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severa-kane · 8 days ago

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FINAL ── TEMPORARY TRUCE ── RAFE CAMERON

SYNOPSIS you absolutely can't stand your roommate's brother, and Rafe can't not take an opportunity to poke fun at you every chance he gets. but when you both accidentally have a jello shot infused with molly, you decide to have a temporary truce and enjoy the night. SERIES MASTERLIST

WARNINGS language, fluff, sssmmmmmuuuut (fingering, oral fem receiving, p-in-v unprotected (do not follow their footsteps) you get the idea), mentions of staples in head. 18+ mdni. please i am not condoning drug use don't take after these idiots for the love of god. also i didn’t feel like waiting until 6pm est to post this so here’s an early last chapter? happy friday? sorry if there’s mistakes alright godspeed.

WORD COUNT 10.4k. alright. no one say anything. it was originally around 5k but like the ptputss final chapter, i couldn't let that happen. hope you enjoy this scrap.

SONG OF THE CHAPTER motion picture soundtrack by radiohead

Sarah is usually a pretty good roommate.

Despite growing up with cleaning services and maids and private chefs, she's always done a good job at tidying up after herself. Dishes are rarely left in the sink (you two normally have a truce of doing the dishes the morning after a night out, rather than dealing with them in your drunken splendor), communal spaces such as the kitchen, living room, and bathroom are, for the most part, always crumb-free and organized, and you'll even take turns cooking for each other on occasion. The two of you have fallen into a nice routine in terms of sharing your own space.

However, Sarah has little to no concept of privacy.

Especially now, as she pounds on your door and yells your name as if there's a fire.

"Why the fuck are all the condoms all over the floor?!"

It takes you a full minute to realize what's going on, where you are, who you're with.

The sliver of sunrise pokes through your sheer curtains, audaciously shining into the room and into your eyes when you momentarily prop yourself up on your elbows and squint. You blink blearily as your senses slowly start to come back to you: the sunrise indicating an early morning, the lingering scent of your body wash littering your skin, the increments of knocking on your door, and the warmth of Rafe right beside you.

He stirs not only from Sarah's loud voice, but from your movement, and you watch him endearingly frown, eyes still screwed shut as he paws for you with the quietest groan, as if the notion of you being away from him in a time like this is offensive. Once his hands find your body, he's gripping whatever he feels first — in this instance, your lower hips — and curling his fingers into your flesh and pulling you tight against him, so tight that you're no longer propped up on your elbows and instead trapped in the confinements of his arms.

You blink from the jolting movement, heart skipping when he lazily slots a leg in between yours as if the gesture is second nature.

Sarah calls your name again.

"I don't care if you have someone in there!" She yells, slightly slurring as if she's just gotten in for the night (morning?). "If you don't answer in five seconds, I'm coming in."

You stiffen in Rafe's arms.

Fuck. Holy fuck.

You think for a brief second on the implications of her walking in right now, and seeing the two of you cozied beneath the sheets after months of telling her that he's the blueprint of a guy you'd never want to be with. A flicker of panic rises in your chest at the thought of seeing him, her fucking brother, laying in your bed like he was made to be here and, apparently, successfully scoring with the girl he's been talking to her about for ages.

The attempt to free yourself from his hold fails, and he only nuzzles further into you.

"Hey," you whisper hurriedly, "wake up."

"I can hear you!" Sarah accuses from the other side of the door. "Five, four-"

You pinch Rafe's abdomen, and your quest to see if he's ticklish falls short as he barely budges, instead humming low and baritone and un-fucking-fazed at the fact that his sister is about to walk in on you two right now. While you can practically hear your own heartbeat, you can feel his beating in a slow, syncopated rhythm, relaxed more than ever despite the premeditated headache you're both about to endure.

"Three!"

Rafe doesn't even open his eyes, using his other senses to simply feel you. He gently nudges his nose against your temple, inhaling deep as his lips find your hairline to press a morning kiss, and he does it delicately enough to avoid the area with the staples. Warm hands splay on your back and waist, mapping out the bareness of your skin and nimble fingers settling under your shirt as if he has every right (he does).

If your roommate (your friend, the sister of the guy you have in your bed right now) wasn't inducing a mild panic on your part, you'd surely swoon over the simple act.

"Two—"

"Sare," Rafe mutters and the baritone of his voice vibrates against your skin, loud enough to get the counting to suddenly stop. "'T's too early for this shit."

Utter silence from the other side of the door.

The implication almost makes you burst out laughing. Almost.

Because you think at how out of left field this must seem to her right now, especially if she hasn't been to bed yet and is coming down from her drunkenness and roll. The two of you have been M.I.A. all night, not even charging your phone and his being somewhere amongst the city in someone's back pocket, so you figure they've spent a long time trying to figure out where you went.

Also because it's Rafe. Her brother. Sleeping in your room after all this time of threatening him with death if he so much as looked at you wrong. Being in your sacred space that you only let few people enter. Staying together behind closed doors after she discovered enough condoms to last a lifetime littered across the floor.

Sarah doesn't even say anything, and instead you hear the bedroom door creak open.

You can't even look at her if you tried, because you're helplessly taut to Rafe with your face buried in the crook of his neck. You can't even turn and shoot her a sheepish look because he simply won't let you, he won't let go, simply holding onto the moment just a fraction longer. Not that you necessarily mind, because — for starters — you're comfortable and warm and he smells very nice, and you could really get used to waking up like this: pressed up to him and peppered with an influx of affection that you aren't sure you deserve.

All you can do is idly lay, butterfly kissing the skin on his neck as you can only imagine the look on her face as well as his. You can picture it: his lazy, shit eating grin and her furrowed brows and incessantly blinking eyes. The image only progresses in your mind when his hand rubs gently up and down your spine, but you figure it's less of an affectionate gesture and more as a possessive stake in his claim of you, almost to rub it in her face.

"Good mornin'," Rafe drawls out, as if he's taunting her. "Fun night?"

There are a few moments of silence between the siblings, and you can only roll your eyes at his proud demeanor. Prick.

She speaks probably after staring between you two for all this time. "What the fuck? I mean, like, what the fuck?"

He only hums, and when you try to turn over onto your back so you can look at your friend, he actually lets you. But not without his hand smushing between your back and the mattress, not that he necessarily seems to mind at all because he doesn't pull it away, nor does he remove his other hand that splays audaciously on your hip, nimble fingers skimming the waistband of your sleep shorts.

The look on Sarah's face is quite literally what you pictured: her brows furrowed yet eyes wide in disbelief, her hand still lingering on the doorknob as if she's been petrified at the sight before her. She's still in last night's outfit, hair a bit mussed and mascara shadowing the slight bags under her eyes, yet she looks more awake than ever as she blinks her gaze between you and her brother. Finally, her eyes settle on you.

Her words are immediate. "Did he pay you?"

Rafe snorts as you reach your arms up, stretching long like a cat and yawning as if you've worked a twelve hour shift. "Only offered to pay off her student loans, 's all."

Sarah narrows her eyes at her brother. "Shut up." Then, she looks back to you. "Did he?"

You find the gall to roll your eyes, even though your heart is racing and your expression is sheepish. "Is it that hard to believe?"

"Yes," she retorts instantly, apparently in the mood to deprecate her brother's dignity. "He's only been obsessed with you since move-in, and it's made him dumber than usual."

"I'm right here?"

Sarah ignores him completely. "I can't believe this is actually happening. I totally called it."

Your face flushes, and you're really, really grateful that you're not facing him right now.

Unfortunately, she’s right. Sarah has been (not) subtly rooting for you and her brother to get together ever since you first threw him a scowl, ever since Rafe’s brows flung high in surprise when you — instead of ogling and swooning over his introductory flirtation — simply looked him up and down, scoffed, and carried on with moving your stuff into the apartment, ever since Sarah doubled over laughing at her brother’s shocked expression. He obviously wasn’t used to that working, and she got the biggest kick out of your no-bullshit attitude.

Ever since that day, the very first time you and him met, Sarah’s been praying to all higher beings to get you two together.

When he’d leave a room, she’d raise her brows at you as if to say “So?” and your answer was always the same: an eye roll, a snort, and a “Yeah, right” that transcended time and space. When you dislocated your shoulder and were retelling the story later to all your friends, she asked three different times to clarify that it was Rafe — the guy you wouldn’t let touch you with so much as a breath — who carried and brought you to the ER (at the time you ignored the giant fucking grin she shot her brother, who glared at her to relax). Every single time the three of you ran errands or went out and about in the city, Sarah always accidentally asked you both to accompany her, telling you it slipped her mind that he was coming along.

Your answer was always the same, consisting either of an eye roll, a groan, a snide comment, or all of the above in one go. She knew that the possibility of you ever being with him was slim to none, yet always subconsciously rooted for the best case scenario for her brother, which would be ending up with a person like you.

So now, as she looks between you and him cuddled together in a way she never thought possible, it’s obvious to tell she is thoroughly confused, yet elated.

“Okay, well,” she starts, failing to suppress a giant grin, “next time you want to rob me and John B of all our condoms, just ask.”

God, if your face wasn’t burning before, it’s definitely on fire now.

“Yup, okay,” you say quickly, “thanks so much. See you later!”

Rafe laughs next to you as Sarah takes one last fleeting glance at the two of you, before slowly retreating from the room and closing the door behind her. From the hallway, she makes a noise of excitement, a squeal? Something along those lines, and you don’t have the vicinities to study the sound since she’s already gradually getting quieter, retreating to her room with a door slam.

Silence is met between you and him for a beat, two, three, before his thumb starts rubbing gentle circles on the bare skin of your hip, just above the waistband of your sleep shorts. It sends goosebumps shooting up your arm.

“Mornin’, Star,” Rafe muses low, almost cautiously.

You wait a few moments to look at him, letting your gaze linger on the door before slowly lulling your head to tilt towards him. The sight of his hair sticking up in a million different directions nearly makes you snort, but the noise dies in your throat when you really notice how pretty he is right now: bleary eyes, tousled hair, a smile so gentle it would’ve made your knees weak if you were standing. He’s so close, closer than ever, and with the rising sunlight backlighting his features, you wish you had the capacities to take a picture, to capture this moment and save it for the books.

Apparently, you stare for too long, because with each second passing, his smile augments.

It takes you a stupid amount of time to find your voice. “Hi.”

His gaze flickers up for a moment, to where the staples lay hidden in your hair. “How’s your head?”

You go to answer, you really do, but his arm that was trapped under your back is slithering itself out, and soon his hand comes up to cradle the side of your jaw, fingers ghosting over your hairline with such delicacy that it short circuits your brain.

“Mhm?” He prompts again at your silence.

You blink stupidly. “T’s okay.”

“Just okay?”

“Yeah.”

Rafe doesn’t really like that answer. Well, you assume he doesn’t because he frowns, eyes lingering on the wound for a few moments longer before settling back into you, bright blues boring into yours with such unnerved intensity that you squirm. Instead of looking away, instead of rolling your eyes and settling on something else, you hold his gaze, and it never dawned on you how pretty his eyes really are, an alluring bright blue.

The words blurt before you can stop them.

“You still have me.” Your voice is impossibly quiet. “By the way.”

It's nothing fancy, no grandeur gesture or announcement. It's a soft spoken promise etched in the basking sunlight under lavender scented sheets, sheets that smell of him already. The words are simple, yet they hold a heavy insinuation about locked off parts of you, parts of you that you never let anyone see or feel or experience.

Yet it's how you say it, sweet and soft and laced with as much honey as a morning voice can have, but also firm and certain as if they hold their own, stand tall without a pillar as their foundation. Perhaps it's enough, at least for now, because even though it it isn't a monologue of any sorts, it's confirmation. It's hope.

Rafe swears he's never heard anything better.

His grin is lazy and relaxed, gaze soft and unnerved as he peers at you as if you've hung the stars yourself. His hands press a little firmer into your skin, simply relishing in the privilege to hold you, to feel you, to open yourself up to him as you never have with anyone before. An overwhelming sense of pride swells in his chest, of possession, because you're his. After what felt like a bedtime story, a far away fantasy, a dream, you're finally his.

His voice is saccharine. "Thank you, baby."

And the moment's ruined, at least the lovey-dovey part of it, because you can't help but scrunch your nose and feel your lip twitch at his words.

"Did you really just thank me?"

All he does is hum in affirmation, not even caring that you're practically laughing at him. He'll be fine if you jab at him until the end of time if it gets you to smile at him like this. The thought of forever with you makes his heart skip, and he attempts to mask it by leaning in, lowering his face into the crook of your neck and placing gentle kisses on your soft skin.

You feel a shiver up your spine as his fingers gently skim over the bare skin of your tummy at the same time he peppers kisses. "Sarah said since move in."

Another hum, and this time he's sucking a particularly sweet spot right under your jaw.

It makes you let out a low sigh, but you're not letting him distract you. "You've liked me since move in?"

I've loved you since move in, he almost says.

Instead, he settles on, yet, another hum.

Your hand flies to the nape of his neck, nails gently scratching the ends of his hair in a way that makes him emit a low groan. It's baritone against your vocal cord that sends warmth immediately to your core, the sensation of his body heat against yours, his lips, his nimble fingers, it's all too much, too teasing, too cruel if he still pushes you away with the fear of your injury.

"Rafe," you say in a hushed tone, embarrassed at how it's borderline a whine.

"Mhm?"

The vibration tickles your neck, and you attempt to hold onto your remaining piece of dignity as you manually shut your mouth to refrain from further humiliating yourself. Instead, you practically writhe beneath him, a hand coming up to grasp the back of his that shamelessly explores your stomach, squeezing once to emphasize your need without explicitly saying anything.

But, of course, Rafe isn't the type to let that slide.

You want to smack him when you feel him grin against your neck.

"You're insufferable," you manage to mumble.

He chuckles against your neck, low and audacious. "Sorry, baby." He doesn't sound the slightest bit apologetic. "What d'ya need?"

The words feel foreign on your tongue, words you've thought time and time again yet never had the gall to say, to speak into fruition, to submit to someone else in such a way.

"I want you."

The sigh that emits from him is guttural, deep from the back of his throat and almost needy at the sound of your words. It's dreamy, almost, as if you'd just set a nice, hot plate of his favorite meal right in front of him, ready to consume and exactly how he likes it. You figure he has been dreaming of this, dreaming of you beneath him and begging for him like a bitch in heat.

Rafe says your name almost painfully, his kisses and fondling coming to a halt.

But you groan, already knowing what he's about to say. "No. No, I literally feel fine."

He says your name again, almost in warning.

You ignore it. "It doesn't even hurt." It does a little. "Stop acting like I'm in a full body cast."

Rafe sighs gutturally, but not like before out of lust and instead out of annoyance, as if him withholding the act of sleeping with you is a giant inconvenience to him, especially when you try and push back. It's bad, really bad, timing, and sure you could wait a few days until he feels as though you're somewhat better, but, frankly, you don't want to. You assume he doesn't want to wait either, but is trying to be better, more gentlemanly with you.

You even go as far as throwing your dignity out the window.

"Please?"

The single word feels strange coming from you, as you've always hated the notion of begging for anything, especially for dick, and especially when the dick is attached to a guy like Rafe Cameron, a guy who's all flirt like it's a sport. And it's something he never hears from you, always double-taking when you add it to make sure he's heard you right.

But right now, he hears you loud and clear. And it kills him.

Rafe takes a beat, digesting the severity of your request and internally battling himself on the morality of the situation. Eventually, what feels like eons when in reality it's only been a minute, he pulls back from you, propping himself up on an elbow so he can stare down at you.

His eyes search yours for any uncertainty, any doubt or shroud of pain in your pretty features. But you give him nothing of the sorts, only peering up at him full blown with lust and need. You can tell he's thinking, the gears in his mind working overtime as he stares at you, eyes flickering from yours to the area with the staples.

"Here's the deal," he starts quietly, yet firm enough to get you nodding eagerly already. "I'm doing all the work."

You frown. "But—“

Immediately, his hand comes up to cover your mouth, palm pressing firmly to get you to shut up real quick. "No. You're gonna lay here and look pretty, and that's all you're going to do."

You're reluctant. You want to engage, to touch him freely, to be able to move to his mercy. You want to give back, to jerk him off and make him squirm just as he has to you, to love on him in the way he deserves for taking care of you all last night. The last thing you want to do here is lay still and offer nothing, not after what he's done for you, how he's made you feel in these past few hours, how he can make you feel from here on out.

It hardly seems fair to him. You're not concerned with yourself.

But all of that flies out the window when you feel him pressed against your thigh.

The breath nearly escapes from your lungs, your need suddenly tenfolds when you understand just how big he is, just how hard he is from a bit of kissing and folding from his end. You haven't even touched him yet, you've only simply said please, and he's ready for you yet patiently prolonging his need to check in on you.

"And at any point your head starts hurting," he continues nonchalantly as if his cock isn't pressing against you, "I'm stopping. Immediately. Understand?"

You blink at him, barely registering his words because you can't get over that this is happening.

"Star." A warning.

Stupidly, you find the ability to move again when you're nodding against his hand, anticipation bubbling in your stomach as your eyes meet. His brows are slightly furrowed in seriousness, blue eyes still bleary from just waking up. His hair, ridiculously, is still incredibly messy, yet as endearing as the sight is, you are seconds away from jumping his bones.

But you need to play this coy, need to behave so he'll indulge your (and his) wishes without any mishaps with your wound.

Rafe removes his hand. It sits idly on your ribcage.

"Words," he demands, fingers twitching with anticipation.

You nod anyway. "I understand." Your lips twitch. "Now, since I'm not allowed to move, can you kiss me or what?"

His mouth is on yours before you can even finish the sentence, and he swallows your words with a low mmrph, a hand teasing up your ribcage under your shirt to rest under the swell of your breast. Instantly, you're gripping his knuckles and moving his hand up so he can shamelessly fondle you where you want him to be, and at the feeling of his cool ring brushing over your nipple, you sigh into his mouth.

Rafe nearly reciprocates the sound, emitting a groan as he feels your hand leave his, instead bracing on the ridges of his abdomen and trailing down his shirt. It isn't until your fingers are skimming the waistband of his shorts where he's wincing, almost as if he's in pain.

"What'd I say, Star?"

You pout with faux innocence. "But I want to."

He nearly scoffs at you. "You'll have plenty of time for that later. For now, sit pretty and lemme eat you out, yeah?"

Your heart skips a beat as you try to rack your brain for the last time someone's eaten you out, more so the last time someone has offered to do so. The excitement outweighs the curiosity.

It's usually a pity reciprocation, as in you blow someone first, they eat you out after or the next time you see each other, or they don't even offer at all. You rarely even finish from it and have faked it more than once, but you know the stories surrounding Rafe Cameron. All of them say the same thing: he knows what he's doing. You're more than willing to find out.

"You want to?"

He scoffs again, nearly offended that you'd think he wouldn't want to. "Only been thinkin' about doin' so for ages."

His mouth is on yours again and you whine quietly, but it leaves as soon as it came before he's kissing your jaw, moving to your neck, descending down your body.

"Been wondering how you taste."

Biting a sweet spot on your neck.

"I think about you every fucking night."

Sucking one of your nipples through your sleep shirt.

"Fuck my hand to the thought of you 'til I'm seein' stars."

Kissing the flesh of your stomach as his fingers dangerously hook under your waistband. And from this angle with his face hovering at your hips, Rafe peers up at you, still searching for any uncertainty or flickers of pain.

"Can I, baby?" He asks, voice saccharine.

You're thrown for a loop, caught off guard by the obscenities of his comments (that you're not even sure he knew he made) that starkly contradict the softness of his tone asking for permission, peering up at you with a sliver of innocence that doesn't match the words he previously spoke, as if they were on his mind for ages, as if they were his second nature.

All you do is nod, blinking down at him.

He doesn’t like that. “Words.”

“Yes.” Your response is immediate. “Yours.”

Rafe lets out a shaky breath that tickles your stomach. “Gonna make me finish if you say stuff like that.”

“Isn’t that the plan?”

All he does is shake his head, shutting you up immediately when his fingers hook under the waistband of your sleep shorts and yank. Your breath hitches and, with a blink of an eye, you’re bare below the waist to him.

The shorts and underwear are thrown carelessly over his shoulder. “Plan is to fuck you right back to sleep,” he murmurs low, almost to himself as he stares at your cunt. “Sound good?”

His breath fanning over your core sends a chill down your spine, and you assume you’re glistening with need with the way his eyes almost darken at the sight of you, legs slowly spreading open and hooking over his shoulders as if you’ve done it a thousand times before. And he settled right in, one hand slithering up your chest to fondle your breast as the other ghosts over your cunt, his index and middle finger spreading you open achingly slow.

Your back arches. “Rafe.”

“Mhm?”

“Stop teasing.”

“I’m not,” he says simply, eyes glued to the way his fingers slowly disappear inside you.

You realize he’s not doing this to torture you, but to make himself actually believe this is happening, to soak in the moment that he’s been dreaming to experience. Here you are: cunt to the wind and begging for him, and he can’t get enough of it, of you. He’s seconds away from losing his mind, especially when you let out breathy moans when his fingers completely bury in you, curling in that sweet spot that has you whining so pretty he nearly finishes from the sound of it.

His eyes hungrily dart between his hand disappearing into you and your face, brows etched in pleasure and lips parted all hot and bothered. Slowly, so achingly slowly, Rafe pumps his fingers in and out, almost leaving your cunt entirely before slamming back in. His thumb, experimentally, rubs firm circles as to where he thinks your clit is.

He misses once, twice, but once he finds the spot that makes you let out a ragged moan, he doesn’t miss again.

A hand flies to his hair, tugging the messy strands harshly yet he pays no mind to it, completely and enamoringly bewitched to the sight of your glistening cunt taking his fingers so well, stretching open for him, inviting them with your warmth as if they were meant to stay buried in you. But he’s starting to get jealous of his hand, jealous of the way it gets to fuck you and his mouth doesn’t.

Without a word, Rafe lowers himself completely between your thighs.

His tongue feels like nothing you’ve experienced before as he eats you out like a man starving. Ravenous. Insatiable.

Selfishly, his fingers leave your cunt so his mouth can have you all to himself, groaning at the sweet taste of you as if it’s been paining him that he’s never gotten to taste you before. When his nose brushes your clit, you writhe pathetically beneath him, so much that his arm flies up to press down on your hip to stop you from moving, even though you continue to attempt fucking his face against his iron grip.

With a particularly firm brush of his nose against your clit, your hips practically buck up into him, and the coil gradually starts to build in your core.

“Fuck,” you breathily moan. "You're so— And I can't— You just— Fuck."

You sound like an idiot. A wriggling, babbling idiot as your mind tugs you in a million different directions, constantly distracted by his mouth, his moans, his fingers that re-enter your cunt and aid his tongue in a way that flips you sideways. You aren't sure what way is up right now, and your fruitless attempt to speak fails miserably, irrevocably rendering you speechless as the added combination of his mouth and fingers and thumb pressed firmly on your clit leave you moaning his name as if it's the only word you know.

His hips stutter into the mattress, both of you rutting like bitches in heat as he can tell you’re getting close. It’s all in the way you tug his hair a little tighter, arch your back a little higher, moan a little louder. His name falls from your lips like a mantra, a prayer, an incantation that renders you completely enamored with him, his touch, his mouth.

Especially when he groans into your cunt, the vibration only spurring you on further.

"Oh my god," Rafe murmurs into you, almost without meaning to. "You taste so sweet, Star."

All you can do in response is writhe, feeling the familiar coil start to build.

"Even better than I imagined," he rasps, inches from your cunt as he hovers for a moment, eyes darting between his hand fucking you and your face. Your head is thrown back on the pillow, eyes fluttered shut at the sensation of him, him, him. An unoccupied hand slithers up your ribcage under your shirt, reaching the swell of your breast and kneading the flesh. The ice sensation of his ring against your nipple only augments the pleasure.

And suddenly, it's bearing too much. His fingers plunging in and out, in and out, in and out, curling into the sweet spot inside your cunt over, and over, and over as his thumb presses firmly on your clit. It's the spot he hasn't missed since he found it, rubbing circles counterclockwise that make you practically see stars. His other hand pinching your nipple and shamelessly fondling the flesh as if he has every right (he does). His breathy moans fanning hot against your cunt as he stares abashedly.

"Never gonna get used to this," he curses, almost pained. "There isn't a fucking day that goes by where I don’t think about you."

The coil builds.

"You make me crazy and you don’t even know it. Wearin' my shirts thinking they were Sarah's, walking around in fucking nothing and lookin' like a fucking sin."

And builds.

He lets out a breath. "I can't count how many times I've thought about you like this, so fucking pretty underneath me."

And builds.

Rafe can tell, because you grip his hair a little harsher and grab the hand that's on your breast, almost as a way to ground yourself to the moment and make sure you don't fly away in pleasure. Your hips squirm and buck into his hand, chasing a high you can already tell is different from the rest. He's decided that you've never looked prettier: laying flush and moaning his name like a prayer.

It nearly snaps. "Rafe, you're— I'm gonna—"

"I know." His voice is saccharine. "Let me hear you, baby."

His mouth is back on your cunt, and the added sensation of his tongue aiding his fingers sends you over the edge, a wave of ecstasy washing to your core and searing hot from the waist down. You come with a strangled moan, a sound that goes straight to his dick as his hips stutter into the mattress, lapping and suuuuuuuuucking the orgasm straight from you.

The low groan he emits vibrates your nerves as he eats you out as a starved man, the noises lewd and straight pornographic as you ride out your high against his face. Your hand that grips his hair is pushing him further into you, further burying his mouth into the spot you need him the most as he laps up every last drop. The act does little to faze him, instead spurring him on to moan into you, the sensation reverberating throughout your waist and sending a shiver down your spine.

Your legs shake around his head and your chest heaves when you slowly come down, blinking the white spots from your vision and, momentarily, coming back to earth. Rafe continues to lick and suck and clean you up, claiming every last drop as he's always thought about doing, mouth still buried between your thighs and even going as far as licking his fingers dry of you.

When he mouth eventually does leave you, he doesn't pull away without placing a chaste kiss over your swollen bud, moving to decorate your thighs in pretty purple hickies and kissing up your body, smoothing your shirt up past your ribcage to take a breast in his mouth. The sensitive bud has you subconsciously arching your back up into his touch, not even realizing you do it as you still fight to come back to earth from the stupidly earth-shattering orgasm.

Rafe eventually makes his way up to your neck, sucking a quick sweet spot before moving to your jaw, then finally your lips.

When you kiss him, the breath momentarily leaves your lungs as you taste yourself on his lips, dazedly smiling from the haze that he caused. Your hand paws at his chest, settling on the firmness of his abdomen before trailing lower, and lower until your fingers are dipping under the waistband of his shorts and boxers in the blink of an eye.

Before he can pull back like he did earlier, your fingers nimbly find the base of his cock and skim down his length as if you're admiring the topography of a map.

Rafe instantly folds.

"Shit," he mutters, a mix between a moan and a whine as he rests his cheek against yours. "You can't just—"

You squeeze his cock for emphasis, causing his hips to stutter forward.

Rafe curses. "Star, oh my fucking god, oh m- You can't keep touching me like that, holy shit."

Of course, you don't listen, and continue to slowly jerk him off. He lets you for a few moments, caught up in the sensation of how nice your fingers feel wrapped around him, thumb smearing the pre-cum from his tip down his length that nearly sends him over the edge. The indulgence lasts maybe fifteen seconds, perhaps twenty, before you're squeezing particularly hard again.

His hand grips your wrist instantly. "You— I can't— You've got to—"

"I gotta what?" You feign innocence, nearly grinning and how he groans in response. "I wanna make you feel good."

"Fuck, you are," he rasps as if it's been ripped from him. "You make me feel so good all the time, baby. You don't even know it."

Pride shamefully swells in your chest at the anecdote.

"Then let me right now," you practically purr. "Please?"

Rafe grips your wrist tighter, actually stopping your movements for real this time. "No."

"No?"

He scoffs, but it comes out shaky.

"I'm not finishing in my fucking pants the first time I'm with you."

He ends the sentence with your name, a word he rarely uses, yet a word that invokes a visceral reaction from you every time he does. It almost makes you whine, almost. Yet, you actually don't know if you do or not because you're so blinded by lust that he could be whispering the secrets of the universe and you'd have no idea. Revealing the ingredients to his famous chocolate chip cookies. Spilling confidential documents that contain the cure to immortality. You'd have no idea.

And you also have no idea where this newfound eagerness is coming from, knowing damn well you've never begged for dick in your entire life.

"Then be with me," you practically beseech. "I'm yours."

Rafe curses at your words, taking a beat, two, before pulling his head back to look at you, to really look at you, his pretty blues boring into yours that are so blown with lust they nearly look black. He searches your expression for any teasing regard, anything to make him think that you're just saying that to get laid.

But you're not. You're pulsing for him, heart beating in tandem with his as if you were made to sync up. The urge to arch into him, to forever be molded to the sculpture of his body, is so devastatingly strong that it nearly pains you. The realization is horrific enough, but you truthfully can't find the energy to care or dwell on the sanctions of your dignity as you peer up at him, certain and bleeding with need for him.

"Mine?" He asks, and the clarification is detrimental.

You oblige. "Yes."

His gaze flickers to the crown of your head, to the wound. "But—"

"We'll go slow," you assure instantly, cutting off what you know he's going to say. "I want you. I don't want to wait."

He's dreaming. He must be. Because how'd he get so lucky to have you underneath him telling him how much you want him? Touching him in a way he only fantasized about? Needing him in the same way he's needed you for a year? The second he's inside you, is he gonna wake up and realize it was all a figment of his imagination? Left to succumb to the hypocrisies of his mind and move back to square one?

How could you not be a dream? Especially when you look so pretty and sound so sweet and feel so heavenly?

Rafe would be stupid to say no since you asked so nice.

So when you tug at the end of his shirt, this time he doesn't second guess the implications of your intentions and aides your act, gripping his shirt by the collar and carelessly pulling it off. You take a long second to glance at his chest, chiseled and crafted by a higher being, before your fingers are back to his pants. When you slowly start to tug his shorts and boxers down, he lets you, eventually letting you get down to his pubic bone before he's leaning back to fully kick them off.

Shamelessly, you stare at his body fully bare to you, and you nearly scoff at the audacity of him actually having a big dick. It's one thing for a guy to act like he has one just for all that smack talk to fly out the window when it's revealed to be small, but it's a completely different thing when the dick matches the attitude. And for him, for Rafe Cameron, to be both a cocky prick who happens to be well endowed is perhaps one of the audacious things you can think of.

Although you barely have time to comment on his size before his hands are all over you again, pushing the material of your shirt up to your sternum until you eventually get the hint to slightly sit up so he can slide it up over your body. You hiss when your breasts are fully exposed to the cool air, and a flicker of excitement (nerves? Whatever it is) sparks when you realize you're both bare to each other, exposing one another to the simplest of vulnerabilities one can share.

"You're beautiful, Star," is all he says before his mouth is on yours.

You kiss him back and paw at his chest as if it's a lifeline, clawing to pull him closer as if he isn't already molded to your figure. He hovers over you and when his cock, hard and aching and beautiful, brushes against your hip, you both moan into each other's mouths, him from the sensation and you from the anticipation.

Rafe's breath hitches, and the air completely leaves his lungs when you wrap your hand around him again. But the way you grab his differs from before, as earlier you were firm and needy, whereas now you hold him delicately, a wordless promise that you’re ready for him, all of him, at any time.

His hand grabs the back of yours. “You okay?”

You nod immediately against his lips, heart racing as he guides your hand that’s holding him down, down, down until his length is slipping through your folds, and you swear that Rafe fucking shudders from the feel of it.

“Holy fuck.” His forehead gently rests against yours, staring down at your almost connected bodies. “I’m not even in you yet and you already feel so fucking nice.”

Your hips buck into him, eliciting a sharp breath from him. “Then be in me.” You hate how pathetic you sound. “Please.”

However, the words are music to his ears and he could bust right here and now from them. “You don’t need to beg, baby. I have you. Always will. I got you.”

His words are saccharine. Soft and delicate in a tone only reserved for you. It’s his version of a declaration of love, an indirect promise that he’ll be here, he’s it for you, he’s all you need. The words are full of life and hope, and you’re eternally grateful that he embraced your need instead of poking fun, and you realize it’s because he needs you just as bad as you need him in this given moment. He has no room to tease. Nor do you.

And when he does slip inside you, the feeling is indescribable.

Rafe’s big. Bigger than you’ve ever had. And he can definitely tell based on the sharp breath you take when he’s halfway in. Although he’s careful with you, gradually pushing in when you give him the green light and immediately stopping when you visibly react, and as much as you appreciate the time and care, it’s so achingly slow, so much slower than you need him to be and he’s teasing you without even realizing.

When he’s completely buried in you, pubic bone to pubic bone, you feel so irrevocably full in a way you never have had before. You can feel his cock twitch inside you when you moan into his mouth at the sensation of being completely succumbed to him, the feel of him, all of him everywhere at once.

“You okay?” His ask is immediate.

“Yes.” Your hands slither up his chest to grip his shoulders, to attempt to find something to ground yourself too. “Feel so full.”

He almost finishes just from that. Almost. And thank god he doesn’t.

“If you don’t start moving,” you shakily warn, “I’m gonna—”

You’re interrupted when Rafe rocks into you once, moving centimeters further into you before pulling out almost completely. You nearly curse at him again, yell at him for basically leaving your cunt until he’s thrusting back in faster than you anticipated. Your nails become talons in his shoulders, indenting crescent moons on his smooth skin and forever etching your mark, your claim.

“You’re gonna what?” His grin is wide and breath shaky, peering down at you with not only amusement, but pure admiration. “Kill me?”

“Shut up.”

Of course, he doesn’t. “You’re all talk, Star, you’ve been sayin’ that forever and you’ve never once tried.”

You moan when he buries in you deep, so deep, it brushes your cervix. “You’re—You’re insufferable.”

“Yet you let me fuck you nice.”

“Who said you do it nice—?”

The words are ripped from your throat when his thumb comes down to press on your clit, and the irony of that plus your previous words is comical. Especially when he grins so fucking wide that it sends you nearly into psychosis, arching your back to further press your chest to his.

He preens as his thumb rubs circles on your clit. “That qualify as nice?”

You want to kill him. You want to smack that stupid smile off his face. Yet you want to kiss him and yank him closer at the same time. The Jekyll and Hyde emotions make your brain feel all fuzzy, and for a moment, all you can respond with is a low moan, almost in annoyance yet dripping in pleasure. You can’t help it— he feels so fucking nice inside you, nicer than you’ve ever had before, rocking in and out of you as if it’s what he was put in this earth to do.

“You always this mouthy in bed?”

The attempt to keep your last shroud of dignity before he makes you a blabbering mess fails.

Rafe thrusts into you a little harder, a warning. “Always this mouthy with you.”

“How flattering.”

“Can’t help it, was made to worship you, baby.”

“Am I su-supposed to thank you?”

He grins at your stuttering, eyes shamelessly watching the way your tits bounce from the force of his thrusts. “A bit of appreciation would be nice.”

You hate that you’re getting close to finishing. In the time that you’ve known him, you’ve been building up walls and closing yourself off to the possibility of getting your heart broken by him. You told yourself that the day you let Rafe Cameron in is the day of rapture, of when all hell breaks loose, of when you finally lose your mind.

Yet his words, his touch, his pretty eyes: it’s all too much. The attention is too much, especially on your clit and how he manages to push himself deeper so delicately that it reaches regions unknown, hitting spots you didn’t think possible and rendering you speechless even further. You hate how he is fucking you nice.

“C’mon, Star,” Rafe muses low, yet there’s a slight strain to his voice that indicates he’s just as fucked out as you. “Tell me how good it feels.”

You don’t want to. You want him to eat that shit eating grin and, for once, be humbled. His ego is too big, too audacious, and you know that he’s only saying this because he knows it’s true, he knows how good it feels, he knows how badly you crave and respond to his touch. He only knows because he feels the same regarding you.

And for once in your life, you secede.

“Feels good.” You let your eyes flutter shut to try and mask your embarrassment. “Feels so good, Rafe.”

You hear him moan. His rhythm stuttering.

“But don’t let it get to your head,” you manage to add, nails scraping on his back as you feel a familiar jolt to your core.

“God, you’re a fucking dream,” he albeit whines, the teasing demeanor dropping immediately as he folds his cards to your hand. “Can’t believe you’re mine.”

The coil builds in your lower stomach.

“You’re so— And I’ve been—” He’s a fucking mess, and you figure he’s close, too. “Fuck, you’re perfect, so tight, so warm, I’m— Shit, baby, I’m losing my fucking mind.”

You’re right there with him, one hand scratching up his neck to grip at the ends of his grown hair, tugging like a bitch in heat to get his lips to hover over yours. And when he does, when Rafe’s mouth brushes yours, you yank him closer to kiss him as your orgasm builds. The kiss is barely a kiss as you both pant into each other’s mouths, breathy and needy and whining as the lewd noises coming from your connected bodies spurs you on further.

“Yours,” you manage shakily, orgasm moments away.

His is too. “Mine.”

And you both finish like that: needy and flush and pathetically encapsulated by the feeling of one another. Your nails indent crescent moons in the smoothness of his muscles, scratching fresh red marks along the porcelain skin while he moans pornographically into your mouth, brows pinched in pleasure as you feel him come hot spurts inside of you.

The intensity is tenfold from your earlier orgasm. It’s searing hot from the waist down plus the added sensation of him irrevocably filling you up in a way you didn’t know you craved until this very moment. Your back arrrrrches into his chest, to fit the mold of his body rocking ferociously into yours as your chests conduct heat from the friction. Your legs hook impossibly tight around his lower back, pulling him tighter than you thought possible by crossing your ankles and using that leverage to bring him closer, to bury him further into you.

The sound is obscene. The lewd noises coming from your simultaneous orgasms plus the shameful moans that escape both your lips. It’s filthy. Downright pathetic. Yet so utterly and completely unapologetic that you can’t find the capacities to care. You can’t even tell which way is up right now, hips bucking desperately into his to chase the high and relish in the feeling of Rafe, Rafe, Rafe.

Your ears have been ringing, body on the verge of floating, senses so incredibly dulled by the ferocity of your orgasm that you don’t realize he’s been speaking the whole time, riding out his high with his words that could come across as prayer.

“—love you, oh my— Never letting you go, never gonna fucking— Oh my god— Oh my— Can’t believe you’re mine, all mine, Star.”

“Yours,” you manage to repeat, breathy and moaning and so fucking pathetic. “All yours. Always.”

That just makes him whine into your mouth. Literally. His hips slam into you over and over and over as his cum gushes out of you and spills onto freshly washed sheets but you can’t find the gall to care, not when he feels this fucking good, not when you feel this fucking great, euphoric on the sensation of him surrounding you. He’s inside you. On top of you. All around you. It’s intoxicating yet alluring. You’re captivated, and your high has never hit harder.

You see white spots momentarily, all the bundle of nerves rushing south so quickly that you’re left with your brain as mush. Feeling your eyes roll back, your hips have a mind of their own as they rut in tandem with his, both of you riding out your highs together in solidarity as everything starts to numb.

Chest heaving, you slowly start to come down from the intensity as your vision slowly regenerates and your hands soon stop shaking. Your thighs, however, are a lost cause hooked around his waist, trembling and shaking his body with the ferocity. He comes down, too, thrusts gradually slowing down as he pumps the rest of his load into you, cum dribbling out of your cunt and down your thighs onto the lavender scented sheets now stained with him.

“Holy fuck,” he rasps when he stops moving, stops thrusting, stops coming, still buried to the hilt inside you.

His cheek is warm against yours. “That was… I’ve never.. You really…”

You’re a blabbering mess, that much is obvious, especially when the spots stop blurring your vision and your body stops trembling as much as before. And as if the moment couldn’t get intimate enough, his hand is leaving your clit (eliciting a low whine from you) and trailing up your stomach to your shoulder, skimming down your bicep and wrist to engulf your hand.

His fingers lace with yours like muscle memory, squeezing once, twice, three times.

It dawns on you right now, in this very moment, that he said that he loved you.

The words had been so sudden, came and went so quickly that you barely registered them in the moment as you were caught up with the intensity of your simultaneous orgasm. But you heard them, felt them roll off his tongue as if he’s been itching to say them for so long, with such ease to them that you figure it’s been sitting docile in his brain and waiting to be revealed.

But he doesn’t register them. Not outright, anyway, and you are thoroughly shocked at how easy you’re taking it.

Love has never come easy to you. Not until you met Sarah and your friends. Family weren’t reliable and home friends were caught in the past, so you’ve been reaching for a version of love you thought you deserved. But then you realized it’s more than blood and childhood obligations to tether yourself to, and more about connection, care, respect. Sarah and your friends made you come to that realization. Yet Rafe makes you believe them.

You’re about to say something, about to address the words and respond with something stupid.

But Rafe slowly pulls out of you, your combined fluids making an audacious mess at the action, as he rolls over onto his back, staring at the ceiling with his hand still laced in yours as if he’ll float away he lets go.

“Oh my fucking god,” he eventually curses, chest heaving. “I didn’t even use a condom.”

You can’t help but laugh. No, cackle.

Because that was the catalyst for the night’s mishap. You needed condoms, he left to get some, you fell in his absence, he discovered you too late. It was your attempt to be good, to be safe and responsible because you always are. But, of course, you were too caught up in the pleasantries of having him, needing him, craving him.

You squeeze his hand without meaning to. He doesn’t mind, lulling his head to the side to stare at your profile.

“So much for being careful,” you muse lightly, voice hoarse. “And so much for changing my sheets.”

You feel his bright blues boring into you as you stare at the ceiling. He boyishly laughs, a sound that is music to your ears as he squeezes your hand back in a way that makes your heart lurch, especially now that you know his true feelings, feelings he doesn’t realize he exposed in the heat of the moment.

“My bad, Star,” Rafe says with such eased nonchalance that it makes your head spin. “I’ll make sure your sheets live to see another day.”

All you do is hum, feeling airy and spacey in the rising sunlight as his hand is warm in yours. When the mattress dips beside you, you don’t flinch or crack a joke or freeze, but rather lull your head to the side to invite him into your space.

And he accepts the invitation, propping himself up on his side to practically peer down at you, taking the hand that isn’t in yours to cradle your face so delicately, so carefully, that your heart skips a beat. Especially when his blues bore into your eyes and gaze on you with a softness that augments the lovey-dovey feeling that you so desperately hate.

“You okay?” He asks for the umpteenth time tonight.

You nod against his palm, figuring that being vulnerable couldn’t hurt. After all, he’s seen you naked and bleeding and crying and still hadn’t run away yet, so you assume that he’s in it to see all your faults, unfazed by the ugly parts of you that you rarely let people see.

“Yeah,” you murmur gently. “Are you?”

Rafe can’t help but snort at your concern. “Baby, I’m on fuckin’ cloud nine right now.”

You manage a grin.

“Let me get you cleaned up,” he adds, leaning in before you can protest to place a soft chaste kiss on your lips. “Stay here and look pretty.”

He’s leaning back before you know it, hand leaving your face and body leaving your vicinity, the warmth leaving with him. You watch groggily as he slips his boxers back on (after standing idly for a moment to look and see where they went) and momentarily exiting your room. The first thought that comes to mind is that you should cover up, you should attempt to appear halfway decent before he comes back to try and gain back an ounce of your dignity.

But the urge never comes. You simply wait for him.

Rafe reappears seconds later, a warm damp towel between his fingers as he sits on the edge of the bed. Flinching when the towel meets your thighs, he cleans up what he can with the utmost delicacy that you’d think he’s handling fine china. And to him, he is.

When your eyelids hang heavy, you catch a glimpse of him smirking, almost to himself, as he finishes up wiping you clean.

You try to frown but you think it comes across as a smile. “What?”

All he does is hum gently. “Told you I’d fuck you back to sleep, that’s all,” he muses, clearly pleased with himself and your fucked our state.

“Rafe.”

“What? I’m a man of my word.”

When you try to stand on your own, he’s there to take place a guiding hand on your elbow, helping you find your footing like a baby fawn. Rafe grabs you your robe when you beckon for it, sliding over your body and maneuvering into the bathroom to use it and do a very, very quick version of your night routine (good morning, world). In the midst of you re-entering your bedroom, you find him just finishing up replacing the (now damp) fitted sheet with a clean (dry) one you had in the closet.

“Found a spare set,” is all he said about the matter, and instead helps you out of your robe to feel you bare again.

You crawl back into bed, nearly sighing at how inviting it is as you flip onto your back. Through sleepiness, you watch him make sure the towel and sheets are in your hamper before allowing himself to relax, wasting no time easing back into your bed and settling in next to you as if he was made to lay here, as if the mattress is already molded to his figure, as if you already haven’t designated that side of the bed to him anyway.

His hand slithers across your tummy, laying rest on your bare hip bone under the sheets and pulling you taut to him. You’re yanked away from your usual spot and held flush against his chest, inhaling his scent like a freak and letting the atmosphere lull you to sleep.

One of Rafe’s hands cradles the back of your head, the other tracing the vertebrae up and down your spine.

“Later,” he says after a long silence, “when we’re feeling okay, I’m taking you out.”

Your heart skips a beat. “You are?”

His response is immediate. “Yes. Dinner. Dessert. Fuckin’ go-kart for all I care. Whatever you want, Star. Wanna show you off ‘nd show everyone you’re mine,” he murmurs, voice low and baritone and so casual as if it doesn’t rattle your brain.

Still, you can’t help but smile.

“Don’t remember you asking,” you tease, seconds away from sleep. “Is this your fool-proof flirting tactic in action?”

He snorts, and it makes his chest bump impossibly closer to yours. “My tactic wasn’t all that fool-proof. It took you a year to notice.”

You preen, even though he can’t see it. “Had to keep you humble, Cameron.”

Your voice is impossibly soft, so genuinely fucking happy that he can’t even poke fun. Not while you feel so nice in his arms, anyway.

“Mhm, Star,” he drawls out. “Speaking of humility, we’re adding a new law to the friend constitution.”

You already know where he’s going with this, and groan against the soft skin of his neck.

“Rafe—“

“No one is allowed to shower in extreme temperatures while a second party isn’t present,” he recites formally, not even bothering to apologize for cutting you off. “I’m proposing that at the next town meeting.”

You manage to roll your eyes. “That’s excessive.”

He probably senses it. “It’s necessary. Your injuries make up at least half the list.”

“Semantics.”

“Never leaving your side from now on,” he murmurs casually, “and if I do, I’m wrapping you in bubble wrap.”

The thought pathetically excites you, biting your lip to suppress a wide grin that he wouldn’t even be able to see anyway. You smooth your fingers over his abdomen, simply taking a moment to appreciate the close proximity, how he opened his heart to you on a silver platter and irrevocably make him yours.

“That a promise?”

He hums, as if he has all the time in the world to indulge, as if it’s obvious that he’d be serious. You’re his now, how could you forget? Especially when his arms hold you close and his knee slots between your legs, latching to you, claiming you in a way no one ever has before. It’s absolutely intoxicating, thrilling, allured to his scent and his touch and him, him, him.

You think you love him. You’d be stupid not to.

And you think he has some sort of idea, especially when you subconsciously pull your head back to stare at him, heads sharing the same pillow and faces inches apart. You simply stare at him, admire the strength of his jaw and the slope of his nose, how his laugh lines are accentuated when he smiles in the slightest, the blue of his eyes boring into yours, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest against yours.

This is how you come down: bones exhausted from the night before, mind turned to mush by the injury and how he’s made your head spin with every flirtatious comment, every confession, every genuine act of love, compassion, care. You fall asleep in his arms and he falls asleep in yours, lulled by the cadence of his heartbeat and his soft, sweet nothings.

You think you say you love him, you aren’t sure in your practically asleep state, but when he pulls you a fraction tighter in his sleep, you let yourself relax. You let yourself be loved by him.

salem-s please do not copy or replicate work unless given permission. mdni.

notes sorry for the LAME ending hope u enjoyed the series!!! thank you for all the support this has been super fun to write. also NOT CONDONING DRUG USE okay thanks!!!!

402 notes · View notes

severa-kane · 8 days ago

Text

04 ── TEMPORARY TRUCE ── RAFE CAMERON (18+)

WARNINGS language, drug usage (molly), fluff, nudity and suggestive content, mentions of an open wound and blood, getting staples in the head (ooooouch), incorrect medical procedures (yall I am not a doctor). 18+ mdni. please i am not condoning drug use don't take after these idiots for the love of god.

WORD COUNT 11.6k. will there ever be peace.

SONG OF THE CHAPTER nobody new by the marías

The first thing Rafe hears when he re-enters the apartment — hands cupping an unfathomable amount of condoms — is a concerning thud.

It isn't a thud that emulates a shampoo bottle knocking over or even on the off chance that the shower curtain somehow clattered to the floor. It isn't even losing your balance and slamming a palm into the wall to steady yourself kind of noise.

No. It was louder than that. Chaotic. A collapse.

He freezes by the doorway, narrowing his focus to try and hear if anything follows. Usually a fallen object or loud bang in the shower is soon followed by an “I’m okay!” or “Fuck!” that indicates that the sound is an accident, nothing to worry about, a simple miscalculation of a thrown elbow or hip knocking something over.

But nothing follows in the wake.

Rafe says your voice loudly, voice pitching up at the end as he waits for a response, waits for some sort of affirmation that he did not just hear what he thinks he heard.

When silence follows, his feet are moving. Fast.

He reached the bathroom door, wincing at the steam engulfing the bathroom. Blinking once, twice, he says your name again, in warning.

There it is: your voice low and groaning. "Ow."

His heart skips. “Baby, I’m coming in, okay?”

At his words, you give no further indication of if you hear him or not, but frankly, Rafe isn't waiting for anything else before he's carelessly tossing the handful of condoms into the corner and ripping the curtain open, eyes widening and breath catching at the very concerning sight in front of him.

You attempt to sit up on the shower floor, one hand on the ground and the other cradling the front crown of your hand, blood pooling between your fingertips and dripping down the front of your face like a fucking murder scene. You blink blearily, as if you're regaining vision, brows furrowed as your movements are sluggish. There's no doubt you're confused, and he's not even sure if you can see him right now.

Rafe's wasting no time turning the faucet off, quickly fumbling to yank two towels off the rack next to him. He loosely covers one over your body — knowing that you'd probably be significantly mortified if this is the first time he's seeing you naked — and the other pressing firmly onto the wound, gently removing your hand coated in blood down into your lap.

Although, you don't register why he's removing your hand from the wound as you distortedly paw at the towel on your head, attempting to regain some semblance of control over the matter even though you can't really see. You can only make out the figure kneeling outside the tub, looming over you, pressing the towel on your head that feels like a boulder.

"Easy." You hear, and your gut sinks when you realize it's Rafe. "It's alright, you're alright."

His voice sounds like it's underwater, and the ringing in your ears only gets louder the more your eyes blink out the blurriness and begin to pointillize on your surroundings. To ground yourself to reality, your hand curls around his wrist, nearly jolting when you feel the thrumming of his pulse, the irregular rhythm contrasting your own that's too slow, catching up to the speed of things.

The spot on your head throbs in an electrocuting way, however it's drastically unlike the airy, cloud nine type of jolt that you were feeling earlier, but more stabbing, as if lighting is striking over and over and over again in the same area.

When your vision slowly starts to come to, all you can fixate on is the angry, blaring red covering your hand, your arm, the towel loosely covering your body. You wince, panic spiking as you suck in a particularly harsh breath, grabbing his wrist a fraction tighter at the revelation of it all. You're bleeding. A lot.

Then your eyes find Rafe's, who you realize has been talking the entire time.

The ringing in your ears is slowly starting to dissipate as you focus on the way his mouth is moving, trying to decipher the words as you stare very intently. You blink and furrow your brows, the confusion gradually disappearing when you can start making out some of his words.

"-et you up, do you think you can stand for me?"

"Stand?" You murmur back, and you're not even sure if that's what you said as it comes out like an incoherent babble.

But Rafe nods slowly yet firmly nonetheless. "Yes, Star. I'm going to help you stand up. Can you hold this towel against your head?"

You blink slowly once, twice, before whispering what you think resembles a yes, hands pawing up to the towel to press firmly against the wound. Wincing at the contact, you watch as he retracts his hand, hooking that arm behind your back while his other snakes under your bent knees. The touch against your bare skin is a thousand pin pricks accupunturing your nerves, but it doesn't beat the pain throbbing in your head.

Without warning or even a countdown, Rafe is suddenly griiiiipping you tight and hoisting you up into a bridal's carry. The towel that was thrown over your body is bunched around your middle, but that's nearly your concern as you press the head towel against your wound. You shut your eyes, feeling him maneuver out of the bathroom and into your bedroom across the hall.

The contact of your bare ass against your bedspread makes you flinch at the coldness, but Rafe pays no mind to your indifference to the temperature change, instead gently tapping your thighs to get you to meekly open your eyes to look at him.

He's kneeling in front of you, as his gaze darts between your eyes and holds such a seriousness that you've only seen once from him, when you fell and dislocated your shoulder that Halloween and he was there to talk you down. The look should be comical: his brows pinched in worry, eyes glossed with concern, a permanent down-tick in his lips.

"Keep holding the towel, baby," he says gently. "I'm going to put some clothes on you, and then we're leaving, okay?"

Frankly, you don't really register the depth of his words yet nod anyway. You obey as you press the towel firmly on your wound, frowning at the pain and frowning at the way he's frowning at your wince. Yet the sight doesn't last for long because suddenly he's no longer in front of you, instead darting across the room to precariously open drawers. He plucks out a pair of underwear, shorts, a tank, and a zip up hoodie from your closet.

It's almost a relief when he's back kneeling in front of you, starting with the loose tank that he slips up your body from the ankles up, soon hooking under your arms and covering your chest. He makes sure your arms go in one at the time so one hand is always pressed firmly on the towel, which is something you hadn't really noticed he accounted for. Next, he's hooking the underwear under your ankles and shimmying them up your body. Your shorts come after. And the final touch is your zip up snaking up your arms and the flip flops slipping on your feet.

"Good girl," he says quietly, your name following on his lips just after. "We're gonna go now and get you fixed up."

You barely register that Rafe's picking you up again, but you frankly don't seem to mind as you clutch the towel tighter, burying your face in the crevice of his neck as you slowly shut your eyes. His fast pace movement is making you pretty dizzy, so all you can really do is try and focus on his voice spewing out sweet nothings as if it's his day job, focus on his alluring scent, focus on the fact that he's moving so damn fast that he could be supersonic and you'd have no idea.

The bright fluorescent lights are what cause you to blink your eyes open.

The cool-aired three block walk (more like sprint) helped you regain a semblance of your consciousness back, no longer feeling as dizzy as you were before as you start to hear everything normally again. No more ringing. No more underwater voices. No more lulling in and out of distorted babbling.

You're feeling a bit like yourself again. And you wish that you didn't because you're fucking mortified.

The ER is, thankfully, not busy and you're able to be seen right away by an older doctor whose name, honestly, escapes you as she asks you questions on what occurred. Her aide, a young medical student, pipes in occasionally. You feel pretty stupid stumbling over your words, not because of the dizziness that's no longer there or the ridiculously fluffy pink towel you're holding against your head.

No, it's the fact that Rafe Cameron is sitting to your right, gripping your hand like a life-line and answering the doctor's questions like it's a matter of life and death.

Everything you're unable to answer, he's swooping in like some modern-day Superman to fill in the blanks. You were lightheaded, you hit your head on the faucet when you passed out, and apparently you were bleeding and out of it when he arrived. All the parts that he recounts on his side of the story has your face flushing unprecedentedly hot. Such a fucking mood-killer.

You feel like an idiot, especially when the doctor asks you to remove the towel so she can inspect the damage, and everything feels like a million stabbing pains as her hands feel around the crown of your head. You feel even more like an idiot when you squeeze his hand out of comfort, perhaps a little too harshly, but he doesn't even flinch, doesn't complain, and instead gives you one, two, three light squeezes back.

"Ah, yup," she confirms cooly, inspecting the wound as if she's searching for head lice. "You're gonna need staples. Three, maximum."

Her fingers leave your wound and you nearly sight in relief, taking the temporary gauze she handed you to put back on the spot in the meantime. You blink stupidly at her, panic bubbling at the thought of literal stitches in your head from a freak accident. The underwater sense comes back to your hearing, and you don't catch a lick of what she says as you watch her momentarily leave the room, her aide following.

Your gaze lingers on the door for a moment too long, sucking in a breath at the realization of what they're about to do. Staring blankly at the bloodied pink towel in your lap, your mind spirals.

Are they going to drug you up? If they are, are you supposed to tell them you're currently tripping on an ecstacy drug that surely can't be FDA approved since your friend cooked it up in your apartment bathroom three blocks over? Is the process going to fuck up your hair? Is it going to hurt? Can you shower with them in? Will you have to sleep on your non-designated side for months after? Can you wear hats? Is it going to hurt? Are you concussed? Is the sudden dizziness normal? Is it going to hurt? Is it going to hurt? Is it going to hurt?

"Hey." You hear Rafe. "Look at me."

Reluctantly, you peer over at him.

You can't imagine you're looking anything stable right now with your wide, panicked eyes, dried blood sticking uncomfortably on your face, hand nearly shaking in his. The implication nearly makes you laugh, because this is probably the least attractive thing that could've happened at the worst possible timing. You figure that's one quick way on how to lose a hard-on.

"You're going to be fine, Star," Rafe reassures gently, blue eyes swimming with such warmth and affirmation that it nearly takes your breath away. "Took it like a champ."

You don't smile. "Is it going to hurt?"

The waver in your tone makes you want to groan.

Especially when his other hand comes up to cradle your jaw, holding you delicate and fragile as he skims a comforting thumb over your cheekbone. You have half a mind to tell him off, that his hands will get dirty, but truth be told, his touch is closest thing you'll get to comfort, to grounding yourself, so you let him. You let him hold you. You let him indulge on what he's been thinking about for forever.

"It's gonna be a few pinches," he says simply, "then it'll be over."

You frown, especially when he brushes a stray tear from the corner of your eye that you didn't know you had. "Promise?"

Rafe's answer is immediate. "Yes, baby."

Of course this had to happen. Of course you had to ruin this man's ten month long dream because you simply got too impatient. Of course he's the one who found you hurt, again, and had to dress-

Then, your eyes widen for the umpteenth time, heart lurching to your throat at the implication of how your clothes came to be on your body. Obviously, you didn't process it while it was happening because you clearly had bigger things to worry about. But now, as you sit here in front of him, dressed in clothing you did not put on yourself, you can't help but reel in embarrassment.

"Oh my god." You squeeze your eyes shut. "You totally saw me naked."

Your humiliation only grows when he boyishly laughs, the pleasant noise being a mixture of amusement and disbelief. Overlapped with his laughter is the sound of you groaning as you try to rip your hand away from his in a feeble attempt to save your dignity, to not have to hold onto him like a lifeline and cover your face to mask your fucking horrid mortification.

But he doesn't allow you to. Instead, he grips your hand tighter.

"Nope," he says through gleeful laughter. "I didn't even see anything, baby."

You refuse to open your eyes. "You're actually lying."

Rafe only scoffs a laugh, and you can only imagine the giant grin on his face that only forms to your detriment. "Scouts honor."

"We've established you're not a boy scout."

"Star."

"Your word means nothing."

He dramatically gasps. "Nothing?"

"Rafe."

He only responds with your name in a teasing tone, as if he's attempting the world record for how many times he can push your buttons in the span of twenty four hours. And, so far, he's close to — if not already — breaking the record. He is doing it more than ever now that you gave in, you reciprocated feelings you didn't even know that you had, he's had this gleam in his eye that makes him out to look like the happiest person on earth.

You don't know if that makes you want to puke or kiss him again.

Blinking an eye open slowly, your gaze finds his and you wished that you hadn't even taken the leap of faith, because he's staring at you with such softness that it makes your heart lurch. It also doesn't help that he's trying (and failing) to suppress a grin. But not the kind of grin that usually appears when he's teasing you or relishing in your embarrassment, but rather a genuine one.

Because now it's all in the open. He's said his piece, told you about his nearly year-long feelings for you in a way no one has ever liked you before. And you — wordlessly — said your own piece, kissing him as if your life depended on it and craving more and more of him with every second that passes. Not only craving his taste, but simply Rafe. All of him. Body and mind and soul.

That realization crashes over you like a tidal wave.

"Don't take this the wrong way," he says after a moment, softer than you've ever heard him speak. "But you are very, very beautiful."

Ignoring the way your heart practically drops to your gut, you suck in a harsh breath as the air momentarily leaves your lungs. You look for any shroud of doubt, any sliver of teasing in his eyes, but your search comes up short. His bright blues simply stare at you, wait for you to process his words. He's not expecting anything in return, especially when he's been practicing the art of patience in a way he never has. For you.

Your eyes dry up after not blinking for what feels like forever. Blinking once, twice, you're overwhelmed with emotion and stare down at your conjoined hands, attempting to remain stoic but giving away your indifference with your sheepish smile. You try and rack your brain on if anyone has ever said something like that to you before.

"I knew you looked," is all you can say.

Rafe snorts, rubbing an absentminded thumb over your skin. "I'm sorry, baby. Had to dress you."

You hum distantly, mind running amiss as you recount the evening through fragmented memories. All you can really remember is the sheer excitement of getting with him, the anticipation of being with him in a way you never thought you could have him, the realization that he's wanted you for so long. The smile slowly falters from your lips as guilt bubbles up in your chest, avoiding his eyes and settling on his comforting gesture.

"I'm sorry."

You can already imagine the frown on his face at your words.

"What?" His tone is incredulous. "Why are you apologizing?"

Granted, you feel a little stupid having the urge to apologize for everything and nothing at the same time.

You're sitting criss cross in a hospital bed, holding gauze to an open head wound while the guy you've been loathing (loose term) for a year is holding your hand with such delicacy that it makes your heart lurch. You're adorned in clothes that he put on you because you were too out of it to even form a cohesive thought, that being the first time he saw you naked, nonetheless, even though you were right about to shower together and probably do much, much more.

"I definitely killed the mood," you mumble sheepishly, especially when you see his lips twitch in your peripheral. "I didn't... There wasn't... I didn't mean to, like, ruin the night."

Your words are mumble-jumble, you both know it. Although your pathetic excuse at an apology seems to fall upon deaf ears, because he grips your hand a fraction tighter and leans forward in the dingy hospital chair that creaks if you do so much as twitch, entering your line of sight so that you're forced to look at him.

And you do.

There's nothing irritated or angry in his expression. Instead, his eyes glisten with amusement, as if he's containing a million things to say and refraining from preening with joy. This whole thing must feel like one big dream to him, you realize, because now he's (partially) got you right where he's wanted you for so long.

"Star, I've been waiting for you for almost a year," he muses low. "I think I can handle a few more days."

The first part of his sentence hits you so blindly that you barely register the second half.

"Wait, days?" You ask, sitting up a fraction to emphasize your confusion. "Why days? We're not..? When we get home? We're not gonna..?"

You stop your incoherent fumbling at his wide grin, shaking his head at you almost in disbelief that you're expecting anything after what you've just endured. For fuck's sake, you passed out in the shower and cracked your head open, and you're still thinking about fucking him? Surely the dizziness has also made you delusional. But he actually can't get enough of you.

Rafe says your name so ardently. "You have a mild concussion and you're about to get staples in your head. We are not fucking when we get back."

You frown. "We're not?"

"No, baby."

"But..." Your words escape you. "We're not?"

Rafe laughs, clearly amused by your sudden infatuation with him. "When you're better, absolutely."

You reek of desperation. "But I'm better now."

"Star."

"What?"

All he can do is shake his head, beaming at you with such delight that you don't think you've ever seen him smile like this at anyone, let alone in general. He looks so pretty that it makes your heart hurt, thumping uncomfortably in your ribcage. Has he always been this pretty? Surely he hasn't, right? You would've noticed before?

"You're killing me," he murmurs low and amused, almost to himself.

You're about to defend the case further, states your reasons and present your wants and desires as much as you possibly can to change his mind, but the doctor and her aide come back into the room with all the necessary equipment.

"Okay!" She chirps to almost cheer you on. "Ready?"

And that shuts you up almost immediately.

The staples aren't all that bad.

Your dislocated shoulder hurt way more, so you've endured a pain much worse than the staples. Not saying they were pleasant, because, frankly, they weren't. The wound was cleaned, the aide practically held your head together while the doctor did the procedure, and you tried really hard to sit through it like a champ.

Did you cuss? Absolutely. Did you squeeze Rafe's hand so tight that you felt a few bones cracked? Yes, indeed. Did he complain about it? Not in the slightest.

He was great, even. Rafe held your hand the entire time and kept you updated on what was going on: "Alright, Star. First one's done, two more to go, yeah?"

When the last one was finally in, he murmured a quiet, "Good girl" that had your head spinning. You blame the sensation on the literal staples in your head.

Once you're discharged, you and Rafe are walking side by side out of the ER, not without his hand pressing against the small of your back. You aren't sure if the gesture is done out of stability so that you don't pass out on him once again, or just out of sheer possessiveness, but either way you are not complaining about the contact and instead revel in it. At your eased demeanor, he pulls you a fraction closer.

Glimpsing at the time on the clock before leaving, you realize you've both been rolling for about four hours.

The numbers run fresh in your brain. Has it really been that long? Have you really been on your little escapade with him for four hours?

It's felt like eternity yet minutes with him, stretched and pulled thin like the tide. You couldn't believe that, at first, you thought it would be a shit show that you were going through this experience with Rafe Cameron, of all people. But he's proven to you that he cares about you more than he lets on.

Or apparently he does let it on? Because everyone knew of his feelings but you.

"I can hear you thinking."

Rafe's voice lulls you from your restless brain as you slowly stride on the sidewalk, only a block away from your apartment now. It's well into the night: there's some drunken laughter a few blocks away and the distant rumbling of the nearby bar, yet other than that, it's pretty quiet around you. But all you can really focus on is the smell of cologne, his searing hot hand on your back, how his baritone voice seems to echo off the alleyways.

"I just..." You try and find the right words. "Thanks..? For, like, carrying me and all. And for...not letting me bleed out?"

You hate how fucking stupid you sound, and nearly wince at your poor attempt to genuinely thank him for all that he's done for you in the span of a few hours.

He whistles low. "You've gotta stop scarin' me like this, Star. First the shoulder, now the head."

You groan.

"I'm gonna have to smother you in bubble wrap," he says, half joking half serious.

Without even realizing it, you paw at his arm around your back and remove his palm from the base of your spine, interlocking your fingers together in a tooth rotting gesture that nearly makes you puke, especially when he preens amusingly down at you. You do your best to stare straight forward and not give into your peripheral where he's staring right at you. You also try and ignore how fucking nice it feels to be holding his hand, how it grounds you, how it's as though his palm is molded to yours.

Not that you'd ever tell him any of this, though, because then you'll never hear the end of it.

"You're insufferable," is all you can manage.

Rafe hums. "You holding my hand says otherwise."

You only shake your head, scoffing and not trusting your words.

Yet you don't rip your hand away.

Not when you finish the last block of your walk. Not when you enter your building. Not when you make it to your apartment door that he didn't even lock on the hurried way out. Not in a million years, now that you know what it feels like.

Although you pause in front of your bedroom door, darting your gaze between it and the bathroom. You wince, seeing spots of blood in the shower and also remembering the whole reason you wanted to shower in the first place.

"I still..." You trail off. "We didn't even-"

"It's alright," Rafe says, guiding you into the bathroom and sitting you down on the closed toilet seat. "We'll still clean up, okay?"

You hate how understanding he's being, how patient he has been throughout the entire night. Starting with your borderline panic attack when you took the jello-shot to now, practically coddling you and still doting on you when he's done so much for you in the past couple of hours. He's been with you in a way no one else has before, cared for you in a sense that has your stomach churning.

As you watch him intently wash away and scrub down the tub from the prior events, you can't help but feel partially guilty that he's been putting all this work in to not even get lucky tonight. Here he is: on his knees cleaning because you want to use the tub, because you refuse to get into bed without it, because you asked for it.

"Rafe," you say quietly as he finishes getting the blood out with spray, "you don't have to do any of this."

He turns on the faucet, letting the warm water gradually fill up the now-clean tub.

Then, he turns around to face you, eyes shamelessly raking up and down your frame. Rafe takes you in, drinking up your sheepish expression and tired gaze as if he has all the time in the world to do so, as if he's admiring a portrait or looking out onto the skyline.

There's a few moments of this, of him simply staring until you feel a bit shifty under his gaze. You assume this isn't the first time he's kept his eyes on you for a little too long, but this is the first time you're really noticing, taking note of how he always is looking at you in some sort of capacity. Your eyes always left his first, always peering away to the next person or your nails or the soda can on the counter, but you could always feel his eyes still on you.

But now, since you've reciprocated his feelings without even knowing you had them in the first place, your gaze stays on him. You don't shy away from it, even if you squirm a little with the intensity of his bright blues taking in the smoothness of your skin, your cheekbones, the column of your neck.

After what feels like ages, Rafe finally moves, kneeling between your knees and placing his calloused palms on your bare thighs as if they were made to stay there. He skims his hands gently up and down your smooth skin, the contact nearly making you jolt with unfamiliarity yet nostalgia.

Is this really what you've been missing? All those times you physically pushed him away, you were missing out on the warmth yet fire of his touch?

And he doesn't look like he's letting go anytime soon, holding you in place in such a way that makes your spine rattle. Rafe peers up at you as if what he did, what he's been doing for you, is completely casual.

"I know." He shrugs nonchalantly. "I want to."

He wants to.

He wants to clean the tub for you at nearly two in the morning. He wants to wait days until you're better to finally sleep with you, even though he's been waiting for you like an uncharacteristic gentleman. He wants to touch you with every opportunity he has to make up for lost time, to make up for all the times you pushed him away before you really got to understand how nice it is to be touched by him.

He wants to.

You don't have the words. You don't even have the capacities to speak. All you can do is stare at him for a moment, soak in the meaning of what he said, and fight the urge to make him forget about not wanting to sleep with you for the next couple days. But you don't want to do that, not with him, not with Rafe. The Rafe Cameron who dressed you and ran three blocks with you in his arms to the ER. The Rafe Cameron who wordlessly found you the Tiffany lamp you saw once at a flea market and never again. The Rafe Cameron who has been pining over you for nearly eleven months, loving you without even knowing your body at all.

Before you can overthink it, your hands are gently reaching down to lift up his shirt.

Rafe processes it for a beat before biting his lip to suppress a grin, making your life easier by taking his shirt off in one smooth motion. He reciprocates by delicately sliding off your zip-up off your shoulders, letting the sleeves slowly descend down your arms and over your hands. He tosses it carelessly beside him, eyes flicking down to your shoulder where your tank top strap has precariously fallen off your shoulder.

You're sure he doesn't mean to do it so teasingly, but his hand comes up to your bicep to smooth over the strap achingly delicate with a touch so light it makes you shiver, as if you're made of porcelain. His eyes stay there for a moment before darting back up to meet yours, almost wordlessly asking for the permission he so desperately aches for.

Your words don't come.

Instead, you raise your arms over your head.

Rafe wastes no time as his hands come down to the bottom hem of your tank, pushing the material up over your belly, your ribs, pausing just as his fingers meet the swell of your breast. His gaze flickers to your eyes once more, an affirmative: "You sure?"

With a nod from you, he slides the tank over your breasts and slides it up your arms and off your body in an instant.

Shamelessly, he stares at your bare chest that's now eye level to him. The way he practically sighs at the sight of you all natural and real in front of him stamps into your memory, ink running deep in the confinements of your brain to become an image never forgotten. The blown look in his eyes doesn't emulate lust, but rather love, admiration, speechlessness. As if he's face to face with the wonders of the universe and left to study the conceptions of its beauty. He's in awe of you, and you haven't even shown him all of you yet.

You almost jab at him. Almost. But the attempt at teasing him dies in your throat when he leans forward and places chaste kisses over your breasts, sighing through his nose in a way that tickles your cool skin, sighing as if he's been starved of this, as if he's dreamt of this. Knowing the details of his inkling towards you, apparently, for all this time, you know he probably has dreamt of this.

Not a space goes unnoticed, and you learn very quickly that Rafe Cameron has no problem taking his time when he wants to.

Your hands fly to his hair, and a jolt of warmth pools in your core when he lightly groans against your skin.

Noticing the change of pace, Rafe pulls away a fraction, almost restraining himself from letting his inhibitions take over, to remember your physical state and not overwhelm your body with the injuries you sustained earlier. Taking one last (this definitely will not be the last time) good look at your breasts, he leans back to stand, and you feel obligated to mirror his actions as you practically stand chest to chest with him, almost chasing his actions in desperation to have his mouth on you again.

You don't even bother looking up at him to start fumbling with his belt, making him suck in a ragged breath from above you. You can only imagine how many times he's thought of you doing this to him, wanting him back, reciprocating that feeling he's been trying to shove deep, deep down for so long in fear of losing you for good. The notion of him wanting you, needing you, craving you only spurs you on further.

Before you can grip his length or run a palm over his bulge, before you can feel him and touch him for good, Rafe's fingers circle your wrist, stopping your movements.

Your head shoots up, eyes wide. "Wh-?"

"We can't," he says, voice wavering. "Not yet."

God, fuck this savior-protector type bullshit. You need him. Now.

"Rafe."

You albeit whine his name, but at this point your dignity has launched into space to never return, floating aimlessly in the inky void at the mercy of Rafe Cameron.

He nearly looks pained, taking your hand in his so that his fingers have something to fidget with, smoothing over the metal of your rings and the chipping nail polish to ground himself to, to refrain from losing it. And it looks like he's seconds away from doing so.

Here you are: shirtless and begging him (which is something you absolutely, positively, preemptively hate doing, especially for men) to have you in a way that makes you lose all of your credibility. You're practically pleading for him, a guy you never thought you'd have to beg for, and he refuses. He's holding back, that much is obvious.

But you feel fine. You do. Honest.

(Sort of.)

"Not yet, Star," he reiterates gently, coming out cool and calculated as if he's been repeating it in his head like a mantra. "Let's just get clean now and we'll sleep, okay?"

Of course, you frown. "You're being withholding."

Rafe's lips twitch. "I'm being withholding?"

You hate how he's teasing you right now, hate how he relishes in it. You don't know if you want to kiss or slap him. "Yes. I'm literally half-naked here in front of you after you said you liked me for ten months—"

"Eleven—"

"And you're not gonna have me?" You hate how stupid you sound, and you hate that his smile is getting bigger and bigger. "Why?"

You don't even register that one of his hands cradles your jaw, holding you flush against his palm to keep you steady and hold you in place. Embarrassingly, you hadn't noticed you'd been swaying while blinking up at him all doe-eyed, still recovering from the events from earlier despite wishing you weren't.

And he can tell.

Of course he can tell, because he seems to know things about you before you know about them yourself. He knew to bring you your favorite chocolates when he knew you'd be finishing Red Dead Redemption II. When a snowstorm wiped out the power on the whole block, he was barreling in your room before you could even get out of bed to bring you candles. The Halloween night you fell and dislocated your shoulder, you hadn't been answering your phone and he assumed something was up, heading over to your apartment before the incident had even happened.

You aren't sure whether the concept of Rafe Cameron being able to read you like a book is a good or bad thing.

It's leaning towards bad as of right now, because you want nothing more than for him to stop being so careful and type-a for a little while so you can each get what you want, so he can get what he's been waiting so long for, so you can get what you've apparently been craving without even knowing.

But no, it's only Rafe Cameron fashion to elongate something as intensely as possible.

"'Cause your brain's all rattled," Rafe says low and calculated. "And I plan on fucking you stupid, so I gotta wait 'til you're all better, yeah?"

You blink up at him. "What if I'm better now?"

"You can barely stand on your own."

"Semantics."

Rafe cracks a grin. "Baby, if I knew you wanted me this bad I would've done molly with you ages ago."

All you can do is groan, lulling your head forward so that your forehead rests against his chest. His hands — immediately — come to splay across your bare back, and with the contact you're just now remembering that you're utterly shirtless, not that either of you seem to care. When he holds you like this for a while, both of you ignoring how this is the first time in each other's arms, you can't help but think he's right.

He's practically holding you up, your head cloudy from not only the fall but from the drug come down. The longer you spend here, wrapped up in him, the drowsier you become, the more your limbs feel like lead, the more sleep calls to you.

Once the tub is full and warm enough to his liking, Rafe begrudgingly pulls away from you to turn the faucet off, leaving you standing idly as you watch him, taking in the way his muscles flex with certain movements and how the tendons in shoulders shift as he uses his arms. He's practically a walking portrait, a hyperrealistic sculpture come to life, emulating the same beauty as the marble in every defined vein, muscle, beauty mark. It's almost infuriating, really, for him to be doing something as simple as starting a bath, and still have the audacity to look this handsome.

Rafe catches you staring, as if you don't need anymore humiliation tonight.

But he doesn't poke fun, or send you his trademark lopsided grin, or make a lewd comment or flex just to piss you off.

No, he simply stands again, coming back in front of you to place an incredibly intimate kiss on your forehead, just brushing your hairline, before his arms meet solace on your biceps. His hands, previously checking the water temperature, are warm and inviting against your skin, gently rubbing up and down your smoothness in the most endearing way he knows how.

"All good?" He asks, and it's softer than you've ever heard him before.

It throws you for a loop. When has he ever been this soft spoken? Looked at someone this delicately? Held someone without the implications of taking it further?

Your words don't come. Instead you nod.

In an attempt to gain some semblance of independence back, you shimmy your shorts down, opting to leave on your underwear (the same ones he put you in earlier which is a fact you're choosing to ignore), before making your way over to the tub.

Rafe quickly follows suit, mirroring your actions by leaving on his boxers and hovering right behind you, one arm gripping your waist and the other gingerly holding your hand. With a gentleness you've never seen from him, he helps you into the tub, making sure both your feet are planted firmly instead before lowering you into the water.

You sigh at the temperature, a perfect warmth that already seems to settle the dull ache in your bones from all the chaos today involved. Closing your eyes, you feel him settle in behind you, anticipating his touch as you can feel his body heat radiating centimeters from yours against your back.

It's silence for a moment or two, until you hear the water rippling behind you, a warmth spreading up your spine when you feel his hands douse your shoulders in the water, washing your back, shoulders, arms with the soap you like to use (how he knew which one was yours beats you, not that you're complaining). The act is domestic, no doubt, and you can't deny how nice it feels to be scrubbed clean of all outside things, prepped and clean and ready for bed.

You can tell he's taking his time in his care of you.

Rafe's hands linger on your bare skin longer than they should, letting the pads of his thumbs smooth over beauty marks and the hills and ridges of your muscles. His fingers trace up and down your spine, feeling each individual bone as if he's trying to keep count, as if he's trying to memorize the map of your body in ways he's never seen before. The delicacy of his touch is alarmingly inviting, and you can't recall if you've ever been touched quite like this before, like you're special, like you're important, like you mean something.

When he stops washing you, you assume he's washing himself as quickly as he can to satisfy your wishes, but you can't help but quietly whine at the loss of contact. The desperation makes your heart pull, and you really hope he hadn't heard it.

But, of course, he does.

"Miss me already, baby?"

His tone makes you roll your eyes, even though he can't see you. "I can't stand you."

Water trickles around him, most likely raising his arms to wash himself. Part of you wants to turn around and shut up whatever he's about to retort back to you, but when the movements suddenly cease, you're left in the unfathomable silence, the gentle waves gradually stilling.

You frown. "Wh-?"

You don't have time to register what he's doing until he's moving again, leaning forward so his chest is flush to your back and radiating a type of warmth you could only dream a heater could provide in the winter, as his arms come around to wrap around you. Your hands instinctively come up to curl around his wrists, dainty caressing the skin there to hold some sort of ground against his touch, against him caging his arms around you.

The act makes your body slot between his legs, leaning taut against him as he practically pulls you into him. His chin rests on your shoulder, almost nuzzling himself into the soft skin of your neck and holding you there as if you are about to fly away, never to return to earth again.

"Still can't stand me?" He murmurs low and baritone, a volume that only sends a shiver down your spine.

You manage to find your voice. "Nope."

Although the waver gives away your faux indifference, and you hate how you can feel him grin against your skin, knowing your weak spots, knowing what to say to get you to squirm and how to do certain things to get you to succumb to his charm, fall for the eased nonchalance and sickly sweet smirk that has no business making him that much more handsome. It’s baffling to think that a guy like him, a guy who looks like him, has been head over heels for you in the time you’ve spent thinking it could never happen.

Well, his cards are laid out on the table, and frankly you folded your hand in a while ago, so all that's left to reveal is the truth.

“That’s too bad.” His breath tickles your skin. “Because there’s no way you’re getting rid of me.”

You snort. “Is that so?”

“Mhm. Gonna practically haunt you, baby.”

“You basically do that already.”

Rafe laughs boyishly in your ear, but not without peppering a few featherlight kisses against your bare shoulder.

You trace light shapes on his wrists without realizing it. “Does this mean you’re going to be more annoying than before?”

He hums baritone against the column of your neck.

“Obviously.”

Subconsciously, you find yourself leaning back into his mold, pressing yourself against the hard ridges of his chest. Your heart flutters when you feel him hug you a fraction tighter, as if in disbelief he’s even getting to hold you in the first place. After months and months of pushing him away, of denying yourself the pleasantries of learning his touch, you both relish in the sensation of finally knowing what it feels like to hold one another.

You attempt to remain coy.

“Great,” you deadpan, but instead it comes out less like a complaint and more like a promise. "Lucky me."

Of course, he notices, and unconvincingly hums. “You know there’s no need to pretend anymore, right, Star?”

Your heart skips a beat.

You hadn’t even known you were pretending to be anything in the first place. This whole thing sprout in the blink of an eye, and it scares the shit out of you just how much you were repressing this feeling for him. All this time, you thought it was hate, irritation, loathing because you assumed his words were ill intended. You pushed yourself away from the possibility of being with him because of preconceptions of his past behavior, of the way he’d flirt up brick wall if it meant he was entertained.

You assumed that, all this time, him flirting with other girls was in search of his next score. You never thought it would be because of you, that they were attempts to distract himself from something he didn’t think he could have. He was stupidly indulging himself in the repeating cycle of small talk with people to drown out the thoughts that always circled back to you.

Now, as you sit here, Rafe warm and broad against your back as he holds you like a lifeline, you’re overwhelmed that not only he chose you, but you unknowingly chose him, too.

“I suppose not,” you say quietly, softer than you intend.

If he hears you or not, you’d never know because Rafe doesn’t respond. His arms continue to cage you in, pull you taut against his chest, as the scent of your body wash emulating from his forearms fills your nostrils. It’s quiet, as if he’s soaking in your words and the insinuation behind them, perhaps in relief that you inadvertently confirmed your reciprocated feelings for him. He's being going on ten months, or eleven at this point, waiting for those words, waiting for you to come to your senses, waiting for the green light to be able to hold you in the way he yearns to do.

You’re not sure how to take the silence from his end, teetering between letting it simmer between the two of you or offering more of a conversation, perhaps a direct confirmation that you are into him rather than letting him assume through a play-on-words.

"How's your head?" He asks after a few moments, and from the tone of his voice you can tell he's smiling.

Throbbing, actually.

But all this lovey-dovey behavior is turning your brain to mush and distracting you from the pain and exhaustion. You don't want him to worry any more than he already is, though, so you inherently decide to downplay the severity of it, of how even the lights above the sink are a little too bright for your liking. He's done enough for you tonight, and just being here with him is enough.

You settle on the safe answer. "I'm okay."

A feather-light kiss is pressed to your shoulder.

He says your name. A warning.

You suck in a breath. "Really. I am."

Rafe hums, unconvinced. "Are you?"

"Yes."

"You sure?"

A beat. "Yes."

He stills. "You paused."

"Rafe."

Then, he presses a feather-light kiss to your shoulder, a temporary truce to cease the teasing, stop the bullshit, to allow him to help you. "Talk to me."

And you consider it. You assume he's worried out of his mind, and you try and imagine yourself in his shoes: if you walked in a room and discovered him on the ground, disoriented and bleeding, you'd probably have a damn heart attack and — most likely — panic more than a normal person probably would. Putting the scenario into perspective, his apprehension to escalate anything sexually makes total sense, even if it is such a bummer.

After everything you've been through, it would be stupid not to trust him, not to allow him to take care of you and dote on you in ways he's probably dreamed about. Besides, you're in no right mind to keep arguing with yourself on whether or not to let him in.

You choose to. "The light is a little bright."

Another kiss to the back of your neck. "Okay. Is that it?"

No. "Yeah."

Rafe says your name in warning.

Your heart skips a beat at the use of it. "I'm kind of tired."

"Let's go to bed then," he says simply. "I'll get you dried up, yeah?"

The easiness to his tone makes your skin crawl, because he's making it seem like it's no big deal that he's been doing everything for you tonight without so much as a complaint. Isn't he tired of it already? Of you? Jesus, he's not scared off by now? About how high maintenance you are, apparently?

It makes you feel a little ridiculous, a little childish. "You don't have to."

He scoffs, as if that's highly offensive to him. "Star, when are you going to realize that I'm doing all this stuff because I want to, not because I have to?"

Your face burns.

"Been wanting to take care of you for so long," he murmurs against your skin, uttered with such nonchalance as if it doesn't make your heart skip. "Wanna be the only one to do so."

Swallowing thickly, you attempt to try and lighten the stampede in your chest.

"You sure you wanna take on that kind of responsibility? It's a lot," you joke weakly.

But Rafe Cameron, the King of Shooting the Shit, isn't in the mood to play around.

Apparently, not when it comes to you.

"Yes," he says immediately. "I want you, all of you, all to myself."

The possessiveness is daunting, especially when he says it with such certainty that it makes your head spin, and that's not even from the concussion brewing in your brain. The words are like a second nature to him, spilling confessions that have been plaguing his conscience for the betterment of a year, itching to let them see the light of day now that you've reciprocated. He's been sitting on them like a goldmine, the feelings growing more and more unbearable for him to the point where he confessed sitting on a random curb, eating greasy pizza and high off ecstasy.

"Okay," you whisper back before you can stop it. "You have me."

His breath hitches. "I do?"

You're done playing cat and mouse, frankly. "Yes. But don't let it get to your head, Cameron."

You can feel him grinning, clearly not taking your previous sentence very seriously. "I won't."

"I feel you smiling."

"'m not smiling."

"Rafe."

He chuckles boyishly, pulling you impossibly closer. "Okay, fine. Maybe it's gone to my head a little bit." A pause. "A lot. Astronomically."

You roll your eyes.

"But that's besides the point," he continues dismissively. "I have you. Holy shit."

The genuine excitement in his tone makes you snort as you repeat his name again, but this time in warning. Your tone is far from seriousness, more sheepish and stern, as if the concept of him wanting you so fucking bad is one crazy dream you mocked up on a random week night.

"Okay," he blurts, "okay. I'm fine, it's fine. We're gonna dry off and go to bed, okay?"

"Say okay one more time."

"Don't tease me at a time like this. Do you even understand how lucky I am right now?"

Your words die in your throat, all teasing demeanor slowly washing away with the weight of his words, and how genuine he sounds. You've never been sought out like this, yearned for like this, wanted like this. Frankly, it's jarring.

At your silence, he hums again, pleased with your star-strucken-ness and placing yet another chaste kiss against your soft skin. "Let me show you how lucky I am, hm?"

And he does.

Rafe takes his time with you, stretching out the moment of you allowing him to help you for as long as he can.

It starts with warm, nimble fingers wrapping a towel around your chest, drying up any stray droplets with such delicacy that it makes you shiver. You stand practically bare to him as you watch him dry your legs, tummy, arms, chest, neck as if he has all the time in the world. He takes it as a way to feel you, to let his hands touch regions unknown on your body and relishing in the way he gets to map out every dip and curve like an explorer hungry for adventure.

He lets the water drain in the meantime, making sure you are one hundred-percent dried before he's hurriedly drying himself with another towel, not nearly showing himself an ounce of the care he had for you, for your body. It's quick, and before you know it, he's got two large palms splayed on your waist as he guides you back to your room.

The dim lighting is much better than it was in the bathroom, your lamp providing a cozy ambiance that doesn't hurt your head at all. Rafe moves you to the center of your room, fishing through your drawers to pull out your favorite matching pajamas (as to how he knows they're your favorite, you have no idea. Or, if he had just guessed then it is the luckiest guess on planet earth).

With a softness he seems to only have reserved for you, he's pulling the pajama shirt over your head, covering your torso with it before letting the towel fall to pool around your feet.

In an instant, Rafe's hands come to seek refuge on your waist, only adorned with a wet pair of panties that you wore in the bath as some sort of barrier for your dignity. His index fingers hook around the sides, not pulling them down but toying with them for emphasis.

"Want these off, baby?" He asks gently, voice void of any sexual undertones but instead laced with seriousness, as if it's a matter of life and death.

And frankly, you don't really want them on.

So you nod, a bit sheepishly, but he pays it no mind when he's slowly and completely hooking the waistband of your panties around his index fingers, sliding them down over your ass, past your thighs, to pool at your feet. The sensation of being bare to him from the waist down is a newfound vulnerability you didn't even know you could experience, even though you're sure he saw you completely naked not only in the shower when you fell, but after when he dressed you.

But Rafe doesn't make any lewd comments, or ask to taste you, or forget all about his chivalry.

Instead, he shamelessly stares for one, two, three beats before kneeling in front of you, your sleep shorts loosely between his fingers as he opens them at your feet, prompting you to step into them.

"You're beautiful, Star," Rafe praises as he slides your shorts up your legs, making sure they're firmly over your hips before standing. "All good?"

Your brain is mush from everything. The fall. His words. His actions. Everything about the past four hours has absolutely thrown you for a loophole, and if at the beginning of the night you told yourself that you'd end up naked in front of Rafe Cameron not once, but multiple times, you would've laughed in your own face, or grimaced, or cussed yourself out for even allowing him to see such a thing, much less be able to touch you.

But all of that prior resentment is out the window, especially with how he's looking down at you now. His blue eyes are hazed with adoration, gazing as if he's admiring a beautiful portrait, an ancient sculpture chiseled by hand. Warm hands splay on your biceps, rubbing up and down in an act of comfort, waiting for your response, waiting for the green-light to assist in his next task: getting you into bed.

All you do is nod, and Rafe wastes no time moving towards your bed, pulling the comforter back to expose the fresh new sheets, the lavender scent emulating from all the fabric scent beads you like to use in the wash. They're proving its worth in this moment, as your bed has never, ever looked this inviting before.

You slide into bed before he can practically do it himself, wanting to have some sort of independence throughout the night. But the attempt to do so proves fruitless as he hovers of you, bringing the covers up to your chin in a disgustingly endearing gesture that it makes you suppress a teasing grin.

But his face is void of any humor. He's soft. Serious. Fixated on the task at hand.

"Stay here," he says low, even going as far as pointing a finger at you. "No hot showers in the next minute I leave to grab my pajamas, okay?"

You, nuzzled into bed up to your chin, simply preen up at him.

"What if I need to get up for—"

"No." Rafe doesn't even let you finish, nor does he let you indulge in your teasing. "No moving. I'm grabbing my clothes and coming back."

You raise a brow. "Promise?"

Your tone is so sweet it gives him a toothache. All he can do is simply shake his head at you in disbelief, staring at your grinning mummified figure for a moment before leaning down and kissing your forehead so quickly you nearly miss it.

"Promise," he repeats, backing up so he's in the doorway. "Less than a minute. You can even count."

“Sixty, fifty nine…”

At your countdown, Rafe’s moving at lightning speed as he races away, and you truthfully don’t keep counting and simply laugh at his treacherously loud footsteps down the hallway, through the kitchen, and out the front door as if his hair is on fire. You don’t even hear your apartment door shut, and it’s quiet for maybe ten, fifteen seconds before the stomping starts up again.

You snort when he barrels back into your view, clad in a t-shirt (that is backwards, by the way) and a pair of basketball shorts that you’ve seen him lounge around in from time to time. Regardless, he looks great like this: hair mussed and disheveled but not without a bright gleam in his eye, gazing down at you like you’re the prettiest damn thing he’s ever seen.

“What’s my time?” He asks, breathless and beginning to make his way towards your bed.

You feel a little stupid with the blankets up to your chin, arms caged beneath the sheets but beaming nonetheless as he sits down beside you, splaying a palm over your stomach as his indirect yet very direct need of always having to touch you. You’re getting used to it, and can tell you’re already going to crave it.

“Didn’t keep track,” you say softly, not even wanting to keep up the cat and mouse as your impatience grows. “Are you getting in?”

“You didn’t count?” Rafe asks incredulously, ignoring your question. “Baby, that was record breaking stuff.”

You don’t care. “I don’t care. Are you getting in?”

His lips twitch. “Bossy.”

“Rafe.”

“Gimme a minute,” he says, eyes shamelessly staring at you. “I wanna look.”

You give him about five seconds flat of his ogling. “Okay, you looked. Now get in.”

He laughs boyishly, smiling so fucking pretty that it hurts as he reaches towards the dresser, flicking your Tiffany lamp off (the one he scoured the entire city to find for you, by the way). In the darkness, he slowly crawls over you onto the other side of the bed, flipping the sheets back so he can collapse next to you.

The bed rocks with the force of it as he audaciously sighs, slithering his body fully under the covers as if he was made to lay here. Goosebumps litter your skin when you feel his cool hands snake around your waist, pulling you from your mummified position to taut against his body, and you can’t deny how nice the added warmth is, especially when he positions you so you’re chest to chest with him, face in the crook of his neck as his hands splay wide and smooth under your shirt. He's careful not to brush the spot on your head flush with three staples, instead placing a chaste kiss near the cleaned wound as his own form of an apology (that was nowhere near his fault).

His heart is racing. You can feel it. You’re sure yours is too, caught between a rock and a hard place as you lay here with him right now, clinging to the guy you thought you hated.

Rafe says your name gently.

Your heart skips as you hum in response.

"Promise me something," he says quietly.

You blink in the darkness. "Okay."

It takes him a few moments to find his words, to let his preposition lay thick in the air to prolong the tension. You're unsure how to grasp his tone, as you've never really heard his voice go that soft before, so low and vulnerable. His hands still against your back, almost in apprehension, as if he's so focused on finding the right words that he forgets he's holding you, too.

"I don't want you to think..." He starts slow, trailing off when it doesn't come out right. "Star, I'm serious about you. I have been for a while."

The breath leaves your lungs.

"I know that seems scary and sudden for you," he continues, his thumbs finding their rhythm again and tracing light circles against your skin, almost as a way to ground himself. "I don't want you to feel pressured, or anything, or feel like you have to be doing all of this because of that."

You frown against his neck. "Rafe-"

"I know," he murmurs, almost sheepishly. "I know. I just... I don't want you to wake up tomorrow and feel like you're stuck."

If possible, you frown further. Yet, this time, you don't try and interrupt and simply let him find his words, figuring out what he's trying to say to you right now (even if it ultimately breaks your heart that he thinks you could be having doubts).

He lets out a long breath. "Promise me, if you feel like that in the morning, you'll tell me." His heart is racing against you. "I'll be alright either way, okay?"

The entire spiel sets a pit of dread in your gut.

Does he really think you'll back out on him? Tease the possibility of a relationship on a fish hook and dangle it in front of him just to pull away every time he reaches? Pretend to reciprocate his feelings to make him feel better? To indulge his nearly year-long fantasy of being with you. Does he think you to be that cruel?

"Okay," you find yourself saying, queasy from all the aching in your heart. "I won't feel like that, but okay."

You swear you can hear him smile. "Just checkin' in."

You still feel yourself frowning. "I meant what I said earlier." At his silence, you continue for clarification. "You have me."

Rafe takes a long time to respond, and for a little while, you begin to think he's fallen asleep, lulled by the feeling of your heartbeat against him and your fingers tracing shapes across his chest. All you can hear is the steady inhale, exhale through his nose, the sensation tickling your hairline with every breath, as you take his silence as contemplation or affirmation of his greatest suspicions.

You feel yourself slowly start to doze off, soothed by the warmth of his embrace and the fan in the corner of the room emitted a low, white noise. When he turned it on and, more important, how he knew you liked it on when you sleep beats you, but the gesture makes it easier to drift closer to peace, to the sense of relaxation you've been thinking about for hours.

But his voice almost startles you.

"I have you," he repeats, almost monotonous like a mantra, as if he's been replaying those words in his head ever since you said them.

Groggily, you hum and attempt to nuzzle further into his embrace. "Mhm. Don't let it get to your head."

You can practically hear him grinning.

"Sounds good, Star."

"'M serious," you mumble, and it more-so comes out as an incoherent babble. "Ego's too big. Gonna fill up with air 'n float away."

He snorts, the vibration tickling your cheek. "That so?"

All you can do is make a noise that seems like an affirmation, eyes heavy and shut. You honestly can't even tell if you're actually awake right now, bones weighing down into the mattress and muscles aching from the long night you endured, head throbbing less now that you've been in his arms.

"Know so." You're not even sure he can understand you. "Not allowed to be a prick when you're in my bed."

The laugh he emits nearly jolts you awake, chest bumping into yours at the action. You emit a low groan in protest, but he barely pays it any mind. As a matter of fact, he pulls you a fraction closer than before, engulfed completely by his arms, scent, everything.

"You got rules now, baby?"

You nearly whine at his continued talking. "Not your baby."

His laughter transitions to a low hum, unconvinced. "You kind of are, now."

The buttery words turn your mind to mush, and you hate how you smile at the insinuation behind them, the possessiveness, the singularity of the notion that you're his, only his, no one else's.

"Yeah, whatever," you murmur, yet your attempt to remain indifferent fails as you can't stop grinning sleepily. "I'm sleeping now."

"Okay, baby. Good night."

"Sleeping."

Rafe emits a low sound, emulating contention as it's obvious that he's beaming in the darkness, smiling at nothing he can see but everything he can feel. It's blossoming out of control, blooming faster than dandelions in the springtime and spreading wider than weeds. You're here in his arms, holding him back as if you've been searching for the right person to do it with all your life, and he couldn't be happier. He doesn't even know if he'll be able to sleep.

Your breaths slowly even out, as your tracing patterns on his chest gradually slowing as he feels your hands limp against him. It's obvious you've fallen asleep, and his chest swells with pride at the notion that you feel safe enough with him to sleep with him, to let your guard down and let him in like he's practically been begging for for what feels like forever.

"Love you, Star," Rafe drones low, knowing the safety of his secret is still strong with the confirmation that you're asleep.

He's felt it for a long time, not really understand what that feeling was until it was uncontrollable, until you were all he could think about in everything he did throughout his day. It scared the shit out of him, naturally, but soon leaned into the emotion instead of running from it, especially when Sarah noticed it from a mile away and backed him into a corner to interrogate him about it. (You'd looked so pretty that day she questioned him, so obviously he couldn't stop staring at you. Clearly, his actions weren't subtle enough.)

One day, he'll tell you. He's sure of it.

Especially now that you've stopped running away from his touch, now staring back at him when your eyes meet instead of instantly peering away and allowing yourself to open up to him. It's as if this day was a far off dream for him, something he never thought could happen in his lifetime, because he'd hold out on you forever if there was even the slightest chance that you'd give him a shot.

Now, as you lay here in his arms, he lets out a shaky breath. He feels as if he can finally rest, he can allow himself to have this, to not let his mind run rampant on the sliver of a possibility that you're not in it as much as he is.

Rafe figures he can deal with that hypothetical in the morning.

And the final image in his mind is of you, glimpses of you throughout the night in the apartment, under the purple hues in the club, in the moonlight on the curb, in the pool light reflection illuminating your face, in the hospital bed looking to him as a lifeline, tucked under your pretty sheets and peering up at him with a softness he's never seen before.

With that picture, sleep has never come faster.

notes and a splash of rafe pov. one more chapt to go!

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severa-kane · 8 days ago

Text

03 ── TEMPORARY TRUCE ── RAFE CAMERON (18+)

WARNINGS language, drug usage (molly), fondling and over the clothes (smut?). 18+ mdni. please i am not condoning drug use don't take after these idiots for the love of god.

WORD COUNT 11.7k. my bad.

SONG OF THE CHAPTER sugar by brockhampton

"Cameron, what the fuck are we supposed to do now?"

In a meek attempt to listen to all the signs telling you to go home and sleep the effects of the drug off, it doesn't prove very effective when your phone dies before you can even open the Uber app. It gets even better because when Rafe offers to call a cab, his phone is simply not in his pocket, where he says he left it last.

Characteristically, he simply shrugs and waves off the petty theft as if it literally means nothing to him.

"At least I have my wallet," is all he says on the matter.

And now, phone-less and stranded, the two of you loiter in a small park two blocks away from the club you previously got kicked out in order to take a breather and figure out the game plan. The same club where all your friends are inside dancing and drinking and celebrating Sarah, hooting and hollering and having a grand ol' time.

Not you and Rafe, though, since the park has become your new place to stop and think.

Although, it's mainly you trying to brainstorm on top of the fuzziness and airiness in your chest as you pace ferociously in concentration. Rafe, on the other hand, man-spreads on a park bench with his arms crossed in sloth, seemingly having all the time in the world to watch you do your little panicked pacing maneuvers instead of pitching in ideas. Apparently, you're his favorite form of entertainment without even realizing.

"We can try and hail a cab like how they do in movies," you murmur, blinking away the thought of how the grass kinda looks like it's moving. "Or wander to try and find the next subway station. They have maps."

Rafe hums, almost mockingly.

"I mean," you continue, "it can't be that far. There's gotta be signs around."

"Can't get anywhere without signs."

You stop your pacing to look at him incredulously. "Thank you, really." You blink. "For nothing."

"Why are you so worked up right now?"

His relaxed demeanor nearly sends you into psychosis, and you can't fathom his nonchalance in the slightest. Here you both are, high off ecstasy with no phone, no GPS, no way to contact your friends, in a random park late at night (and fucking starving, nonetheless) with absolutely no schedule or idea on the next move.

The uncertainty makes you panic.

You repeatedly curse yourself for your brief moment of desperation in the club, following him out like a sick puppy in fear of dealing with the drug alone. But the longer you think about it, the more you realize you absolutely did not need to do that, as you could've found your friends (not saying it would've been easy, but definitely possible) and clung to them instead of him.

Because he hasn't stopping grinning at you after he saw you clutch his hand as if you'd crumble without him.

Rafe relished in it, in fact, as if you holding his hand had been the most exhilarating thing he's ever experienced. And in some ways, it had been, because you always voiced how many ways you'd murder him if he ever touched you, much less held your hand, for more than five seconds. The threats, of course, always come up empty and fruitless, but your tone of voice never wavers, so you like to make him believe that, one day, you might actually do it.

Him. Rafe Cameron.

Who's smirking so godforsaken arrogant up at you right now that it makes your anger tenfold.

"Why am I so worked up?" You repeat back to him in disbelief, scoffing at his lazy shrug. "Why am I- I'm in a random park in the middle of the night with a dead phone, high off some bullshit JJ made in my apartment bathroom that I don't think is FDA approved, stranded with you, the Prince Prick of all Pricks."

All he does is stare at you.

"That title's endearing."

"Oh my god."

"Star, if I'm being honest, it kinda sounds like you like me."

You scoff, rubbing out a growing migraine to attempt to block him from seeing just how fucking flustered you are. "Cameron, you are the last person I would ever want to be with, and I mean that most sincerely."

"I don't know," he drawls out for the sake of living up his name, "you're the one who followed me."

You hate it. You hate that he's holding it over your head, dangling it on a fish hook to consistently remind you that you chose him. Out of all those people, out of your friends, you ran to him, picked him, clung to him. You'd like to think it's a moment of weakness, but you also hate how certain you were in the moment, how certain you were of him.

"Alright," you hiss, "you are letting one bad moment of mine live rent free in your head."

Rafe laughs boyishly, as if your entire existence is providing him with the comic relief he's been looking for all his life. "You always live rent free in my head."

You really try to ignore the insinuation behind his words, but wordlessly shake it off at the reminder that this is what he loves to do: rile you up, get you stumbling over your words in feeble attempts to defend yourself, and make it seem like he's winning. Whatever the winning entails, you're not so sure. Pride? Ego? Pure enjoyment?

But this is what he does, what he lives for, which is to get under your skin in every possible way, regardless of turn, rhyme, reason.

This teasing is your reminder to ground yourself, to remember that you're simply stuck with him for the night given your mutual agreement to look out for each other. It doesn't mean anything. It's done out of solidarity because he felt bad for you, he feels responsible for you, nothing more. He's under obligation to look after you, because you figure Sarah would viscerally berate her brother if anything bad happened to you.

After your moment in the club, you nearly forget yourself.

But as you stand here, flabbergasted at his audacious grin, you're reminded of why you can't stand him.

"Molly got your tongue?" He even has the gall to add when you've gone silent.

Oh, how badly you want to throttle him. "Rafe, your arrogance literally makes me sick."

"Awe, I'm sorry baby."

"I am absolutely not your baby."

In case the universe needed to humble you a little bit more, your stomach lets out the loudest growl that symbolizes a gluttonous cry for help.

You freeze at the sound and so does he, his mouth agape as he was about to speak and retaliate against your hatred for the nickname, probably about to drone on further and call you something else that will only piss you off further. There's a beat of silence between you two, almost in disbelief, at the noise.

Yet Rafe doesn't miss a beat as his gaze quickly darts from your stomach then back up to your eyes.

"Need a kiss to make it better?"

You look at him as if he's grown three heads, taking a moment to really absorb his words and understand that your mind isn't making it up, that he's actually saying this, blatantly hitting on you as some sort of sick joke. The fact that he is entertained by trying to make a fool out of you makes your hands shake as your fists clench. A part of you feels anger bubble in your chest at his disrespect for you.

Why are you even surprised? You should've known that this sort of mutual respect bullshit thing going on was only temporary.

But that is certainly out the window when he treats you like this, like another one of his girls that'll swoon and cater to all his needs at the charismatic words that come so easy to him, like every girl at his beck and call as he's so used to, like every single person who kisses his ass and allows him to think he's this unattainable hot-shot that people should be thankful he even spares a glance at.

Girls come easy to him, that much is true.

But not you. Never you.

Because it makes you feel stupid. He makes you feel stupid. He makes you feel disposable every time he treats you like one of his girls. He makes you feel bad for whenever you fall for it, whenever you inavertently blush or stutter or fall into his trap. He makes you feel so small, as if he's dangling the possibility of ever being with him on a string in front of you, pulling away every time you even think about getting close.

It's exhausting.

"Look," you say low, ignoring how he tilts his head almost mockingly at your seriousness, "I don't know if you have the wrong impression, but whatever happened in that club doesn't mean anything, and it especially doesn't mean that you get to say these things as if you ever had the right."

Rafe's smirk falters.

"Now, you can sit here and flirt with the ferns for all I care." You wave dismissively, backing up, done with the conversation and of him. "But I'm going home."

Your back is to him before you even know it, heading for the park exit as quickly as your elevated body will let you and figuring you can handle the logistics of getting home once he's out of sight and unable to continue ridiculing you.

Because, no, you're not going to sit here and take his meaningless attempts to flirt knowing he's only doing it to piss you off, to rile you up, to get out to stumble over your words and give him the satisfaction that even you, the girl who never let him get too close, are falling victim to the Rafe Cameron charm. It's mean and targeted and you hate how it makes you feel.

But - of course - Rafe isn't the one to let someone else have the last word.

"Wait! Stop- fuck. Wait up!"

It's only a matter of seconds before a warm hand is curling around your bicep, and another second before Rafe is standing in front of you. His hands iron grip your forearms as if you'll float away if he lets go, the touch shooting electricity through your veins in an unfortunate (yet exhilarating) way. He ducks low enough to meet your eye level, practically forcing you to look at him despite your best efforts to remain stoic and detached.

You writhe against him.

"Let me go, Rafe," you murmur low, hating how his touch ignites a fire against your skin.

"No," he responds, because of course. "I'll let up, okay? Just..."

He takes a long breath, as if the promise of not tormenting you is so achingly difficult.

"Don't take off like that. Ever." His tone is low, desperate. "I'll get you home."

You open your mouth to retort something mean, something that will probably make you look even stupider than before, but your words die in your throat when you look at him, when you really look at him. Because his blue eyes are narrowed to you, brows slightly pinched in worry as his gaze darts to study the expression on your face, frowning at your frown. You reel, because he actually looks serious, which is something you don't see from him often.

Not really, anyway.

The genuine expression on his face makes you blink once, twice up at him, trying to discern if this is a prank or not. But after a moment of coming up short, he remains the same, and you remain silent, almost in awe of the switch-up.

You find it in yourself to roll your eyes and attempt to shrug him off, but his hands are firm around your arms.

He squeezes once in affirmation, a gesture to get you to acknowledge, to understand. "Okay?"

Blinking, you frown at his sudden desire to give a shit about you. But you honestly just want your bed, and this back and forth with him is starting to make you dizzy.

You wave the white flag.

"Whatever, now will you let go? I can walk on my own-"

Another loud grumble from your stomach interrupts you, and you sigh so gutturally deep that it might as well be from your soul. Of fucking course, right?

Rafe takes that as a sign to let a sliver of humor slip through the cracks, as he can't help a small smile from forming at the corners of his mouth.

"C'mon, Star," he muses low, removing his grip from your body and instead slinging one of his lanky (yet muscular) arms around your shoulder. "Let's make a pit stop. My treat."

You should've just eaten at home.

Because at least then you could've been in your pajamas on the couch or in your bed, comforted by the homey silence that your apartment provides when you are alone in solace. Maybe your neighbor's cat, Elfie, could've made another appearance on your fire escape and made refuge in your room as he has so many times before. You even could've resumed that episode of that stupid reality tv show you had been secretly watching without Sarah.

But nope.

You're in a dingy pizza parlor.

With Rafe Cameron.

He looks astronomically out of place in his tall stature and hundred thousand dollar watch, yet doesn't seem to mind it in the slightest as he intently studies the menu as if he's reading ancient scripture, brows furrowed in thought and his thumb and index finger caressing his own chin, emulating The Thinker.

If he wasn't acting so strange, you would've poked fun at his clear emulation of a fish out of water.

Since your little outburst, Rafe refuses to let you go far by keeping a searing hand on the small of your spine or up on the back of your neck. The touch does little to ease your nerves of being out and about in the city whilst high and phone-less, and electrifies your skin every time his fingers even twitch in the slightest. It's nothing short of possessiveness, you gather, but don't have the words to address it.

Frankly, you don't know what to make of it.

Especially since he hasn't jabbed at you once since the park, marking it very uncharacteristic for him.

"What're you thinkin', Star?" Rafe mumbles so low, so sincere. His eyes don't leave the menu, as if this choice is life or death.

You say your order to him, simply opting for a slice to get moving back to the apartment where you can really chef it up with all the ingredients in your pantry. But of course, instead of one slice, he orders a large pizza of it instead and barely bats an eye at your protest, flashing his Amex card without sparing you a glance and blatantly ignoring you cuss up at him.

Soon enough, you secede, and eventually you're both sitting on the curb outside the parlor, balancing a teetering pizza box on your knees as you take turns holding the cardboard so the other can get another slice.

It's surprisingly domestic, only offering a few words in exchange if needed. But all the attention is on how good the food is, how satisfied you actually are at the meal. You're not sure if it's the drug effects or what, but the pizza is actually one of the best you've ever had and try to mask your surprise, since praise does everything for his ego.

Realistically, you're thoroughly surprised at his good behavior.

"See? No reason to high tail it home just yet, hm?"

Well. Relatively good behavior.

You take a gluttonous bite of your slice, but not without a playful eye roll. "I would prefer to be in my pajamas in bed, but I guess this is fine, too."

A beat. "Yeah, I bet your pajamas are real nice."

At the comment, you give him a pointed look that almost resembles a warning.

He throws his hands up in surrender - er - one hand up, as the other holds a precariously floppy piece of pizza. "Sorry, sorry. Working on it."

"It's almost as if being a prick is in your god-given nature," you mumble, taking another bite.

You half mean it, half jest.

But Rafe is quiet, as if contemplating your words and believing them, and your heart skips a beat at the silence, at the uncharacteristic lack of response.

Fuck. Was that an asshole thing to say?

You don't mean to sound like an actual asshole, as this is what the two of you do: he makes a lewd comment, you call him something heinous, he laughs and shrugs it off and continues the obscenities just to watch you squirm. The banter is never taken seriously. It never keeps you up at night. You never second guess your jabs, and you assume he doesn't either.

Yet not now.

You hate the feeling bubbling in your gut, teetering between actual guilt and frustration. He makes you feel so annoyed all the time, so you shouldn't feel bad, right? You should relish in the fact that you finally made him experience what you feel all the time, account for all of the times he's driven you up the wall.

But no. You hate the silence.

You are just about to open your mouth and apologize when he's speaking again.

"Probably is," is all he says, whispered almost in a hushed tone as if it's sin.

You turn your head to look at him, frowning at how certain he sounds about your off-handed comment. Nudging your chin towards him, you attempt to get him to look at you, to flash his million dollar smirk and say something, anything, in Rafe Cameron fashion to get you guys back on the same page again. Yet he refuses to glance your way. Instead, he picks crumbs out of his crust and chucks them onto the street in a he loves me, he loves me not flower petal picking way.

Despite what he portrays himself as, you know he's not all iron and steel. He's fragile. Self-aware of his tendencies. Highly prone to self deprecation.

Not that he'd ever tell you, but because Sarah unintentionally has before.

A random tidbit pops into your mind from a little while ago: you and Sarah sitting shoulder to shoulder on your bedroom fire escape, passing a poorly rolled joint as you gazed out onto the city scape. All the guys were having a boys night, which simply consisted of them holing in the apartment across the hall and playing poker, smoking, and occasionally watching Arrested Development if they needed a background laugh.

A particularly loud laugh echoed out of a cracked window - Rafe's - and the sound made Sarah smile so fondly as she leaned her head on your shoulder.

"What?" You had asked her, almost in teasing.

But the blonde simply hummed happily, closing her eyes at the sound. "'M just happy for him."

"Your brother?"

At this point, you had only really known Rafe for a few months, and were slowly trying to warm up to him despite his two moods: his incessant flirting or his stoic behavior, as you assume he was still trying to discern if you were a threat or not despite being good friends with Sarah all throughout college. It's safe to say you didn't really like him, nor was willing to be open to the idea of being close.

"He's never really had friends," she had said quietly. "Not real ones, anyway."

You remember frowning, confused at how an extroverted guy like him could be lonely. "Seriously?"

Sarah albeit hummed in affirmation. "People stuck around him for the money. Not for him. Never had true friends to trust, to keep him in check, to like him."

Now, you understand her words as you sit next to said person in this given moment.

As Rafe still refuses to meet your gaze, your brain racks its gears for calculated responses, ones that'll reaffirm that he's a good person (that he's a prick but mainly with good intentions), that he is on the road to becoming a better version of himself now that he has people who actually love and care for him surrounding him.

But what actually comes out of your mouth shocks you.

"How often does it work in your favor?"

That makes Rafe pinch his eyebrows in confusion, throwing the last of his broken crust onto the street. Once his hands are free, he's lulling his head to look at your profile, and know you're the one who can't seem to look at him, frankly shocked that you said that out of genuine curiosity.

What the fuck is wrong with you?

Why couldn't you have said something nice? Something that affirms his good stature as a person? Something to get him out of the dumps and shake off your comment like a piece of lint, to resume to the way things were before.

But he takes your question with sincerity, taking a moment to really think about his answer.

"Fifty-fifty," he says after a minute, calculated. "Usually scores with girls."

Despite it all, you snort. You're clearly not in the demographic.

At your noise, Rafe nearly reciprocates it but out of disbelief, staring at you for a moment longer before exhaling a laugh. "Believe it or not, they dig it."

You scrunch your nose. "Dig it? Are we kidding?"

"Not at all," he chuckles lightly, eyes still boring into your profile. Then, quieter, "I’m not used to that...not working."

The air between you feels thicker than before, because now he's transitioned into a topic regarding you, the outlier, the odd one out.

You're the girl who never let him get too close, who always threatened him with death if he even bugged you a little too much on certain days, who never gave into his charm despite how sultry his voice got or how pretty his eyes were, who never thought a guy like him would seriously be trying to get with you, of all people. You two bantered and bickered and had your fun (if that's what you want to call it) but you never took it seriously, never considered his words to be true.

Because why would he be? You're not at all the kind of person he'd go for.

Realistically, you always assumed he treated his flirting as a game, something to keep him entertained as he was looking for his next score. Because, if one thing's for certain, you always keep him on his toes and are quick to quip and jab and give him that form of entertainment that you simply assumed he was looking for in order to pass the time.

But you never thought...

You never conceptualized that he was actually trying.

You reel. Is your brain really that foggy from the molly or was this really his perverted way of attempting to pick you up?

"Wait," you find yourself blurting out, "were you actually trying with me?"

"Are," he corrects amusingly, "and have been for the past year."

Your head whips to look at him incredulously, anticipating the classic lewd comment or innuendo that he'll usually say after a moment of seriousness.

But your search to find any teasing demeanor falls short, as he sends you a small smile that's void of deceit. Instead it's soft, almost amused that it took you so long to notice, as if it had been obvious, as if he's been waiting ages to tell you. Rafe takes in your stare with patience, something he has never been praised for before, blue eyes twinkling with delight at your bewilderment.

He doesn't reach out for you, or go into a giant spiel on his feelings, or give you any indication that he's going to keep speaking, instead letting you come to him, letting you process what he's saying.

And process you do.

It takes you an embarrassingly long time to find your words.

"You-"

You point to him. His eyes follow your gesture.

"-are into me?"

Rafe stifles a grin at your genuine seriousness. "Took you long enough, Star."

You reel, blinking stupidly and now just realizing how close you are to him, shoulders and knees brushing as if the close proximity has meant nothing to him the entire time. Christ's sake, you've been helping him pull slices from the box as if it means nothing, playing and joking around with you about his flirting tendencies as if it means nothing, as if you weren't the one he's been trying to score with the entire time.

Suddenly, you're warped back into the club, flashes of his face under the kaleidoscopes of lights haunting your vision like a dream. The piercing blue eyes weren't looking for its next entertainment, they were smitten. Irrevocably. The fight and excuse that he had found Sarah wasn't out of protection, it was out of jealousy. The permanent grin on his face when you clutched onto his hand like a lifeline wasn't out of teasing, it was out of hope.

"Rafe-" You find yourself saying, unsure of where you're going with it.

Until you hear your name being yelled across the street.

Blinking confusedly, your eyes leave his to follow the voice.

Only to see an old friend from school waving at you as if he's been electrified.

Rafe's gaze follows yours, brows furrowing at the interruption and staring the culprit up and down, his anticipation through the roof at the vulnerability of it all, the tension thick between the close space between you that's riddled with the aftermath of the truth bomb.

Took you long enough, Star.

Long enough? How long is he talking? A week? A month? More? Is he actually being serious?

Your name is shouted again from across the street, mind pin-balling between the confession and the voice. It takes you an embarrassingly long time to register who's calling for you.

It's one of your class friends, Gabriel, who always had your back when you slept too late or needed the last couple of answers on the homework, who you pretended to be his girlfriend for when his all-too-traditional father came to visit campus for parents weekend, who was probably your best class friend you've ever had. Once you all graduated, you hadn't heard from him much as you didn't need answers from him or he didn't need your meticulous study guide.

Now he's here. Waving at you and interrupting arguably one of the most shocking discoveries of your life.

Gabriel says your name again, crossing the street without so much as looking as he runs up to you, beaming with his arms open wide and swaying slightly obvious enough to indicate that he's been drinking a bit.

You stand on wobbly legs, letting out a shaky chuckle as the aftershocks of your previous conversation still ring throughout your body. Embracing your friend in a hug, you see in your peripheral that Rafe also stands, placing the pizza box on the curb and waiting uncharacteristically patient next to you, undoubtedly sizing up your friend to analyze if it's a threat or not (in a multitude of ways, now that you think about it).

"Holy shit," Gabriel sighs contentedly while hugging you, "my daily horoscope said I'd see an old friend today, and I was so fucking scared it was gonna be Melanie."

You can't help but laugh, pulling back from the embrace and finding the gall to smile at your friend. "You'd never hear the end of her France trip."

Gabriel rolls his eyes in grandeur. "Ugh, don't remind me."

He opens his mouth to say something else, then just now notices Rafe standing lean and tall next to you, simply stoic and staring that makes your friend slightly furrow his brows, darting his gaze between the two of you in a mixture of shock and intimidation. Of course, Rafe offers no warm welcome or nothing to introduce himself, most likely seeing your harmless friend as a threat.

Guard dog, you think.

"This is Sarah's brother," you say before your friend can make a lewd comment. "Rafe."

The fear is gone as Gabriel's eyes widen and his gaze softens, no longer feeling intimidated by the presence standing lean next to you. His million dollar smile brightens as he looks to Rafe, who barely twitches at the sudden warmth provided by the stranger and instead stiffens at the casual nature, stiffens at how quick the flip switched when you mentioned his sister.

"Love your sister," is all your friend says, placing a gentle hand on Rafe's wrist for emphasis before turning back to you. "I'm with Brian and his friends from home."

Your gaze switches from Gabriel to the people behind him still across the street, your other friend that you recognize along with a couple of guys and girls you don't know. They laugh with each other and carry suspicious looking paper bags with what resembles to be cans of whatever they're drinking. You notice Brian grinning at one of his friends, clutching her shoulder for emphasis as he says something that you can't really hear from this far.

"We're dating," Gabriel adds in an excited hush, "by the way."

Beaming, you grab his hand. "Really?"

"Yes, and finally," your friend says with an eye roll. "He asked me after New Years. Typical. At least I could've kissed him if he asked before."

You nearly snort when you barely make out Rafe's shoulders releasing tension.

Your friend doesn't notice. "We're heading back to his friend's penthouse a few blocks down," Gabriel adds, gripping your hands fiercely tight that it feels like a hundred pins and needles throughout your body. "You guys should totally come."

Your eyes widen.

Gaping your mouth open like a fish, you're caught in a state of how do I politely decline my friend's invitation because I'm tripping so hard right now that I just need my bed? Oh and also the guy who I never thought I'd have a chance with apparently is into me? and that actually sounds like a blast. Because, frankly, you wouldn't mind going but in hindsight, you know as soon as you get there you're going to wish you went home instead.

And - of course - Rafe uses this moment to finally find his voice.

"We're not busy," he says low and baritone. Then, he gestures to the pizza box on the curb. "Clearly."

You want to frown at the implication.

Actually, the two of you were very busy in the middle of a very important conversation that you'd really like to return to. There are so many questions left unanswered in your head, and you're sure that he wants answers of his own since he's - apparently - been waiting long enough for one. However long it is, you're not sure.

But given his dismissive wave of the hand and eyes that won't find yours, it's clear that Rafe has given up the topic.

For now, you think.

Gabriel glances at Rafe, surprised yet on board nonetheless. Then, your friend looks back to you with a grin. "You heard the man. C'mon, there's a pool and free alcohol. It's actually fucked."

Before you know it, you're following Gabriel, his boyfriend, and a group of people you've never met before down the street, but not without Rafe's hand ghosting - just barely skimming - the small of your back the entire walk, electrifying your skin with every brush of contact.

For once, you don't lean away from his touch.

To say the penthouse is big is an understatement.

Brian's friend, Ventura, inherited the suite for the weekend since her dad is on a business trip, and did not hesitate to coordinate her friends staying and partying here while the space is vacant. You don't bother to learn what her father does for a living, and frankly don't even have the words when you first understand how much money you're currently standing around.

The borderline house is on the rooftop of a ten story building with an audaciously big porch with a rectangle pool adorning the corner. They have their own separate room off the kitchen explicitly for liquor. There is a doorman who monitors the elevator to make sure only a certain set of people who have access to the top floor are guarded. You're sure the wallpaper is more expensive than your rent.

You figure an hour or so wouldn't hurt.

When the group enters the penthouse, Ventura and her cousin head directly to the liquor cabinet (even calling it a cabinet is generous, more like a room) while Gabriel and Brian linger back with you and Rafe, who stand at the door simply gawking at the size of the home that you're standing in, reveling in the various antiques and sleek decor in a way you've only seen advertised in magazine, or seen in futuristic shows.

"You don't get used to it," Brian says after chuckling at your shock. "I swear every time I come here, it's somehow bigger. They even have a VR golf room."

That makes Rafe perk up. "No shit?"

Eagerly nodding, Brian exhales in disbelief. "It's fucked. Wanna see it?"

Almost uncertain, Rafe cautiously darts his gaze from Brian to you with this new sense of softness that you're unsure of where that sprung from. His blue eyes search yours for something you can't decipher, practically the saint of patience as he blinks down at you.

After a beat of silence and staring back at him quizzically, you finally understand that he's waiting for the green light from you.

Waiting for permission.

You try (and fail) to mask your shock, as all you can muster is a small nod to him, brows furrowed at why he feels the need to get your approval in the first place to check out a fucking golf simulator in the other room. You practically reel when he instantly looks back to Brian, nodding cooly as if to say lead the way.

When he's out of sight, you let out a breath you didn't realize you were holding. To make matters worse, Gabriel simply whistles low next to you, and you can already anticipate what he's going to say.

"Walk him like a dog, sis," he muses with a grin.

You nearly choke on your breath. "Shut up. It's not even like that."

Your friend starts walking into the penthouse, beckoning you to follow, which you do immediately. In an instant, you're running into Ventura and her friends, who hand you and Gabriel a drink without so much as a thought before skipping to the porch doors. Like sheep, you follow and nearly sigh at the cool air, the breeze much more tenacious up this high, especially in the night.

Settling on a pool chair, you lay back as Gabriel sits at the end, leaning an elbow on your bent knees.

A little ways away, Ventura and her friends are already sauntering over to the hot tub, kicking off their designer heels and perching on the edge to stick their feet in, not even considering getting their clothes wet. They converse about someone they ran into earlier in the night, going over the story in multiple different perspectives that, after at least a minute, you're already checked out.

You block out their conversation, instead relishing in how refreshing the air feels against your skin, how it amplifies your senses yet relaxes you at the same time. Gaze locked in on the royal blue pool lights that lull into a false sense of a dream, your dazed state becomes more obvious than ever.

"So," Gabriel broaches after a few minutes of comfortable silence, "how long have you been together?"

Your eyebrows pinch together. "Hm?"

"You and Rafe?" He says as if it's obvious. "Super cute, by the way."

Sucking in a harsh breath, you attempt to laugh the comment off but instead it comes out pained, almost offended at the thought of it. Though the wound festers you when you remember the confession he spilled on that curb, how he looked at you when he said it, how sure he looked of himself, of his words, of his intentions.

You shiver, and you can't discern if it's from the breeze or the anecdote.

"We're not together," you manage to whisper.

Gabriel sits up, brows furrowed so serious that you might as well have told him the secrets of the universe. "What?!"

All you can do is shrug and shake your head, not trusting your words. God, you feel your face flush, and whether he can sense your clear embarrassment, he either pays it no mind or can't tell in the darkness, still caught up in the notion that you two are, in fact, not dating.

And he cannot fathom those three words. "You better be kidding."

"Gab-"

"No," he interrupts, sitting up even straighter and practically leaning down on you. "Did you-? Hello? Did you not just see how he looked at you, like, five minutes ago?"

Yes, you did. And you're choosing to ignore it.

"You are totally seeing things that aren't there," you deflect, taking an elongated sip of your drink, nearly wincing how it feels like pin pricks on your tongue.

Gabriel simply peers down at you as if you've grown a third eye, seconds from crashing out over your blatant dismissiveness. He blinks big once, twice, then jerks his head at out as if to say c'mon! as he squeezes your kneecap for emphasis on his next words.

You squirm under his stare. "We're just friends."

If you can even call it that, you want to add, but refrain for obvious reasons.

Another big blink. Another squeeze. A raised brow.

"Stop looking at me like that."

"No."

"Gabriel."

"You are being so stupid right now. Wake up."

Stifling a laugh of disbelief, you shake your head and cautiously cradle your drink, picking absentmindedly at the label to dart your gaze away from your friend's knowing stare. Deep down, you know it's true what he's insinuating, and you really, really do not want to believe him, because that makes opening up a complicated can of worms that you aren't sure you can stomach right now.

Because you are awake. In fact, you're more awake than ever with your feelings dialed to an eleven, your senses tenfold. You're experiencing life more than ever before, experiencing a new sensation on how life surrounds you in ways you never expected, experiencing the pleasantries of the high and the consequences of the low.

You open your mouth to defend yourself again, feeling pressured to fill the silence your friend refuses to break, but the sound of the sliding door opening has you halting, heart thumping up to your ears as you glance over.

Why is the sight of him making you nervous?

Rafe and Brian emerge from the penthouse, both with drinks in their hand, as they approach the pool chair and close out their conversation. You hear the tail end of it, something pertaining to golf that you don't even bother to try and understand as you take another long sip to silence your racing thoughts.

To your dismay, Rafe sits right next to your hip, propping his arm up on your knee that isn't occupied by Gabriel's elbow, as Brian sits down at the open space at the end of the chair, and you nearly roll your eyes at the sight of dozens of open seats surrounding the deck, but of course they all chose to bombard your space.

So much for having a moment of solace, you think bitterly.

Although, your head is growing fuzzy at how close Rafe suddenly is to you, skin burning at the feeling of his arm casually perched on your knee as if it means nothing yet everything at the same time. He's been aching to touch you, you realize, after going long enough without it.

"How was mini golf?" You tease before you can stop yourself.

Rafe's lip twitches. "Very exciting, Star. You missed out."

All you can do is hum in response, letting yourself stare at him for a little too long before directing your gaze on Gabriel, who still has that stupid expression on his face as he darts his eyes between you and the guy he thought you were shacking up with.

Then, there's a twinkle of amusement in his eye that has your heart skipping a beat.

"Bri," Gabriel instigates, faux pouting so obnoxiously obvious that you roll your eyes. "I don't like this flavor."

Brian, being ever so sweet, frowns. "Oh, I'll get you another-"

"I'll come!" Your friend perks up quickly, standing so fast it almost makes you dizzy, not-so-discreetly grabbing his boyfriend's arm like talons and dragging him towards the sliding doors. "Be back in a bit," he says, shooting you a knowing glance (that you know Rafe one hundred percent sees).

The two disappear into the penthouse and you're left to bask in the silence. Well, the silence except for Ventura and her friends still talking about that one person across the giant rooftop porch. But you've blocked that out a long time ago, so you consider this your version of silence. Although your heart thumps so loud it's pounding in your ears.

Your gaze lingers on the sliding doors longer than it should, almost pleadingly as you half wish your friend will come back out and entertain the silence, to delay the inevitable. The other half of you, though, is desperately curious to discover more about the monumental anecdote that he shared earlier.

When you finally find a shroud of bravery to turn your head, Rafe is already staring at you.

A hundred questions rise yet die in your throat, starting with the most generic one: Why?

Why you? The person who never gave him the time of day or any sort of implication that you'd ever be with someone like him. The person who openly jabs at his character and takes no fault in speaking the truth, no matter how brutal it may be. The person who definitely doesn't emulate the type of partner he typically goes for.

You're really trying to discern if this is some sort of elongated prank, something to make your trip that much more confusing and make you overthink to the max. He set this up, right? He's doing some social experiment to see if you'll crack under the pressure. Because there's just simply no way.

No way he likes you.

Right?

All you can do is stupidly blink at him, the words escaping you on how to even approach the topic in the first place. You're even more confused at his delighted expression, as if he's quite amused in watching you internally battle your conscience, knowing exactly what's racing through your mind right now. You hate how he knows, you hate how he can read you like a book, and you hate how nice it is to be close to him.

You swallow thickly, hyperaware of his arm still perched on you, a touch so searing hot that it nearly goes numb. It didn't feel this way when Gabriel was touching you, why doesn't it feel the same? Even with Polo, why was the sensation so much more different than from when-

"Wanna swim?"

Rafe's words startle you, interrupting your stream of overthinking. You nearly thank him for the thought break, yet furrow your brows at the request.

"Wh-? Swim?" You respond meekly.

He nods slowly, his arm retreating so his palm encapsulates your bent joint. You nearly knee-jerk when you feel his thumb rubbing absentminded shapes on your cool skin.

But the touch leaves as soon as it came before Rafe is retreating away, standing and walking backwards slowly towards the water, almost egging you on with a raised brow and his fingers teasing the hem of his shirt. He doesn't let you dwell on it before he's kicking off his sneakers, slipping off his socks, and pulling his shirt over his head.

When his fingers move to undo his belt, you suck in a particularly harsh breath, watching his pants drop to pool on the deck floor, finally only in his boxers as he makes his way tauntingly towards the stairs. He cheshire-cat grins when he sees your gaze solely fixed on his chest, swelling with pride at your flustered expression and how your eyes stare at his muscles.

He's ankle deep on the stairs. "Well?"

You finally snap out of your trance, blinking. "Isn't it dangerous? To swim while we're...you know."

Your voice lowers at the end but he hears you all the same, chuckling boyishly as he stands waist deep now.

"I won't let you drown, Star." Rafe's grin is impossibly wide. "If that's what you're worried about."

Finding the strength to scoff, you subconsciously kick off your shoes at the notion of a challenge.

"I'm a great swimmer, in fact," you snap. "You'd know that because you've tried to drown me at least a hundred times."

Rafe watches you from the water, bending his knees so he can sink down to his neck with a low whistle at the daunting move. His eyes never leave you. "I'm not that guy anymore, baby. I promise."

"Don't call me that." You're standing and shimmying off your skirt.

"Sorry, baby."

"Rafe," you scold. Your tank is added to the pile of discarded clothes.

"Fine, I yield." A pause. "Cute bra."

Your skin is on fire under his gaze as you're (suddenly?) ankle deep. "If you say one more thing about my bra, I'm going to kill you."

Rafe shamelessly looks you up and down as if he has every right, not even trying to hide it as he even tilts his head to the side for another angle.

"Alright." Another pause. "Cute underwear."

Waist deep. "What'd I just say?"

"What?" He laughs incredulously, throwing his arms up in surrender. "You said no more about the bra. Last I checked, bra and underwear are two separate things."

"They're both undergarments," you argue, standing five feet away from him. "They go hand-in-hand."

Rafe hums, unconvinced.

Suddenly, he's right in front of you, both up to your collar bone in the heated water that feels like a warped hug. The proximity makes you reel, as you hadn't noticed you have been subconsciously walking closer and closer to him throughout your entire (meaningless) conversation until you can smell his cologne and see the beauty marks on his face.

The water makes his eyes bluer then ever, and in your bottom peripheral you see how his hands twitch in your direction, as if he's itching to touch you. You can't say that you blame him because here you are: in your bra and underwear standing two feet away from him, and you can't imagine he'd keep his hands away from any girl that could be in your position.

"You know," he muses low after a moment of tension filled silence, "I think you're the first girl to ever reject me."

The confession makes your heart lurch to your throat, but you mask it with a scoff. "Fuck off."

But it only makes him grin. "Scouts honor."

That makes you cross your arms defensively. "I don't recall you ever being a boy's scout. That feels sacrilegious, somehow."

"Semantics," he waves dismissively. "It's true."

You narrow your eyes at him, skeptic of his anecdote. "How is that possible? Everyone's been rejected before."

Rafe just shrugs. "Not me. I shoot my shot. It works. Boom. Fool-proof tactic." He is so nonchalant about it that it makes you reel.

"Yeah," you deadpan, "that's called pretty privilege."

“Pretty privilege?”

“Textbook. It's the concept of getting anything you want because you're what society deems attractive."

Rafe cocks his head to the side, smirking.

“Star, if I didn’t know any better I’d say you were calling me pretty," he says low and teasing.

You roll your eyes so hard he's bound to see the whites of your eyes, pretending not to acknowledge how beautiful he looks in this lighting, how the glassy water reflects a deep blue light over his features, casting an alluring shadow.

Has he always been this handsome?

You push that thought deep, deep, deep down. "That is not what I'm saying at all. I'm saying you're used to getting what you want because you're a six foot something mildly not-so-unfortunately looking person."

The grin on his face makes you want to smack him.

Prick.

You turn your gaze away from him. "Whatever."

Finding your sights on the city scape, you really try to ignore the burning feeling of his eyes boring into your profile as they normally do. But it's intensified, as if he can sense your rapid heartbeat and trembling hands and hear your thoughts. It's almost as if he can see your defense cracking minute by minute the longer you spend time with him, the longer you contemplate his intentions.

"Meant what I said," he adds quietly, "if that counts for anything."

You find the strength to look back at him, only to find his expression indifferent, eyes glossed in something you can only figure are nerves, a look so foreign on his face that it temporarily renders you speechless. You can't remember a time where he's been nervous, unknowing, vulnerable. He is far from teasing, instead staring at you so intently, so ardently, that it knocks the air out of your lungs.

The question comes before you can stop it. "You're serious?"

His nod is immediate, slow and deliberate and not once taking his eyes off of yours.

Your heart pounds. "But you sleep around."

The moment it leaves your mouth, you grimace and curse yourself at the lack of filter, the lack of compassion. The sentence comes out way worse than you intend, and you wince at the insinuation. You instantly recoil and clear your throat in an attempt to correct yourself before he can take offense.

"What I mean," you add quickly, "is, like, you've been suppressing this...feeling? For...me? By being with other people?"

You want to groan at how stupid you sound, at how the words are not wording the way you are trying to...word.

But before you can further embarrass yourself and try to piggyback onto the mess of words, he speaks.

"In a way, yes," Rafe confirms softly yet calculated in a tone so genuine, so serious, it throws you for a loop. "Well, I tried. But learned quickly how difficult it is."

You tilt your head. "Difficult?"

He nods. "Yeah." When you arch a brow at his elusiveness, he adds, "Said your name in bed, once."

Your eyes bulge. What?

"What?"

Rafe shrugs with such eased nonchalance that it makes your head spin. "Wasn't my finest moment."

You try not to dwell on it. You really, really try.

Yet the thought of him in bed has (shamefully) crossed your mind more than once, but more so on the speculation of what kind of lover he is. Is he selfish? Giving? Fast and rough? Slow and deliberate? However, the image of Rafe Cameron fucking someone else and yet only picturing you, saying your name, wishing it was you underneath (or on top? On your side? From behind?) makes you short circuit.

It's as if he knows you're spiraling, because you spend a few moments in deep thought, gathering your brain and picking up the scattered pieces, and he lets you. The silence is tense, for sure, with a thick air settling between you as you truly understand the gravity of his confession, the rawness of his feelings.

He doesn't laugh, or smirk, or tease. He simply waits for you to process.

"Well," you attempt to continue despite the lump in your throat, "you've still been seeing people, yeah?"

He shakes his head and purses his lips.

You reel, blinking stupidly at him as you recount all the times you've seen him locked hip to hip with a new girl at least once a month, sometimes twice. "What about Annalise? Or that ginger from the coffee shop last week?" You could go on and on, as he seemingly meets another notch to the belt every time he leaves the apartment. "Kennedy from your work?"

Another shake of his head, and the simplicity makes you utterly confused.

"No one?"

Rafe says your name most ardently. "I haven't slept with anyone in ten months."

The casual tone in his voice makes you falter as the next question dies in your throat.

What?

Ten months? He hasn't seen anyone in ten months? Because of you?

The timeline startles you. You'd only started living with Sarah a little over a year ago, only meeting him the day you moved in when he helped carry boxes. Is he trying to tell you he's been serious about you, in the most fervor way that he can be, for ten months? Forty three weeks? Three hundred and four days? That long?

"But- But what about all the girls you've met?" You splutter, trying to wrap your brain around the earth-shattering confession. "You've shown interest in them."

"Never slept with any of 'em," he says coolly as if it means nothing. "Sure, served as a nice distraction and all, but no matter how much I tried, it always came back to you."

''Back to me?" You reiterate shyly.

You almost want him to say no, to say sike, because the thought of someone, of him, silently pining over you for that long seems utterly impossible.

But Rafe confirms your worst nightmares by nodding considerably firm, sure of his answers, as if they've never been easier to convey. Meanwhile, it's absolutely shattering your brain.

Stupidly, you can't wrap your head around it.

"You," you start by pointing at him, "have liked me," you point to yourself, "for ten months?"

"Technically eleven," Rafe admits casually as if it doesn't make things worse for your heart. "Thought it was just a little crush. But when it didn't go away, like, at all, I figured I'd hold out."

You blink at him as if he's grown a hundred heads. "Why didn't you say anything?"

The words make him burst out laughing, such a boyishly pleasant sound that it reverberates your skin and makes your stomach do a weird somersault that you can't begin to explain. He even goes as far as tipping his head back to emphasize how ridiculous your simple question is, as if he's the funniest thing you've ever said.

Though you're not laughing. You can't even begin to fathom laughing in a time like this.

"I've only said something everyday since," he muses when he finally finds his breath again. "I was never kidding. Never with you."

You frown, slightly panicked on how you've made this man practically celibate for a year without even knowing.

"How was I supposed to know that?!"

In a daze, your hands come up to cradle your face, brows pinched in worry as you blink at him, still teetering on feeling confused on how he can even fathom liking you and feeling guilty how he's been waiting for you after all this time of you basically verbally berating him for the entirety of it.

Suddenly, he's taking a step closer and lifting his hands out of the water to bring his palms to the back of your hands. Your skin tingles from the water droplets from his hands as he removes them from your face. Instead of dropping them, he laces his fingers through yours and brings them under the water with eased nonchalance that it makes you spiral about how long he's been waiting to do this, to simply touch you.

All you can think about is how close he is, his body nearly a foot away from yours.

"You think I'm kidding?" He teases gently. "Just ask Sarah."

Your eyes widen. "Sarah knows?" Your voice is timid, smaller than you've ever heard yourself before.

Rafe grins. "Everyone knows." A beat. "Everyone but you, apparently."

Gawking at him in disbelief, you watch as he lets out a boyish laugh, and the sound is so endearing that it makes your heart thump out of your ribcage, threatening to leap to your throat. His hands that engulf yours squeeze just a fraction tighter, as if he's relishing in the moment before it vanishes into thin air, before the drug wears off and you're both back to square one.

And he just...stays here.

Rafe waits idly, suddenly the epitome of patience as his eyes gloss over your features, taking in how your face looks from this close and really getting to study the color of your eyes before you get shy enough to turn away.

But you don't.

You hold his gaze, steady and definitely a little breathless at the intensity of it all, putting the pieces together and understanding, truly understanding, the ferocity behind his words. Perhaps you've noticed his feelings before, but you probably shoved them deep, deep, down because it seemed like an impossible thing. Because Rafe seemed so unattainable, because you never thought something like this could be true.

"You don't need to do anything about it," he says gently.

You frown. "Rafe-"

"Just-" He interrupts, sucking in a deep breath. "Just stay like this for a second."

Blinking at him confusedly, you dart your gaze between his pretty eyes to find any sort of tremor or sadness, but all you find is softness that you aren't sure you deserve. He's decidedly content with the time he has with you, even if it's a little too short for his liking.

And yours.

Because suddenly you're moving forward, pressing your lips against his before you can talk yourself out of it.

The immediate pin pricks of electricity that jolt through your body elevate the sensation. You both feel it, the literal spark, that stings your lips at the contact as you can practically visualize the way he taste, hear the way he feels, feel the way he smells. It's intoxicating, unlike something you've ever experienced before, and you have no idea how you've managed life without this, without this rush of adrenaline.

Rafe mmrphs low into your mouth, a noise of surprise, as he's frozen in place for a beat, two, three, before he's kissing you back. His hands leave yours, one skimming your waist gently under the water and the other moving up to your neck, and you nearly shiver at the wetness of his skin against your dryness. It holds your jaw in place, especially when his thumb ghosts your chin, moving up, up, up to tease your bottom lip.

You, unintentionally, let out a quiet sigh that causes him to grip your waist tighter, fingers digging into your skin to pull you impossibly taut to him, chests bumping. At the sudden act, your hands brace on his shoulders, slowly raking your nails from his shoulder blades, to the top of his spine, to splay in his hair that is a tad overgrown on the ends.

Pulling gently at his hair, Rafe groans in your mouth as his hand audaciously skims lower that your waist, shamelessly groping the backs of your thighs to yank you even closer. Under the water, your legs koala wrap around his waist and lock around his back, gasping into his mouth when you feel him pressed up against your leg.

"Oh my fucking god," he rasps against your lips. "You taste so fucking sweet."

Your head is spinning. Your body is floating. Your veins are on fire. All you can think about is Rafe, Rafe, Rafe.

"Even better than I imagined, Star."

All you can do is let out a sigh, especially when his hand leaves your neck to settle on your ass, gripping and fondling you in a messy motion against his length, straining painfully against the confinements of his boxers. One particular movement has his cock rubbing against your clit through your underwear, to which you let out a soft moan at the sensation.

Rafe's grip impossibly tightens at the sound. "Fuck." His voice is strained. "We need- Need to... I can't... Not while we're- fuck."

"Take me home?" You manage to mumble against his lips, almost shyly, as you voice what he was trying to say.

"Yes," he says immediately yet reluctant to pull away with his blue eyes trained solely on your lips. "Gotta go home... Need to leave..."

You nearly chuckle at his dazed expression, and you assume he's probably trying to wrap his head around that this is actually happening after ten months of dreaming about it. There's nothing more you'd want than to get a glimpse inside his head in this very moment. You guess that it's either blank or running a mile a minute.

In your peripheral, you can see Gabriel and Brian standing in the kitchen, noses nearly pressed up against the glass sliding doors and shamelessly watching your little pool-escapade.

Fully turning your head to look at your friend, you feel Rafe's lips on your neck, sucking a spot on the underside of your jaw that instinctively makes your back arch into him, all while managing a sly shake of your head and suppressed grin as Gabriel graphically motions a peace sign in between his tongue.

The gesture makes you roll your eyes. (But you hope he's going to be right.)

Rafe's barely stepping through your apartment door before you're fisting the material of his t-shirt and bringing his lips to yours.

The door slams absentmindedly in the back of your mind as his hands are instantly all over you, mapping over the hills and ridges of your body in such an intense manner that you figure he's making up for all the lost time he spent pining over you, dreaming of this, wishing there was even a sliver of a chance of being with you.

Now, you deem his dreams to come true.

Especially with how passionately you kiss him back.

You barely register when you hop up in his arms, legs hooking around his waist and ankles locking at the base of his back. His hands settled firmly on your ass to keep you taut to him, beelining towards your bedroom. Throwing your arms around his neck and hugging him tight, you nearly snort at the pep in his step, nearly breaking your door with the ferocity at which he punches it open.

The light isn't even flicked on before he's striding towards the bed, knees about to lower to practically throw you on the fresh sheets.

Then you impossibly stiffen, remembering something.

"Wait!"

Rafe stills in his bed, your back inches from the bed as you practically koala cling to him to refrain from touching the comforter. "What?"

The words feel stupid on your tongue, and when you don't answer for a full five seconds, he stands up straight and cranes his neck back to look at you, a gloss of worry coating his features as you stay perched in his arms.

He says your name firmly, an edge to his tone.

You bite your lip, scrunching your face in pain. "We were sitting on a curb."

Furrowing his brows, Rafe slowly nods at your words, unsure of where you're going with this.

"And we went in a pool," you add sheepishly.

"Yes," he drawls out, confused. "We did."

You swallow the embarrassed lump in your throat. "Uhm, I washed my sheets this morning." You blink stupidly. "And the comforter. Like, everything's clean."

Rafe's teasing smirk makes you shrink.

Of course, he doesn't speak so you feel obligated to fill the silence with your usual yapping tendencies.

"I just- Uh- Well, maybe we could, like, I don't know-"

"Could what?" He eggs on lazily, going as far as cocking his head to the side at your babbling.

You groan as he blatantly laughs at you, slapping a backhand on his shoulder. "Shut up. You're actually so insufferable."

"I'm sorry, baby."

"Don't call me that."

"Right, sorry, baby."

Rolling your eyes, you turn your head away from him in an attempt to calm your rapid heartbeat. "I'm gonna kill you. Actually."

Rafe hums, unconvinced. "Wow. You sound pretty serious this time."

"I am serious."

"Well, at least let me shower with you before you kill me, hm?"

The thought makes your heart lurch to your throat, stomach pooling in warmth at the anticipation of the events ahead. Especially with how his blue eyes twinkle in amusement, yet slowly blown dark with lust as if he's thinking the same thing as you, as if he's eager to find out what kind of lover you are, too.

Not trusting your words, you settle for a nod instead, and you nearly pout when his arms gently lower you to the ground, placing an incredibly intimate chaste kiss on your lips before settling his hands on your waist, walking you backwards into the hallway, back bumping into the bathroom door as you both push inside.

Before he can even get the light, you're muscle-memory maneuvering into the bathroom, patting the shower tile to find the faucet and turn on the water.

Your body finds his again, as he turns the light on with lightning speed before his lips are on yours again, kneading and groping the flesh of your ass and pulling your body fully against his, groaning into your mouth at the way you mold into his touch. You arch your back into his body, hands instantly fusing through his hair to tug him closer.

The steam quickly fills the room, clinging to you like an uncomfortable second skin.

But you push the sudden dizziness to the back of your mind, solely focusing on Rafe, Rafe, Rafe as your hands brace on his chest. Your palms slide lower, mapping the hills and ridges of his abdomen and studying the crevices like the topography of a map, edging lower and lower until your fingers dip into the waistband of his pants.

Suddenly, he's wincing against your lips, as if remembering something detrimental.

You pull back, breathless. "What?"

He almost looks pained. "Don't have a condom."

Playfully, you can't help but raise a brow, faux-serious. "You thought you were getting lucky tonight?"

Although, Rafe can't discern your joke from irritation, his blue eyes blinking down at your stupidly, slightly panicked.

"No," he says immediately. Then, "Yes? Is this- Are we going too fast?"

You stifle a laugh, cracking through your resolve. "I'm teasing. Relax."

The steam is a thick fog between you.

Instantly, he lets out a shaky breath. "Don't mess with a guy like that, Star," he muses low.

"Making up for all those times you make me want to kill you."

Rafe rolls his eyes, but the gesture holds no malicious intent given the giant fucking grin on his face, and how his lips gingerly press on your hairline in such a casual way that it makes your head spin. Although you can feel the sweat already starting to bead, the room shifting into a practical sauna at the sudden temperature change. It makes you dizzy.

But truthfully, you can't discern if that's from the steam or the handsome man in front of you.

You can't deny how badly you crave him, how badly you want him. The desire augments especially because you understand how ferociously he wants you, how long he's been thinking about being with you, how he pulls back from your kisses every few minutes to inspect your face so he can internally confirm that this is real, this is happening, he's finally got his chance with you after what felt like an impossible feat.

"John B has them," you say, weary from the heat. "Sarah said in his bedside dresser."

He winces at the mere insinuation of why his roommate has them, more so why his sister's boyfriend has them. "Ew, don't-"

"Rafe," you scold, "I'm telling you where they are."

He shudders at the thought. "Oh." Then widen, blinking stupidly in realization. "Oh. Okay. Yeah. Okay, you stay pretty in here, I'll be right back, yeah?"

You nearly whine when his hands leave yours, relishing in another one of his chaste forehead kisses before he's swinging the door open. A wave of heat makes you lightheaded.

"Don't be long," you say before you can stop it.

Rafe grins boyishly. "I'm grabbing a hundred, by the way."

You roll your eyes, waving him away as he spares no second following your command, disappearing into the hallway with his loud footsteps gradually getting quieter.

"I'm getting in!" You call after him, hearing a vague noise of affirmation as you quickly begin to strip. "Snooze you lose!"

The front door is slamming shut as you step into the - obscenely - hot water, nearly oppressive as the steam engulfs the bathroom.

It's thick as smoke, the heat nearly choking you as it crawls uncomfortably in your throat, latches onto your skin like a too-heavy weighted blanket. The hot water pulses down onto your body as a million pin pricks, searing into your pores and making your legs wobble at the ferocity of it. You brace your arm on the wall, attempting to blink the dizziness away.

"Fuck," you mumble low and to yourself, overcome with nausea as your vision slowly tunnels.

Your movements become sluggish, eyesight blotting and ears slowly starting to ring under the ferocity of your queasiness. What the fuck is happening? You're dying. You surely must be. Right?

Clutching your wall mounted shelf to hold some semblance for your balance, you stumble forward to fidget with the faucet temperature, frowning when the water won't cool fast enough, won't stop feeling like a horrible tidal wave of steam is washing over you, drowning you, entering your skin and expanding and threatening to explode.

It's too hot. It's too fucking hot. You're fading. Fast.

You call out to Rafe. At least you think you call out to him, pawing at the slippery tile of the wall to keep trying to brace your own balance as your senses seem to immediately dull: your ears ring to the point of no return to silence, your eyesight blurs out of focus, your body overheats in a matter of an instant and your chest constricts tight, so tightly that it feels like a giant hand is reaching into your ribcage and squeeeeeezing.

White spots blur your vision, mumbling what you think is a curse before you're out like a light.

notes this genuinely has no plotline?

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