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rafesgreasycurtainbangs · 5 hours ago

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could you do like a heart wrenching pogue!reader and rafe? idk what like maybe rafe didn’t realize how hard his girl had it until he sees something. or how embarrassed she gets when people bring up their class differences. how she does interesting things to try and save money or make things last longer. idk up to you!

you watched rafe pull his truck into the gravel lot outside your small, weathered house on the cut. it was a far cry from tannyhill, with its peeling paint and sagging porch, but to you, it was home—a place you’d fought to keep together since your mom left and your dad started spending more time at the bar than at work.

you’d been dating rafe for three months, a secret kept from most of the island, because a kook prince and a pogue girl didn’t mix without whispers and judgment. but rafe didn’t care about the gossip, and you… you were trying not to care, even though every mention of your differences felt like a knife twisting in your gut.

you were sitting on the porch steps when he arrived, your hands busy mending an old pair of jeans with a needle and thread you’d scavenged from a thrift store sewing kit. the jeans were frayed at the knees, the denim thin from years of wear, but you were determined to make them last another season. beside you was a jar of homemade laundry detergent—dish soap, baking soda, and a splash of vinegar you’d mixed yourself to save a few bucks.

your hair was tied back with a scrap of fabric from an old t-shirt, and your fingers moved with practiced precision, though your cheeks flushed when you saw rafe’s truck.

“hey, baby,” rafe called, climbing out, his voice warm but carrying that edge of confidence that always made you feel a little out of place. he was in a crisp polo and khakis, looking like he’d stepped out of a yacht club, while you were in a faded tank top and those patched jeans, your bare feet dusty from the porch. he strode over, his eyes softening as he took you in, but you quickly tucked the sewing under a folded blanket, hoping he hadn’t noticed.

“hey,” you said, forcing a smile as you stood, brushing your hands on your thighs. “didn’t expect you so early.” your voice was light, but your stomach churned with the familiar embarrassment that came with him seeing your world—the chipped mugs on the porch, the cracked window you’d taped over with plastic wrap to keep out the rain, the way everything here screamed struggle.

rafe shrugged, his hands in his pockets. “got done with dad’s meeting early. thought i’d surprise you.” he leaned in, kissing your forehead, and you relaxed into his touch for a moment before pulling back, hyper-aware of the neighbors’ eyes that might be watching from across the street.

“c’mon inside,” you said, leading him into the house. the living room was lit by a single lamp you’d rewired yourself after finding it curbside. the couch was patched with duct tape, and the coffee table wobbled on a stack of old magazines you’d shoved under one leg to stabilize it. you’d done your best to make it cozy—thrifted curtains, a rug you’d bartered for at the flea market—but it was nothing like the polished grandeur of tannyhill. you caught rafe’s eyes lingering on the table, and your face burned.

“want something to drink?” you asked quickly, moving to the kitchen before he could answer. you opened the fridge, revealing a half-empty jug of water and a jar of homemade iced tea you’d brewed with tea bags you’d reused twice to stretch them further. “i’ve got tea. or water.”

rafe followed you, his brows furrowing slightly as he leaned against the counter. “tea’s good, baby,” he said, but his gaze was drifting—to the cracked linoleum floor, the shelf where you’d neatly arranged cans of soup and beans you’d bought in bulk with coupons. “you, uh… you okay here? like, you got enough food and stuff?”

the question caught you off guard, and your hand froze on the jar. your throat tightened with a mix of shame and defensiveness. “yeah, i’m fine,” you said, a little too sharply, pouring the tea into a mismatched glass. “i’m not starving, rafe. i get by.”

“i didn’t mean it like that,” he said quickly, his voice soft. “just… you know, i worry about you.” he stepped closer, his hand brushing your arm, but you turned away, busying yourself with wiping down the already-clean counter. you hated when people brought up your situation—hated the pity, the assumptions, the way it made you feel small.

“i’m good,” you said, quieter now, but your hands shook slightly as you set the glass in front of him. “you don’t need to worry.”

rafe didn’t push, but you could feel his eyes on you, watching the way you moved, the way you avoided looking at him. he took the glass, his fingers brushing yours, and you felt that familiar pull—wanting to lean into him, to let him hold you, but also wanting to hide every part of your life that screamed pogue.

it wasn’t until later, when you were both sitting on the couch, that it all unraveled. rafe had pulled you into his lap, his arms wrapped around you, his lips brushing your temple as he murmured about how much he’d missed you. you were starting to relax, to let yourself believe that maybe he didn’t care about the differences between you, when he reached for the blanket you’d tucked your sewing under earlier.

it fell away, revealing the jeans, the needle still threaded through the denim, and a small pile of buttons you’d saved from old clothes to reuse.

rafe’s hand stilled, his eyes locking on the jeans. “what’s this?” he asked, his voice curious but gentle.

your face flushed hot, and you reached to snatch the jeans away, but he held them out of reach, his brows knitting together. “it’s nothing,” you muttered, your voice thick with embarrassment. “just… fixing some stuff.”

he looked at the jeans, then at you, his expression shifting as he took in the careful stitches, the worn fabric. “you’re mending these?” he asked, and there was something in his tone—not pity, but something heavier, like realization. his eyes darted around the room again, lingering on the taped window, the jar of homemade detergent you’d left on the counter, the way you’d cut the sleeves off an old flannel to make cleaning rags. “baby… how long you been doing stuff like this?”

you pulled back, sliding off his lap, your heart pounding. “it’s not a big deal,” you said, your voice tight. “everybody does it. you make things last, you know? it’s just… how it is.” you crossed your arms, trying to hide the shame burning through you. “not all of us can afford to just buy new shit all the time, rafe.”

he flinched, like your words had stung, and set the jeans down carefully. “i didn’t mean it like that,” he said, his voice low. “i just… i didn’t know it was like this for you.”

“of course you didn’t,” you snapped, then immediately regretted it. your eyes stung, and you turned away, pressing your lips together to keep from crying. “you don’t have to know. you live in your big house with your fancy cars, and i’m… i’m here, cutting coupons and reusing tea bags because i can’t afford to waste anything. it’s humiliating, okay? i don’t want you to see this.”

rafe stood, his movements slow, like he was approaching something fragile. “sweetheart, don’t,” he said softly, his hands hovering near your shoulders. “don’t be embarrassed. not with me.” his voice cracked, and when you finally looked at him, his eyes were glassy, his jaw tight. “i didn’t know. i mean, i knew you had it rough, but… i didn’t see it. i should’ve.”

you shook your head, tears spilling over despite your efforts to hold them back. “it’s not your job to fix my life, rafe,” you whispered. “i’ve been doing this forever. i save every penny, i make my own detergent, i fix my clothes, i buy dented cans because they’re cheaper. it’s just… it’s who i am. and i hate that you’re seeing it, because i know it’s not what you’re used to.”

he stepped closer, his hands finally settling on your arms, gentle but firm. “i don’t care what i’m used to,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “i care about you. and it kills me that you’ve been carrying this by yourself, that you feel like you have to hide it.” he swallowed hard, his thumbs brushing your skin. “i’m such an idiot. i’ve been running around, not even thinking about how hard this is for you. i should’ve asked. i should’ve noticed.”

you looked down, your tears dripping onto the floor. “i didn’t want you to,” you admitted, your voice barely audible. “i didn’t want you to look at me and see… this. the broke pogue girl who can’t keep up with your world.”

“hey, stop,” he said, his voice breaking as he cupped your face, tilting your chin up so you had to meet his eyes. they were wet now, too, and the sight of rafe cameron—kook royalty, tough and untouchable—crying because of you made your heart twist. “you’re not just some pogue, okay? you’re you. you’re my girl. and i’m so damn sorry i didn’t see how much you were holding together. you’re so strong, baby, and i… i don’t deserve you.”

you shook your head, trying to pull away, but he held you gently, his hands trembling. “i’m not strong,” you whispered, your voice thick with tears. “i’m just surviving. and i’m so scared you’re gonna wake up one day and realize i’m not enough. that i’m too… this.” you gestured vaguely at the room, at the patched couch, the cracked walls, the life you’d pieced together with scraps and stubbornness.

rafe’s face crumpled, and he pulled you into his arms, holding you so tightly you could barely breathe. “don’t say that,” he said, his voice raw. “you’re more than enough. you’re everything. i’m the one who’s not enough, okay? i’m the one who didn’t see you, didn’t get it.” he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes searching yours, desperate and pleading. “i love you. i love you so much, and i don’t care about the money or the houses or any of it. i just want you.”

you sobbed then, the sound breaking free despite your efforts to hold it in. you buried your face in his chest, clinging to his shirt, and he held you, his hand stroking your hair, his lips pressing soft kisses to your temple. “i’m here,” he murmured, over and over, like a promise. “i’m not going anywhere. and i’m gonna start paying attention, okay? i’m gonna help, if you’ll let me.”

you didn’t know how to let him in, not fully—not when you’d spent so long building walls to keep people from seeing your struggles. but his arms around you, his voice thick with emotion, made you want to try. “i’m just… i’m scared,” you whispered against his chest. “i don’t want to be your charity case.”

“you’re not,” he said fiercely, pulling back to cup your face again. “you’re my girl. my home. and i’m gonna do better, baby. i promise.” he kissed you then, soft and slow, his lips tasting of salt from both your tears. it wasn’t a fix, not yet, but it was a start—a fragile bridge between your worlds, built on his willingness to see you and your willingness to let him.

you stayed like that for a long time, wrapped in each other, the quiet of the cut.

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