron

cw: explicit sexual content

a/n: this chapter’s doo doo except the lunch part lol

Your back hits the door to the Tannyhill primary bedroom, pushed open by the momentum of Rafe’s body against yours. His mouth is on yours instantly, desperate and hungry, as your fingers fumble with the buttons of his shirt. You tug the polo from where it’s tucked neatly into his shorts, hands working fast- impatient to get him undressed.

“For someone who claimed they didn’t enjoy the other night…” he breathes against your lips, smirking as he guides you both toward the bed, “you sure seem in a rush.”

You don’t bother with a comeback. There’s no time. The back of your knees hit the mattress, and you fall with him on top of you- his hands already curling around the hem of your dress.

He tugs it down in one swift motion, the fabric slipping off your shoulders, your chest exposed to him. His mouth trails along your neck, slow and searing, before his lips wrap around your nipple.

Your head tilts back, a gasp caught in your throat as your eyes flutter closed. One hand twists into the sheets, the other in his hair as a moan escapes your lips, unbidden and helpless.

All your restraint slips through your fingers.

“You like that?” he murmurs, his lips brushing back up to yours.

You nod into the kiss, breathless.

“I hope you brought a condom this time,” you manage between kisses, your voice low, teasing- almost daring.

His hands are already tugging the rest of your dress down, sliding it past your hips and off completely, leaving you in just a pair of white lace thongs.

“Apart from the other night,” he says, voice rough and full of implication, “I came prepared.”

Now shirtless, he bites his bottom lip as he watches you unbutton and unzip his shorts, your hands working him open with purpose. He kicks them off as he retrieves the condom from his pocket, tearing it open with his teeth. The foil drops to the floor, forgotten.

As he rolls it on, his eyes never leave yours.

One hand cups the back of your thigh, the other slipping beneath the thin waistband of your thong, fingers teasing as he leans in again- just close enough for you to feel his breath.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he says, and somehow the seriousness in his tone makes you want him more.

But you don’t tell him to stop. Your hips lift instinctively, letting him slide your thong down and off. There’s nothing coy or hesitant in the way you move- it’s want, plain and undeniable.

“I want it,” you whisper, breath hitching.

His elbows press into the mattress on either side of your head, supporting his weight as he hovers above you. His face is close-close enough that you can feel the heat of his breath, see the tension in his jaw.

“Yeah?” It’s barely a mumble, low and hoarse, but you know exactly what he’s asking.

You nod, eyes fluttering as your hips roll up again, searching for him. He teases you first, sliding the head of his length slowly along your slit, not yet pushing in. The sensation is maddening, every nerve in your body on high alert.

“Rafe-” his name slips out, part plea, part warning.

He answers by pressing into you, inch by slow inch, a low groan rumbling from his throat as he sinks inside. Your back arches off the mattress, hands fisting the sheets, eyes rolling back.

Your mouth falls open in a cry as he stretches you, fills you, every inch drawing a new sound from your throat.

He starts to move, steady at first, and then deeper, harder. The rhythm of his hips against yours sends the bed creaking beneath you, the headboard knocking faintly against the wall in time with each thrust.

“Ye- yes,” you gasp, clinging to him, legs locking around his waist as you hold him closer, pulling him deeper.

Your bodies move in sync, tangled and breathless.

Suddenly, he pulls away without warning- and before you can even register what’s happening, he flips you over. Your face presses against the headboard while your back arches, lifting your body as your ass rises into the air. Rafe gives you a soft, teasing slap before pushing back in again, his movements rhythmic and insistent. The bed creaks under the force of his hard thrusts, and the air fills with a mix of moans and the unmistakable sound of skin meeting skin.

“Fuck,” you bite out, the word almost a release as the sensation intensifies.

He leans in close, his voice a low, seductive whisper in your ear, “You like that, pretty girl?”

You nod, your mind blank and your thoughts reduced to nothing but the overwhelming tide of pleasure. His lips barely graze your ear before he sinks his teeth into your earlobe, a brief, heated contact that sends shivers down your spine. His arm wraps firmly around your waist, pulling your back closer to his chest as he continues his relentless pace.

Every thrust, every creak of the bed, every whispered word from him blurs the line between pain and pleasure. The room resounds with your shared moans, an unspoken symphony of desire that only the two of you can hear. In that charged moment, nothing else exists- no worries, no questions, just the raw intensity of the here and now.

Your breath catches as his thrusts grow rougher, deeper-his grip on your waist tightening like he’s afraid to let you slip away. You brace yourself, clutching the sheets, your body rocking in rhythm with his until the pressure becomes too much to hold.

“Rafe,” you gasp, almost a warning, almost a plea.

His name barely leaves your lips before everything crashes down on you. Your body tenses, then trembles as the orgasm rolls through you like a wave. You can’t think, can’t breathe, only feel. Behind you, Rafe groans -low, ragged- and he buries himself deep one final time before stilling. His grip on you softens, one hand sliding up your back as he exhales against your shoulder.

Silence falls, except for the sound of your uneven breaths, the two of you suspended in that raw, hazy afterglow.

After a moment, he leans down and presses a kiss to your spine, slow and lingering. It’s oddly gentle, contrasting everything that came before it. You don’t know what to say. You’re still catching your breath, your head fuzzy, heart thudding in your ears.

He finally pulls back, discards the condom, and collapses beside you on the bed, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

You roll onto your side, not quite facing him. You don’t touch. You don’t speak.

Because despite the heat still lingering between your bodies, the air feels suddenly cooler. The high is fading, and what’s left behind isn’t clarity- but the quiet weight of unspoken questions.

He stares at the ceiling, one arm thrown above his head. You lie there, watching his profile.

You sit up slowly, the sheets falling from your chest as you pull them back up with one arm, shielding yourself more out of instinct than modesty. Rafe’s eyes are on you, lazily watching, but you don’t look at him. You’re scanning the room for your dress and the white thong he flung off somewhere between the door and the bed.

He props himself up on one elbow, brows knitting.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, voice a little hoarse, like he hasn’t caught his breath yet.

“Nothing,” you say, tone light. “Just getting my clothes.”

“You leaving?” His question carries more surprise than judgment, and that alone tells you all you need to know.

“Yeah. It’s pretty late. I have some stuff I need to work on.”

You spot your thong near the dresser and slide out of bed, slipping it back on without ceremony.

You’re very aware of Rafe watching you- less with lust now, more with confusion. Maybe even a flicker of something else. Curiosity. Doubt.

He sits up straighter, arms resting on his knees, his gaze following you like he’s trying to figure you out for the first time.

You find your dress draped over the back of a chair and step into it. You’re not rushing, but you’re not lingering either. Not like you did the first time

Rafe’s brow lifts slightly. He’s not used to this. He’s used to girls lingering in his bed, tangled in his sheets like they’re a prize. Used to being the one who leaves first. The one with the upper hand.

And now here you are- dressed, composed, and already slipping your shoes back on.

“Didn’t think you were the hit-it-and-quit-it type,” he mutters, a smile tugging at his lips like he’s testing the waters.

You finally look at him, one brow raised as you pick your purse up from the floor. “Guess I’m full of surprises.”

You let the words hang, sharp enough to sting but not quite cruel. You’re not being petty. You’re just done pretending you don’t know the game he’s playing. Tonight, you played it better.

He leans back against the headboard, tongue running along his teeth like he’s both impressed and annoyed. But he says nothing. Maybe because he knows you’ve already won this round.

As you reach the door, you glance back once- not to see if he’ll follow, but just to confirm what you already know. He’s still sitting there, quiet, watching you like he doesn’t know what to do next.

You smile to yourself as you step into the hallway, heels clicking with quiet confidence.For once, you’re the one leaving him wondering.

You’re back at the yoga studio, tucked into your usual corner with Becca. The two of you always claimed that spot- half for the view, half so you could talk without getting glared at by the more serious yogis. This time, Marie tagged along, claiming she had nothing better to do, but you knew she was just curious after all the half-truths and smirks exchanged in your group chat lately.

You’re glowing today -not in the fresh-from-a-facial, dewy-skin way, but in the unmistakable post-good-sex kind of way. The kind of glow that comes from confidence, from winning a game you weren’t even sure you were playing until you already had the upper hand. You’d made Sofia jealous, left Rafe alone and probably stunned in his bed, and walked away with your pride intact. It felt good. All of it did.

You move through your stretches with surprising ease, twisting and bending with a grace you don’t usually bring to this class. Usually, you and Becca were half-trying, half-laughing your way through the hour. But today, your body is loose, your limbs limber, your smirk ever-present.

Becca notices immediately.

“Okay, bendy,” she whispers, her voice amused as she folds beside you. “What did he do to you?”

You don’t respond right away, just smile as you lower into another pose, the stretch a little too smooth, a little too smug.

Marie, on the other side of you, lifts her head in interest. “Wait, who’s he?”

Becca shoots you a look. “You haven’t told her?”

You shrug like it’s no big deal, but your smirk says otherwise.

“I slept with Rafe,” you say casually, folding forward like it’s just another day, another downward dog.

Marie nearly chokes on her breath. “You what?”

Even the instructor looks over for a split second before returning to her demonstration.

Becca just grins and shakes her head. “Called it. I could tell something happened. You’ve been walking like you’re in a music video since we left that bar.”

Marie stares at you, eyes wide. “Wait, like… recently? As in after the bar?”

You nod, your expression cool but undeniably proud. “Last night.”

“And you didn’t sleep over?” Becca adds, eyebrow arched knowingly.

“Nope,” you say, popping the ‘p.’ “I left him there in his bed. Alone.”

Becca lets out a low whistle, impressed. “Damn. Ice cold.”

Marie’s still processing. “You left Rafe Cameron after sex? You??”

You shrug again, even though you’re beaming inside. “Figured I’d give him a taste of his own medicine.”

Becca slaps your mat playfully. “This is what I like to see. No more soft girl era. This is your villain arc.”

You snort but don’t deny it. It’s not about being heartless- it’s about finally holding the pen in your own story.

Marie grins, clearly recovering. “I’m just shocked. I didn’t even know you two had a thing.”

Becca leans over her mat toward Marie. “Oh honey, it’s not a thing, it’s a situation.”

The three of you dissolve into quiet laughter as the instructor reminds everyone to focus on their breathing. But your thoughts drift again- back to Rafe, to Sofia’s glare, to the way you walked out of that room without looking back. You’re still glowing. Only now, it’s from power.

You’re shopping with the girls now, arms already heavy with glossy bags and tissue paper peeking out like trophies. The three of you have been hopping from store to store, laughing over overpriced candles and arguing over who could pull off what. It’s been a great day- sunny, lighthearted, and exactly the kind of distraction you didn’t know you needed.

You step aside in front of the counter at Ralph Lauren, where Marie is swiping her card for a few pastel cardigans she insisted were “timeless essentials.” Becca’s off somewhere still trying on sunglasses.

Your phone buzzes in your purse. You adjust your shopping bags to your other arm and pull it out. The screen lights up with a familiar name. Rafe.

Of course.

Rafe: hey

You roll your eyes automatically. He starts every text thread the exact same way- like he’s not the same guy who had his hands all over you last night. Still, your thumbs move before your brain can overthink it.

You: Hi Rafe.

His response comes faster than you expect.

Rafe: we good?

You smirk, a small shake of your head as you lean against the counter.

You: Why wouldn’t we be?

There’s a pause. A few bubbles pop up, disappear, then return. You can practically feel his hesitation through the screen.

Rafe: You left as soon as we finished last night.

You raise your eyebrows, almost laughing. Finished? What was this, a group project?

You: And…?

Another pause. Marie walks past you, arms loaded with her bag, giving you a glance. “That Rafe?”

You nod subtly, still watching the typing bubbles.

Rafe: Not used to girls leaving me in bed. Especially not girls who scratch me up and bounce.

Your lips press together, suppressing the grin that wants to spread. You look up and catch your reflection in a nearby mirror- yep, still glowing. The glow of power and post-Rafe satisfaction.

You: Sounds like a personal problem.

More bubbles.

Rafe: Have lunch with me.

Your fingers hesitate this time. That’s new. Not “come over,” not “you up?” Not a lazy invite to sneak around again. Lunch sounds…normal. Real.

You: Lunch?

Rafe: Yeah. You know, the thing people do when they want to see someone while the sun’s out.

You glance up from your phone, suddenly more aware of your heartbeat. Becca comes up beside you with her sunglasses pushed into her hair and raises an eyebrow. “He texting again?”

You turn the phone toward her. She skims the messages and lets out a low whistle.

“Lunch?” she repeats. “Oop. That’s dangerously close to actual effort.”

You roll your eyes again, but something about it does catch you off guard. Maybe you’d rattled him more than you thought. You bite the inside of your cheek as you type your next reply.

You: Don’t you have someone else to take to lunch?

Rafe: I want to take you.

And there it is- still cocky, still Rafe, but there’s a shift in the energy. Just enough to make you hesitate.

You don’t respond right away. Instead, you slide your phone back into your purse, turning to Becca and Marie.

“Alright,” you say, “what store’s next?”

Because just like Rafe had to sit with the sting of being left in bed, he could now sit with the suspense of being left on read.

You pull into the driveway crooked, too lazy to fix it. It’s barely 11:36 AM and you’re still riding the high of retail therapy, too focused on gathering your shopping bags from the backseat to notice the sleek black SUV parked at the curb like it owns the place.

You push through the front door, juggling armfuls of glossy bags, humming faintly under your breath- until you walk into the kitchen.

Your heart drops. Rafe.

He’s standing tall at the kitchen island, a glass of water in his hand, that infuriatingly smug look on his face. But that’s not even the worst part.

He’s talking to your mother.

Scratch that. Your mother is talking his ear off. And they’re talking about you.

You freeze like a deer caught in high beams, the bags slipping slightly in your hands. Your mouth goes dry. Too dry to speak. To breathe. To do anything but stare at them in horror.

You clear your throat.

Both of them turn to look at you. Rafe meets your gaze first, the corner of his mouth twitching into a lazy smile like he planned this. Like this was some sick chess move and you just walked into checkmate.

“Hey, honey!” your mom chirps, cheerier than she’s been all week. Too cheerful. Rafe doesn’t say a word. He just sips his water and watches you.

“What’s going on?” you manage to ask, voice low, scratchy. Whatever power you thought you had this morning- leaving him in bed, brushing off his texts- completely evaporates under the heat of his stare and your mom’s oblivious smile.

“Mr. Cameron here tells me that you two- ” she begins, and your soul practically leaves your body.

Oh god. No. Please don’t tell me he told her we were hooking up.

Please don’t say ‘seeing each other.’ Please don’t say ‘involved.’

“-are working together on a menswear line for Valentina & Co.,” she finishes.

Your spine straightens. That… wasn’t what you were expecting. Relief washes over you in slow, cautious waves.

“He said you were picking his brain about upper-class men’s fashion,” your mom adds, completely pleased with herself.

Rafe still hasn’t said a word. He just watches you with those unreadable blue eyes, clearly enjoying the way you’re squirming.

You force a tight smile. “Uh… yeah. Something like that.” Your eyes shoot daggers at him, but it only makes his smirk deepen.

Finally, he speaks. “Yeah. We’re supposed to have lunch at twelve, remember?”

He sets his water glass down like he owns the house.

Your blood pressure skyrockets. Every curse word you know -and a few you make up- blitz through your brain in silent, telepathic fury.

“She got caught up in shopping,” Rafe adds with faux innocence.

But before you can spit something back, your mom claps her hands together. “Well, don’t just stand there, Y/N. Go get ready! You don’t want to keep your business partner waiting. That’s just rude.”

You glare at Rafe again. He raises an eyebrow like he’s daring you to say something.

You spin on your heel and storm upstairs.

In your room, you let out a long, silent scream into your palms. Then, you channel it into power. Fine. If he wants to show up and catch you off guard, he won’t be expecting this.

You slip into a dress that looks like it was spun from sunlight. The soft, golden-yellow fabric hugs your curves with effortless grace, cinching perfectly at your waist before cascading into delicate, ruffled layers that flirt with every step you take. The subtle high-low hem reveals just enough leg to remind him what he’s been playing games with.

You flat-iron your hair until it falls in sleek sheets down your back, then do your makeup- just enough to glow without trying too hard. A swipe of gloss. A kiss of blush. White kitten heels complete the look.

And when you walk downstairs, bag on your shoulder, chin high, you know exactly how you look.

Like a woman who’s in control again.

You descend the stairs slowly, each step deliberate, letting your heels click softly against the wood. Rafe is still standing by the kitchen island, glass in hand- but when he sees you, something in his expression shifts.

His throat bobs with a swallow, but he masks it by taking a long sip of water, jaw tightening ever so slightly. You know exactly what effect you’re having. And you love it.

Your mom doesn’t miss a beat. “You two are going to make great business partners- I can feel it,” she says brightly, pouring herself a glass of white wine at barely noon like it’s a Sunday brunch. She has no idea that Rafe had you bent over his headboard last night, your future ‘business partner’ making you see stars.

If only she knew.

Rafe recovers quickly. “Appreciate the vote of confidence, Mrs. Y/L/N,” he says, voice smooth as ever, but he sneaks a glance at you- and that smirk is still tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Outside, he opens the passenger door for you with a gentleman’s flair that would be charming if it weren’t so infuriating. You accept his hand silently, letting him help you in, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a smile or even eye contact.

He shuts the door behind you and walks around to the driver’s side, sliding into the seat with infuriating ease.

“You think you’re so funny,” you say flatly, eyes focused out the window, arms crossed. Your voice is clipped, but the faint heat in your cheeks betrays you.

“You weren’t answering your texts,” he says, starting the car like this is a normal day, like he didn’t just ambush you in your own kitchen. “I had to get creative.”

You shoot him a look now, half glare, half intrigue. “So your solution was to show up at my house and talk to my mom?”

He shrugs, one hand casually on the wheel. “Worked, didn’t it?”

You roll your eyes. “You’re insane.”

“We have to make a quick stop at the club,” Rafe says as he takes the left you’ve made in your own car more times than you can count.

“What for?” you ask, arching a brow, already feeling the irritation prick beneath your skin.

He doesn’t answer right away, jaw twitching as he focuses on the turn. “I, uh… need to talk to someone.”

You turn your gaze back to the window, jaw tightening. Someone is probably Sofia. Who else would it be?

As he pulls into the club’s parking lot, his driving mirrors his mood- quick, careless, like he couldn’t be bothered to center the car between the lines. He throws it in park and unbuckles.

“Stay here. I’ll be quick,” he says as he opens the door and steps out, slamming it shut before you can respond.

Stay here. Like you were some obedient little thing he could snap his fingers at. You glance at the clock on the dashboard and watch the seconds tick by, each one feeding your rising annoyance.

He disappears inside, and you sit in that silence for ten minutes- long enough to stew but not long enough to walk away.

When the door opens again, he slides into the driver’s seat like nothing happened, the same smug aura lingering around him. His white polo is clinging to his biceps like it was stitched on, and his tan slacks sit just right on his frame. If only he wasn’t such a cocky jerk.

“Went to see your girlfriend, I suppose?” you ask casually, digging through your bag, tone sharper than your smile.

He chuckles, shifting the car into reverse. He doesn’t deny it. Of course he doesn’t. You find your piña colada-flavored lip gloss at the bottom of your purse, pop the cap, and flip down the visor mirror.

“You’re not denying it,” you say while smoothing the gloss over your lips, watching him through the mirror with the tilt of someone who’s trying to look unbothered- but isn’t.

“I didn’t say I did either,” he replies, merging back onto the road.

“Insufferable,” you mutter under your breath, snapping the gloss shut.

Silence stretches between you, not the comfortable kind either- this one is full of all the things you’ve both been avoiding saying out loud.

You finally break it.

“What are we doing, Rafe?”

He glances at you, brows furrowed, like the question caught him off guard. “What do you mean?”

“This whole back and forth thing,” you say, leaning your elbow on the window, voice steady but weary. “It’s getting kind of old… don’t you think?”

He’s quiet for a moment. You watch his fingers tighten slightly on the steering wheel.

Then, with a shrug, he says, “What do you want, exclusivity?”

You laugh- sharp, humorless. “That did not come out of my mouth.”

“So what do you want?”

“You started flirting with me first,” you say, eyes narrowing as you study him. “You tell me.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just stares ahead, jaw clenched like he’s thinking too hard or trying not to think at all.

The silence returns- but this time it’s heavier, thick with unspoken things. You turn your gaze back to the window, refusing to be the first to speak again.

But in the air between you, something has shifted. The game isn’t quite fun anymore. And maybe that’s the most dangerous part.

Rafe opens the passenger door for you and, without thinking, you slip your hand into his. The gesture catches you off guard- he rarely ever does things like this. Your instinct is to pull away, but his grip is firm. Not in a possessive way, but in a don’t ruin this moment kind of way. So you let it linger.

The two of you walk side by side, stepping into line behind an older couple waiting at the host stand of an upscale restaurant. You don’t recognize the name, but the place looks expensive- and full. You glance up at Rafe, but his expression is unreadable, jaw set and eyes locked forward like he’s already somewhere else. Either he’s not paying attention, or this is something he’s thought through to the last detail.

You listen as the couple in front of you is politely turned away by the hostess, who apologizes with the kind of overly-rehearsed sympathy that comes with breaking disappointing news all night.

“I’m so sorry, we’re fully booked for the afternoon.”

The older woman sighs and takes her husband’s hand as they walk off slowly, defeated. You look at Rafe again, about to say something- but he’s already reaching into his pocket. Then you see it. A ring.

“What the hell is that?” you whisper, eyes wide.

“Slip this on your ring finger,” he murmurs, eyes still trained ahead like this is just another Tuesday.

“What? No- Rafe, are you serious- ”

“Just do it.” There’s a subtle urgency in his voice. Not panic. Just confidence laced with mischief. And somehow, that gets you.

You hesitate for only a second before (unfortunately) complying, sliding the ring onto your left hand. It fits alarmingly well.

“Hello!” the hostess greets, her voice bubbly as she pastes on a smile for the next guests- aka, you and your husband.

“Hi,” Rafe says smoothly, flashing her that Cameron charm. “We should have a reservation. Under Mr. and Mrs. Cameron.”

You almost choke on the air.

The hostess frowns slightly, tapping on her screen. “Hmm. I’m not seeing that here… Are you sure it was for today?”

Rafe leans on the podium just a little, not enough to seem pushy, just enough to be closer. “Positive. Five-year anniversary. We came all the way here to celebrate.”

His hand slides to your lower back like this is the most natural thing in the world. Your brain is screaming, but your face is playing along. You glance at him, letting a little smile play on your lips, even giving the ring a subtle twirl for effect.

The hostess falters, eyes flicking between you two, clearly unsure. But Rafe just keeps smiling- calm, charming, confident. Eventually, she caves.

“Well… we did have a cancellation about ten minutes ago. I can seat you now if you don’t mind the patio?”

“That sounds perfect,” Rafe says without missing a beat, hand still pressed to the small of your back as he guides you toward the tables.

Once you’re out of earshot, you turn to him with a low whisper, trying not to smile. “You’re a menace.”

“You’re the one wearing the ring,” he replies with a smirk.

You settle into your seat, letting the act continue just a little longer. It’s dangerous how easy it is to pretend- dangerous how much fun you’re having. The waitress comes over, complimenting you both on how adorable you are and asking how long you’ve been married.

“Five years today,” Rafe says, glancing at you like he’s known you forever.

You laugh softly, playing along. “And we haven’t killed each other yet. Miracle, right?”

The waitress laughs, charmed, and you watch Rafe lean back in his chair, clearly enjoying every second of this. And maybe -just maybe- you are too.

“Kildare’s very best?” the waitress offers, lifting a polished bottle of Pinot with both hands. “A house favorite.”

You glance at Rafe for a beat- silent but questioning. He doesn’t miss it.

“She’ll have it,” he says, nodding to the waitress. “Please.”

She pours the wine smoothly into two crystal glasses, sets the bottle in an ice bucket beside you, and leaves you both with your menus.

You pick yours up, but your eyes skim rather than read. The air between you feels… thick. Not awkward, but weighted.

“So, wife,” Rafe says, voice light but still with that telltale rasp, “what are you craving tonight?”

You peer at him over the top of your menu. “You’re so irritating.”

He smirks. “That’s no way to speak to your husband of five years.”

You fight a smile, but your mouth twitches anyway. “Pasta’s always safe,” you say, setting the menu down. Your hands fold neatly over it, and that’s when you notice the sparkle again.

The ring. Still snug on your finger like it belongs there.

“I should give this back.” You start to pull it off, slowly, like you’re unsure if you’re talking to him or yourself.

“Don’t,” he says- fast. Too fast.

Your eyes lift to his. His tone has changed.

“If you take it off now, someone might notice,” he adds. “They’ll get suspicious.”

You nod once, but the energy between you has shifted again. Your fingers rest lightly on the ring instead of removing it.

A quiet moment passes. Rafe picks up his glass but doesn’t drink. He just stares at the deep red liquid swirling inside.

“It was my mom’s,” he says, eyes still on the wine.

You blink. “What?”

“The ring.” He finally looks at you. “It was hers. My dad gave it to her when she was still… here.”

You don’t say anything. Neither does he for a second.

“She gave it to me when I was, like, nine. Said I should hold onto it until I knew what I was doing.”

You let out a dry laugh. “And you chose tonight as the moment you ‘knew what you were doing’?”

He smirks again, but softer this time. “I figured if I was gonna pretend to be married to someone, it might as well be with someone who keeps me on my damn toes.”

You sip your wine. It’s smooth, expensive, easy to lose yourself in. “You’re lucky I’m going along with this.”

“I know.”

Another pause. This one heavier.

“I’m gonna talk to her,” you say suddenly, your voice quieter now. “My mom.”

Rafe doesn’t flinch. He just watches you. Listens.

“I’ve been putting it off. Trying to… not know. But I can’t keep pretending.”

“You shouldn’t have to,” he says simply.

You glance up at him, surprised by how steady his voice is. No teasing. No smirk. Just… support.

“You knew before I did,” you say. “You didn’t have to tell me.”

“I did,” he says. “I wasn’t gonna let you walk around smiling at a lie.”

That hits deeper than you want it to. You swallow, throat dry again.

“Thanks,” you murmur, eyes dropping to your wine glass.

You’re not used to this version of him. And he’s not pushing. Not turning the moment into something else. He’s just… here.

He reaches across the table, fingers brushing yours. It’s a light touch, like he’s asking permission before he takes your hand completely.

And you let him.

For a moment, the game fades away. There’s no roleplay, no teasing, no posturing. Just Rafe and you, sitting in the candlelight, pretending you’re something you’re starting to wonder if you could actually be.

Lunch is quiet. Not awkward- but calm. Peaceful, even. The clinking of silverware, the low hum of conversation around you, and the soft chime of glass meeting glass- it all creates a kind of stillness you didn’t expect. You glance up from your plate now and then, catching glimpses of Rafe across the table as he cuts into his steak. He looks… at ease. Content.

Then, without looking up, he speaks.

“I didn’t go talk to Sofia.”

You pause, mid-twirl of pasta. Your eyes lift slowly. “What?”

He meets your gaze now, steady. “Back at the club. That’s not who I was going to see.”

You swallow. “You don’t have to explain anything to me, Rafe.” You try to sound breezy, unaffected, but the words sting more than you expect. “I’m not your girlfriend.”

The truth of it hits you in real-time. You hadn’t even thought about it like that until now- until saying it out loud made something in your chest pull tight.

He takes a sip of his wine, then shrugs. “Do you want to be?”

The question is so casual it almost doesn’t register. He says it like he’s asking about the weather, still chewing a piece of steak, still avoiding any dramatic pause.

Your breath catches slightly. You study his face. Is he serious? Is he teasing? Does he mean it? Or is he just curious?

You panic.

“Be what?” you ask, feigning confusion as your eyes drop to your half-empty plate.

He doesn’t let up. “My girlfriend.”

The way he says it -plain and obvious, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world- makes your stomach flip. You should be flattered, maybe excited. But all you feel is unsteady.

“Um…” Your voice barely comes out. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything right now.” He shrugs again, unbothered- or pretending to be.

“Just… think about it.”

And then -perfect timing- the waitress appears beside your table with a bright smile.

“Alright, lovebirds, what are we having for dessert?”

You blink up at her, momentarily stunned by the way the world just keeps going, despite the heavy question still hanging in the air.

Rafe turns to you with a small, knowing grin. “Sweetheart?”

You can’t even muster a fake smile. “I’m okay, actually,” you say softly, shaking your head.

The waitress nods and heads off, leaving the two of you in that same calm silence- but it doesn’t feel so peaceful anymore. Not with your pulse fluttering the way it is.

Rafe insists on paying. And when you push your chair back to stand, he’s already there, pulling it out for you without a word. You thank him under your breath as he takes your hand again, leading you toward the exit.

As you step out onto the cobblestone path outside the restaurant, a few members of the staff call after you cheerfully.

“Happy anniversary!”

Rafe squeezes your hand. “Thank you,” he calls back easily, slipping right back into the role.

You give them a half-smile and a polite wave, still shaken from his question- but also, maybe, a little breathless.

When he opens the car door for you, his hand brushes your back just lightly enough to send a tingle down your spine.

He closes the door behind you, rounds the hood of the car, and gets in. For a few seconds, you sit in silence, the soft hum of the engine the only sound between you.

You step into your bedroom and stop short. Your dad’s already inside, perched casually at the edge of your bed, eyes glued to his phone.

“Dad,” you say cautiously, stepping in a little further. This felt… off. Like a trap.

He doesn’t look up right away, but when he does, he smiles like he’s been expecting you. “Just the person I wanted to see.”

Your stomach tightens. “What’s up?” You keep your tone light, neutral. You already know this isn’t going to be a normal conversation.

He stands slowly, brushing invisible lint off his slacks. “Let’s not play games, Y/N. That boy- Rafe Cameron…” He trails off for a second, watching your expression. “I never minded him. He’s been around for years. Polite enough. Comes by, says hello to your mother. Takes you to lunch under the pretense of business. I let it go.”

Your jaw tightens. Here it comes.

“What I do mind,” he continues, voice harder now, “is him sneaking into my daughter’s bedroom in the middle of the night.”

You exhale sharply and cross your arms. “How did you even know?”

He smirks- just a little. “Rafe Cameron isn’t exactly a ninja, sweetheart. He walked right past three exterior cameras like we wouldn’t notice. And for someone so smug, he’s not quiet either.”

You feel your cheeks and neck flush instantly. Heat rushes to your face.

“Wait- were you listening?” Your voice jumps, mortified. “Ew. Seriously?”

He scoffs, cringing. “God, no. Not on purpose. But you’re not as silent as you think.” He shoves his hands into his pockets and looks around the room, like suddenly remembering it’s still his

house. “And this room isn’t soundproof.”

You groan, covering your face for a second. “Okay, can you not be in here right now?”

“Did you tell Mom?” you ask, already bracing for the answer.

“Not yet.”

“Not ever.” You close your bedroom door with a pointed push, sealing the conversation inside.

He raises a brow, his stance shifting. “Excuse me?”

You hold his gaze now, unwavering. “I know about the affair,” you say, voice lower, steadier than even you expected.

That wipes the smug look off his face.

There’s a beat of silence- heavy and sharp.

His mouth opens, but the words take a moment. “Y/N…”

“No.” You raise a hand to stop him. “I don’t want to hear some rehearsed apology. I’ve known for a while. And I didn’t say anything, because I figured it was between you and Mom.”

He softens. “I’m sorry. You weren’t supposed to get pulled into-”

“I said I don’t want to hear it.” Your voice is cold. Detached. “So here’s what we’re going to do.”

His brows furrow, almost amused. “You’re giving me conditions now?”

“Think of it as a deal,” you say, stepping forward. “You don’t tell Mom about Rafe, and I don’t tell Mom about your little blonde assistant. Or whatever you’re calling her.”

He stares at you for a long moment. There’s a flicker of something like shame- or maybe just the realization that you’re not a little girl anymore.

“And,” you add, before he can respond, “you end it.”

He blinks. “Excuse me?”

“The affair,” you say, clear as day. “If you want me to keep my mouth shut, then you end it. Today.”

He exhales slowly, runs a hand over his face. “You’re blackmailing your own father.”

“I’m protecting my mom,” you correct him.

There’s another long pause before he finally nods, just once. “Fine. Deal.”

You nod back, equally cool. “Good.”

He heads toward the door, stopping only briefly before opening it. “I was going to say I’m proud of you… for standing up for yourself,” he says quietly.

You don’t respond. You just turn toward your bed, pretending you didn’t hear it.

He leaves without another word, closing the door softly behind him.

And for a moment, the silence that follows feels louder than anything else.

——

“You’re thinking about it again,” Becca says, cutting into your thoughts like a needle through fabric.

You blink. Your gaze was fixed on your ring finger, your thumb absently rubbing the bare skin where Rafe’s mother’s ring had been. You’d given it back when he dropped you off the other day, but somehow, your hand had felt… empty ever since.

You glance at Becca, who’s slouched in the chair beside you, one leg tucked under the other like she’s completely uninterested in whatever the instructor is saying up front. Not that you were paying attention either.

This wasn’t yoga class anymore- it was an intro to sewing workshop at the community center. You’d accepted your fate. The reality that you didn’t know what you wanted to do with your life had started sinking in, and with time slowly ticking away, sewing felt like at least something. A place to start.

Becca had no reason to be here other than sheer avoidance. Avoidance of her job. Her parents. Her annoying ex. She’d tagged along for moral support and a chance to be unproductive in a new environment.

You sigh. “He asked me if I wanted to be his girlfriend.”

Becca’s eyebrows lift. “Rafe asked you?”

You nod, keeping your voice low. “But the way he asked… I didn’t like it. It was so casual. Like it meant nothing. Like he was just throwing it out there because he felt like it.”

Becca tilts her head. “How did he say it?”

You mimic his voice, low and nonchalant. “Do you wanna be my girlfriend?” You roll your eyes. “While cutting into his steak, like we were talking about the weather or something.”

She snorts. “Well, to be fair, that’s peak Rafe behavior. But… lunch seemed like it went okay?”

“It did,” you admit quietly. “It was nice, actually. Weirdly nice. Peaceful. He opened up a little. I even told him about me going to talk to mom about my dad’s affair.”

Becca’s expression softens. “So why do you sound like you’re spiraling?”

“Because I don’t know if he meant it,” you whisper. “If he asked because he wants me to be his girlfriend… or if he just wanted to see if I wanted it. Like he was testing the waters or something.”

“Do you want to be?”

The question sits between you for a moment, heavy and quiet.

“I don’t know,” you murmur. “Sometimes I think I do. But then there’s Sofia, and the way he acts like everything’s a game, and I just- I don’t know if I can do that with someone who doesn’t take things seriously.”

Becca leans her elbow on the table, resting her chin on her hand. “You don’t have to figure it all out right now, you know. Just because he asked doesn’t mean you owe him a decision on the spot.”

“I know,” you say, eyes dropping to your hand again. “I just wish I knew what he wants. For real.”

Becca reaches over and gently nudges your knee. “Maybe next time, instead of pretending you don’t care, you should ask him. Like- really ask him. Make him say it.”

You manage a small smile. “You make it sound easy.”

“It’s not,” she says, sitting back with a shrug. “But neither is walking around acting like you’re fine when clearly your ring finger misses him more than you do.”

You laugh under your breath, shaking your head. “That’s pathetic.”

“It’s human,” she says. “Besides, if he’s not serious, you’ll know. And if he is… you’ll really know.”

You nod, letting her words settle. The hum of sewing machines buzzes faintly in the background, and for the first time since you walked into the class, your hands rest still on the fabric in front of you.

Maybe you didn’t have it all figured out. But for now, you had a starting point- and a friend who could always spot when your head wasn’t where it should be.

66 notes · View notes

mggssocks · 2 months ago

Text

The Eighth

the eighth masterlist

pairing: Fem!Kook!Reader x Rafe Cameron

cw: explicit sexual content, MC being kind of a bitch lol.

a/n: here's an extra long chapter to hold you over until I have the chance to start writing chapter five! also look at the scene matching with this gif and the end of the chapter (super proud of myself lol)

Rafe is sprawled across your bed. Comfortable. Too comfortable. He’s in his boxers- which are still damp, but not enough for him to care. Not that the two of you did anything. He just strolled in, stripped down, and claimed your bed like it was his birthright. He even tossed his clothes into your hamper without asking, like he lives here.

You’re lucky you’ve been doing your own laundry. If Chelsea -your parents’ maid- had been the one to collect it this week, she’d have a full-blown heart attack finding Rafe Cameron’s drenched designer jeans and clinging white shirt buried among your sleep shorts and socks. She’d tell your mother. And your mother would start planning your elopement or your funeral.

You kneel in front of the hamper now, fingers curling around the fabric of his shirt, trying to ball it up in yours. You shove it down deep, beneath your soft tees and cotton tanks, hoping it blends in when you load the washer later.

Your eyes flick up instinctively -just a glance- but you pause when you see him.

He’s lying on his side now, one arm propped under his head, completely focused on the TV. Fran Fine is mid-rant, exaggerated and nasal and ridiculous as always, and Rafe- Rafe Cameron of all people- actually chuckles.

Real. Quiet. Almost soft.

You mentally curse yourself because, God help you, you smile at the sound.

“You’re watching The Nanny now?” you ask, trying to shake off the warmth threatening to melt the iciness you’ve worked so hard to maintain around him.

He shrugs, eyes still on the screen. “She’s hot. And mean. I like her.”

“Figures.” You stand, brushing your hands on your thighs and leaning against your dresser.

“So, are you gonna tell me why you’re really here, or are you just planning on hiding from a hurricane in my bed all night?”

He glances at you, the humor flickering off his face just for a second. It’s quick. Almost invisible. But you catch it.

“Tannyhill lost power,” he says. It’s nonchalant. Too easy.

You narrow your eyes. “You have a generator.”

“It broke.”

“Convenient.”

His mouth tugs slightly to the side. Not a smirk. Something else. You don’t push- yet. But you don’t sit down either. You keep your distance, because even when he’s lying half-naked in your bed, Rafe has a way of making you feel like you’re the one exposed.

“You always deflect like this?” you ask. Your tone is light, but your eyes are sharp.

He stretches a little, but not lazily. Like he’s restless. Like there’s something crawling under his skin that he doesn’t want to name.

“You always interrogate your houseguests?” he volleys back, gaze fixed on the ceiling now.

“Only the ones who sneak in soaking wet, throw their clothes in my hamper, and then pretend they don’t have an agenda.”

Silence hangs for a beat. The laugh track from the TV fills the background. His fingers drum lightly on the blanket, a steady rhythm that’s meant to distract from the way his jaw tightens.

You don’t know what it is -can’t name it- but something is off. Not dramatic. Not obvious. Just… off.

His chest rises on a slow inhale. “Can’t I just be here because I wanted to see you?”

You blink. Once. Twice.

“You ghosted me.”

His eyes finally meet yours again. This time, there’s no smirk.

“Yeah.” It’s all he says. But his voice sounds… hollow.

You shift, your arms folding across your chest like a shield. “You didn’t want to see me when you were with Sofia.”

The name hits the air like static.

Rafe looks away. Scrubs a hand down his face. He’s unraveling in micro-movements now. The twitch of a brow. The way his foot taps once, like he’s trying to ground himself.

You watch all of it.

And you realize he’s not just here for you.

He’s hiding from something.

And maybe you’re not sure what.

But the storm inside him feels a lot louder than the one howling outside your windows. You make your way toward the bed and let yourself fall backward, the mattress dipping beneath you with a soft thump. The fabric of your dress shifts as you land, the neckline gaping just enough to expose the slope of your cleavage.

You feel his eyes almost instantly. Of course he’s looking.

Rafe’s gaze settles in that small reveal like it’s a goddamn magnet, his head tilting just slightly to try and catch more than he should.

You groan- frustration painted over faint satisfaction that he’s even here.

You hate how much of you wants him to look.

“I can make you make that sound for real, if you want,” he says, voice thick with teasing, one hand creeping slowly across the mattress, reaching for your frame.

You roll to your side, deliberately facing away from him. “Don’t touch me.”

He huffs a low, amused breath. “You’re relentless.”

His head tips back and he presses the heels of his palms into his eyes, rubbing like he’s trying to clear his thoughts- or erase them.

“You’re basically naked in my bed during a hurricane and still not telling me why you’re here.”

“Does there need to be a reason?”

“Yes.”

You flip back over, propping yourself on your elbows. Your legs kick lightly behind you, your nightgown slipping ever so slightly up your thighs. It’s innocent enough- except nothing about you looks innocent to him in this moment.

Your hair’s a little messy, your lips a little pouty, your tone annoyed but your presence undeniably inviting.

And Rafe can barely sit still.

“I can say anything,” he shrugs, eyes gliding over your legs, “but honestly? I just wanna put you through the mattress.”

It’s a dodge. A cover. But he’s not exactly lying either. Your legs stop swinging.

The warmth that pulses from the center of your body startles even you, and the way your thighs press just slightly together isn’t lost on him.

You study him for a beat. Trying to decide if that’s really it. If he just came here in the middle of a storm with soaking wet clothes -and those eyes that don’t miss a thing- just to get off.

You don’t buy it. So you shift. Slowly. Crawling over the bed until you’re straddling his hips.

He leans back on his elbows, a smug expression already blooming on his lips. He thinks you’re giving in.

You are- but not in the way he expects.

You slide one finger down his chest, stopping right above the waistband of his boxers.

“Tell me why you’re really here,” you whisper, lips hovering just above his, “and I’ll let you do exactly that.”

It’s a power move. But it’s not just a game. You need to know.

Because if he says the wrong thing, you’re pushing him off this bed so fast his wet clothes won’t even be put in your washer yet by the time he hits the front porch.

Rafe’s lips part. His hands grip your waist. You feel the shift in him almost instantly. His cocky mask falters, just slightly, and when he looks up at you now- he isn’t teasing.

He lets out a long, slow breath and gently lifts you off him, settling you beside him instead. You blink, caught off guard. His hand stays at your hip, grounding you.

“I saw your dad,” he says quietly.

You stiffen.

“In his car. With some woman.”

He swallows. His voice is different now- low, but not cruel. Careful, even.

“She was… younger. Blonde. Not like your mom. It wasn’t professional.”

Your throat tightens. But you don’t cry. You don’t say anything for a long moment- just stare at the ceiling, your chest rising and falling in careful, quiet breaths.

He moves closer, resting a hand across your stomach, thumb brushing soft circles into your side. You still don’t speak. But you don’t pull away either. So he stays. Holding you like it’s the only way he knows how to tell the truth.

You think.

Everything floods in at once-memories crashing into you like the rain against your windows. Every single day you’ve ever lived with your father as the backdrop… flashes in an instant. You remember being little, standing on his dress shoes while he spun you around the kitchen.

You remember the way he spoiled you-waking up to a brand-new car on your sixteenth birthday, thousands spent on impromptu girls’ nights just because you’d had a rough week. His voice echoing in your head, giving advice that always started wise but ended in rants. Rants that bled into pressure.

Pressure to be someone. To be perfect. To follow a path he traced for you before you ever chose it yourself.

All those speeches about honor. Discipline. Control. And yet he gets to blow it all up?

He gets to cheat on your mother. To destroy your family from the inside out. And somehow you’re the one who’s supposed to keep it together? Screw that. If he gets to live however he wants-why can’t you?

Fuck it. Fuck him. Fuck this.

Before you even realize it, your body moves faster than your thoughts. You swing a leg over Rafe’s lap, straddling him again- and this time, your lips find his without hesitation.

It’s fast. Needy. Dizzy with heat and frustration.

Your hands slide up his chest, wet hair sticking slightly to your fingers as you kiss him like he’s the only solid thing in your storm.

But he stops you. Pulls back just slightly, breath heavy against your cheek.

“Woah, woah, woah-” his hands frame your waist, voice suddenly more serious. “You sure?”

His brows knit together. He’s not cocky now. Just searching your face like he’s trying to read the cracks in you.

Your hands slide into his damp hair, tugging slightly. Your eyes meet his, glassy but firm.

“I’m sure.”

You kiss him again- deeper this time. And this time… he doesn’t pull away. Everything is happening too fast for you to think straight, let alone wisely.

You’re about to have sex with a guy who’s been toying with your feelings- who’s made you question yourself more times than you can count.

And for what? Because your dad is cheating? Because everything feels like it’s falling apart and you need something -someone- to anchor you?

The rationale is gone. Slipped through your fingers and twisted up somewhere with the wind and the rain and the chaos of the hurricane outside.

All that’s left is impulse. Heat. The ache for control in a moment where everything else is spinning.

Your lips refuse to part from his, greedy and feverish, like letting go might shatter the spell. You shift, pressing into your knees, lifting yourself just enough to tug your nightdress up and over your hips. The fabric pools around your waist as your skin meets the humid air.

Rafe follows your lead, his hands moving with an eager kind of restraint as he pushes his boxers down, the wet fabric sliding over his thighs.

Your hand slips between your bodies, slow and intentional, fingers wrapping around him with a teasing touch that makes him inhale sharply through his nose. You trace him softly, deliberately, watching his face shift.

But then- he breaks the kiss. Breathless. Serious.

“My wallet’s in the car. I don’t have a condom,” he admits, his voice low.

You pause, logic flickering in your mind. You’re not on birth control. You should stop this- back out, or at least settle for something safer. Mutual pleasure. Hands. Mouths. No risk. But… yolo… right?

You hold his gaze, deadpan. “Your pull-out game better be A1.”

He studies your face, just for a second, then nods with that cocky, reassuring smirk. “It is.”

You lift yourself off the bed, positioning yourself perfectly over Rafe's rigid length, which still glistens from your wetness. You pretend the wetness between your thighs only started now- not when he first walked through the door, rain-soaked and smug, his shirt clinging to every inch of his body.

Sinking down onto him, your eyes flutter shut in pure bliss as your walls envelop his thick cock. Rafe's breath catches and his muscles relax into the mattress beneath him. You start slow, your hips rolling in a deliberate, sensual rhythm. But it doesn’t stay gentle for long-soon, the pace quickens, urgency building as you rock and grind against him, your movements growing more desperate, more unrestrained.

Your palms press firmly against his chest, grounding yourself against the steady rise and fall of his breath as you move harder over him. His skin is warm under your touch, muscles taut beneath your fingers, and you use his strength like an anchor, chasing that high.

The bed creaks in protest, shifting under the rhythm of your body, but you barely register it-too wrapped up in the overwhelming pleasure building low in your stomach.

Typically, riding isn’t your first choice in bed. Not even your second. Honestly? It’s probably your last. But tonight, with the way Rafe’s hands grip your thighs, the way his eyes are locked onto you like you’re the only thing that exists-it feels different.

The rhythm between you builds, your body rising and falling against his as the storm outside rages on, a chaotic symphony to match the one unfolding in your bedroom. The faint hum of The Nanny still plays in the background, Fran Fine’s voice comically misaligned with the tension in the room. But there’s only so much the TV can cover-only so many moans and stifled gasps it can excuse.

Your bed creaks beneath you, the headboard tapping softly against the wall with each movement. It’s not violent-just insistent. Focused.

Then you feel it bubbling up, the pleasure threatening to crest. You let out a moan- his name, breathy and high-and suddenly his hand is over your mouth, smirking underneath you like the smug bastard he is.

“Careful,” he murmurs, cocky and low, his eyes half-lidded. “You sound like you want your parents to know you’re getting ruined right now.”

“Shut up, smart ass,” you moan out, breath catching in your throat as you use what’s left of your strength to flip the both of you over. He lets you -chuckling into your neck- but the moment your back hits the mattress, he takes control again, slipping his hands under your thighs and shifting his weight so he’s hovering over you.

The smirk is still there, cocky as ever, but softened now by something else-something heavier.

He leans in, brushing his lips over yours just once before speaking, voice barely above a whisper.

“You like it better when I’m on top, don’t you?”

You don’t answer, but the way your legs tighten around his waist is more than enough. He grins, lowering his hips to meet yours again, slower this time- deeper. Your head falls back into the pillow with a breathy gasp.

“I knew it,” he mutters, lips trailing along your jaw. “You act like you hate me, but your body-” he pauses, pushing into you harder, “-she’s honest.”

You bite your lip, trying not to give him the satisfaction of another moan, but it slips out anyway. The storm outside rages louder, the windows rattling in their frames-but here, in this moment, the only thing that exists is him. And the way he’s ruining you.

“Rafe-I’m so close,” you breathe out, voice breaking on the moan that follows.

Before the sound can fully leave your lips, his hand covers your mouth again-smooth, familiar, like he’s done it a thousand times. The move is effortless, casual. His other hand stays braced beside your head while his mouth travels down your neck, teeth grazing your collarbone. You gasp beneath his palm, nails clawing into his back without mercy, dragging red lines down his skin like you’re trying to anchor yourself to the moment.

There’s no explaining this if your parents come knocking. No “it was the TV” excuse that could cover the sound of the bed hitting the wall like this. Your muffled moans. The low growl of Rafe’s voice against your skin.

“You feel so good,” he murmurs, lifting his head to look at you-his hand still on your mouth, his eyes locked on yours. “So damn tight- taking me so well. Just like I knew you would.”

Your eyes roll back and he grins through his own panting, watching you unravel beneath him. His pace falters just slightly, his own release not far behind. You can feel it in the way his hips stutter, the way his breath hitches when your legs clamp tighter around his waist.

You’re dangerously close now- your body burning, your thoughts a haze of pleasure and disbelief that this is happening. That he’s here. That this is him.

And when you cum, it hits like a wave- your whole body shaking under him as you cry out into his hand, back arching, toes curling. Rafe swears low, pulling you in tighter, chasing his own high until he pulls out and releases -finally- collapsing on top of you, breathing hard, both of you soaked in sweat and silence except for the distant thunder outside.

His hand finally drops from your mouth. He presses a kiss to your shoulder- surprisingly soft. And for a moment, the only thing either of you can do… is breathe.

“So it’s official… your pullout game is strong,” you tease, your voice still breathless, a lazy smirk curling at your lips.

Rafe lets out a low chuckle, following your gaze as your eyes peek down between your bodies to where the evidence of him glistens on your stomach.

He grins, cocky and proud. “Told you it was A1.”

You swat at his shoulder, still catching your breath. “Don’t get cocky.”

He raises a brow. “Bit late for that.”

You roll your eyes and shift slightly beneath him, the hem of your nightdress bunched around your hips. You reach for the tissue box on your nightstand, but Rafe beats you to it. He leans over, grabs a few, and starts gently wiping the mess from your skin like it’s the most natural thing in the world-like this is just… something you two do. It’s surprisingly tender for a guy who was just rearranging your insides.

“You’re smug,” you say, your voice softening as you lie back against the pillows.

“And you’re beautiful,” he replies without missing a beat. It’s so smooth it should annoy you, but the way he’s looking at you now- his tone more sincere than before- makes your stomach flip.

You study his face. He’s not smiling like before. His eyes have that unreadable expression again, the one that says he’s thinking too hard about something.

“What?” you ask cautiously.

He exhales, his fingers slowing on your skin. “About earlier…”

Your brows pull together.

“About your dad.” His voice is lower now, quieter. “I’m sorry. I probably shouldn’t have told you like that.”

You pause, a beat of silence stretching between you.

“It’s fine,” you say, even though it’s not. “I mean… it’s not like you cheated on my mom. He did.”

Rafe watches you closely, like he’s trying to figure out whether you’re really okay or just pretending to be. You don’t give him much. You’re good at hiding it. You shrug. “Besides, I didn’t exactly seem heartbroken a few minutes ago.”

He frowns a little, like he doesn’t like that joke- but you’re already rolling onto your side, smoothing your nightdress back down like any trace of what just happened isn’t still lingering in the room.

“That’s how we’re coping now, huh?” he says, half-joking but half-serious.

You turn back to him. “Rafe, I have to live in this house with him. I can’t let myself spiral. So yeah, maybe sex and sarcasm are what I’ve got for now.”

He nods slowly, as if accepting your answer even if he doesn’t like it.

And then, after a pause, he says softly, “If you need anything…”

“I won’t call you,” you say with a smirk.

He laughs under his breath, then watches you for a long moment. “You’re kind of a menace, you know that?”

You slip back under the covers beside him, the silky fabric of your nightdress brushing against his skin. “You’re the one who came to my balcony during a hurricane and I’m the menace?”

That earns a crooked smile from him, one of the rare ones that almost looks sweet. Almost.

It’s 8 in the morning.

You and Rafe had fallen asleep not long after your… activities. You missed dinner entirely. Your parents probably wondered why you never came down to eat, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. Rafe Cameron had been in your bed- half-cuddling you, though still somehow managing to keep a sliver of distance. Typical.

Now, you’re in the laundry room, shoving damp clothes into the dryer, subtly trying to bury Rafe’s jeans and shirt in the mix.

“You missed dinner.” Your mother’s voice slices through the quiet, and you jump so violently that you smack your head on the cabinet above the washer.

“Shit- ow!” you hiss, hand flying up to cradle the spot as you squeeze your eyes shut in pain.

“Watch your mouth,” she scolds, the spoon in her tea stopping mid-stir.

“Well, sorry, you-” you catch her death glare just in time and rework your words. “You startled me.”

Your heart is pounding, the sting in your scalp barely registering. Between your dad’s affair and Rafe hiding upstairs, you’re already fraying at the edges.

She lifts her chin. “Maybe if you weren’t sneaking around all morning, you wouldn’t be so jumpy. Why were you walking around at three A.M.?”

Your stomach drops. Fast and hard. Shit.

“I couldn’t sleep,” you say quickly, turning your back to her as you keep transferring clothes into the dryer like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “The wind kept waking me up.”

That was a lie. The truth? Rafe had nudged you awake around three in the morning, grumbling that he was starving. You’d tiptoed downstairs like some sort of criminal to raid the pantry and bring him snacks.

“And you didn’t show up for dinner,” she presses.

You resist the urge to groan and instead take a deep breath, plastering on your most convincing fake smile. You turn to face her with a soft sigh. “Actually… I was thinking about what you said a few weeks ago. About my future. And I finally decided to start that diet you’ve been trying to get me on.”

She tilts her head, curious now.

“I mean, if I’m going to be taken seriously in the fashion world, especially designing for small figures, I should be able to fit into the clothes myself, right?”

There it was. The lie of the century, all to protect the fact that a boy -Rafe Cameron- was naked in your bed upstairs. And worse, you didn’t even want to be part of her designer world.

“Really?” she breathes, her voice suddenly bright, hopeful. “You’re doing the Valentina & Co. internship?”

She’s so excited, she loses that usual clipped, country-club composure. For a second, you almost feel guilty. Almost.

“I can’t believe this! Oh my god- this is huge. I have to go make some calls!” she says, already spinning on her heel with her tea sloshing in her cup.

You turn back to the dryer, letting your expression drop, eyes rolling hard. God, you love her- but she’s so easy to fool. So trusting. No wonder your dad thinks he can get away with screwing around behind her back.

You close the dryer door shut and hit the start button, pretending the churning inside wasn’t a metaphor for your entire life.

You slam your bedroom door shut and lock it, exhaling hard as your back hits the wood. You push your hair out of your face, fingers raking through it with more frustration than finesse. The sound startles Rafe, who’s standing by your keepsake cabinet, peering into your curated little shrine of growing up. His head whips toward you, but his attention is quickly drawn back to a photo-one of you, around eight years old, mid-sass in a pale pink leotard and tutu, hands on your hips, grinning at the camera like you owned the world.

“I didn’t know you did ballet,” he says, voice soft with genuine curiosity. His finger hovers over the frame, but he doesn’t touch it.

“For like ten years,” you reply, moving toward your dresser and yanking out a towel with more force than necessary. “My mom’s obsession with posture and poise. She thought ballet would mold me into the perfect daughter.”

Rafe finally looks away from the cabinet and toward you- toward the way your shoulders are tense, your movements rushed. His eyes flick down to your empty hands.

“I thought you’d bring me breakfast,” he pouts like a petulant child.

You shoot him a flat look. “Breakfast is the last thing on my mind right now.”

He flops dramatically onto your bed, arms splayed out. “It’s not the last thing on my mind. My stomach’s been crying since sunrise.”

You don’t smile, not yet. You gather your clothes and your towel, piling them into your arms, then pause at the edge of the bed.

“I told my mom I started a diet,” you say flatly, staring past him. “Said I was getting serious about the fashion industry… that I wanted to start fitting into the clothes I’m supposedly going to design.”

Rafe sits up slightly, brows furrowed. “Wait- what?”

“I lied,” you admit, the words falling from your mouth in a tired breath. “To cover for you. I panicked and said I was starting the Valentina & Co. internship she’s been begging me to apply for. And now she’s calling people. Setting things up. She’s… excited.”

He studies you for a second, eyes softer now. “But you don’t want that?”

“No.” You laugh without humor. “Not even a little.”

There’s a silence between you, heavy but not uncomfortable. Then Rafe stands and walks toward you, slower this time, careful. He lifts a hand to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear, his fingers brushing your cheek.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “About everything. Your dad. Your mom. That you feel like you’re trapped in a life you don’t even want.”

You nod, swallowing hard. “It’s not your fault.”

“I know. But I still hate seeing you like this.”

His hand lingers a second too long, and his eyes flick toward the bathroom door behind you. He smirks.

“You know,” he says, voice dipping just slightly, “showers are known to be therapeutic. Cleansing. Healing.”

You arch a brow.

“And you think joining me would help me heal?”

“Absolutely. Two bodies, one purpose,” he says with faux solemnity. “Let the steam melt our problems away.”

You roll your eyes but a reluctant smile threatens to break through.

“Fine,” you sigh. “But if you leave wet footprints on my rug again, I’m kicking you out.”

“I’ll be a ghost,” he promises, already starting to pull his shirt over his head with a grin. “Silent. Steamy. Respectfully naked.”

You shake your head and walk toward the bathroom, not bothering to hide the little smile tugging at your lips. Maybe the storm outside wasn’t the only thing slowly clearing up.

You stand quietly in your bedroom, a towel wrapped snugly around your torso, still damp from the shower. Across from you, Rafe is drying himself off, one hand gripping a towel at his waist, the other lazily running along his chest and shoulders. His skin is warm and flushed from the steam, water droplets still clinging to his collarbones.

You should look away- but your eyes trail over him anyway, from the slope of his shoulders to the curve of his back to the way his arm flexes as he dries himself. He’s casual about it. Comfortable. Like he belongs here.

And for a fleeting moment, it almost feels like he does.

But then your gaze shifts toward the French doors. Outside, the rain is softening-no longer slamming against the glass, just quietly pattering now, more of a whisper than a storm. The gray in the sky is still heavy, but light is starting to peek through.

Your heart sinks. He’s leaving soon.

Rafe seems to notice too. His head turns, following your gaze to the doors. A faint crease appears between his brows.

“Looks like it’s clearing up,” he says, voice low, almost reluctant. Then his eyes slide back to yours. “Are my clothes almost done?”

You open your mouth, but no sound comes out at first. Your throat feels tight. You know you should say something casual-keep it light, cool, distant. You don’t want to look like you’re wishing he’d stay. Like you care more than you should.

“Uh… I’ll check,” you finally manage, your voice soft and a little too quick.

You turn away from him, unwrapping the towel from your hair and shaking out the damp strands.

You move with more urgency than necessary, as if getting dressed will give you something to focus on other than the dull ache blooming in your chest.

You shimmy into a pair of underwear, tug on a white ribbed tank top, and step into your favorite overalls-worn in all the right places, soft with age. You don’t bother to style your hair, just twist it up in a loose clip as you glance over your shoulder.

Rafe is still standing there, towel low on his hips, watching you-not in a lustful way this time, but quiet. Like he knows what you’re not saying.

Neither of you speak for a beat. The sound of the rain fills the silence between you. Then you clear your throat, holding up your end of the lie. “I’ll go see if the dryer’s finished.”

You don’t wait for his reply. You just step toward the door, hoping he can’t read the thoughts spinning behind your eyes-he ones whispering that you don’t want him to go.

You’re curled up on Becca’s bed, sketchbook balanced on your knees, pencil in hand but unmoving. The lines you’ve started are light and hesitant, like your focus is somewhere else. Because it is. You haven’t added to the drawing in fifteen minutes.

Becca’s at her desk, flipping through a stack of magazines, pretending not to watch you, but she’s been sneaking glances every few seconds. Finally, she sets them down and swivels her chair toward you.

“Okay,” she says, folding her arms. “What’s eating at you?”

You blink down at the page, realizing you’ve been shading the same corner of a skirt hem over and over. You exhale, drop the pencil onto the page, and lean your head back against her headboard.

“Nothing,” you mutter.

Becca raises a brow.

You chew the inside of your cheek, then sigh- more to yourself than to her. “I caved.”

“Caved?” Becca repeats, tilting her head. “Caved what?”

You press the eraser of your pencil against your temple, tapping it in a steady, nervous rhythm.

“Rafe showed up on my balcony last night,” you say slowly. “In the middle of the storm. Like some absolute psychopath.”

Becca’s eyebrows rise. “Wait-what? Why?”

“He wouldn’t leave,” you mutter. “Said he couldn’t stop thinking about me. I didn’t know what to do. I panicked. So I let him in and hid him in my room all night like some fugitive.”

She stares at you, eyes wide. “What the hell did he even want?”

You pause, your voice quieting. “He told me my dad is having an affair.”

Her expression shifts instantly. “Oh, Y/N…” she murmurs, rising from her desk and sitting beside you on the bed. Her arm wraps around your shoulders without hesitation. “I’m so sorry.”

You shake your head, eyes fixed on the worn edges of your sketchbook. “That’s not even the worst part.”

Her grip on you tightens slightly. “There’s more?”

You laugh bitterly. “Yeah. We had sex.”

Becca’s quiet, not surprised, just… waiting.

“I stayed in my room all night after that,” you continue. “Didn’t even come down for dinner. My mom started questioning me this morning-asking if I’d been avoiding food again. I panicked. Rafe was still in my room, hiding in my bathroom, so I just blurted out that I’d started that dumb diet again and-and that I wanted to do the Valentina & Co. internship.”

Her jaw drops. “You said yes to the internship? The one you’ve spent the last two years refusing?”

You nod, still not looking at her. “All because I didn’t want her to come upstairs and find out I had Rafe Cameron half-naked in my bedroom.”

Becca’s silent for a moment, then lets out a breath. “Wow.”

“I feel so stupid,” you whisper. “Like… what am I even doing? It’s been two and a half weeks. We’re not even anything. He shows up in the rain and suddenly I’m throwing away all my convictions-everything I said I wouldn’t do-for a guy who might not even give a shit.”

“You’re not stupid,” Becca says firmly. “You’re human.”

You finally look at her.

She shrugs. “Look, yeah-maybe it wasn’t the most rational series of choices. But you were caught off guard. The storm. Your dad’s affair. Rafe showing up out of nowhere. You’re allowed to want comfort. You’re allowed to feel something for someone, even if it hasn’t been that long. It doesn’t make your feelings any less valid.”

You look down again, your voice barely above a whisper. “But what if it was just nothing to him?”

Becca shakes her head. “Then that’s on him. Not you. You didn’t imagine the connection. He keeps coming back for a reason. And even if he never says what you want him to-what you deserve to hear-that doesn’t make you weak for hoping.”

You lean your head on her shoulder.

She rests hers against yours. “Also,” she adds, “I’m very impressed you managed to sneak Rafe Cameron past your mom. That’s like elite spy-level behavior.”

You smile, just a little.

“There she is,” Becca says softly.

Dinner feels like a performance you never agreed to audition for. The table is set perfectly, the lighting soft and warm, but none of it feels right. The silence is sharp, broken only by the occasional clink of silverware and the low buzz of your father’s phone, lighting up every few minutes with new messages he doesn’t bother to hide.

You sit across from him, jaw tight, appetite gone. Your mother, blissfully unaware of the minefield between you and him, offers a smile as she slices into her food.

“So,” she says lightly, “how are your designs coming along? Have you started anything yet for Valentina & Co.?”

You glance at her. You know she means well, but the question lands like a weight on your chest.

“I’ve only just decided to do this, Mom,” you say, forcing calm into your tone. “I need time.”

She nods, clearly trying to be encouraging. “Of course, of course. I just thought maybe you’d feel inspired with the rain and everything.”

Your dad chuckles under his breath. He’s still looking at his phone. “Time,” he mutters, shaking his head. “You’ve had plenty of time, if I remember correctly. Years of it, actually. Maybe if you’d taken things seriously from the beginning-”

You drop your fork with a quiet clatter. “I didn’t realize this was a performance review.”

That makes him look up. His brows lift, just slightly. “It’s not. But if you’re going to finally commit to something, I’d hope you actually follow through this time.”

You blink at him, your voice low and even. “Unlike some people and their commitments?”

The tension spikes instantly, your words landing harder than you intended. Your mom glances between you, brows tightening.

“Okay,” she says gently, “let’s not turn this into something it doesn’t need to be-”

“Funny,” you cut in, eyes still locked on your dad. “Because that’s exactly what he’s been doing.”

Your father stares at you for a second too long, like he’s trying to read something in your expression, but he clearly has no idea what you know. He leans back, arms folding slowly.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

You want to say it. You almost do. You want to slam the truth onto the table like a card he didn’t expect you to hold. You want to ask who he keeps texting and if she knows he wears his wedding ring while he’s doing it.

But not like this.

You push your chair back, scraping against the floor. “Forget it.”

“Y/N,” your dad starts again, but you’re already walking toward the stairs.

Your voice is clipped, your hands fists at your sides. “I’m not doing this right now.”

You don’t stop until you’re in your room, door closed, heart hammering. You’re not going to blow this in front of your mom. You’re not going to let him spin it or lie his way out of it. You’ll talk to him.

Alone.

And when you do, he’ll know you’re not a kid anymore.

Marie and Becca were never really friends- at least not in the way that counted. They didn’t dislike each other, but their relationship existed solely because of you. A mutual civility born from proximity. Their moms had a long-standing, mostly unspoken rivalry—something petty and suburban and wrapped in polite smiles-so growing up, they were rarely in the same room unless you were there to bridge the gap. Which is why, instead of hanging out at one of their houses, the three of you end up here- perched inside the wood-paneled sauna at the country club. A neutral zone. No one’s turf.

The steam curls thick around you as you lean your head back against the warm cedar wall, eyes closed, trying to let the heat melt away the hum of your thoughts. Sweat clings to your skin, your breathing slow and deliberate, but nothing inside you feels relaxed.

Not when Sofia is just a few doors down.

You’d seen her the moment you walked in. She was behind the bar, expertly mixing a drink without looking up. She hadn’t noticed you -or maybe she had and just didn’t care- but either way, her indifference hit harder than it should have.

You felt stupid. Like a stalker.

Becca had said it outright earlier this week, and she wasn’t wrong. “You’re obsessing over a girl who doesn’t even know she’s in the ring with you,” she’d told you. “It’s not a love triangle- it’s just sad.”

At the time, you’d laughed it off. Now, it just stung. Because the truth was, you had become obsessed- tracking Rafe’s behavior like it was a math problem you could solve if you just paid close enough attention. Whether or not she was there. Whether or not she meant anything.

It was pathetic. You feel the weight of it all pressing down on your chest, heavier than the steam.

“Hello?” Becca’s voice breaks through your haze, a little sharper now. “Are you alive in there?”

Your eyes blink open, heat-stung and dry, to find her and Marie both looking at you.

“You okay?” Marie asks, a little softer.

You nod quickly, sitting up straighter, swiping the back of your hand across your damp forehead. “Yeah. Sorry. Zoned out.”

Becca gives you a look like she doesn’t buy it, but she lets it go. She stretches her long legs out in front of her and says, “Wanna go to the bar?”

You hesitate for a moment, instinctively glancing toward the door like Sofia might be standing right outside it. Then you force yourself to nod.

“Sure,” you say. “What the hell.”

Because maybe pretending you’re over it is the first step to actually getting over it.

The three of you are dressed again, stepping out into the cool night air. The sky is navy and soft, the heat from earlier having surrendered to a light breeze. String lights drape overhead, casting a golden haze across the patio- warm, intimate, almost romantic. The low murmur of voices and clinking glasses filters through the air, but you hardly register it.

The three of you walk toward the outdoor bar like you own the place. Not on purpose. It just happens- shoulders back, heads high, an unspoken confidence in your pace. You’re at the front, leading them without meaning to.

Your dress is something your mom would never approve of- baby pink and shorter than she’d like, hugging your hips just right. Your hair is down, wild in its natural texture. You didn’t style it. Didn’t try. And that’s exactly what makes it perfect.

You look like everything Sofia’s not. Everything she probably thinks you are. Kook perfection in a package that screams effortless, untouchable.

When you approach the bar, you feel her eyes before you see them. Sofia doesn’t acknowledge you. Not directly. But you catch the subtle shift when she notices the three of you sit down. A glance. A blink. And then nothing. Like she never saw you at all.

Becca takes the seat beside you, her long black curls falling over one shoulder as she adjusts the tight yellow midi dress clinging to her frame. She pushes her hair out of her face with a confidence that doesn’t need validation.

Marie sits on your other side, the soft glow of the patio lights highlighting her cheekbones. Her curls frame her face like a halo, and the powder blue shirt-and-skirt set she’s wearing makes her look like she stepped out of an editorial.

Together, the three of you look like a trio out of a glossy TV show- Powerpuff Girls: Coastal Edition. Or maybe Mean Girls, if they wore less pink and carried more edge.

You don’t mean any harm. You didn’t ask to come here. Becca suggested the sauna, and Marie tagged along, and then someone brought up drinks and here you are. Still, guilt coils in your stomach.

You -a kook- perched pretty at the bar, while she -a pogue- works behind it.

You don’t even know her. Not really. And yet your presence here feels like a silent challenge. A move you didn’t mean to make but made all the same. Becca, for her part, doesn’t seem to recognize Sofia. Maybe she was too drunk at the Tannyhill party. Or maybe she just doesn’t care enough to connect the dots. You do.

“Sofia,” the male bartender calls, drawing your attention. You glance up reflexively.

“Going on break,” he tells her, tossing a towel onto the bar before disappearing into the back.

Sofia nods, casual, and you immediately look away. Down at your phone. Pretending you suddenly care about the weather app. Your thumb scrolls without direction. Just something to keep your hands busy. The bar isn’t packed tonight. It’s laid-back, easy. The kind of slow night where one bartender is more than enough. Sofia stays behind the bar, alone.

You wonder if she volunteered. Or if it’s just what she does- handle things. You don’t know. You don’t know what she’s good at. What she likes. You don’t know anything. And that bothers you more than it should.

“What can I get you ladies?”

You look up. Sofia is standing across from you, hands resting loosely on the edge of the bar, eyes scanning the three of you. Her voice is calm. Detached. Professional in a way that feels a little too practiced.

You feel her eyes skim over you, but her expression doesn’t change. No hint of emotion. No flicker of recognition. It shouldn’t sting. But it does.

“Three shots of tequila,” Becca says before you or Marie can say anything.

Sofia’s eyes flick across the three of you, her expression unreadable. “Can I see some ID, please?”

You don’t say anything. Just reach into your Dior bag, digging through the soft leather for your matching wallet. You take your time- not intentionally, but the process feels exaggerated under Sofia’s gaze. You know she’s watching.

You pull out your ID, the one with the photo that somehow looks better than real life, and slide it across the bar. The edges are pristine. She doesn’t say anything, just takes it, looks it over, then holds out her hand for the others.

Marie’s already ahead of you, digging out her license with an easy smile. Becca moves slower, cool and unaffected as always, her yellow midi dress catching the light as she shifts.

Sofia gives the three IDs a cursory glance before setting them back down. “Three shots of tequila coming up.”

She taps the bar twice, not unkind, but sharp -more habit than hospitality- and turns her back to you, grabbing glasses from the shelf behind her. Her movements are efficient, distant. There’s no flair, no small talk.

You lean back slightly, trying to look unbothered. But there’s a weird pressure in your chest, like the air’s too thick. It doesn’t help that you saw her when you walked in- hair tied up, sleeves rolled, her shirt clinging to her back from the heat behind the bar. She hadn’t looked up. You don’t even know if she noticed you at all. Maybe it’s better that way. The clink of glass snaps you back as she places the three shots in front of you.

“Lime and salt?” she asks, voice flat.

“Obviously,” Becca replies with a raised brow, not realizing -or not caring- who she’s talking to.

Sofia nods and turns away again, reaching for a small dish of lime wedges and a tin of salt. She sets them down with a little more force than necessary. Not enough to be rude. Just enough for you to notice. She doesn’t look at you again. You don’t say thank you.

You can feel the imbalance hanging there- Sofia behind the bar, working a double, and you on the other side in a baby pink dress your mom would absolutely hate, sipping liquor you didn’t pay for. It’s not a crime, but it feels like one. She didn’t acknowledge you. But she saw the bag. The wallet. The card. The kind of life you come from.

You wonder if she hates you just a little for it. You hate yourself for caring. The three of you clink glasses together- Becca shouting something obnoxious and triumphant, Marie laughing so hard she nearly drops hers. You force a smile, play along, licking the salt from the rim of your glass before tossing back the tequila. It burns, sharp and unapologetic, clawing its way down your throat. You suck on the lime, your face twisting with the sour bite before laughter bubbles up. You let it out. You look carefree. Effortless.

But you feel her eyes on you.

You don’t look at Sofia directly, just glance past her- enough to catch her in your peripheral. She’s watching you, briefly, her gaze steady. You meet it, just for a second. Just long enough. Then she looks away fast, printing a receipt and sliding it to a couple at the far end of the bar like nothing happened. It makes something twist in your chest. Then the air shifts.

You glance around -more instinct than curiosity- and your pulse spikes. Rafe.

He strolls in like he always does, like the world belongs to him and it’s only right he showed up late to collect his prize. He looks annoyingly good, hair damp from the ocean or maybe the humidity, that familiar smirk already blooming across his face.

Your heart jumps to your throat as he walks straight to the bar. Straight to Sofia.

You look down at your lap, hands tightening around your phone. You don’t want him to see you here. Not like this. Not dressed like this. Not with your friends. Not at her bar.

You don’t want him to think you followed him. Or worse- that you followed her.

“Uh- bartender? Can we get another round?” Becca calls across the bar, loud and impatient, the way she always is when she’s been drinking. She isn’t trying to be rude. But she also isn’t trying not to be. You don’t look up. Not yet.

You can feel Sofia and Rafe still standing close, talking quietly, like you don’t exist. Maybe you don’t.

Still, something drags your eyes upward. And there it is. Rafe is looking at you. Not staring. Not smiling. Just… watching.

His eyes sweep over you- curious, almost confused. Like he doesn’t recognize you at first.

Which wouldn’t be surprising. You don’t look like the girl who yanked open a storm-drenched window and let him into her bedroom. Not tonight. Not in this dress. Not in this world.

Sofia notices his gaze shift and starts moving back down the bar toward you, her expression unreadable.

“You want me to start a tab?” she asks as she reaches for more glasses, her tone flatter this time, clipped. She doesn’t bother looking at any of you.

There’s something different in her voice now. Not hostile. Just… done. Like she’s tired of pretending this interaction is normal.

“Yeah, that’d be great actually,” Marie says quickly, her tone softening the moment, trying to fill the space Becca left jagged. Sofia doesn’t respond. Just nods and reaches for the bottle again. You look down at the shot forming in front of you, and for a second, you wish you hadn’t come at all.

“Nice dress,” you hear from your left. You look over.

Of course it’s Rafe- leaning against the bar like he owns it, like he owns the air between you. His eyes drift over your body, shamelessly. You feel the weight of his stare on your legs, on the stretch of skin your dress doesn’t bother hiding.

Marie is sandwiched awkwardly between you, clearly aware of the tension but trying not to make it worse. She leans back slightly, torso angled away, giving you both a clearer line of sight while pretending she’s still part of the conversation. You glance toward Sofia.

She’s noticed, obviously. Her movements shift- more deliberate, more performative. She starts wiping down an already-clean section of the bar with aggressive focus, as if the shine of the wood matters more than whatever’s happening three feet away.

“Thanks,” you reply, your voice clipped but polite, offering Rafe a brief smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

His stare lingers. Drops again to your thighs- the same ones his hands had gripped the other night. You wonder if he’s remembering it. You wish you weren’t.

He draws in a slow breath and straightens, his fist tapping the bar idly like he’s weighing something in his head. “Can I get you ladies a drink?”

Before Becca can chime in with another round of tequila, Marie answers for all three of you.

“Three dirty martinis.”

Rafe raises an eyebrow, amused, but doesn’t argue. He glances at Marie, then back at you, like she’s some minor interruption between points A and B. He gives a single nod and turns to the other side of the bar.

��Sofia,” he calls.

You hate the way he says her name. Too casual. Too familiar. Like he’s done it a hundred times. Like it means nothing. Or maybe like it means something.

Sofia doesn’t respond right away. For a second, you think she might pretend not to hear him. But then she turns, cool and composed, her expression unreadable.

“Yeah?” she asks, voice flat as she walks toward him.

“Three martinis. Dirty,” he says, jerking his chin toward the three of you. “Think you can handle that?”

Sofia doesn’t look at him. She doesn’t even nod. She just starts gathering the ingredients like she’s making drinks for strangers.

You wonder how often she’s done this for him. Mixed drinks. Mixed signals. He turns back to you while she works, his elbow resting lazily on the bar, his body still angled slightly toward yours despite Marie between you.

“You always dress like that when you’re not talking to me?” he asks, smirking.

You don’t dignify that with a real answer. Just sip your water and raise an eyebrow.

“You always follow girls into bars they didn’t invite you to?” you shoot back, your voice low and dry.

He laughs under his breath. “Touché.”

The tension crackles between you, thick and layered. And through it all, Sofia mixes the drinks quietly, like she’s not listening. Like she doesn’t care.But you know she does. Sofia slides your drinks across the bar, one by one.

Yours nearly tips as it skids too fast across the polished surface. You catch it just in time, fingers wrapping around the delicate stem before the liquid can slosh over the rim. It still teeters, dangerously full, but it doesn’t spill.

Rafe watches Sofia the whole time- his eyes trailing her as she turns away and resumes her fake cleaning routine, wiping at an already-clean glass with a rag that’s definitely just for show. She doesn’t look back at him, but she doesn’t need to. Her silence is loud enough.

“Thanks, Cameron!” Becca calls, lifting her glass with a playful grin. Marie joins her, offering a small cheers in his direction.

Rafe turns back to the three of you, nodding slightly. That classic rich-boy gesture that says you’re welcome without actually using the words.

Then his attention slides to you. Fully. Like he’s choosing you out of a crowd.

“No thank you?” he says, raising an eyebrow, that familiar smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth.

You exhale through your nose. “Thank you, Rafe,” you reply, more pointed than polite.

That catches Sofia’s attention. You can feel her eyes on you, sharp and cutting. You pretend not to notice as you take a sip of your martini. It’s cold, briny, and a little too strong- but you welcome the distraction. Part of you wonders if she spit in it. If she spit in his. Becca and Marie are giggling behind you, caught up in some private joke. Their voices buzz around your ears, distant, meaningless.

Then Rafe gives a small jerk of his chin. A gesture meant just for you. Like he’s summoning you.

Who the hell does he think he is? Some silent command like he owns you? Like you’re already his, just waiting to be called?

You hate yourself a little as you slide off the barstool anyway, murmuring a quick “be right back” to the girls as you make your way to him.

His gaze is shameless, dragging down your body now that you’re standing. The dress fits you like second skin. His eyes take their time, slow and appreciative, like he’s mentally peeling it off you already.

“What?” you ask, leaning an elbow on the bar, standing too close and not far enough all at once. You’re fighting the urge to smile, to flirt back, to fall into that effortless gravity he carries.

“I really like that dress,” he says, lips twitching as he brings his drink to his mouth.

“You called me over to tell me that?” Your eyes flick down to your martini. You bite your lip, hiding the way you kind of like that he did.

“Not necessarily.” He lets the words hang, and when you look back up, his blue eyes are waiting- steady and sure. “Come over to Tannyhill tonight.”

He says it like it’s a given. Like the answer’s already yes. Like you’ll drop everything just because he wants you to.

And the worst part? He’s right. But you don’t give in without a fight. You tilt your head, schooling your features into something vaguely unimpressed. “Why should I?”

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Sofia. Her eyes are still on you both, jaw tight. But she recovers quickly, switching back into customer-service mode as a new guy takes a seat at the far end of the bar. Her smile is fake. Her posture stiff. You can tell she’s listening.

And something about that -about her watching- feeds the part of you you’re not proud of. The part that spent too many nights scrolling through her Instagram, comparing yourself to someone who never even saw you. Now, you’re the one being seen. You hate it. You like it. You hate that you like it.

“I enjoyed the other night,” Rafe says simply.

“And what makes you think I did?” you blink up at him, feigning innocence.

“The scratches on my back,” he says- too loudly, too proudly.

You gasp and shove him, palm flat against his chest, but he laughs like it’s the best thing he’s heard all night. He stumbles back a step, dramatically, even though your push barely moved him.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you mutter, but there’s a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. One you try to hide by taking a sip of your drink.

He leans in again, voice low and laced with amusement. “I can’t stop thinking about the way you felt around me.”

Your breath catches. His eyes drop to your lips for a beat too long, and your body betrays you- stomach tightening, heat pooling low, cheeks flushing with the kind of embarrassment that has nothing to do with shame.

You shift your weight, glancing around like someone might’ve overheard. It’s not busy, but still- this is not a conversation you should be having out in the open. Especially not here. Especially not with her behind the bar.

“You’re such an asshole,” you murmur, shaking your head, playing it off even though your heart is racing.

He smirks. “You like that though.”

You roll your eyes, biting back a smile. “Please. I’ve had better.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Name one.”

You open your mouth -ready with some clever retort- but then a voice cuts through the tension.

“Rafe,” Sofia calls, tone brisk but casual. She doesn’t look at him, just slides a receipt across the bar where he’d left a drink tab open. “Your tab’s still open. You want to close or keep it running?”

The question sounds neutral, but the air shifts. Just enough for you to notice. Just enough for it to twist in your stomach.

Rafe leans against the bar again, all lazy charm. “Keep it open.”

Sofia nods once, doesn’t smile.

Then her eyes flick to you. “You want to keep yours open too?” Her voice is polite- on the surface. But there’s an edge. Not rude. Not overt. Just enough to remind you of where you are. Of who she is.

You glance at your drink, then at her. “Sure,” you say, matching her tone.

She gives a tight nod, jotting something down, then walks away without another word.

Rafe watches her for a second, then turns back to you, his grin returning like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just stir up some invisible tension with nothing but proximity and a few whispered words.

“You were saying?” he asks, cocking his head.

You arch a brow. “I was saying that if you’re trying to get me back in your bed, you might need a new strategy.”

“Oh?” he leans closer again, lips curved. “Seems like this one’s working just fine.”

“I’m going back to my friends now” you start to turn away but his hand lands on your hip. Butterflies erupt.

“So you coming over?” He asks, his voice not subtle again. Sofia definitely heard that. Your cheeks continue to burn as your hands come over his, not reluctantly pulling it off.

“We’ll see” you turn away, walking away this time.

“I’ll see you tonight” he shouts after you.

You don’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. You just slide back onto your stool, taking a long sip of your martini like your heartbeat isn’t still hammering in your chest.

Becca leans in first, eyebrows raised and lips twisted in amusement. “What was that about?”

“Is he obsessed with you now?” Marie adds, grinning into her drink. “Or are you playing hard to get?”

You roll your eyes, trying to play it off. “I’m not playing anything.”

Becca snorts. “Sure. That dress says otherwise.”

You start to reply -something witty, something dismissive- but you’re interrupted by the unmistakable sound of someone clearing their throat. Sofia.

She stands behind the bar, polite smile in place, but there’s something colder behind it now. She

doesn’t look at you directly.

“You girls want to close out your tab?” she asks, tone neutral but tight. Too tight. Like she’s holding something back.

Marie blinks, caught off guard. “Oh, uh… we were thinking about getting one more round actually- unless you’re closing soon?”

“We’ve got time,” Sofia says, still not looking at you. “Just figured I’d ask. In case you needed to be somewhere else.”

The comment lands heavier than it should. Maybe you imagined it. Maybe not.

Becca shrugs. “We’re good for another round.”

Sofia nods once and turns away, already moving toward the liquor shelf.

You watch her, the knot in your stomach tightening, and suddenly the victory of making her jealous doesn’t feel as satisfying as it did a few minutes ago.

103 notes · View notes

mggssocks · 2 months ago

Text

The Eighth

The Eighth Masterlist

pairing: Fem!Kook!Reader x Rafe Cameron

cw: suggestive dialogue & crude language

a/n: part three bc I like spoiling you guys. you may get part four soon because I'm bored.

It’s 5:54 in the morning. And while most of the island is still tucked under their covers, you’re standing barefoot on your bedroom balcony, arms crossed over your chest to fight the early breeze, watching Rafe Cameron climb down the weather-worn ladder he insisted was “sturdy enough.” He nearly misses a step at the bottom, stumbling into the bushes, and you bite back a laugh.

He looks up at you from the ground, eyes mischievous and voice low but smug.

“Next time just let me stay for breakfast. I make a mean omelet… and I look good doing it shirtless.”

You roll your eyes and suppress the smile threatening to break across your face.

“Shut up and go, Cameron. You’re gonna get me killed.”

He throws a lazy salute, disappearing into the shadows like some misbehaved prince from a twisted fairytale.

You sigh, turning back to your room, rubbing the goosebumps from your arms and stepping inside. Just as you reach for the French doors to seal off the night before-

“What are you doing up so early?”

You freeze.

Your father stands at your bedroom door, already fully dressed in one of his tailored suits, his silver watch glinting beneath his jacket sleeve. You hadn’t even heard him walk up.

You gather yourself quickly, trying not to look like a girl who just snuck a boy out through the balcony.

“Couldn’t sleep,” you lie smoothly, brushing past him to close the doors behind you, hoping he didn’t hear the soft rustle of leaves or the low sound of Rafe’s voice.

His eyes trail over the room- not suspiciously, but carefully. You follow his gaze to the tangled sheets on your bed, the hint of something too messy, too lived-in. Your stomach clenches.

He doesn’t comment. Just steps further into the room, glancing at his watch like he’s calculating something.

“You know, your mother was already shadowing her father by your age. You’ve got the eye for design- don’t waste that.”

And there it is. The pressure.

The soft suggestion wrapped in familial duty. The same one you’ve been dodging since graduation.

“I know,” you say quietly, sitting on the edge of the bed like that’ll make it seem more normal.

He gives you a small smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Think about it. The business won’t run itself forever.”

You nod, but your thoughts drift. He’s dressed, groomed, and alert- and it’s not even six yet.

“You’re up early too,” you venture cautiously. “Another meeting?”

He straightens his tie, not missing a beat.

“Something like that.”

Something like that.

You clock the vague answer, the way he avoids your eyes now, and how quick he is to check his phone when it buzzes in his pocket.

You don’t press. But you don’t forget it either.

He offers you one last look- more tired than stern- before he turns and disappears down the hall.

You’re left standing in the quiet hum of your bedroom, the soft glow of dawn bleeding through the windows, and the mess of last night still warm on your skin. You cross your arms again, this time not from the cold, and glance once more at the locked phone on your nightstand. If only your problems were as easy to sneak out as Rafe Cameron.

“You had sex with Raaafe,” Becca sing-songs, drawing out his name like an obnoxious middle schooler. Her voice is low, but still smug, bouncing off the softly lit walls of the yoga studio as both of you contort your bodies into what felt like borderline inhuman poses.

You glare at her from your downward dog.

“Would you drop that and acknowledge the fact that in the fall, if I’m not in college or doing something decent with my life, I’ll have no other choice but to fall into my mom’s legacy designer job?” you whisper, your words sharp and fast like they’ve been sitting on your chest too long.

You sink into your next position a little too aggressively.

Becca grunts softly as she stretches into a twisted lunge.

“Stop worrying. It’s the beginning of summer,” she says, with that careless ease only girls like her can pull off. “You’ve got plenty of time to figure something out. And if not, at least your mom’s thing is glamorous. You could be stuck with a family plumbing business.”

You breathe out through your nose, trying to focus, but your brain’s already drifting- back to Rafe.

It’s been a full day. No call. No text. No lame emoji or half-assed “what u doin” message at midnight. Nothing.

And worse than his silence is the realization that it’s getting to you.

This always happens. You entertain some self-centered kook who’s hot and shiny in the moment, but who ultimately gives nothing. No effort, no interest, no real pursuit. Just smoke and mirrors and maybe a few stolen glances when he’s bored. But this time was different. Because this time, you’d actually gone there. Crossed that physical line. Given in.

You sigh through the next pose, limbs shaking slightly- not from exertion, but from the internal burn of humiliation and something dangerously close to regret.

If you hadn’t slept with him that night, you’d probably be spiraling harder right now. Crying into your pillow or stalking his socials like a maniac. But the physical memory of it-his mouth, his voice, the way he made your body feel like it was vibrating from the inside out- has managed to put a slow lid on your usual meltdown.

Still, the silence stings.

The yoga instructor floats by, murmuring something about breathing into the tension, and you resist the urge to scoff. You were the tension.

At least here, in this quiet studio with soft music and sage-scented air, you can pretend for forty-five minutes that your life isn’t in a state of mild, pretty chaos.

And maybe that’s enough- for now.

A long, hot shower and a brand new set later, you’re pulling into the gated entrance of the country club with Marie Johnson. Becca bailed last minute- something about her mom needing help with some charity event because Beau’s the family disappointment again. Classic.

Marie, on the other hand, was always the fallback friend. The one your parents loved to name-drop when pretending you had a social calendar stacked with well-rounded, respectful girls. She was the half-Black, half-Korean poster child for success- pre-med, polite, with skin that always glowed and parents with enough old money to summer in Figure Eight like it was a seasonal suggestion.

You didn’t hate her. But you didn’t know her anymore either.

Your paths had drifted- her to Charleston, you stuck here. But every summer, without fail, she’d show up with shiny new stories and shiny new outfits, and your parents would practically shove you into her passenger seat like it was a public relations opportunity. Today was no different.

You walk side by side past the manicured hedges and into the sun-bleached country club grounds, where a staff member in a white polo shirt greets you both at the entrance with a tray of drinks. Champagne. Of course.

“Thank you,” you both chime, like trained debutantes, before lifting your glasses in sync and stepping past the gate.

Marie squints up at you, shielding her eyes from the sun with a manicured hand.

“Wanna tee off first?”

You press a hand to your stomach.

“Let’s eat. I haven’t had anything all day.” Your voice is casual, but there’s an edge to it you don’t mean to let slip.

As you approach the dining area, your gaze drifts toward the patio lounge- and your stomach tightens for an entirely different reason.

There he is. Rafe.

Reclined back in one of the cushioned club chairs like he owns the place. Topper’s beside him, loudly telling some story with too much arm movement. Kelce is laughing obnoxiously. Topper’s girlfriend, some new brunette with a laugh like nails on glass, is perched on the arm of his chair, playing with his hair.

And then there’s Sofia.

Sitting way too close to Rafe. Her hand is resting near his knee, like she’s waiting for an excuse to slide it higher. She says something to him and he actually laughs, flashing that same smirk he gave you some nights ago in the dark of your bedroom.

You blink and look away, your appetite dying a quiet, miserable death.

Marie notices your shift.

“You okay?” she asks, nudging your arm as you both make your way to a small table.

You force a small laugh.

“Yeah. Just… tired.”

She nods like she believes you, but her eyes linger. You hate that you feel so transparent.

Across the patio, Rafe doesn’t even glance in your direction. And somehow, that stings worse than if he had.

You both settle into a shaded corner of the patio, the umbrella stretched wide above your table. It’s enough to shield Marie from the sun she constantly complains about ruining her skin- and hopefully enough to shelter you from a certain pair of blue eyes across the lounge. You keep your head slightly tilted down, using your hair like a curtain as you absentmindedly stab at the greens on your plate.

If your mom were here, watching you play with overpriced salad like a bored toddler at a dinner party, she’d be appalled. You could already hear the sharp clink of her fork against her plate, her well-meaning smile laced with judgment. “Fix your posture. Don’t pick at your food- it makes you look unsure of yourself.”

Marie glances at you from over the rim of her glass. She’s not stupid. She knows something’s off. You’ve barely touched your drink. Your shoulders are tense. You’re not saying anything. She sighs.

“I know you said you were okay, but you’re acting like you aren’t.” Her voice is light, teasing, but her eyes are serious. “Look- I know we’re not like, ‘sisters for life’ or whatever, but you can talk to me, Y/N. We’re not strangers.”

You let out a slow breath, your fingers tightening around your fork as you stare at your half-untouched plate. Finally, you give in.

“There’s this guy…” You pause, already regretting it. You don’t say his name. You won’t. The idea of Marie turning her head and seeing Rafe with Sofia -piecing it together- would be humiliating. You glance down again, voice quieter now.

“He’s only texting me at night. Like… past eleven kind of texting. Booty call hours. Like he’s ashamed to be seen with me in daylight. And I know what that means. I know exactly how he sees me. I just- ” you swallow hard, the next part catching in your throat,

“-I didn’t think I’d be dumb enough to fall for it. But I did. And now I feel… stupid. Like so stupid.”

You slump slightly in your seat, your vulnerability stretching across the table like spilled wine.

Marie sets her drink down gently, resting her elbow on the table as she leans toward you.

“My advice?” she says, tone cool but not unkind. “Leave him alone. He’s just another asshole looking for a summer hookup. And you’re not some seasonal fling.”

She takes another sip, like it’s that simple. And maybe for her, it is. Marie’s never let a boy chip away at her self-worth. She’s too composed. Too sure of herself.

You nod, slowly. But there’s a lump in your throat. Her advice is solid. Straightforward. Exactly what you’d tell yourself if the roles were reversed.

You can leave him alone. You should.

Marie scans the patio casually, her brown eyes drifting across the crowd before halting on a particular group. You don’t have to follow her gaze to know exactly who she’s looking at.

That trio. Rafe. Topper. Sofia.

Even though you hadn’t said his name, hadn’t given any specific details, something about the pause in her stare makes your stomach twist. There’s no way she could know… right?

She chuckles under her breath, head tilted slightly.

“Since when did Rafe get a buzz cut?”

You force a nonchalant shrug, stirring the melting ice in your glass with your straw like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.

“Yeah… he disappeared after his dad died. Came back with a buzz cut like he was trying to become a whole new person or something.” You let out a weak laugh, trying to sound indifferent. But the truth is, the second his name left her mouth, something flickered under your skin. A pulse. A buzz. She lets it go, thankfully.

“Anyway… you wanna golf now? I didn’t buy a new set just to sit here and gossip.” She glances down at her matching pastel outfit-pleated skirt, sleeveless polo, visor. She looks like she stepped out of a catalog, effortless and put-together in a way that makes you wish you’d tried a little harder this morning.

You nod, reaching into your bag.

“Yeah, sure. What the hell.” You pull out a crumpled fifty and toss it on the table beside your untouched lunch. The server will handle it. They always do.

You rise from your seat, smoothing down your white tennis skirt- an automatic gesture, nothing more. But your eyes instinctively scan the crowd.

And that’s when you see him.

Rafe.

He’s reclined in a patio chair, sunglasses pushed low on his nose, laughing at something Topper just said. But then-he looks up. In your direction.

You drop your gaze immediately, heart lurching. You tell yourself he was just scanning the area, not actually looking at you.

But curiosity gets the best of you.

You risk another glance.

This time, he lifts his sunglasses to the top of his head, pushing them back into his buzzed hair back in that way he always does- careless, practiced, cocky. And then his eyes lock on yours. His gaze doesn’t flicker away. Doesn’t waver. It drops- to your legs. Lingering.

You whip your head toward Marie, pretending like you didn’t notice. Like you’re not screaming inside. Like your face isn’t burning under the weight of those blue eyes.

God, you hate him.

Rafe stands, casually adjusting his white polo and khaki shorts like he’s about to walk a runway instead of cross a patch of grass. He nods at Sofia- barely a signal- and she instinctively rises to her feet. Not a single word exchanged.

His arm drapes over her shoulder like she’s some prized possession, and just like that, he starts walking- long, confident strides- straight toward you and Marie.

Oh no.

You look down at your tote, suddenly very interested in digging around for your water bottle. Maybe if you keep your head low, he’ll walk right by-

Nope.

Rafe stops just a few feet away, then pulls the oldest trick in the book- he stumbles backward slightly, like he just now noticed you.

“Oh… Y/N,” he says, that smirk stretching lazily across his face. His arm pulls Sofia in a little tighter, hand resting on her shoulder. “Marie.”

“What, Rafe?” you reply, trying to keep your voice neutral, though the irritation seeps through.

You don’t even look at him fully, just lift your hand in a half-hearted wave and refocus on zipping your golf bag.

“Just saying hi,” he shrugs, like this was all so casual. So coincidental. Like he didn’t go out of his way to walk directly into your path. You offer nothing in return except silence and maybe the tightest smile known to man.

He lingers in the quiet for a beat, then gestures to the girl still tucked under his arm. “This is Sofia.”

Why he felt the need to introduce her now- after sneaking out of your bed like a ghost like a morning ago- you don’t know. But you keep your face cool.

“Hi,” you say politely.

Sofia gives you a small, polite smile in return, but her brows pinch just slightly. Like even she doesn’t get what this is.

Then Rafe’s eyes drop. Bold as ever, they trail down the length of your bare legs, shiny under the sun, and linger too long before he finally blinks.

“Golfing?” he asks, pretending to only now notice the bags.

Marie smiles politely. “Yeah. We’re headed out now.”

“I’m actually really good,” he says, flashing that smug grin you both want to slap and kiss. “I could give you guys some tips. If you want.”

You open your mouth, ready to hit him with a sarcastic decline, but Marie cuts in first.

“Honestly? I might take you up on that. I can’t suck in this outfit,” she says with a half-laugh, gesturing to her pristine, pastel look.

You shoot her a quick side-eye, but she just shrugs like what? free lesson from a hot guy.

Sofia slips out from under Rafe’s arm then, brushing a piece of hair behind her ear.

“I’d stay, but I’ve gotta head out. Work.” She says it like it’s casual, but you catch the hint of tension in her voice. Then she glances down at her name tag clipped to the corner of her bag. A logo you recognize instantly- she works here.

A pogue. You hadn’t even known.

Your stomach twists slightly, and not because of the class difference. It’s something else. Something about how Rafe- Rafe Cameron- was parading her around like a prop, even knowing how people around here would treat her.

You nod to Sofia as she walks off. She gives you another uncertain smile before disappearing through the clubhouse doors.

You’re left standing there with Marie- and Rafe, who looks awfully pleased with himself.

And despite every part of you screaming don’t, you grab your clubs and walk toward the green.

Because you’re not about to let him think you’re bothered. Even if you are.

The three of you approach the parked golf cart, the sun glaring off its glossy white hood. You naturally move toward the driver’s seat- you rented it, after all- but before you can climb in, Rafe steps in front of you.

His arm extends lazily across the entry like a gate, casually blocking your path.

“Let me drive.”

You blink at him. “No way. I rented this. If you crash it, I’m the one signing a check.”

He scoffs, like the idea of him crashing anything is laughable. “I’m not gonna crash it,” he says smoothly, his hand slipping over yours before you can react. The skin-to-skin contact makes your breath hitch, and in one fluid motion, he plucks the keys from your grip.

Then comes the real kicker.

“You wanna sit in the front so bad, you can sit in my lap.”

Your heart drops to your stomach. Did he really just say that?

You don’t even get a chance to come up with a biting response because Marie- still mid-scroll on her phone- freezes. Her thumb stops moving, and she lifts her eyes just enough to give him a sharp side-glance. Not judgmental exactly. But close.

Rafe doesn’t seem to notice or care.

You hesitate, cheeks warm despite the morning breeze, then snatch your hand back like it’s been burned. “Can you at least load our bags in, driver boy?” you mutter, arching an eyebrow.

You don’t wait for a reply. You just walk around and climb into the back seat, settling in with your arms crossed tight over your chest like a kid whose favorite toy got taken. The kind of silent protest that says this is dumb and I hate it, even if part of you doesn’t entirely hate it.

Rafe, smug as ever, hums as he hoists both cart bags onto the rack with ease, like he’s doing you a favor.

Marie slips into the passenger seat with her usual grace, but not without giving you a knowing look- half what the hell is he doing, half what the hell are you letting him do.

And as Rafe climbs into the driver’s seat and starts the engine, you wonder the same thing. What are you letting him do?

The drive up the course is oddly quiet. The soft hum of the golf cart, the occasional clink of a distant tee shot, birds chirping in the Carolina air- none of it distracts you from the fact that Rafe Cameron is behind the wheel like this is his afternoon.

You glance at Marie, hoping for a mutual eye-roll or at least a grimace. But she’s calm, her phone in her hand, sunglasses perched on her nose like she’s on the set of a country club commercial. You can’t believe she actually let him tag along.

Rafe finally parks near the sixth hole, smoothly throwing the cart into park and hopping out with the kind of overconfidence only he could carry. He pulls your bags from the back with zero effort, flexing his stupid muscles in that stupid fitted polo like he’s starring in a slow-mo sportswear ad.

You try not to look at his face, but of course it’s smug and tan and unfairly handsome.

“You wanna golf, or are you just gonna keep checking me out?” His voice cuts into your thoughts, laced with that arrogant smirk you can practically hear.

You blink, heat crawling up your neck. “Wasn’t looking.”

“Mmhmm.” He chuckles, setting the bag down and pulling a club from it like he owns the damn thing. “Good thing golf doesn’t require good eyesight.”

You scowl and grab a club of your own just as Marie finally stands, brushing off her shorts. She doesn’t say anything, but you can feel her watching- observing the air between the two of you like she’s figuring out the plot to a movie no one invited her to.

“You play?” you ask, spinning the club once in your grip.

“I win,” Rafe answers, stepping closer than necessary. “And since you rented the cart, I figure I can at least teach you how to hold the damn thing.”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t move when he steps behind you, one arm snaking around to adjust your grip on the club, the other resting just above your hip. His voice is low near your ear now.

“Relax your shoulders,” he murmurs. “Loosen your hands. You’re not choking it out- unless that’s your thing.”

You elbow him lightly and he laughs, the sound too warm, too familiar. Marie clears her throat and starts unpacking her own gear a few feet away, definitely pretending not to hear the flirty nonsense but very much not buying it.

After a few awkward practice swings- with way too much of Rafe’s chest pressed against your back- he finally gives you space. You take a deep breath and step away like it didn’t get to you, even though it totally did.

Rafe lines up his own shot, grabbing your ball like it’s his. Typical. He adjusts his stance, shoulders squared, a cocky little grin tugging at his mouth.

Your phone buzzes. You glance down:

Marie: are you gonna tell me what this is or should i just keep pretending i’m not third-wheeling

You glance over at her. She doesn’t look up, just swings her club casually like she’s completely unbothered. Meanwhile, Rafe swings- and nails the shot, of course.

It’s Marie’s turn now. She steps up to the tee with focus, lining her club with the ball and adjusting her stance like she actually came here to play golf, not accidentally be cast in a weird love triangle.

Rafe, naturally, takes the opportunity to slink behind you- quiet but deliberate.

“You know,” he murmurs low in your ear, his breath warm against your skin, “if you need something to squeeze… I’ve got just the thing.”

He doesn’t linger. Just lets the words settle like heat under your skin as he strolls back to the cart, popping the cap off a fresh bottle of spring water, that damn smirk of his resting confidently on his face. He takes a sip like he didn’t just say the filthiest thing imaginable in broad daylight at a country club.

Your stomach flips in that embarrassing, involuntary way it always does when it comes to him.

Not because what he said was smooth- because it wasn’t. It was stupid and cocky and grossly on-brand. But the second your mind flashes back to the other night- his biceps flexed above you, your fingers digging into them, him pounding into you like he had something to prove- it’s over. Your thighs subtly clench and you hate yourself for it. Fresh panties or not, he’s gotten under your skin again.

You force a breath out through your nose and roll your eyes toward Marie, pretending to study her form with the intensity of someone about to broadcast the PGA Tour. Anything to keep your expression neutral, to pretend his words aren’t bouncing around your head like an indecent echo.

Marie swings- and misses slightly, the ball veering just off-center - but she doesn’t notice your distraction. Or maybe she does. Either way, she says nothing.

Rafe lets out a lazy whistle. “Almost,” he calls.

And you? You’re just trying to hold it together, while your pulse drums in places it shouldn’t.

You watch as Rafe steps up to the putt, all smug confidence and practiced ease. His swing is smooth -of course it is- and the ball drops neatly into the hole like even gravity is on his side.

“You okay?” Marie’s voice cuts into your focus as she comes to stand beside you after her turn.

Her question is too loud, and Rafe’s head turns at the sound of it, those pale eyes locking in like a heat-seeking missile. He knew he got to you, but now she’s confirmed it for him.

“Yeah- it’s just hot,” you lie, shrugging and squinting toward the sun. “Actually, I think I’m done after this.”

Marie hums. “Well can you at least get some good pictures of me before we leave? I didn’t wear this outfit to go undocumented.”

You nod, watching Rafe saunter back toward the cart like he didn’t just stir you up and leave you simmering. Of course he sinks the shot. Of course.

Twenty minutes later, Marie is striking poses in the golf cart, her legs crossed just so, sunglasses pushed up on her head. You’re standing in the grass, angling her phone and snapping a few frames. Behind you, Rafe hovers far too close, the heat of him making your neck prickle.

“Can you back up a little?” you mutter, not even glancing over your shoulder.

“Can you back up a little?” he parrots with a snort, twisting the words into something entirely inappropriate. You roll your eyes and elbow him lightly in the ribs, which only earns you a quiet laugh.

Once the photos are good enough for Marie’s standards -and there are many- you all pile into the cart. Rafe takes the wheel again like he owns it, driving the winding path back to the main area of the club. The silence is layered this time. Marie is tapping away on her phone. Rafe drums his fingers against the steering wheel. And you? You’re spiraling.

You’re trying to shake off the way he’s getting to you. Trying to forget the look he gave you earlier, the flash of blue eyes up your legs, the way his voice dropped to that sinful whisper.

You’re trying to pretend it doesn’t bother you that one minute he’s inside you, ruining your ability to breathe straight- and the next, he’s ghosting you, only to show up flaunting Sofia like you meant nothing.

What the hell is his problem?

When he parks, you wordlessly grab your clubs from the back. Rafe holds out the keys, and you snatch them without making eye contact.

“Thanks, Y/L/N. I had fun,” Marie says, giving you a quick hug before turning to Rafe. “Thanks for literally not teaching me anything.”

“Always a pleasure, Marie,” Rafe drawls with a crooked grin. She smirks and heads off toward her car.

You start toward the clubhouse, not looking to see if Rafe follows. Of course he does.

“So,” he says casually, keeping pace beside you, “what’s our next adventure?”

“My next adventure,” you snap, “is returning these keys and going home. I don’t know what you’re doing.”

You push through the doors. The air-conditioned lobby hits your skin in relief- but it does nothing to cool the heat crawling up your neck when you spot Sofia behind the reception desk. She’s now clocked in, chatting with another employee- but her gaze flicks straight to you. Then to Rafe. Her smile falters just slightly, like a crack in glass.

Rafe doesn’t notice. Or doesn’t care.

You walk to the counter and sign the cart back in, ignoring the way he leans on the desk beside you like you’re not in the middle of an emotional tug-of-war. His presence is loud, even when he’s silent.

“Thanks for returning it,” the receptionist says politely.

“Of course,” you reply, voice tight. You turn to leave, but Rafe is still right behind you, following you out like a shadow with a smirk.

You’re steps from your car, its pastel yellow frame catching the last of the sun like it’s trying to blind you. It should’ve been pink. You wanted it pink. But your parents thought that’d be too tacky, so you settled. Fitting. You were always settling for something.

You stop short, keys dangling from your fingers, heart already thudding at his nearness behind you. You whirl around, fed up with this game.

“What do you want, Rafe?” you demand, your voice sharp but not shaky. Not giving him the satisfaction. Not this time.

He slows to a stop, just a few feet away. The breeze catches the hem of your skirt and rustles the air between you. He looks caught- briefly. Like maybe he wasn’t expecting you to call him out. But then the smirk returns. Like he remembered who he’s supposed to be.

He doesn’t say anything. Of course he doesn’t.

You exhale through your nose, your throat tightening, but you won’t let it get the best of you.

“What is it?” you ask again, quieter but with more bite. “You sleep with me, then ghost me, and show up with Sofia a day later like nothing ever happened.” Your words land harder now. More precise. “You apparently already got what you wanted, so just- leave me alone. Please.”

The last word escapes before you can swallow it down. It’s not desperate- but it’s not cold either. It’s honest, and you hate that.

Rafe runs a hand through his buzzed hair, exhaling like you’ve made him tired. Like you’re the problem here.

“You’re so dramatic,” he finally says, voice light, like this is all just a joke he’s in on and you’re not. “We had fun. I didn’t think we were doing the whole talk-every-day, post-it-online thing.”

You blink. The words slap harder than a hand. You feel them in your teeth.

“Yeah,” you say, voice clipped. “God forbid you accidentally treat me like a person.”

That earns a twitch at the corner of his mouth, like your sarcasm somehow charms him.

He shifts his weight, tongue pushing against the inside of his cheek like he’s fighting a grin. “So you are jealous of Sofia.”

You narrow your eyes. That’s what he took from all of that?

“You’re sick,” you mutter, turning your back on him as you pop your trunk open. You grab your clubs and toss them inside a little harder than you need to.

“Not denying it,” he calls out behind you, smug like he knows he got under your skin- but not cruel about it. Just Rafe being Rafe. Annoying. Provoking. Unchanged.

You slam the trunk shut and round the side of your car, brushing past him without another word.

He doesn’t stop you. But he watches, his silence louder than anything else. You reach your door, hand already on the handle. And still, you feel his eyes on your back.

You don’t look at him when you say, “If you figure out what you actually want, let me know. Until then, don’t waste my time.”

Then you get in and shut the door. This time for good.

“Oh my god, Y/N. Don’t tell me you’re checking Sofia’s Instagram again.” Becca’s voice is muffled by the pillow half-covering her face, but the judgment cuts through loud and clear.

You two were splayed out across her bed like bored teenagers with no real problems—except you did have a problem. A six-foot-tall one with blue eyes, a jawline that could slice glass, and a deeply annoying effect on your nervous system.

“It’s only, like… the third time this week,” you mumble, your thumb still hovering over Sofia’s latest beach photo.

Becca turns her head, one brow lifted. “You hear yourself? That’s not a defense. That’s a confession.” She snatches the phone out of your hand before you can refresh the page again.

“It’s giving obsessed. It’s giving… spiraling.”

You flop back onto the mattress, staring at the ceiling like it might offer you divine wisdom.

“She’s just so- perfect.”

“She’s just so- a pogue,” Becca snaps back. “Don’t let the perfect skin and the nails fool you. That girl clocks into work at the country club, and I’m pretty sure her shoes are from Target.”

“Clearly she has something going for her,” you mutter, voice laced with resigned boredom. “Rafe likes her.”

Becca sits up slightly, staring down at you with narrowed eyes. “You do remember you were just swearing up and down a week ago that you didn’t like Rafe, right?”

You cover your face with your hands. “I know.”

“So what’s changed?”

You peel your hands away slowly. “I can’t stop thinking about that night.”

Becca’s eyes go wide like she just solved a crime. “Oh my god, you’re dicknotized.”

You groan, dragging a pillow over your face. “Don’t call it that.”

“No, because that’s what it is. You’ve been dicknotized. Rafe Cameron has bewitched you with penis magic and now you’re stalking the girl he brought as a decoy.”

You peek out from under the pillow. “It wasn’t just that. It was… I don’t know. It felt different.”

Becca raises an eyebrow. “Did it feel different before or after he ghosted you and then showed up at the club with someone else?”

You sigh. She’s right. You know she’s right. But also? She didn’t have Rafe’s mouth on her neck or his hand gripping her thigh like it was made for him.

“I’m not saying I want to marry him,” you mutter. “I’m just saying… I can’t stop thinking about it.”

Becca tosses your phone onto the nightstand and flops next to you with an exaggerated sigh.

“We need to get you on a dating app or into a nunnery. Either way, we’re breaking the curse.”

You smile weakly, eyes still glued to the ceiling. You weren’t sure which would be easier.

You’re at home. It’s only been a few days since your last exchange with Rafe, and you’ve done everything in your power to forget it. Mostly by folding laundry like it’s a spiritual cleanse.

The sky outside is bruised and heavy. Rain lashes at your windows, and the muted laugh track from The Nanny plays in the background like background noise to a life you’re pretending is normal.

It’s nearly 5 p.m. There’s a hurricane warning, and the storm is already rolling in strong. Your phone lights up.

Rafe.

Rafe: hey

Of course. Always the same thing. Like you’re on some kind of loop with him. You roll your eyes and lock the screen again.

But it lights up almost instantly.

Rafe: y/n

Rafe: y/nnnnnnn

You exhale sharply, dropping the towel in your lap and dragging a hand down your face. The screen glows again-this time, it’s a call.

You answer without thinking. “Jesus, Rafe. What the hell do you want?”

Your tone is sharp, tired. You don’t even register the faint sound of rain on his end because you’re too caught up in your irritation.

“You,” he says smoothly, voice smug. You can practically hear the smirk you hate that you don’t hate.

“Seriously, Rafe. I don’t have time for your games-”

“Too busy folding laundry?” he cuts in.

Your eyebrows knit.

How the hell does he know that?

Your eyes flick toward the balcony. You freeze. You hear the rain clearer now. And then you see him. Standing outside your glass doors, soaked to the bone. The lightning behind him flashes like a perfectly timed jump scare, illuminating his broad frame like a fever dream.

White long-sleeve shirt, now drenched and clinging to every hard edge of his torso. Jeans, boots. Hair damp, falling over his forehead.

You move fast. Faster than the lightning, faster than your own logic. You unlatch one of the French doors and yank it open.

“What the hell are you doing? Get in here.”

You grab him by the arm and pull him inside, shutting the door before the wind can barrel in behind him. Water drips from his clothes onto your beige shag carpet, and he’s laughing -laughing- like this is all so goddamn funny.

“You need to leave. Like, now,” you hiss, your voice low.

“I just got here.” He tries wiping the rain off his forehead with the back of his wet hand, which only makes it worse.

He looks so good it should be illegal. The way his soaked shirt sticks to every inch of his chest, every sculpted line of his abs- you catch yourself staring and mentally slap your brain back into place.

“Rafe, I’m not playing your damn games,” you whisper-yell, the heat rising in your cheeks from a mix of frustration and… well, other things.

“You said that on the phone,” he says as he walks deeper into your room, casually observing the space like he’s shopping for a summer home.

It’s the second time he’s been in here, but the first with the lights on. Now he can actually see your room- the soft, beachy tones, the woven textures, the few curated posters. It’s you, through and through.

“This is you?” he asks.

“This is trespassing,” you shoot back.

“You let me in.”

“Uh, yeah, because we have rotating cameras and my parents would’ve seen you.”

He finally meets your eyes again -really meets them- and they instantly drop to your nightdress. You didn’t expect company. You wore it for yourself, because sometimes you liked feeling pretty even if no one saw it. But now, with the way his gaze drinks you in slowly, reverently- you’re not so mad about your choice. The air shifts. There’s a long, loaded pause.

“I’ll call Shoupe,” you say, hands on your hips, trying to reassert control. Trying to remind both of you that this isn’t normal.

He almost laughs. Actually, he does.

“Shoupe’s not gonna do shit.”

You scowl and glance at your bedroom door, moving quickly to lock it.

“There’s a goddamn hurricane out there-” he starts, too loudly.

“Shhh!” you shush him, and he lowers his volume like a student in detention.

“There’s a goddamn hurricane out there,” he repeats in a whisper. “You’re really gonna kick me out in that?”

“You already came out in it,” you whisper back. “Just turn around. Tannyhill is literally right there.”

He tilts his head at you like you just told him to walk to Jupiter.

And then he does that thing-those stupid blue eyes going soft, lower lip pouted.

It’s unfair. And unfortunately, he’s way too cute to say no to. What the hell.. he’s already here.

You exhale, hating yourself a little as you let the silence stretch between you. Rafe’s still dripping all over your carpet, but now he’s wandered further into your room like he owns the place, casually glancing at the books on your shelf and touching things he has no business touching.

You’re about to tell him again to get out- more firmly this time- when:

“Hey, Y/N?” Your mom’s voice cuts clean through the door.

Your whole body jolts.

The handle jiggles, but the door doesn’t open. Thank God you locked it.

“The door’s locked. I heard yelling. Everything okay?” Her tone is that tired-but-perky cadence only old money women can master. She probably has pearls on even during a hurricane.

You look at Rafe, panicked. He just grins wider, clearly loving this. You scramble, reaching under a pile of laundry for the remote, turning the TV up just enough to pass as background noise.

“Yeah, Mom, it was just the TV!” you choke out. Your voice is too high, but hopefully she’s too distracted to notice.

“Well, I hope you’re watching the news,” she says. “They’re saying this hurricane is possibly going to keep us in the house for days.”

Her footsteps drift off down the hallway and you let your head drop back against the edge of your bed, heart racing.

You don’t want to look at him. You really, really don’t. But you do. And there it is -that goddamn smug smile. You cross your arms.

“Don’t.”

He raises his brows innocently. “Don’t what? Smile? Breathe? Exist?”

“Exactly.”

He laughs, low and rich, and walks over to where your laundry is now half-folded and mostly forgotten.

“So… sounds like I might be stuck here for a while,” he says, toeing off his boots like he’s settling in for a long weekend.

“No,” you snap. “No, no, no- you’re not stuck. You’re… uninvited. And very waterproof. I’m sure you’ll survive the eighty yards back to Tannyhill.”

He shrugs, pulling his wet shirt away from his skin and wringing it out slightly. You nearly flinch.

“You’re really gonna kick me out into a hurricane?” he says, mock offended. “That’s cold, Y/N.”

“You’re the one who showed up during a hurricane!” You hiss in a whisper-shout. “Like this is some Nicholas Sparks bullshit.”

He smirks. “So you have been thinking about me.”

You groan and throw a folded towel at his head. He catches it easily, still grinning.

“What do you want, Rafe?” you ask again, voice softer this time. Exhausted.

He studies you for a beat. Something flickers in his eyes- but it’s gone just as quickly.

“I don’t know,” he says. “You. This. I keep trying to move on from that night and then I remember the way you moaned my name.”

You freeze like a deer in headlights. The nerve of him. The nerve.

But Rafe just shrugs off your silence like it’s nothing and walks past you- like he lives here, like this is normal- toward your en-suite bathroom.

“Where are you going?” you ask, whirling around to follow him.

“Relax,” he says, already tugging at the hem of his wet shirt. “I’m not trying to defile your marble countertops. I’m just not trying to catch pneumonia either.”

He pulls the shirt off, water flicking from the sleeves as the fabric peels away from his skin. His back flexes. His shoulders. You want to be a good person and look away. You don’t.

“Jesus,” you mutter under your breath, turning to face the other direction before your hormones betray you any more than they already have.

“What was that?” he calls from inside the bathroom, his voice cocky even behind the wall.

“I said, ‘you should probably leave.’” Weak defense.

You hear the jingle of his belt, the zipper. You shut your eyes tightly. This is hell.

This is actual, karmic retribution hell.

“You always this hostile to people you let in during natural disasters?”

“Only the ones who ghost me and then parade around with other girls.”

You hear a soft chuckle and then the sound of fabric being wrung out. He steps halfway back into your room, still shirtless, belt now undone, holding his soaked shirt in one hand.

“Parade?” he repeats, like he finds the word adorable coming from you. “Didn’t realize I was in a parade.”

Your eyes flick down against your will. His jeans hang low on his hips, water dripping from the cuffs, the V of his abs sharp enough to cut glass.

You whip your head away, burning. He sees it. Of course he does.

“You checking me out, Y/N?”

“Oh my god. You are insufferable.”

“And yet here I am. In your bedroom. During a hurricane.” He tosses his shirt into your hamper like he’s done it a hundred times before.

“You’re lucky I haven’t tossed you into the hurricane,” you mutter, storming past him to grab one of the spare towels from your closet.

“Yeah?” he leans casually against the doorway of your bathroom, arms crossed, belt still loose.

“That why your voice cracked when I said your name earlier?”

You turn slowly, towel clenched tightly in your fists.

“Do you want dry clothes or a black eye?”

He grins, stepping closer again. His skin smells like rain and trouble. Your heart is going to actually explode.

“Tough choice,” he says, low. “But I think I’ll take the towel first.”

You shove it into his chest and turn away again, mostly so he won’t see the smile threatening to tug at your lips.

He really is sick. And maybe, just maybe, you are too.

96 notes · View notes

mggssocks · 2 months ago

Text

The Eighth

part one

pairing: Fem!Kook!Reader x Rafe Cameron

cw: idk maybe some foul language, sexual content but nothing too into detail (at least not for this specific chapter).

The sunlight filters softly through the glass-paneled windows of the wellness center, casting golden shapes across the polished hardwood floors. Peaceful music plays from hidden speakers, the instructor’s voice calm and rhythmic as she guides the class through a slow, fluid flow.

But your mind? Anything but calm.

“You did what?!” Becca practically shrieks-practically, because she’s still trying to keep it whisper-level, but it comes out high-pitched and loud enough that a few heads from the front rows swivel.

You give her a sharp elbow to the side. “Can you not?”

“Sorry, sorry,” she hisses, dramatically mouthing an apology to a woman in front of her. “I just- Rafe Cameron?! You snuck out for Rafe Cameron?”

The two of you are tucked away in the back corner of the yoga studio, half-heartedly following the instructor’s cues. You’re attempting some kind of twist, but between Becca’s animated whispering and the slight soreness in your thighs from climbing down your balcony ladder barefoot, it’s not going well.

“And you said your mom thought he was, like, sinister or something,” she adds, smug and grinning like the devil himself.

“You think that too,” you remind her, adjusting your position as the instructor glides past, eyes scanning the room like a hawk.

“I think he’s a dick. I didn’t say he was like- Dexter or anything. There’s a difference.”

You bite your lip, trying to hide the smile pulling at the corners of your mouth as the instructor calls for a high lunge. You ease into it, arms rising overhead, muscles lengthening.

“He’s not,” you say simply, voice soft but with just enough warmth to betray you. Becca’s head turns sharply toward you, eyebrows shooting up.

“Oh my God,” she whispers, way too loudly. “You like him.”

You shoot her a look, but it’s too late- the instructor pauses her pacing and pins the two of you with a slow, deliberate warning glance.

“Ladies,” she says in her soothing yet somehow terrifying tone. “Let’s bring the energy inward. High lunges, not high drama.”

Becca lifts her hands in mock surrender and mouths, Sorry, goddess of core strength before leaning toward you again as soon as the instructor turns away.

“You like him,” she repeats, quieter now but just as accusing.

You shake your head but your smile gives you away. “I don’t even know him like that.”

“You knew him enough to sneak out at one in the morning and make out at the marsh.”

You roll your eyes and drop down into the next pose. “It wasn’t a thing. We just talked.”

Becca gives you the smuggest look on the planet. “You think you’re special now, don’t you?”

You exhale through your nose, pretending to focus on your breathing. “No.” But your silence says otherwise.

“I just can’t believe he made you touch his dick… Was it big?”

Becca is relentless.

You’re both stretched out in matching striped lounge chairs beside the turquoise pool behind her family’s house, basking under the early afternoon sun. The air smells like chlorine and sunscreen, and Becca’s got on heart-shaped sunglasses that do absolutely nothing to make her look less judgmental.

You, on the other hand, are half-reclined, legs bare in a tank and sleep shorts, phone in hand as you text back and forth with your mom- who has, for the third time this week, brought up the “family bonding cruise.” You’re nineteen, not nine. The thought of being trapped on a boat with a bunch of screaming toddlers and your dad’s weird sea-sickness wristbands makes your skin crawl.

'No, Mom. I’m not doing shuffleboard with retired strangers for seven days straight. Please stop treating me like I’m twelve. Love you though.'

“Y/N,” Becca snaps, ripping you back to reality.

You blink up at her, thumb still hovering over your screen. “Mhm?”

“Was it big?” Her tone is even, but her raised brow and mischievous smirk say she’s just waiting to pounce.

You let your phone drop to your stomach with a groan. “God, you’re still on this?”

Becca grins like she won the lottery. “Like how you should be on his di-”

A sharp throat-clearing interrupts her.

Alice, Becca’s family’s long-suffering maid, gracefully sets two glasses of lemonade down on the table between your chairs. Her face is unreadable, though the corners of her mouth twitch like she’s suppressing a laugh- or maybe judging you both into the afterlife.

“Thank you, Alice,” Becca says sweetly, flipping her ponytail over her shoulder like she wasn’t just about to say the most vulgar thing imaginable.

Alice walks off without a word, her white shoes squeaking against the wet patio tile.

You bring the cold lemonade to your lips, needing the chill to combat the heat rising in your cheeks. “You have no shame.”

“I have curiosity,” Becca corrects. “There’s a difference.”

You give her a look. She gives you a smirk.

“And?”

You sip again, then sigh dramatically. “I didn’t exactly inspect it.”

“Oh, come on,” she groans. “You had your hand on it.”

“It was through pants!”

“Was it like… intimidating?” she asks with faux seriousness, as though she’s evaluating weapons-grade artillery.

You cover your face with the cold glass. “I hate you.”

“So, yes.”

You peek out from behind the cup. “Becca.”

She leans back, satisfied. “All I’m saying is, if I touched Rafe Cameron’s dick, I’d be screaming it from the rooftop.”

“Well, thankfully, I’m not you.”

Becca just grins, like she knows you better than you know yourself.

And maybe she does.

Beau—two years older than Becca, same sharp jawline but more muscle than mischief now—steps onto the stone patio barefoot, a pair of navy swim trunks hanging low on his hips and a backwards hat barely holding back his sandy blond curls. You knew he used to run with Rafe, Topper, and Kelce before it all blew up. One wrong Pogue, one expensive lawsuit, and Beau had been yanked out of his golden-boy antics and thrown headfirst into “get-your-act-together” territory.

You hadn’t seen him around Rafe since, and he hadn’t been at the party last night. You assumed that meant distance- or maybe a full-on falling out. Either way, he wasn’t part of that scene anymore.

“Hey,” he says casually, stepping past a pool float and over to the lounge chairs.

“What do you want, Botox?” Becca deadpans, not even sparing him a glance as she massages

sunscreen into her already tanned stomach.

“I can be in my own backyard, butt cheek,” he shoots back, tone flat, plopping into the third lounger—conveniently the one beside yours. He leans back, arms behind his head like he owns the sun.

Ah, classic sibling love. Their bickering was endless, and even with the mildest insults, the tension was somehow always… theatrical. You were suddenly grateful you were an only child.

Beau reaches for his water bottle and takes a long swig, eyes flicking toward you mid-sip. “How was the party last night?” he asks, casual, almost like he doesn’t care about the answer.

Becca doesn’t miss a beat. “Ask Y/N,” she says with a chuckle, lips curling into something that’s just shy of devious.

You shoot her a pointed look. Traitor.

Beau turns his attention to you, brows lifted in curiosity. “What’d you do, Y/N?” he asks, tone dipping into that mock-scolding register that toes the line between teasing and protective.

Growing up with him around- family vacations, beach bonfires, holiday dinners- you’d always felt like he was a half-assed older brother figure. Just annoying enough to make an impression, but decent enough to care.

“Nothing,” you answer a little too quickly, your voice higher than usual.

Beau narrows his eyes. “Right. That’s what people say when they definitely did something.”

Becca lets out a laugh and sips her lemonade through a straw, eyes hidden behind oversized sunglasses. “She’s being modest.”

“Modest?” Beau raises a brow and shifts his attention back to you. “You don’t look guilty… you look guilty guilty.”

“I don’t even know what that means,” you mutter, picking up your drink and taking a long sip, hoping the cold distracts you from the heat rising in your face.

“She snuck out last night,” Becca says nonchalantly, flipping onto her stomach.

Beau turns back to you. “Seriously?”

“It wasn’t a big deal,” you lie. “I just couldn’t sleep.”

“So you thought, hey, lemme go for a midnight stroll?” He smirks. “That’s what people do now?”

You shrug. “It was more like a drive.”

Beau leans back in his chair, looking at you like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. “With who?”

Becca coughs pointedly, which earns her a swift kick in the leg from your foot under the chair. She lets out a quiet “ow” and tries to look innocent.

“With a friend,” you reply, pretending to be way more interested in your phone than you actually are.

Beau raises both brows. “A friend? Is this a new friend?”

You open your mouth to answer but get saved by the sound of Becca’s ringtone blaring from her phone.

“Saved by the bell,” you mutter, taking the moment to redirect your full attention to your drink and your phone while Becca answers her call, rolling away with a giggle.

Beau looks at you one last time, suspicion still lingering in his expression, but he doesn’t press.

“Just don’t let her rope you into anything too crazy,” he mutters, reaching for the lemonade Alice had set down for him. “She’s got a talent for chaos.”

You give him a tight-lipped smile, nodding. “Noted.”

But you’re already thinking of the text you might send later tonight. Or the one you hope to get.

A day passes. And then suddenly it’s two. You try not to care, really-you do. But the silence from Rafe hits harder than you expected. It’s not like you thought he’d become your boyfriend or anything… but maybe a text? A “had fun” or even a “you good?” would’ve sufficed. Instead,

there’s nothing. Just your screen time quietly creeping up every hour as you keep checking the same damn thread. Still no bubbles. No read receipts. Just that final “I’ll see you around, Y/N.”

Now, your leg is bouncing under the dinner table like it’s fueled by caffeine and heartbreak. You stare at the iMessage app, the little blue icon taunting you from the bottom of your screen, as if by sheer willpower you could manifest a text from him. Your plate of untouched salmon grows colder by the minute.

“Honey, you okay?” your mom’s soft voice cuts through the silence.

You look up from your phone. She’s mid-bite, her eyebrows pinched in concern as she watches you.

“You’ve been shaking your leg for the past ten minutes,” she adds.

“I’m more concerned with your obsession with that device,” your dad says from the other end of the long dining table, newspaper in hand like he’s cosplaying 1985.

You roll your eyes. “I’m just waiting for a text.”

“From who?” your mom asks, not accusatory- curious. She always hopes it’s someone safe. Someone her country club friends’ kids would approve of.

“No one.” You tuck your phone under your thigh to shut them up.

A beat of silence passes before she sets her fork down gently on the porcelain plate. “Well, when you’re done waiting on this mystery man, we should really start talking about your future. It’s time, Y/N.”

“Time for what?” You already know what’s coming.

“Your internship,” she says with a pointed look. “Fall applications for Valentina & Co. open next week. We need to get you ready.”

You exhale slowly. Valentina & Co.- your mother’s legacy. A generational designer brand with your mother’s maiden name sewn into the labels of handbags, silks, and socialites across the coast. It’s never been something you hated. But it’s never been something you wanted, either.

“I said I’d think about it,” you mutter.

“Well, don’t take too long,” your dad adds without looking up. “Your mother worked hard to build something for you to carry on. This family doesn’t do wasted potential.”

You nod, chewing your lip. You glance back at your phone, hoping for a distraction, something to fill the pressure swelling in your chest.

Still no message. Just your reflection staring back at you in the screen. Quiet. Waiting.

You lie in bed, limbs tangled in your sheets, remote in hand as you absently scroll through Netflix. The soft blue glow from the screen casts shadows across your room, illuminating the familiar chaos of your posters, Polaroids, and half-finished water bottles on your nightstand. It’s a little past 11 p.m. 11:06 to be exact.

You’re not even really watching- just flipping aimlessly, looking for something with just enough noise to lull you to sleep. A comfort show, maybe. Something predictable.

Your phone lights up, pulling your attention from the screen.

Rafe: hey

Your heart kicks up- an involuntary thump in your chest. But the excitement fizzles just as quickly as it sparked when you glance at the time again.

11:07.

Of course.

You roll your eyes and toss the phone face down beside you on the comforter.

Classic Rafe Cameron. The prince of booty call o’clock. Never a good morning. Never a “hey, I’ve been thinking about you.” Just hey- simple, lazy, charged with possibility and a whole lot of nothing.

Your screen lights up again.

Rafe: you up?

You don’t move. Don’t touch the phone.

Again.

Rafe: I’m outside

Your heart stutters. Outside?

Your eyebrows shoot up as you whip the phone into your hands and stare at the message like it might morph into something else. Surely not. No way.

And then-

Thud.

The sound comes from your balcony.

Your stomach drops. You sit up slowly, creeping toward the French doors that lead outside. Your curtains flutter just slightly from the cracked window, and then you see him.

Rafe. Standing there on the other side of the glass like it’s perfectly normal to show up uninvited and unannounced in the dead of night.

You slide the door open just enough to slip through.

“Are you insane?” you hiss in a harsh whisper, eyes wide as you glance toward the yard, paranoid your parents might still be up or worse- watching the camera feeds.

He grins, leaning back against the balcony railing like this is just any other night. Like he belongs here.

“Had to see you,” he says, hands tucked casually into the pockets of his hoodie. “You weren’t answering.”

“You texted me three times.” Your arms cross over your chest- equal parts flustered and freezing.

He shrugs. “Didn’t feel like waiting for a response.”

You stare at him, half-annoyed, half… whatever that twisty feeling is in your stomach. Because he shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t be entertaining this.

But here he is. And here you are. Barefoot and half-ready for bed, heart racing for someone who’s barely texted you in two days and still manages to make your skin buzz.

Your paranoia spikes when he leans against the railing a second too long. Without thinking, you reach out and grab his hoodie, yanking him inside through the French doors.

“Get in, get in,” you whisper-shout, casting one last frantic glance at the yard below before pulling the door shut behind you. He chuckles under his breath as he quietly flips the lock and closes the window.

“You always this welcoming?” he teases, brushing past you with a grin, taking in the soft glow of the TV and your mess of blankets on the bed.

You exhale, sweeping your hair out of your face, eyes flicking toward the crack beneath your bedroom door. No flicker of light. No footsteps. No sounds from the hallway. You breathe a little easier.

“I should kick you out,” you mumble, turning to face him. “You can’t just show up on my balcony.”

“Worked, didn’t it?” he smirks, not even trying to hide how pleased he is with himself.

You don’t answer.

Instead, you shift your weight from one foot to the other, arms folded tight across your chest.

You’re trying to figure out a way to ask him what the hell happened- why he ghosted you after practically undressing you with his words the other night- without sounding like some needy girl waiting by her phone.

Because you weren’t. You were not that girl.

Even though your screen time was up 17% this week.

He moves closer, slowly, as if reading every single thought flashing behind your eyes. And maybe he is, because the smile on his face says it all- he knows. He knows you low key like this. The drama, the tension, the thrill. The way your heart races when he looks at you like that.

But you’d rather die than admit it.

“Miss me?” he asks softly, voice dipped in amusement. It’s not cocky in a mean way- it’s just Rafe. Smooth, knowing, frustratingly charming.

You scoff and roll your eyes, retreating a step, but he follows.

“I mean, I figured since you didn’t respond, I should check on you,” he continues, eyes lazily scanning your oversized sleep shirt, your bare legs, the undone look of you. “Make sure you weren’t dead or something.”

“Oh, right,” you say, dry, trying to sound unfazed. “You’re such a humanitarian.”

His eyes flash with amusement. “And you’re really gonna stand there and act like you didn’t miss me?”

You open your mouth to respond- something snarky, probably- but he steps in closer, hands sliding around your waist before you can think straight. The heat of his palms against your skin silences you.

“You’re annoying,” you whisper, though it comes out breathier than you intend.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, leaning in, his lips grazing your jaw. “But I’m pretty sure you like me anyway.”

You don’t respond- not with words.

Instead, your hands bunch into the front of his hoodie and you pull him toward the bed, lips crashing into his like you’ve been waiting to finish what you started at the marsh. He follows easily, his body pressing into yours as you both stumble back onto the mattress.

The TV continues to play something random- some cheesy Netflix rom-com neither of you are watching- masking the sounds of rustling sheets, breathless laughter, and the kind of tension that’s been building for days.

His hoodie hits the floor. Your fingers tangle on the back of his buzzed hair. And for a few heady minutes, you don’t care that he’s Rafe Cameron or that he’s a disaster dressed in luxury linen.

All you know is that he’s here, he tastes like spearmint gum and trouble, and his mouth feels really, really good on yours.

“You know I’m not your booty call,” you whisper against his lips, words barely forming between the heat of each kiss. Your voice is low, breathy, but still laced with intent.

He grins into your mouth, his hands tightening just slightly around your waist. “You can’t say that. I haven’t gotten any action from you yet,” he murmurs, the laugh in his voice vibrating against your skin as his lips move down to your jaw.

You let out a small, incredulous breath, fingers threading through the hair at the nape of his neck.

“Keep up with your smug comments and you won’t,” you shoot back- funnily enough- while your hands trail down, undoing the button of his shorts and slipping down the zipper with practiced ease.

His breath hitches, the smirk faltering for half a second as his eyes lift to meet yours.

“Oh, so that’s how it is?” he says with that trademark grin, half-lidded gaze drinking you in under the dim flicker of the TV light.

“That’s exactly how it is,” you whisper, dragging your lips along the edge of his jaw, deliberately slow, while his hands explore the small of your back beneath the hem of your shirt. You shiver slightly- not from the cold, but from the way his fingers trail lightly over your skin like he owns you.

His hips shift closer, pushing you back deeper into the mattress, his weight settling just right above yours.

“I should sneak into your room more often,” he mumbles against your collarbone, lips grazing the dip there.

“You do and I’m getting an alarm system,” you manage to reply, though your voice is thick with something else entirely now-desire, want, maybe even a touch of something deeper that you’re trying not to name.

His mouth finds yours again, this time slower, more thorough. Less teasing, more wanting. The kind of kiss that doesn’t ask- it takes.

And you let it. For a while. The warmth of his body on yours, the steady press of his chest, the low hum of the television barely registering now as your mind quiets for the first time in days.

It’s messy, intense, and a little chaotic- like him. But somehow, it still feels good. It still feels like

something.

“I hope you have a condom,” you breathe, chest rising and falling as he pulls your shirt over your head in one smooth motion.

“Always,” he fires back without missing a beat, his voice low and cocky. The shirt lands somewhere off to the side, and for a second, he just looks at you- eyes trailing over your light blue bra with a small, amused grin.

“What?” you ask, already defensive.

“Nothing,” he chuckles, running a thumb over the strap. “It’s very… you.”

You roll your eyes. “I wasn’t expecting guests.”

“Glad I’m the exception,” he says, dipping his head to kiss just above the cup of your bra, making your breath hitch all over again.

But then- because you just had to open your mouth- you mutter, “Bet you used one with Sofia one of these past two nights.”

He stills.

Shit.

You can feel the heat drain from your body instantly. Why did you say that?

You brace for a reaction- anger, confusion, maybe a half-lie- but instead, he pulls back just enough to give you that stupid, crooked smirk.

“You’re obsessed with her.”

“I’m not,” you say quickly, a little too quickly. But even to your own ears, it sounds defensive.

Rafe doesn’t say anything right away. He just starts kissing your neck again, slower this time, lips brushing along your pulse like he’s trying to remind you what this is- who it’s with. “Then stop bringing her up,” he murmurs against your skin. “She’s not here. I am.”

And somehow, just like that, the tension between your legs starts to come back, replacing the jealousy you hate feeling in the first place.

His hands slide down your sides, playful now, like he knows exactly the effect he has on you.

“Besides,” he adds with a grin, “if I wanted to be with Sofia, I’d be with Sofia. I’m here, sneaking through windows and risking my life for you.”

You exhale, letting yourself relax back against the pillows.

“God, you’re annoying,” you mutter, trying to hide your smile.

“Yeah,” he leans in, brushing his nose against yours, “but I’m the kind of annoying you like.”

And unfortunately- very unfortunately- you can’t exactly argue with that.

“Yeah, whatever,” he chuckles, shifting onto one elbow while using the other hand to push his shorts down. It’s too dark to see much, but you feel it- his arousal, pressing against your inner thigh through the thin fabric of his briefs. The sensation draws a quiet gasp from your lips before you can stop it.

And all you can think about, absurdly, is Becca’s voice at the pool- Was it big? You want to be annoyed with yourself for even remembering that right now.

“Can you push the cockiness aside for one second?” you ask, voice soft but teasing as you shimmy your underwear down your legs. He mirrors the motion, slipping his briefs off. There’s a low rustle as clothes land somewhere in the growing mess of your night.

He reaches for his shorts, fishing in the back pocket until you see it- the telltale glint of a gold foil wrapper. The sight of it sends a jolt through you, anticipation quickening your breath.

“I can push the cockiness somewhere,” he smirks, voice low and full of promise.

The gold foil now somewhere on the floor, your hand finds his mouth just as his finds yours- your bodies tangled, breathless, lips muffling sounds neither of you could contain. The sheets rustle with your movements, the mattress dipping under each shift. Every breath, every whispered moan threatens to give you away, but the fear of your parents waking up doesn’t feel real anymore. It’s far, far away. Like everything else that isn’t this.

And honestly? If they burst through the door right now, it would take an entire army to pull Rafe Cameron off of you.

When it’s over- if you can even call it that- you’re lying there, naked, sweaty, breath still uneven. The TV glows quietly in the background, casting soft shadows over your walls. Some mindless movie plays, the kind of thing you’d normally use to fall asleep to. But now, it just fills the silence.

Rafe is beside you, arms behind his head, eyes on the screen. You can’t tell if he’s actually watching it or if he’s just avoiding looking at you. There’s a slight furrow between his brows. A calm one. But it still makes you wonder what’s running through his head.

You shift slightly, pulling the blanket up over your bare chest. “So…” you begin softly, hoping your voice doesn’t sound as unsure as you feel. “Was that what you came here for?”

His eyes don’t leave the TV at first, but the corner of his mouth lifts- just barely. “You think I’d sneak up onto your balcony just for that?”

You glance over at him, skeptical. “Wouldn’t be the wildest thing you’ve done.”

He finally looks at you, eyes darker now, but not in the same way they were an hour ago. Softer, even if still unreadable. “Maybe I just wanted to see you.”

Your heart does something annoying in your chest at that. You bite the inside of your cheek, unsure of what to say next.

And neither of you does. Not for a while. Just the movie playing, and the sound of your breathing slowly syncing up again in the quiet.

101 notes · View notes

mggssocks · 2 months ago

Text

Followed

masterlist

pairing: fem!reader x Spencer Reid

summary: Spencer makes an Instagram and stumbles across reader’s page.

cw: none (?)

part one

part two

part three

part four

part five

#spencer reid x you #spencer x reader #spencer reid #dr spencer reid #dr reid #bau team #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #pretty boy #derek morgan #aaron hotchner #jj #emily prentiss #cm

45 notes · View notes

mggssocks · 2 months ago

Text

The Eighth // Rafe Cameron Masterlist

masterlist

summary: One party at TannyHill changes reader's perspective on Rafe Cameron - it also changes her life. For better or for worse is the question.

pairing: fem!kook!reader x Rafe Cameron

✧ indicates mildly suggestive | ✦ indicates extreme NSFW | incomplete

part one ✧

part two ✧

part three ✧

part four ✦

part five ✦

part six

part seven

part eight ✦

part nine ✦

part ten ✦

part eleven ✦

253 notes · View notes

mggssocks · 2 months ago

Text

The Eighth

In Figure Eight, love loops back around… but so does betrayal.

A Rafe Cameron series.

the eighth masterlist

lets ignore the fact that I've been M.I.A for over a year and just dive in pls? k. bye

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x Kook!Reader

Content Warnings: Some suggestive dialogue and dirty moments but nothing you need to keep your brightness down for.

Summary: Reader attends Rafe Cameron's party (the one held in season 3) and he's intrigued by his dad's long term friend's daughter.

A/N : I already have a part two draft prepared incase any of you want it, just let me know!

masterlist

Enjoy!

You’ve lived your whole life wrapped in the privilege of the Kook world-midsummer galas, yacht parties, and an endless stream of “daddy’s money.” Second only to the Camerons in power on Figure Eight, your family was practically royalty. Your dad was best friends with Ward Cameron, and your mom has some kind of social alliance with Rose. Even so, you never really crossed paths with the Cameron kids. According to your mom-who heard it from Rose-Rafe was “off,” the kind of kid she wouldn’t let her own near. You never gave it much thought. You had your own circle, and aside from the occasional Kook event, you managed to steer clear of the Cameron drama.

Lately, though, you’ve been even more careful-ever since Ward’s shocking murder confession that lead to his death. And don’t even get started on Rafe and his goons, Kelce and Topper. You’ve had more than your share of unfortunate run-ins with that trio.

“It’s fine. We’ll just party, and you can lose Topper and the rest in the maze that is Tannyhill,” says Becca, your best friend, as the two of you head up the long driveway toward the mansion.

“It’s not even just them,” you mutter, dragging your feet up the steps. “This just… isn’t how I want to spend my Saturday night.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. You’d rather be curled up watching some romcom. You seriously need to get out of your mansion more,” Becca teases, grabbing your hand and pulling you forward.

You step into the party, Becca leading the way as she weaves through a crowd of sweaty, swaying bodies-most of them drunk, high, or both. The music is loud, the air thick. You barely have time to process it all before you’re dragged into the kitchen.

Becca wastes no time, grabbing two plastic cups and pouring something that smells like it could strip paint. She thrusts one into your face.

“Drink. You’ll loosen up,” she grins.

You shake your head, lips curling in mild disgust. “I don’t need loosening up. I need a bathroom.” You take the cup anyway and place it on the counter.

“Y/N,” she groans, before shrugging and downing the drink herself.

“I’m gonna find a bathroom. Stay here-or text me if you wander off.”

You turn to leave-and immediately run into Topper, who you assume was headed toward the kitchen for a refill. His grin spreads instantly.

“Oh! If it isn’t Y/N,” he says with a laugh, crossing his arms and blocking your path.

You raise a brow. “What are you, a supervillain?”

“Come on, Y/N. Don’t be like that,” he replies, pretending to be wounded.

“Move, Topper,” Becca calls from behind you, not bothering to step in. She knows you can handle yourself.

“Lighten up, girls!” Kelce appears out of nowhere, of course, laughing like this is all a game.

You roll your eyes. “Seriously, Topper. Move.” You give his shoulder a shove.

“I thought we were friends,” he teases, full of that smug charm that makes you want to scream.

“If we’re friends, you’ll tell me where the bathroom is,” you say, brushing past him.

“Second floor’s taken-I already checked,” he says, stepping closer. Then he leans in, lowering his voice like he’s sharing top-secret intel. “Between me and you? Third floor. Rafe’s room.”

“Thanks… I guess.” You give him a look and start up the stairs.

You’d barely set foot in Tannyhill before tonight, so naturally, you had no idea which room belonged to Rafe Cameron. But you’d rather wander around lost than have Topper escort you upstairs-God knows how that would look to anyone watching.

The second floor is quieter, a soft hum of music echoing from below. A few people mill about, but it’s far less chaotic up here. You spot an open balcony door near the next flight of stairs, and standing just outside it-there he is. Rafe Cameron. Arm slung around a brunette, leaning in too close, wearing that smug expression he probably thinks is charming.

You watch him for a second too long. He’s clearly flirting. You shake your head, unimpressed, and start up the next set of stairs-unaware that he catches the movement. He notices you. And more importantly, he notices where you’re going. That doesn’t sit right with him. Not when he’s been hiding the gold bars up there.

“Wait here a sec,” he mutters to the girl on his arm, peeling away from her with ease.

You make it to what looks like a bedroom, pushing the door open and peeking inside, hoping to find a bathroom. That’s when you hear his voice behind you.

“Hey. No one’s supposed to be up here.”

You turn, caught mid-step. “Sorry-I just really need a bathroom.”

And then you see him. Fully. Up close. Your stomach drops a little. “Oh… hey.”

He narrows his eyes, studying your face as he steps closer. “Hey…”

“The other bathrooms are full. I figured I’d be up and down in like, two seconds,” you say quickly, hoping to diffuse the tension.

“You’re… Mr. Y/L/N’s kid, right?” His arms cross, muscles straining under that tight-ass polo like he wore it on purpose.

You nod, awkward smile forming. “Yeah, that’s me.”

He stares a second longer, like he’s trying to piece together a memory that never fully formed.

“Crazy… we never really hung out, huh?”

You shrug. “I guess not. I mean, I did see you at the last Midsummers. You were chasing JJ Maybank with Kelce and some other morons.”

A ghost of a grin flashes across his face, but you don’t let it linger.

“Anyway-I really have to-”

“Yeah, yeah. Bathroom. I got you.” He turns and opens the door beside his bed, nodding toward it. “Over here.”

“How gentlemanly of you,” you mutter, flipping on the light. “I’ll be quick.”

You shut the door behind you. A few minutes later, you open it again to find him sitting on his bed, sunglasses on, tracing the rim of his red cup with one finger.

“You do know I can find my way back downstairs, right?” you say, raising a brow.

“Sure. But I’ve got a lot of expensive shit in here. Don’t need anything walking off.”

“I’m rich, Rafe. I don’t need to steal your precious Cameron heirlooms,” you reply, crossing the room toward the door.

He rises and steps beside you, sipping his drink casually. “Still more expensive than whatever’s in your little save-the-turtles bedroom.”

You shake your head, not rising to the bait. There’s no winning a back-and-forth with someone like him.

As you reach the door, your eyes land on a framed photo on his nightstand. The whole Cameron family. That’s when it hits you.

You pause. “Hey… I know we don’t exactly run in the same circle, but… I never got to say I’m sorry. About your dad.”

His jaw tightens. He looks away.

“Yeah,” he says flatly.

“I mean it,” you add, stopping at the doorway. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“It’s fine,” he replies, voice empty, distant.

You linger a second, but there’s nothing more to say. Not really.

So you leave back downstairs.

“Where the hell were you? I’ve been here forever,” Becca groans dramatically, slinging an arm around your shoulders the moment you step back into the kitchen.

“You’ve been here for eight minutes-max,” you deadpan, letting her pull you outside. A group of drunk guys are shouting around a beer pong table like it’s the Olympic finals.

“I ran into Rafe Cameron,” you say casually.

Becca stops mid-step, eyes wide with alarm. You can practically hear the mental sirens going off in her head.

“He’s… not as bad as my mom always made him sound,” you admit, more to yourself than to her.

Just then, his voice cuts through the yard- loud, arrogant, unmistakable. You glance up to see him on the balcony again, yelling something about how if people aren’t drinking, they should get the hell out. Same arm around that same brunette. Same red cup glued to his hand like it’s part of the outfit.

“He’s annoying,” Becca mutters, sipping from her own cup.

You raise your brows. You don’t necessarily agree, but you don’t disagree either.

Half an hour later, you’re sitting alone, aimlessly scrolling Instagram while Becca hypes herself up over beer pong. That’s when someone drops into the seat beside you. You glance up-it’s the brunette. Rafe’s brunette, apparently. You shift away, scooting an inch to reclaim your personal space.

Then you see him. Rafe. Downstairs now, mingling with the rest of the party like he’s slumming it. Topper and Kelce trail behind him, predictably. Human barnacles.

He stops in front of you, towering. One hand in his pocket, the other lifting his drink. His crotch is uncomfortably close to your face, so you immediately straighten your posture, putting some much-needed distance between you and that visual.

“Where’s your drink?” he asks, voice low and smug.

“I tried to get her to drink,” Becca calls from behind him, suddenly pretending she’s his biggest fan- even though not long ago she was calling him annoying.

“I don’t want one,” you say with a sigh, standing up. “Actually- I’m about to head out.”

“Becca,” you add, giving her a pointed look and nodding toward the door.

“Don’t leave,” Rafe says, and his voice drops just a little. His fingers close lightly around your forearm, just enough pressure to stop you but not enough to hold you. “You don’t have to drink. Just… stay a little longer.”

You tilt your head. “Why?”

His eyes flick over your face. He shrugs, but there’s a hint of something behind the nonchalance. “I don’t see you around much.”

Then his hand slides down, fingers brushing against yours before he laces them together like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Just over his shoulder, you catch the brunette watching. Her face doesn’t change, but her eyes lock onto your joined hands with razor focus. You pretend not to notice.

“Just play some beer pong. No shots, I promise,” he says, the edge of a smile tugging at his mouth.

You glance at Becca. She’s nodding enthusiastically, clearly thrilled at the prospect of staying-whether it’s for you, the attention, or the free entertainment.

You exhale, feeling the weight of everyone’s eyes on you.

“Sure.”

Twenty minutes later, you’re half-heartedly playing beer pong- missing more shots than you make, but at least you’re having a little more fun than before. It’s not the night of your life, but it’s better than nothing.

Rafe picks up a ping-pong ball and holds it out in front of your face.

“For good luck?” he asks, raising his brows with that annoyingly charming smirk, his eyes flicking to your lips behind his sunglasses.

You roll your eyes, somewhere between amused and unimpressed. Instead of indulging him fully, you kiss your index and middle finger and press them to the ball.

“I’ll take it,” he says with a shrug, tossing the ball. It sinks into a cup, and a round of cheers goes up.

You can’t help but smile a little, folding your arms against the evening breeze. The sun’s dipping lower now, and the temperature’s dropping with it. Rafe slings an arm around your shoulders as he cheers for himself, catching you off guard. Before you can process it, Kelce hands him the drink he just earned, and Rafe downs it like a frat boy on a dare.

You lightly grab his wrist and remove his arm from your shoulders, letting it drop while he finishes the drink. Then he does one of those obnoxious handshakes with Barry- the shady dealer you’re 95% sure sells drugs to actual children.

That’s when she appears- the brunette. She stands, adjusting her outfit like she’s trying to hold on to some dignity, and walks over to him.

“Hey, Rafe, I’m gonna go,” she says, soft and unsure.

He barely glances at her, gives a half-hearted side hug, and mutters, “Call me later.”

You shake your head. Wow.

You head toward Becca, who’s chatting with a group of girls.

“Becca, I think we should dip. My mom’ll have a fit if I’m not back by ten.”

She groans. “Your mom needs to chill. Seriously, what’s it gonna take for her to give you a normal curfew?”

“Maybe not breaking it would help.” You sigh. When she doesn’t budge, you add, “You can stay if you want. I’m heading out.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.” You smile at her and turn around-only to spot Rafe scanning the crowd like he’s looking for something… or someone.

Your pace quickens, but-

“Hey,” his voice cuts through the chatter. You stop.

You turn, and he’s already walking up to you.

“Where you going?” he asks, like it’s his business.

“Home.” You shrug. “Some of us have a curfew.”

“Curfew?” he echoes, draping his arm over your shoulders again, uninvited but this time… you don’t move it. You’re not even sure you want to. “What are you, sixteen?” He laughs at his own joke, of course.

“I’d rather be home anyway,” you say as you both head toward the front door. The party behind you has mellowed out. The music is quieter, the house less packed.

“That’s why I don’t see you. You don’t leave the house.”

“Or maybe you, Topper, and Kelce are too busy chasing John B and the Pogues around to notice anyone else living a normal life.”

You step outside. The yard’s quiet now- no one lingering out front, just the line of luxury cars gleaming in the dark.

“Don’t mention the Pogues, please. I just got rid of my headache,” he mutters, making you laugh, for real this time.

“Nice party, Rafe.” You say it like a goodbye.

“Which one’s yours?” he asks, nodding to the line of vehicles.

“I walked.”

“You walked?”

“I live two houses down.”

“Still.”

“People like you are the reason the earth is dying.”

“Yeah, yeah- save the turtles, recycle, I get it.” He waves it off. His tone is careless, but the slight smile on your face surprises even you. Why is that endearing?

“Let me drive you.”

“I’m not getting in a car to go a hundred steps,” you laugh, already walking toward the edge of the estate driveway.

“Then let me walk you.”

You glance back. “You just don’t give up, do you?”

“Nope.” His grin softens the answer, like it’s not a line-it’s just the truth.

You scratch your forehead, sigh, then finally shrug.

“Okay.”

You and Rafe walk side by side under the hazy twilight sky, the last streaks of gold fading into a quiet blue. The occasional cricket chirps in the background, and the air smells like salt and cut grass. It’s peaceful-the kind of quiet you don’t usually associate with Rafe Cameron.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. Then he breaks the silence, casually.

“It’s kind of weird… I don’t remember seeing you much growing up.”

You glance at him. “Our dad’s were always around each other.”

“Exactly,” he says, with a quick laugh. “Country club parties, fundraisers… Rose dragging me and Sarah to your house when she didn’t want to deal with us. You’d think we would’ve ended up stuck together more.”

“I kept to myself,” you say with a small shrug.

“Yeah,” he nods, looking at the road ahead. “You were quiet. Smart. Not like Sarah and me.”

“Sarah’s nice.”

He scoffs lightly. “Sarah’s a traitor.”

You raise your brows.

“She’s dating John B,” he says like it’s the most ridiculous thing on earth. “A Pogue. Can’t even pretend to be surprised anymore.”

There’s something in his voice- almost tired, like he’s still not used to it. But not angry. Not tonight.

You’re quiet for a second before asking, “What about that girl from earlier? The brunette.”

Rafe gives a half-smile and scratches the back of his neck. “Sofia?”

You nod.

“She’s cool.” He sounds sincere, not dismissive, but there’s no weight to it either. “She’s fun to have around. But… I don’t know. It’s not that serious.”

His hand brushes against yours as you both walk, just for a second. Intentional? Maybe. Your heart picks up a little.

“What about you?” he asks, trying to sound casual, but you hear the interest beneath it. “You got a boyfriend?”

You glance at him, amused. “You always ask questions like that?”

“Only when I want to know the answer.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. “No. No boyfriend.”

“Hmm.” That’s all he says, but it feels like more.

You reach your house faster than you expected. Porch light’s on, casting a warm glow. Your mom’s probably watching the clock from behind the blinds.

Rafe slows down with you at the edge of your driveway.

“This is me,” you say, stepping onto the path leading to your front door.

He doesn’t leave right away. “Hey,” he says, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his phone. “Give me your number.”

You raise a brow.

“In case I ever throw another party,” he adds, smirking. “Or, you know… need a beer pong partner who doesn’t totally suck.”

You laugh. “You made one shot.”

“Exactly. You’re good luck.”

You take his phone and type in your number, handing it back.

He looks at it, saves the contact, then looks at you again- slightly softer now. “Get inside before your mom grounds you forever.”

You turn toward the door, then glance back one last time. “Goodnight, Rafe.”

“Night.”

He walks off into the dark, hands in his pockets, and for once, the night feels quiet in a way you kind of want to remember.

It’s just past 1 a.m., and you’re tangled in your sheets, your pillow too warm no matter how many times you flip it. Sleep is nowhere close. You shift onto your side for the fourth time when your phone lights up on your nightstand.

Unknown: you up?

You blink at the screen, heart kicking just a little harder. You don’t need the name to know who it is.

Rafe.

You stare at the message, debating. Classic late-night move. Bold. Almost cliché. Your thumb hovers above the keyboard as your bottom lip finds its way between your teeth.

You don’t want to seem too eager. You don’t want to give him the satisfaction.

Still… you type.

You: maybe. why?

The response is almost immediate, like he was already watching the screen.

Rafe: figured I’d see if my beer pong partner had a better aim when she’s not in a crowd.

Your eyes narrow, amused.

You: and what exactly would I be aiming at?

Rafe: me, hopefully.

You let out a quiet laugh and sink a little deeper into the covers, already warmer than before. Of course he said that. Cocky, effortless. But somehow not annoying.

Before you can respond again, another text comes in.

Rafe: relax. just bored. can’t sleep.

A beat passes.

Rafe: and I was thinking about you.

That one lands differently. You read it twice, maybe three times. There’s a pause—long enough for him to notice.

Rafe: you’re gonna leave me on read? harsh.

You smirk, finally giving in.

You: fine. I’m up. what now, Cameron?

Rafe: now we talk. or you sneak out and come sit in my passenger seat. either works.

You toss your phone onto the bed, heart hammering, eyes flicking to your window.

No way he’s serious.

But curiosity wins, and you peer out through the curtains. Sure enough, parked down the street like something out of a teen drama, is a black SUV- engine low, headlights off.

He’s serious.

You hesitate, glancing down at yourself. You’re still in your pajamas- soft shorts and a loose tank top, the kind you’d never wear outside the house. Definitely not sneaking-out attire. But you also know damn well that if you go back to change, you’ll chicken out.

You slip your phone into your pocket, move quickly but quietly, and tiptoe to the balcony. The old ladder your mom keeps forgetting to put away is still leaned against the railing.

Your heart climbs the rungs faster than your feet.

Halfway down, your brain finally catches up.

What am I doing? This is insane. He’s Rafe Cameron.

But when your feet hit the grass and your eyes land on him- leaning against his car like some brooding coastal movie character, Solo cup in hand, sunglasses pushed into his buzzed hair- all of those second thoughts vanish.

He spots you and straightens, one eyebrow lifting in amusement. His gaze sweeps over you in the dim streetlight- bare legs, bare shoulders, tank top slightly slipping off one.

“Well, damn,” he says with a smirk, dragging his teeth across his bottom lip. “Didn’t know sneaking out came with a show.”

You instinctively fold your arms over your chest, cheeks warming. “Don’t get excited. I didn’t exactly plan for this.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he mutters, eyes shameless. Then, stepping forward, he swings the passenger door open. “C’mon, trouble. In you go.”

You shoot him a glare as you climb in, trying to ignore the way your heart won’t settle.

Rafe slides into the driver’s seat beside you, glancing over again like he’s still not done looking. “So… pajamas, ladder escape, middle of the night. Either you’re reckless, or I’m charming as hell.”

“Big assumption that it’s not both,” you say, crossing your legs and refusing to meet his eyes.

He chuckles, starting the car. “Fair enough.”

And just like that, he pulls away from the curb, the sleepy neighborhood falling behind as you disappear into the night with Rafe Cameron.

“Where are we going?” you ask, finally breaking the silence. Curiosity nips at your voice, and you can’t help glancing at the unfamiliar streets flying past the window. You’re far from your cul-de-sac now, and the night feels heavier- thicker, like anything could happen in it.

“Wherever you want,” Rafe says without missing a beat. His fingers tap lazily on the steering wheel, the other hand resting low on the gearshift. A slow, almost teasing smile curves his lips, and you can hear it in his voice even before you see it.

Your eyes drift from the blur of the world outside to the sharp lines of his profile- cheekbones cut from stone, lashes unfairly long for someone like him. Every few seconds, a streetlight flashes through the windshield and sweeps over his face, carving golden lines across his jaw and collarbone like he’s part of the scenery.

“You say that like it’s romantic,” you mutter, watching him a moment longer than you mean to.

He glances at you then, just briefly. “You say that like it’s not.”

Your lips press together to hide the smile that wants to crawl up, but he sees it anyway. You turn your head back to the window, letting the wind hum against the glass, letting your heart steady.

“I didn’t peg you as the middle-of-the-night drive kind of guy,” you say after a beat, voice softer now.

Rafe chuckles under his breath. “Guess there’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

“And you want to change that?”

His eyes flick toward you again, slower this time. “Wouldn’t have had you climb out of your bedroom window if I didn’t.”

That gets a quiet laugh out of you- surprised, honest. You shake your head and settle deeper into the seat. The car hums beneath you, and somehow the silence between you now feels easy.

“Okay then,” you say. “Surprise me.”

And just like that, he turns the wheel, taking a sharp right down a darker road, his grin growing wider. You don’t know where he’s taking you, but somehow, with Rafe Cameron driving and the rest of the world asleep, it doesn’t feel like a mistake anymore.

He takes a turn down a road that’s barely lit, the pavement narrowing between clusters of oak trees. You squint out the window, trying to guess where you are, but it’s all shadow and winding bends.

“I’m officially creeped out now,” you say, half-joking but also tugging your arms across your chest, flipping the vent away from your face. The cold air had been blasting directly onto you, and your thin pajama shirt wasn’t built for late-night joyrides. You cross your arms a little tighter, feeling the chill leave its mark.

“Don’t be.” Rafe breathes out a short laugh, eyes still on the road but a smirk teasing the corner of his mouth. “You think I lured you out of your house at one in the morning just to murder you in the woods?”

“You are giving me very ‘Dateline’ energy right now,” you mutter, side-eyeing him.

“Please,” he says with a roll of his eyes. “If I was gonna kill you, I wouldn’t have had you climb down a ladder for it. That’s just bad planning.”

You laugh despite yourself. “Wow. Comforting.”

He grins at that, full and easy, like he knows exactly what he’s doing and enjoys the way you fight your smile. “I’m not a total psycho, you know.”

“That’s exactly what a psycho would say.”

“You’re still in the car though.” His voice drops a little, smug but not pushy.

You don’t respond. Mostly because he’s right.

A few minutes later, he pulls into a small clearing near the edge of the marsh. It’s quiet out here- just the chirping of insects and the occasional splash of water. The headlights catch the glint of the sound in the distance, a stretch of silver under the moonlight.

You blink. “Is this…?”

“Yeah,” he says, shifting the car into park. “My dad used to bring me out here when I was a kid. Figured it was better than making you play 20 questions in a driveway.”

You glance at him, a little surprised. There’s something different about the way he says it. Less performative. Not a line.

“This is actually… kind of nice.”

“I know,” he says easily. “I have layers.”

You shake your head, hiding your smile again as you pop open the car door. “Don’t let that go to your head.”

“No promises.”

You step out onto the grass, arms still crossed from the chill. He doesn’t offer a jacket, doesn’t try to put an arm around you- he just leans back against the hood of his car like this is nothing new for him. Like midnight adventures and stolen moments are just how he spends his time. Like you belong here with him.

And even though you kind of want to call it stupid, part of you feels like maybe you do.

You round the front of the car and lean against the hood beside him, arms still wrapped around yourself. The marsh stretches ahead, dark and glassy, the moonlight painting silver ribbons across the water. It’s quiet in a way you didn’t expect- peaceful, almost.

“So…” you begin, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye. “You bring every girl here?”

His arms cross loosely over his chest, gaze still on the horizon. “Like who?” he asks, brow quirking just slightly.

“Like Sofia?” You toss the name out like a pebble, just to see how far it’ll skip.

He lets out a short laugh, tipping his head back a little. “Should I? A threesome would be nice.”

You scoff, pushing his arm with your elbow. “You’re disgusting.”

“I’m honest.” He looks over at you now, a cocky grin playing on his lips. “Besides, you’re the one who brought her up.”

“Only because she’s practically been glued to your side all night,” you mutter, not quite jealous- but not not jealous either.

“Glued to me, yeah,” he says, still smirking, “but I wasn’t exactly chasing her around.”

You raise an eyebrow. “No?”

“No.” He pauses. “If I wanted to be with her tonight, I wouldn’t be out here with you.”

That lands with a thud in your chest, heavier than you expected. Your gaze lingers on him for a second too long, and when you look away, you feel your cheeks burn.

“Don’t get cocky.”

“I was born cocky,” he says without missing a beat. “It’s in the Cameron DNA.”

You roll your eyes, but the smile tugging at your lips betrays you.

The silence returns, this time more comfortable. The sounds of the marsh fill the space between you both, your shoulders nearly brushing now as you lean against the same car, looking out at the same view.

You glance over at him, and this time he’s already looking at you. The cockiness has settled into something a little softer, something easier to sit with.

“You cold?” His eyes flicker downward, not subtle at all as they land on your chest, where the tank top you wore to bed does nothing to hide the way the cold air’s affecting you.

You hesitate for a second, your arms tightening a bit across your chest. You shrug and lie, “Not really.”

He bites his lip, the corner of his mouth twitching up, his eyes lifting to your face for a beat before dropping again. “You sure?”

Before you can answer, he turns and walks around to the passenger side of the car, popping the back door and rummaging around. A moment later, he’s handing you a hoodie- soft, oversized, and clearly his. You don’t say anything. Just take it and slip it over your head, letting it swallow your frame. It smells faintly like cologne and bonfires and something warm you can’t quite place.

“You know,” he starts, stepping back beside you, “you keep bringing up Sofia. I’m beginning to think that you like me.”

You scoff, cheeks flushing as you tug the sleeves of the hoodie over your hands. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Cameron.”

He laughs under his breath, casual, cocky in a way that doesn’t feel arrogant. “I like you.”

That stops you short.

You blink. “You do?”

He nods, looking out toward the water again. “Yeah. You’re cool. You’re a Kook and yet you’re still chill, humble even.”

And just like that, your heart deflates a little. Not crashing, but sinking. You were hoping for something more layered, something more loaded. Instead, it feels like the kind of compliment guys toss around to friends they like having around.

You force a smile and look down at your feet, kicking a small rock off the gravel.

“Thanks,” you say. “I think.”

He glances sideways at you. “What, you wanted me to say you’re hot too?”

You don’t answer- just smirk, eyes still on the ground.

“I mean, you are.” He shrugs, voice a little lower now. “But you already know that.”

This time, your breath actually catches for a second. You glance up, and he’s already watching you again, his eyes unreadable in the low light.

The moment lingers. Still no touching. Still no pressure. Just that quiet buzz of tension sitting somewhere between the two of you.

Here’s the next part of the scene, keeping it intimate and tense but not rushed- Rafe finally makes a move, and it’s layered with the same cocky-but-likable vibe:

You pretend not to notice, your bare, pedicured foot swinging side to side in the gravel beneath you. The air has cooled even more now, brushing over your skin with every little breeze. You’re aware of everything- how close he is, how your heart’s picked up again, how you didn’t even think to grab a pair of sandals before sneaking out of your house and climbing down a ladder like some cliché.

“Seriously,” his voice comes quieter now, smoother. “I wish we spent more time together growing up.”

He’s closer now- really close. His breath brushes your ear and it sends a ripple down your spine you can’t quite suppress. His hand is still at his side, respectful even with how bold he’s being.

“When I saw you at the party, I couldn’t even believe it was you,” he murmurs, like he’s telling a secret. “You’re so hot now.”

You try to hold back your reaction, but your lips twitch, just a little. The compliment is shallow, sure- but something about the way he says it, with his voice low and real, makes it land differently. It’s not just about your body. It’s the surprise in his tone, the honesty he can’t seem to filter.

“Now?” you tease, turning your head slightly, so close now you can see the faint freckles across his nose. “So I wasn’t hot before?”

His smirk deepens. “You were…cute. Like ‘my parents hang out with your parents’ cute. This is different.”

Your stomach flips at the way he’s looking at you. Not as a Kook girl next door. Not as some party accessory. But like he’s actually seeing you.

His fingers brush against your hand on the hood of the car. Light. Testing. But you don’t move away.

“I’ve been trying to figure it out,” he says, eyes locked on yours now. “If you were gonna shut me down or not.”

“And what’s your conclusion?” you ask, but your voice is already softer. You’re not pulling back. You’re not pretending anymore.

“That I should just go for it,” he says.

And then he does.

His lips meet yours- not hard or rushed, but like he’s been thinking about it all night and wanted to be sure. His hand lifts to your jaw, thumb brushing along your cheekbone as he leans in deeper. There’s confidence in it, sure, but there’s a bit of hesitation too, like he’s checking if you’ll kiss him back.

You do.

The kiss lingers, warmer than the night air, your body buzzing under his hoodie, under his touch.

He’s no longer leaning on the car now. He’s turned to you completely, his left hand coming to rest lightly on your lower back. It’s not rushed- more instinctive than anything, like his body’s pulling him closer before his mind can catch up.

Then he goes for it.

His lips leave yours and trail along your jawline, warm and deliberate. When they brush your neck, you freeze- not because it’s not good, but because it’s too good, too fast. The sensation sends a jolt through you that immediately makes your brain catch up to your body.

Your hands come up and press against his chest- not forcefully, but enough.

He stops.

There’s a pause. His breath lingers at your collarbone before he slowly pulls back, brows furrowing just slightly as he meets your eyes.

Now, you weren’t a prude. Hell, you weren’t even a virgin. But you weren’t about to hook up with Rafe Cameron just because he remembered your existence at a party, called you hot, and pulled out the bare minimum charm at one in the morning at the edge of the marsh.

Not like this.

“Rafe…” you start, your hands still on his chest, warm against the fabric of his shirt. You’re not pushing him away anymore, but you’re holding him there.

He lifts his head a bit higher, reading your face. His smirk softens- not wounded, just…understanding. Curious.

“I just- this isn’t really my vibe,” you say, with a light laugh that doesn’t take away from the honesty. “Like, sneaking out of my house in my pajamas to make out at the marsh? It’s giving…temporary decision-making.”

He chuckles, running a hand through his hair. “So no car sex tonight?”

You roll your eyes. “Definitely not.”

He grins- wide this time. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”

You smile too, appreciating how easily he takes it, not sulking or pushing. Just taking the L like a slightly bruised, cocky golden boy who’s still convinced the game isn’t over.

“I meant what I said though,” he adds after a moment, stepping back just enough to give you space. “You’re hot. But also…cool. I wasn’t just trying to get laid.”

“I know,” you say, surprising even yourself with how much you mean it.

He looks down at you- playful, relaxed, but something else too. He’s not used to being told no, and yet…he doesn’t seem to hate it coming from you.

“Walk you back?” he asks after a beat, his voice low, hands now tucked into his pockets like he’s grounding himself.

You nod, and the two of you start back toward the car.

No pressure. No tension. Just a guy who tried, and a girl who knows her worth.

And for once, Rafe Cameron isn’t mad about not getting his way.

The drive back is quieter than the ride there- not awkward, just…charged. The windows are cracked, letting in the salty night breeze as Rafe rests one hand lazily on the wheel, the other on the gear shift, his fingers tapping in rhythm with whatever indie track is murmuring from the speakers.

When he pulls up, he stops just short of your estate gate, the headlights casting a dim glow on the hedges but careful not to catch the cameras mounted near the front.

Always the troublemaker, even in small ways.

You reach for the door handle. “Bye, Rafe,” you say, smiling, trying to keep it cool and casual even though your heart’s doing acrobatics in your chest.

But he leans in- his scent warm, a mix of cologne and salty air- and his lips hover just beside your jaw.

“I’ll see you around, Y/N,” he says, voice low, words curling in your ear like smoke.

Then his hand slides across the center console, fingers threading through yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And before you can register it, he brings your hand lower, down to his lap- pressing it against the very obvious effect your brief make-out session had on him.

The air in the car thickens instantly.

Your breath catches, your heart doing something between a skip and a full-on sprint. You should be shocked, maybe even offended. But instead… you’re flushed, burning under your skin. The tension that’s been buzzing between you two all night crackles now, live wire under your fingertips.

Still, you pull away- reluctantly.

He watches you with that maddening little grin of his, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. Like he knows you’ll be thinking about this long after you’ve climbed back into your bed.

You don’t give him the satisfaction of saying anything else.

Just a small shake of your head and a breathless, amused smile before you quietly open the door, slipping out into the still night. You move quickly, barefoot and careful as you head back toward your house the same way you left- up the side path, up the ladder, across the balcony.

Back in your room, the breeze still smells like him. Your lips still feel kissed. And your mind is anything but quiet.

And Rafe Cameron?

He definitely knows it.

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