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salem-s · 2 months ago

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04 ── PLAYING UNDER THE SICILIAN SUN (18+) ── RAFE CAMERON

SYNOPSIS when your image-obsessed mother catches you and Rafe Cameron ─ your friends with benefits ─ in a compromising situation, you must lie and say you're dating. It spirals out of control when your mother invites him to your cousin's upcoming wedding in Italy, and spirals even further when he says yes. SERIES MASTERLIST | NEXT PART

WARNINGS language, fingering, p-in-v sex. angst (familial issues, mentions of abuse). but also hella fluff??? italian skills are not great, reader's b-day is around thanksgiving for plot sake just go along with it. 18+ mdni.

WORD COUNT 13.7k. don't.

SONG OF THE CHAPTER 24 hours by sky ferreira

The thought of tomorrow sets a pit in your stomach.

You toss and turn for the better part of two hours, wanting to throw a pillow at Rafe’s face when you see him sleeping soundly in his twin bed, envious of the rest that he’s getting that you yearn for since you obviously didn’t get to nap today after the beach.

It’s not uncommon for you to dread your birthday.

Growing up, it was always so close to or sometimes on Thanksgiving that it was overshadowed by the holiday, and you never got an extravagant celebration and instead was pushed to the sidelines. Truly, you never cared for a giant blowout, but the song and a slice of appreciation would’ve been nice.

This holiday in particular is a big time of year for your family to flaunt all the things that they are ‘thankful’ for, which mainly entails money, clothes, and materialistic things that are so out of touch with reality that it makes you sick. So, taking that into account, you associate this time of year with dread and misery.

On your thirteenth birthday, the day fell on the holiday and no one in your family remembered. The one thing you asked for was a birthday cake with candles that only you got to blow out, not your little cousins or your brother, just you.

Apparently, you asking that was far too annoying for your mother, resulting in a swift backhand when you prompted one too many times.

That was the last time you asked for a birthday gift, and stopped bringing the day up altogether in the future.

So, you don't really tell people with the exception of a few friends and nonna, who promised to not make a big deal out of it in front of Rafe. The last thing you want is it to become a thing for a multitude of reasons, and pulled Lorenza aside when Rafe was preoccupied with Ticino to not let it slip to your so-called boyfriend.

Of course, Lorenza would not let the topic slide away that easily, so you settled on her making your favorite meal with your favorite bottle of wine.

The day, its lonely memories, plus the thought of having to dress shop keep you from being able to fall asleep.

You try all sorts of positions, fluff your pillow, count sheep. Nothing.

Anxiety creeps up the longer you're awake, knowing the clock is ticking until you have to cross off a lot of items off your check list: the dress, formalities with your extended family, dealing with your mother, pretending to be Cupid-struck by the guy sleeping seven feet away from you. You don't know how long you've been up at this point, and you're starting to grow delirious.

One idea - a horrible one, at that - stays in the back of your mind for the betterment of an hour.

That last resort sleeps across the room, probably frolicking in a field in his dreams peacefully based on the content expression on his face.

The thought of what you're about to do makes your head spin in embarrassment, the idea of needing Rafe Cameron - of all people - to be able to sleep. It sounds revolting and pathetic to even consider, and it makes you slap a hand to your forehead in frustration, reeling in the thousands of possibilities of how it could go down.

What if it doesn’t work and you still can’t sleep, and then you're stuck in his arms for the rest of the night? What if he wakes up and tells you to go back to your own bed? He wasn’t exactly warm and fuzzy after you had sex earlier, and was weird all day following it.

Weirder than he usually is, anyway.

But it’s the only option, frankly, because the few times he’s slept over or you've slept at his, you always got surprisingly good sleep.

You usually forgo the sleeping over aspect since your dorm rooms are quite literally next to each other, so the walk of shame is only a mere few steps. But, on occasion, he will be too tired to retreat back, or you'll get caught up in stupid conversation, or whatever the excuse is that night.

As much as you hate to admit it, you always found better sleep in his arms, and that remedy is calling your name right now. Honestly, you fear if you don't do it, you'll be up all night wondering if it would’ve worked.

Fuck it, you think.

With diligence, you slip out of bed and hiss quietly at the cold tile floor against your feet, adjusting to the temperature. You sheepishly pad over to his side of the room, analyzing where it’ll be best for you to slip in without waking him up. A wave of ridiculousness washes over you, cheeks burning in the darkness at how desperate this feels.

Rafe is fast asleep on his side, facing your bed with an arm slung over the edge and nearly brushing the ground. The position leaves a tiny sliver of space between his body and the wall that you can see from the moonlight casting a pearly hue into the room, particularly towards his half.

Now or never, you think bitterly.

You nudge his arm gently with your palm to see if he’s truly out cold. He is, because he doesn’t even flinch, chest rising and falling deeply even and syncopated.

Then you slowly lower your knee onto the edge of the bed, careful not to bump into him as you hike your other leg over his body. Diligently, you place your foot firmly on the mattress, wincing at the way it dips down at the weight of you and you bite your lip at the fear you've woken him up.

However, Rafe doesn’t budge, so you continue your stealth mission and move to climb over him.

But – of course – when you launch forward to quickly hop over his body, you severely overestimate how close the wall is and-

Thud.

You smaaaack your forehead against the wall, hard. The bang isn’t that loud, but you involuntarily yelp at the pain and nearly collapse at the ferocity of the collision. The unsteadiness of your posture has your trailing leg nudging his hip harshly.

You freeze, hoping it isn't hard enough to wake him up, and for a moment you think you're in the clear.

But your absolutely heart drops when Rafe twitches, groans, and moves to lay on his back, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes in an adoring way that makes your cheeks flame even hotter than before. His hair, from what you can see, is freshly tousled and sticking up in every possible direction, some pieces falling over his eyes while others stick up and out.

You'd normally laugh at the sight if you weren't currently getting caught in the most embarrassing position to grace planet earth.

Rafe squints in the dark and blinks blearily, taking in the dim sight of you kneeling on his bed and cupping your forehead. All you can do is look down at him with wide eyes, like a deer in headlights.

Despite being lulled from his sleep, you hate how he smiles at you. No, not smiling. He's beaming.

“What are you doing?”

Your mouth opens and closes, attempting and failing to find an excuse for your endeavors as your head throbs at how hard you smacked it on the wall.

Say something, idiot.

Apparently, you take too long to come up with a response, because soon a cool hand comes up to brush against your knee, rubbing a thumb across the bone lazily as if Rafe has all the time in the world, as if he hasn't been woken up from a peaceful sleep.

Now you really stumble over your words.

After a moment of gaping like a fish, you sigh in exhaustion. “I can’t sleep.”

“Hmm?”

“I thought maybe…” you trail off, furrowing your brows.

But you wince when the gesture makes your head throb even more.

Rafe drops his teasing demeanor when he sees a flash of pain paint over your pretty features, concern immediately rising as his chest tugs something foreign from him. Protection, maybe? Fear? Whatever the emotion may be this time, it makes him panic for a moment at the thought of you being hurt.

He pushes himself up on his elbow and brings his hand from your knee to your cheek, brows furrowing. “Hey, are you okay?”

The whole thing is so ridiculous that you can’t help but snort, but the humorless facade fades quickly and all of a sudden you feel stupid under his gaze and feather light touch.

Incredibly stupid.

You feel stupid that you woke him up when you really didn’t need to, and feel even stupider as his hand caresses your jaw so affectionately that it evokes a need to lean into his touch, to feel protected and cared for. You feel stupid that you just want to melt into his big arms and play dumb.

Especially with the way he's looking at you right now.

God. You hate that you're so tired. You hate that the dress doesn’t fit you. You hate that you have to seek solace in him in order to feel at ease. You hate that your head hurts.

You hate that it’s your birthday.

Before you know it, tears spring to your waterline. You pray it’s dark enough so he can’t tell.

But he notices.

Rafe sits up immediately, keeping one hand on your cheek and the other on your bicep to ground you, but also to force you to face him. He ducks his head to your level to meet you eye to eye, and even in the darkness you can still pinpoint those gorgeous blues staring at you.

However they hold a new look you don't recognize from him, and after a moment of staring you realize it’s concern.

“What’s wrong, baby?”

God, it makes you want to melt. And puke. And scream. Why does he have to say that outside of intimacy? Why does he have to play with your heart? Why can’t he simply say your name like normal friends do?

“I just–” Your bottom lip trembles and frustration bubbles in your chest. “I hit my head," is all you can pathetically muster.

You hope that’ll be enough to not have to share the other stuff.

Rafe’s eyes land on where you cradle your forehead, frowning as he gently moves your hand away. The moonlight offers him the ability to lightly inspect the damage. There’s no visible blood or bump as his thumb smooths over it with a feather light touch.

Without thinking, he leans forward, pressing a light, chaste kiss on the soreness. When he pulls back, Rafe pushes some hair away from your face and tucks it behind your ear, his hand then settling back on your cheek with a nonchalance that doesn't match how incredibly intimate the act was.

You watch him the whole time, still willing the tears to not fall as you blink them away quickly. Your head doesn’t really hurt that much anymore.

After a moment of staring at each other, Rafe gently coaxes you down onto the mattress and pulls you against his chest. His hands sprawl on your back, rubbing up and down your spine and over the ridges of your muscles. Your cheek rests against his bare chest, hearing the loud thump, thump, thump of his heartbeat which contrasts his relaxed demeanor.

Is he nervous?

You push the thought away. He probably feels panicked on how to handle someone crying in front of him, as emotions are not in his forte.

“I’m sorry, sweet girl,” he murmurs against the crown of your head. “Can I do anything?”

You simply shake your head with little to no motion, heart dropping as you remember this is just an arrangement, a fake ploy to help you get through the next week. He’s doing this to have leverage. Rafe Cameron doesn’t do things without expecting something in return. But you really don't feel like having sex right now.

“I don’t feel like doing anything right now,” you murmur, voice more shaky than you'd like. “Maybe tomorrow. I just want to sleep.”

Rafe frowns at the implication behind your words, something ugly brewing in his chest as he repeats them in his head.

Do you really think he wants to have sex right now?

“No, I–” He stops himself. You want to sleep, he needs to let you sleep, but he also feels the need to defend himself. Rafe comes up short on his response, a flicker of panic rising in his throat at the thought of revealing too much.

He sighs to himself, irritated that that’s how he presents himself.

Rafe says your name quietly. “Go to sleep.”

You frown at the use of your name, knowing he never really uses it unless he’s angry or upset about something or coming down from a high. He sounds annoyed, probably because he thought he was getting some when he saw you climb into his bed, not expecting the late night blue balls.

You bite your lip at the meaning, wanting to go through all the potential reasons of why he would say that instead of his usual obnoxious pet names, but sleep starts to lull you away as his big arms cradle you, cage you in, share warmth and everything nice.

Not that you'd ever admit this to anyone – not even in a confessional booth – but this is you favorite place to be.

The overwhelming urge to sleep plus the contentment of being in his arms makes you relax, turning your brain off as you flutter your eyes shut.

You assume this position also makes you delusional, because you swear you hear Rafe whisper, “Happy birthday.”

You wake up in a sour mood.

First, Po steps on your chest and it feels like a hundred tons on your sternum, jolting you awake.

Begrudgingly petting the cat, you then notice you're alone in the bedroom with the covers bunched around your waist. Inhaling out of frustration, you try to ignore how the sheets smell like him and sit up, but the act makes you groan, the lingering throbbing on your forehead springing back at the sudden movement.

Then when you leave the bedroom, you discover the house to be quiet. Too quiet.

You enter the kitchen and movement in the garden catches your attention, and your breath hitches when you see Rafe and Lorenza sitting at the outdoor table, sipping coffee and talking animatedly.

Ticino sits right against Rafe’s leg, alternating between typing on his phone and petting him. You watch Rafe type something into his phone and then show Lorenza, who nods and takes the phone, pressing a button and speaking into it.

A pang of frustration pricks at your chest when you see them laugh together. What could they be talking about?

No, you panic.

They aren’t supposed to be getting along. Rafe isn’t your boyfriend. He doesn’t need to be falling in step with this little act. He’s doing this as a pity favor, because he felt bad for you when your mother practically berated you in front of him. He’s doing this because he doesn’t want to go home and see his family for the holiday, he takes the first out he can get and clings to it. He’s not doing this because he wants to, but because he has to.

You push the thought away when you remember your agenda for the day, a cloud of grumpiness shifting over your head as you grumble something incoherent. The sun hasn't been up for long and you're already wishing it's the next day.

Instead of joining the two for coffee, you change into daytime clothes and freshen up, hoping to be able to slip out of the cottage and go on your endeavors alone.

The thought of entertaining Rafe all day makes your stomach do a somersault, as you just want to go in, get a dress, and come back. All you want to do today is relax, maybe go to the beach again, and get stupid drunk at dinner so you can pass out before all the heartfelt emotions circulating your birthday memories come into fruition.

The only remedy to today is drinking yourself into oblivion at dinnertime.

Of course when you exit the house, purse in arm and sunglasses perched on the bridge of your nose, Rafe and Lorenza frown.

“Dove stai andando?” (where are you going?)

You admit your tone is nothing inviting, as you reply that you're going to the dress shop, and your nonna stubbornly matches your irritable tone.

“Porti il tuo ragazzo.” (bring your boy)

An excuse brews in your throat but Lorenza doesn’t let you argue, shushing you harshly and gently ushering Rafe towards you.

You nearly roll your eyes at the difference in treatment, practically coddling your so-called boyfriend. You guess you wouldn’t be surprised if, at some point, your nonna ends up pinching his cheeks endearingly before you leave for the wedding.

You bite back a groan when Rafe shoots up from his seat, waving goodbye to your nonna and falling into step with you. You don't wait for him before you start practically speed walking onto the dirt path, eager to get this whole thing over with - especially since you begrudgingly have a babysitter now.

However, his long legs allow him to catch up with ease, even taking it one notion further and spinning around so Rafe's walking backwards and facing you.

If you weren't so irritated you'd actually be impressed with his foot coordination.

“You weren’t even gonna wait for me?” he teases, his tone and demeanor a stark contrast from last night. Maybe he jerked off this morning and got rid of his blue balls, as it seems like the only valid excuse for his chippier attitude on this bright sunny day. “I find that highly offensive, baby.”

You roll your eyes, and then realize you're wearing sunglasses. “What’s highly offensive is the lack of steps you took to catch up. Has anyone ever compared you to Gumby?”

“Is he handsome?”

“No.”

“Then no.”

You groan. “You’re in the wrong profession. You should be on some sort of court instead of running your mouth all the time.” You try to side step so he’s not backwards-walking right in front of you, but he mirrors your movements to prevent that from happening, taking utter glee in your irritation. “Stop.”

“No,” he retorts, shuffling with a skip in his step. He must’ve played soccer with the way his feet are coordinationally graceful. “This is how I like to walk.”

“No, it’s not.”

“How would you know?”

All you want to do is leap forward and throttle him.

It’s bad enough you have to run this errand in the first place, and even worse that he has to torment you the entire time with that stupid smile that he wears when he knows he’s pissing you off. It also frustrates you that he’s essentially forcing you to look at him, his biceps outlined offensively well in his plain navy t-shirt and his hair falling over his squinted eyes.

You attempt to mask your staring with a scowl, but it feels like he sees right through you. And it further pisses you off.

“You know you don’t have to talk, right?” you hiss, hating the way he laughs at you. “Sometimes people like to walk in silence.”

“I don’t.”

You throw your head back, huffing at his stubbornness, at your headache, at the whole ordeal in itself. “Well, I do. So shut up.”

Of course, Rafe doesn’t listen and instead taps his chin in mock contemplation, humming low as he pretends to think. “Do you think I could get away with robbery? I’m not talking amateur klepto, I’m talking something big. Like a car. Or a freight train.”

The rest of the walk is essentially just that: Rafe talking your ear off as you brush him off with one word responses, move to hit him, or ignore him altogether.

You know you're being a dick, but today, of all days, you do not want to be tested. Rafe doesn’t seem to run out of words, though, moving past your bratty attitude and filling in the gaps of silence with outrageous hypothetical questions or random stories and facts about stuff you don't care about.

After tuning him out for the better part of fifteen minutes, you nearly sigh in relief when you approach town. He eventually falls into step next to you, taking in the sights around him. Your heart does a weird leap when you see him pull out a camera you've never seen before and snap some photos of the scenery around you.

In a moment of his distraction, you race forward and slip into a store in a feasible attempt to lose him.

But Rafe doesn’t shake that easily, following you inside with ease and shooting you a deadpanned look as if to say nice try.

The store doesn’t end up selling clothes, instead holding antiques and random trinkets that you actually don't mind looking at. Frankly, you want to stall your loitering as much as possible with the hopes that he’ll get bored and go venture off somewhere else for the better part of an hour. But to your dismay, Rafe doesn’t budge, instead looking at the items with you and lingering around the things you seem to pick up, inspect, then put down.

You forget about your irritable facade when you pick up a ceramic fish about the size of your palm, the sardine painted in whites, blues, and yellows with two little holes through the top fin, assumingely there to be able to hang it up with a piece of string. The handmade item sits gently in your hand, inspecting the grooves and crevices and paint job as you run your thumb across the glassy surface.

There’s a small section of the table devoted to similar ceramic fish, all painted with the same colors but in different patterns, no two alike. They're all beautiful, and you stop and inspect all the different detailing on each one while still holding the original you picked up.

Rafe suddenly appears next to you and follows your gaze to the art piece in your hand, picking up another one off the table and flipping it over to see the artist’s small signature on the back. Your arms brush as he moves his hand next to yours so you can look at both fishes next to each other. The one in his hand looks so much smaller than yours despite being the same size.

“These are cool,” he murmurs, almost challenging you to agree.

But you simply hum, taking one more lingering glance before putting your fish back down on the table and walking away to inspect other items. You're so dismissive to his presence that you don't seem him pick up the sardine you were previously holding, cradling it along with the fish he picked up in his hand.

You do that a few more times in the store: pick up a random item, inspect it, hum in appreciation, then put it back. Rafe trails behind you, as if following your movements and analyzing the same things that you do.

When you move to leave, Rafe calls your name in warning before you can exit.

“I’m getting something for my sisters, can you wait for me? Or am I going to have to chase you down again?”

You roll your eyes at him, but nod nonetheless as you linger by the door obediently, picking at the material of your purse with one hand as you absentmindedly trace the spines of old books with the other.

It doesn’t take long for him to meet you, gripping the brown paper bag tightly as he approaches with shifty eyes.

“What’d you get for them?” You ask quietly as you move to leave, deciding the question is too intimate so you don't hold the door for him to make up for it.

Rafe scratches the back of his neck and falls into step next to you, avoiding your eyes as he pretends to busy himself looking through the windows of passing shops. “Uh, there were some small posters in the back made by a local artist. They’re kind of freaky looking, but my sisters are weird. So. That’s what they get.”

You hum at the thought of him thinking about his sisters, catching yourself smiling lightly. But you wipe it off your face as quickly as it came. “Cool. I think there are other shops like that if you wanna get them more stuff. I’m gonna pop in here quick to look around.”

“Nuh-uh,” he warns sternly and your shoulders sag at his stubbornness. “I’m under strict orders to stay with you from Lorenza. Stop trying to get rid of me.”

The thought of the two of them conspiring broaches a weird feeling in your gut, a combination of confusion and envy and something else that you can’t quite pinpoint. There’s a slight tick of anxiety that flashes in your mind that their conversation this morning was all about you, more specifically on what today is. You just hope your nonna respected your wishes and didn’t tell him that it’s your birthday.

“Whatever,” you eventually grumble, cutting off his stride to side step into a dress shop.

Rafe follows obediently, trailing behind you in the store to inspect the vintage looking dresses on the racks. He watches you fish through them without a forethought, humming at some possible contenders but then continuing to move on with your search.

You feel his gaze burning from your peripheral and decide to ignore him, taking his focus as boredom because he has nothing better to do than to watch.

You take a few possible dresses under your arm as you move onto the neck rack, ignoring the gross feeling in your chest when he offers to hold them for you while you continue to look.

It almost makes you laugh at the sight of Rafe Cameron as your personal clothing rack.

You have half a mind to tease him on the matter, but when you look back at him to hand him another dress to hold, he looks perfectly content. Happy, even, to provide such a small service. You hate that he doesn’t complain once, grumbling something incoherent about his stupidly incessant presence as you turn back to the rack to resume your search.

Then your gaze settles on a particularly unordinary dress shoved deep in the back as if someone hid it.

You pull it out and inspect it with a quiet gasp. It’s a silky spaghetti strap dress with all kinds of patterns etched through it, decorated with delicate beading that make up swirls, small flowers, and dotted lines along the hem. The bottom is uneven, creating an edgy diagonal stitch as it cascades down. The neckline is a v-neck, you assume, because there’s a sliver of material in the bust that gives the dress a bit of a cowlick design.

With one hand you hold up the dress by the hanger and gently skim over the material with the other, as if admiring its beauty through touch alone.

You hear Rafe hum quietly behind you, drastically pulled from the mesmorizing moment as you nearly cough from the surprise.

“You like that one?” he asks gently, voice void of any teasing regard.

You mimic his hum, but then frown as you further inspect the dress. “It’s beautiful, but…”

You trail off. The dress is beautiful. Ethereal. It’s the kind you’d see in a dream and spend life trying to find.

But you catch the numbers on the tag and your shoulders sag, because there’s no way in hell you’re able to afford that off a measly part time job at school. Even then, you can’t think of a scenario where you would wear this, knowing it’ll ultimately sit in your closet collecting dust. Because this dress will turn heads, and you’re not the kind of person who normally holds the spotlight.

Plus, the dress isn’t wedding guest appropriate to you, because it would no doubt draw attention to you in a way that you really don’t want – assuming that it will even fit you.

Your mother would probably call it hideous and demand you change into something else more appropriate: basic, standard, conservative, because god forbid you try to figure out your own style versus molding into whatever cookie cutter shape your mother wants you to be that day.

“But what?” You hear Rafe behind you, confusion edging his tone.

“I wouldn’t wear it to the wedding,” you say softly, almost dejected and trying to convince yourself not to waste your savings on a dress you have no occasion to wear it for. “Too…out there. Besides, it’s worth like three months of work for me.”

You put it back on the rack and move on with your search, knowing the longer you look at it the more upset you’ll get.

In another life, you suppose.

But Rafe doesn’t let you get far, reaching back in to grab the dress and add it to the growing pile. You spin around with an argument ready in your throat, but your words don’t come when he gives you a pointed look, a warning, forcing you to shut up before you create another argument.

The thought of standing in the middle of this shop and arguing with him seems like your personal hell, so you humor him with a dejected sigh, turning back around to fish through the last rack.

“I’ll be quick,” you grumble as you take the pile of dresses from his arm. “You can wait outside if you want.”

Rafe’s response is immediate. “Sweet girl.”

A warning.

The changing room is small. Well, calling it that is generous, because it seems more like a supply closet that the owners were forced to change into a dressing room. It’s a fully closed off room with no seats for observers, so Rafe settles on leaning onto the wall next to the door.

You have to physically look away when he shamefully crosses his arms, shutting the door quickly behind you to put the barrier between you.

It's as if Rafe knows how achingly annoyed you are at this little errand, because, bless him, he tries to make it fun for you.

The first dress you try on is a deliberate no based on the awkward fit, but he insists you show him anyway despite your excessive cursing. With a scowl, you oblige, doing a sarcastic twirl for him. In return, he puts on a fake southern accent to thoroughly judge the dress with dramatic flair.

Rafe only amps it up when you barely - just barely - crack a smile.

After breaking the ice, your cold demeanor slowly starts to slip. You come out one by one, needing his help a few times with a lingering zipper. There’s one that is so atrociously bad that you step out to show him as a joke, and hate how he laughs with you (not at you, it seems) pulling out that camera before you can protest and snapping a photo of you mid-shout. Rafe holds the camera high above his head when you nearly tackle him to get him to delete it, failing to no avail as he simply fights you off as you attempt to reach it.

You wouldn’t even call it fighting, because it takes little to no effort for him at his offensively tall stature.

Eventually, you give up on the matter, grumbling something about judge-model confidentiality before disappearing back into the changing room.

It isn’t until you come out in a sleek wine-red gown that Rafe perks up, and he's at a loss for words because he can't even muster up the gall to put on the judge-facade he's been milking the whole time.

And, boy, does he stare.

The dress is beautiful and wedding appropriate. It’s conservative enough with a higher v-neck that ties into a halter, your entire spine exposed with a cowlick at the base of your back. The form is fitting around the bust but falls loosely from your hips down, a knee-high slit showing a sliver of your leg.

You hate the way Rafe is drinking you in right now, staring shamelessly up and down your body.

To fill the gap of silence, you try to distract yourself by explaining what you’d do with your hair, which is tie it up, and what kind of jewelry you’d adorn. But, frankly, it’s as if it goes in one ear and out the next given how Rafe can only nod absentmindedly at your words, eyelids low and lazy.

“Okay,” you roll your eyes at his demeanor, “clearly this is the winner based on your lovely review.”

Rafe can only blink stupidly as you shoot him a pointed look before disappearing back into the dressing room.

In your absence, he masks a cough as he readjusts his pants, suddenly irritated how he seemingly has to wait at least another thirty minutes before he can fuck you right, and that’s if Lorenza isn’t home. He sighs at the thought of having to sneak around again, wanting to hear you loud and clear every single time.

This knuckle-biting-moan-preventing bullshit is starting to irritate him.

When you exit the dressing room, back in your normal clothes as you hold the red-wine dress, Rafe frowns, angrily huffing.

“You didn’t try the other one on.”

You look up at him quizzically, gesturing to the piece of material in your hand. “I’m getting this one. There’s no need.”

Rafe scoffs, as if the whole thing offends him. “Go back and try the other one on.”

“Cameron–”

“Go.”

His incessant tone makes you freeze, your gaze flickering between his furrowed brow and his palm upturned at you, gesturing you to hand him the dress.

Your frustration bubbles at his bossiness, pinching your brows at his sudden demeanor switch and nearly stomping your foot when you move to walk to the register and he grabs you by the elbow, keeping you in place.

Rafe squeezes in warning. “Now.”

You narrow your gaze right back at him, so it just becomes a few moments of you staring at each other in mutual irritation, waiting to see who will break first.

Eventually, Rafe squeezes your arm again to which you relent, rolling your eyes so hard it kickstarts a migraine, shoving the dress in his hands and slamming the door behind you.

You grumble to yourself the whole time, shoving your pants off and ripping your shirt over your head as it falls to the floor carelessly. Despite the anger, you handle the dress with delicacy as you slip it onto your body with such care it might as well be made of glass. After adjusting the straps and zipping the side, you sigh dreamily at the sight.

It fits you like a glove. It makes you feel beautiful.

Though your heart is heavy.

Fuck, you wish you hadn’t even picked it up, because the sagging feeling of not being able to afford it nags at your brain. A wave of sadness crashes over you as your palm skims over the material longingly.

A knock at the door startles you, pulling you from the moment. You don’t realize how long you’d been standing there admiring the piece until you hear Rafe’s voice.

“Are you dead in there? What’s taking so long?”

God, you want to throttle him. His impatience turns your sadness into anger.

You swing the door open, nearly hitting him as you meet his gaze. Huffing, you gesture to the dress with an attitude.

“Here it is. Happy?”

There’s a prolonged silence between you as Rafe takes in the sight before him, studying the way it shapes your body, cascades down your legs, and hugs your breasts in the right place. His breath hitches, feeling his dick twitch uncomfortably at how frustratingly perfect it looks on you. The delicacy and beauty of the dress starkly contrast the expression on your face, one of irateness and annoyance that it makes him furious.

You take his silence as dislike.

Grumbling something under your breath, you spin around and attempt to slam the door in his face.

But Rafe’s foot jabs out to stop it from shutting.

Before you can yell at him, the words die in your throat as Rafe pulls you in for a bruising kiss, pushing himself into the small changing room and shutting the door behind him. His hands wander all over, shameless groping and fondling you as he pushes you against the mirror, caging you in.

Breathless, Rafe pulls back, reeling in the way you lean up to chase his lips and pout when you don’t get your way.

“I need you to understand something,” Rafe warns low, his fingers feather light against the neckline of the dress, tracing it and ghosting over the warmth of your sternum. “You've been nothing but a brat all morning.” His finger finds the strap, pulling one down your shoulder agonizingly slow, his touch the complete opposite of his intentions. “So, I’m going to fuck the attitude out of you. And you’re going to be good and quiet, and you’re going to take it.”

You nearly gasp when he presses his hip against yours, feeling his already aching hard-on against the swell of your belly.

He doesn’t falter. “When I’m done with you, I’m buying you both dresses and you’re not going to complain about it.”

“Bu–”

A hand grips your chin, forcing your mouth shut. “Shut. Up. Not another word about it. Alright?”

Frustration seeps from your pores. You don’t want him to feel obligated to buy you the dress, the price tag flashing across your mind and a swell of guilt rises in your chest. The topic of money is no concern for him, you assume, but it’s more so the implication of the purchase.

Why does Rafe care?

His fingers only grip harder when he sees your internal battle, and the guilt slowly starts to fizzle out and is replaced by lust, especially with the way his other hand ghosts under the material to slowly fondle your ass.

Rafe peers down at you, patiently waiting for the green light, and he moves lightning fast when you nod against his hold, submitting.

He suddenly takes a step back, hands and body leaving yours and you nearly slump without the weight of his support. Your mind feels fuzzy as he inspects the scene in front of him, dick painfully hard at the sight of you waiting obediently.

“Good,” he growls. Then, with a wave of his hand, he gestures to the dress. “Off.”

For once, you don’t argue as you carefully push the straps down your shoulders and unzip the side, letting the material fall to the ground and pool around your feet. Eagerly, you grab a hanger and step away, gently putting the dress back on the wall as your tummy flutters with excitement.

There’s no denying you’ve been a brat all day. Maybe you really do need him to fuck you into a better mood.

Rafe hums in appreciation. “Turn.”

Obliging, you spin and face the mirror, eyes coming into contact with his as he takes a step forward, closing the distance. Your heart skips a beat when you feel him up against your back, and suddenly you survey the scene in front of you, naked besides a pair of panties while he stands behind you, fully clothed.

A flicker of embarrassment coats your features, as you want him to be as naked as you are right now (almost in solidarity?), so you spin around and grab at the ends of his shirt to try and pull it over his head.

But Rafe doesn’t allow that to happen, snatching your hands to pull them away from him and forcing you to face the mirror once again, tsking in your ear at the disobedience.

“I thought you were gonna be good for me,” he spats quietly, but the words feel amplified as his mouth ghosts over the shell of your ear.

“I-I am,” you defend weakly. “You’re being—“

“No,” he rasps, interrupting you with a firm tone that has you shutting up immediately. “Quiet.”

Rafe doesn’t break eye contact with you through the mirror as one of his hands snakes around your waist, flattening his palm against your lower belly and traveling lower to trace the outline of your panties.

Your breath hitches, watching his fingers slowly descend into your underwear as your heart races with anticipation. It doesn’t take a look in the mirror to know how ferociously your cheeks burn when he slips a finger through your slit, the embarrassing realization dawning on you that you’re already wet for him.

You can feel and see your face get hot, and it only spurs him on further.

Rafe smiles at you and it’s nothing nice.

He drinks in the way you’re practically putty in his arms, chest heaving when he enters one finger inside and eagerly watches your reaction. Stubbornly, you try to not give him one, but fail when he enters a second without warning, humming in satisfaction when you let out a low moan at the feeling.

You flutter your eyes shut but snap them open when his other hand roughly grips your hip.

“Eyes open,” Rafe commands with a whisper. “I want you to watch yourself come on my hand.”

Jesus, the words make you bite back a smile.

You should act like a brat more often if this is what the result will be.

Rafe continues to shamelessly finger you in this dingy dressing room, his other hand groping your ass, tits, waist — anything else he can get his hands on — while he works you towards your high.

Every time your eyes start to slip closed from pleasure, he stops and scolds you with a particularly harsh squeeze with whatever part of your body his hand happens to be on in that moment. It's usually accompanied with a simple "sweet girl" or "eyes" when he notices.

And, of course, you obey.

It only takes a minute for you to feel shaky under his touch, especially when he presses his thumb against your clit and traces tight circles on it. Your head falls back onto his shoulder, reaching an arm up to grip his hair to ground you to something while you feel your release approaching.

Your other hand flies up to your mouth, biting down on your knuckle as you try — and fail — to hide a shameful moan.

"Look at you." Rafe's voice is right in your ear, sucking ungodly kisses on your neck. "Dirty girl, fucking my hand for everyone to hear."

It only takes around half a minute before you’re writhing from his touch, panting as you feel your orgasm coming.

“Fuck, Rafe, I’m–” You can’t finish, instead interrupting yourself with a pornographic moan as you rut against his hand like a bitch in heat.

You force yourself to look in the mirror at the scene in front of you in fear that he’ll rip his fingers away if you close your eyes. With eyes slitted and your mouth parted, you will yourself to look him in the eye, only spurring your orgasm.

And Rafe simply stares at you.

His mouth is agape, eyes trailing from yours down to your breasts and eventually down to where his fingers disappear inside you. Rafe has to bite back a moan when he sees your cum coating his hand and your underwear, relentlessly continuing to shove his fingers in and out to shove your cum back inside as you ride out your high.

You moan in overstimulation when you come down from it and realize he’s still going.

Weakly, you try to push his hand away with a huff, attempting to assert any last ounce of dignity, but that quickly flies out the window when he snatches your wrist with his other hand, gripping so tight that you can’t move even if you wanted to.

“No,” Rafe orders, bringing your hand back up to his hair where it was before. “You’re giving me another.”

You splutter in protest. “Bu–”

He interrupts you when his thumb returns to your clit, entering a third finger that elicits a loud whine from you.

Gripping his hair impossibly tight, you nearly pull him forward to where his lips ghost over your flaming cheeks, the roughness making his eyes roll back for a fraction of a moment. Your back arches off of him when you feel Rafe press against you again, feeling his hard-on through his shorts, and in a feeble attempt to stake your claim of control, you push your hips back to press into him.

Of course, that makes him stop.

Rafe scoffs meanly at you absolutely writhing against him. “You’re such a fucking brat. No complaining.”

The dominance makes your head feel fuzzy, and when his other hand comes up to wrap around your neck, the coil in your belly starting to gradually build again.

With a fuzzy brain, you whine, mouth agape as you get closer and closer until–

“You want my dick, princess?” Rafe urges mockingly.

Your head is spinning as your orgasm builds, and builds, and builds. “Yes, Rafe, I’m cl–”

“Fine.”

A gasp rips out of your throat as Rafe suddenly pulls away, his fingers leaving your pussy devastatingly early.

You stumble on your own two feet at the loss of support, about to spin around and hit him on the chest for teasing you until the hand around your neck grips your chin, forcing you to look at him in the mirror.

“Stay,” he commands harshly.

Rafe brings his cum-coated fingers out of your underwear and to your lips, eyes narrowing as it takes a moment for you to realize what he’s waiting for you to do. With bleary eyes and shallow breaths, you take his fingers in your mouth, sucking the taste off of him and swirling your tongue around his digits.

The act elicits a low moan to escape from his mouth, and he hates the way it comes out involuntarily.

Rafe takes his fingers out and quickly unbuckles his shorts, letting them fall to the floor as you both look down to the achingly pitched tent in his boxers.

Your mouth nearly salivates at the sight of it, your hazy muscle memory forcing you to dart your hands forward to grab him.

But his fingers harshly grip your wrists and pull them away from him.

“Turn around,” Rafe grumbles.

You stumble on your feet as he tries to spin you around. “I want to–”

“No.”

You huff in frustration, nearly stomping your foot. The bratty excuse but it’s my birthday rises but dies in your throat.

Irritation clouds your mind. You want to suck him off. The last time you did so was in his dorm room about a week and a half ago, as he had a particularly rough day. A small part of you loved when he let you take control, giving into the notion of letting you take care of him without needing to ask. Instead, you had insisted.

You want an ounce of that semblance back in an attempt to gain control of the situation. But you can’t help but feed off of being bossed around, since this isn't the first time Rafe has fucked his frustration out on you. After snipping and barking insults and orders, it’s nice to let someone else take the reins for a little.

Despite your wishes, you oblige and turn around with a pout, letting Rafe practically shove your underwear down the curve of your ass and around your ankles. Your faux irritation wipes away from your features when he butterfly splays a calloused palm on the middle of your spine, pushing you down to bend over.

With a spark of excitement, your hands brace themselves on the mirror, biting your lip in anticipation as you watch him admire you from this angle, cock hard in his hands as he fists himself up against your ass.

“Look at you,” Rafe coos, almost mockingly. You meet his eyes in the mirror, the piercing blues dark with lust. “Being such a good girl for me.”

Rafe takes achingly long. It could be seconds but it feels like hours before he brings his cock between your folds to soak up your wetness. You’d be embarrassed if it didn’t feel so damn nice, and you can’t help but moan at the sensation, wanting to yell at him to stop elongating the foreplay.

“Rafe, please—“

But it’s as if he reads your mind, aligning himself with your entrance and pushing himself in until he’s buried fully.

“Shut. Up.”

Unlike the tender-like intercourse yesterday, Rafe snaps his hips harshly, setting a fast starting pace as he thrusts in and out of you, keeping one hand on your hip to raggedly keep you in place while the other stays firm on your back to keep you low and bent over nicely for him.

His tip nearly leaves your cunt every time, slamming back into you with his full length.

God, your eyes roll back into your skull.

“Feel good, baby?” Rafe asks huskily. The tone is far from genuine.

You can only babble something incoherent back to him.

It only makes him laugh darkly. Mean. “Done being a fucking brat, hm?”

Your elbows fold and extract with every thrust, trying your very best to hold yourself against the mirror instead of smacking headfirst against it. You moan as he fucks you deep and rough, the sound of hips snapping together only spurring you on further.

"N-Never—"

One of his hands leaves your hip to firmly smack your ass, jolting your body forward as you can't help but sigh at the sensation, head lulling as your legs begin to shake from his force. But Rafe notices, and instantly his palm is snaking up your spine to grab at your hair, forcing your eyes back into the mirror.

"Eyes. Up."

Back arching at the sensation, you both moan when his cock nearly hits your cervix, the mixture of pain and pleasure creating a low rumble in your tummy.

You try and say something back, some half-assed retort that never reaches the light of day because you find his eyes in the mirror, and you instantly notices he's equally as fucked out as you are.

Rafe’s hand on your back snakes around your body, instead splaying on your stomach as he pulls you to stand up straight, the new angle causing you to roll your eyes back. You throw your head against his shoulder, forehead sticky with sweat and legs shaking from overstimulation. He continues to fuck into you, a thumb finding your clit that has you immediately arching your back, molding into his body.

When you glance into the mirror, you notice Rafe is already staring at you.

“Look at yourself, princess,” he rasps breathlessly, your blissed out state nearly making him finish. “Taking it so goddamn well.”

Suddenly, it’s all too much.

The pace, the obscene noises, the way Rafe’s blue eyes are blown black with lust, never straying away from your face.

“Give me one more.”

It’s as if his words ignite a fire in your stomach, the sensation of everything happening in this room catches up to you.

His thumb on your clit. His dick hitting every possible angle. His chest heaving against your back. His breathy moans ghosting the shell of your ear.

The coil snaps for the second time as you’re coming so hard you see white, the noise wrangling from your throat in surprise as you throw a hand up to cover your mouth, not wanting to alert the shop owner of the scandalous activity happening in the room, but you really don't do much to prohibit the noise as your hands shake from the force.

The sight in front of him has Rafe’s pace stuttering, trying to ignore how fucking nice your orgasm feels around his cock, how your hand knots in his hair, how your pretty little sounds echo off the walls.

“Shit,” Rafe curses, eyebrows furrowed in what looks like pain as his thrusts gradually slow.

You return to planet Earth momentarily, frowning at his elongated pace. In an attempt to ride out your high for a little longer, you snap your hips back into him.

The rebellious act has Rafe gripping your hips impossibly tight, probably bruising, as his rhythm falters.

“Where? Where should I–?”

The response is immediate and careless.

“Inside.”

That seems to startle Rafe as he nearly shoves himself forward, coming inside of you with hot spurts as he groans into your ear, both of you nearly drooling at the side of his cum pooling down your thighs as he fucks you through his orgasm. His hands on your hip are iron clad, guiding your motions in rhythm with his.

Eventually, Rafe’s thrusts gradually slow as you lean against one another with heaving chests and breathy pants.

Once he’s assured his knees won’t give out, Rafe slowly pulls out of you. You stand there for a moment, balancing on wobbly legs and nearly collapsing from the dull ache from between your thighs.

But he’s quick to hold you in place, gentler this time, his chin coming to rest on your shoulder as his fingers smooth over the roughness of his previous grip, soft enough to be considered an apology.

Blinking away the fuzziness, your mind comes down from the dumbification.

And it makes your heart ache.

You hate the way Rafe’s eyes soften in his post-orgasm haze, trailing his eyes up and down your body not in hunger but in admiration.

At least you hope it’s admiration.

You two stand there for a moment, chests heaving and staring at each other through the palm-stained mirror with matching fucked out gazes. In an attempt to regulate your breathing, you bring a hand up to smooth down the pieces of his hair that you pulled abhorrently tight, doing your best to make it look presentable.

Then, Rafe manages to chuckle lightly. “Still wanna be a brat?”

That makes you snort.

“Hm,” you hum in mock contemplation, eyes slitting. “Can we do reverse cowgirl if I do?”

He shakes his head in disbelief, but the rising grin gives away his faux irritation. "Sweet girl, you don't even need to ask."

It’s funny because the first couple of times you and Rafe hooked up, you were thoroughly appalled at his lack of aftercare.

You remember cussing him out for practically ignoring you, thinking he was purposefully not helping you clean up because you weren’t really friends at the time and you still couldn’t really come to terms with how you both, sometimes, had to be nice to each other. But once you brought the word up to him in the heat of an argument, you watched his anger morph into confusion.

Given his track record, you were stunned that he genuinely had no preconception of the word, let alone the concept in itself, and taught him the implications of aftercare and how it makes life so much easier for everyone.

He hasn’t forgotten about it since.

Rafe helps you clean up, but not without pushing some of his cum back into your pussy with his fingers, then proceeding to pull your underwear back up over your hips.

You, truly, try to ignore the casual intimacy of it, but it doesn’t seem to faze him as he helps you dress first, then takes care of himself.

With a racing heart, you tell him you’ll meet him out at the register in a minute, spewing some excuse of wanting to fix your hair. Rafe doesn’t press any further, grabbing the dress hanging and throwing it over his arm before he leaves the room, closing the door behind him to give you some privacy.

What the fuck was that?

It was almost perfect. Almost.

Why does Rafe have to do things like that? Why can’t he just fuck you rough and hand you your clothes instead of dressing you himself? Why can’t he use a tissue to clean his cum instead of pushing it back into you? Why does he have to say stupidly endearing things right after as if he didn’t just give you an earth-shattering orgasm?

Pull yourself together, you harshly think.

After you nearly coach yourself to calm down in the mirror, you slide out of the room looking presentable enough to see Rafe at the register, flashing his black credit card to the shop owner. When he stuffs the card back in his wallet, you catch a glimpse of a giant wad of Euros that you’ve never seen before.

You don’t linger on the moment before the shop owner is handing him a bag, taking it with a curt nod.

Rafe’s eyes find yours as you carefully approach him. “Ready?”

So nonchalant, you think.

You can’t find the words, instead nodding and murmuring grazie to the shop owner, partially out of guilt for what went on in the changing room. As if the universe hates you, Rafe’s hand grazes your lower back, guiding you out of the store and back out onto the street.

You don’t venture back up to the cottage just yet, as your mood has – shockingly – improved.

Finding an ounce of independence again, you decide you want to look around in a few more stores for shits.

Rafe doesn’t complain, and instead encourages it, claiming he can look for more trinkets for his sisters. Although, you don’t see the way his gaze shifts to you when he says it, nervously waiting for you to call him out on his strange behavior of why he wants to buy things for his family after bitching and moaning about them.

But you don’t seem to catch on, thankfully.

Because Rafe practically buys everything you express the slightest interest in in secret.

When you’re off distractedly looking at something else or hopping to another store, he’s carefully building up his collection: dainty rings with jewels, clunky rings, a pair of earrings with pretty green jewels, an old annotated copy of Macchiavelli’s Un Principe, an old Italian movie poster that he doesn’t understand, a thin frilly scarf, and even manages to sneak a pair of vintage heels that he has to nonchalantly confirm are in your size.

Rafe stuffs all the items in the only two bags you know about, not wanting to raise suspicions even though they get heavier after leaving each store. He imagines you’d be mortified if you caught him in the act buying all the things you seemed to touch, and no doubt bites back a laugh as you’d probably force him to take it all back.

After all, he bought you a computer once after yours broke, and you harassed him for a week to take it back or let you pay him for it. Rafe edged you so fucking much one night until he forced you to drop it.

So, yeah, he’s content doing this under your nose.

Eventually, after Rafe convinces you that you need gelato from a stand on the street, you retreat back to the cottage with a careless pace in your strides, taking all the time in the world as you eat your ice cream and talk about stupid stuff that has no meaning. He wishes he had another hand so he could take a photo of you like this: grinning into your cone with the slightest bit dribbling on the side of your lip, no doubt grilling him about something stupid he says.

Rafe quickly finishes his cone so he can have the hand free, reaching over and brushing the pad of his thumb over the sweet strawberry gelato ghosting your lip.

The fuuuuuck.

Your mind turns to mush as you pause mid sentence at the action, watching him as he takes the thumb in his mouth, tasting the flavor.

“Mhm,” Rafe hums. “Good choice.”

You shake your mind out of the gutter at the terribly intimate action, telling yourself that he is so casual about it because he doesn’t care about stuff like that.

Besides, he’s probably doing it to get a reaction out of you — his favorite past time — which you refuse to give him.

Instead, you roll your eyes in faux irritation and continues what you were saying.

After twenty minutes, you make it back to the cottage and the overwhelming gloom-cloud over your head returns, popping out of fantasy land and remembering your birthday celebration tonight, the memories of the day in the past creeping up to haunt you.

Memories of you begging your mother for a cake or the newest Barbie or whatever infatuation you had of the year to get absolutely nothing in response, maybe an eye roll or – that one year – a swift backhand to the cheek for interrupting her phone call.

A small part of you wishes you felt comfortable enough to ask for what you want, as it would certainly make life a lot easier. Instead it only augments your stubbornness and makes you skeptical of what people do actually bring you things. And that definitely doesn’t allow for an easy way out of situations.

Unfortunately, Rafe notices your quiet demeanor, trailing off from whatever tangent he finds himself on and frowning.

“You okay?”

His change in tone pulls you away from your nagging thoughts, looking up at him distractedly. “Hm? Oh, yeah. Fine. Just tired.”

Rafe nods, half accepting that answer but also not wanting to push it. You enter the garden. “How’s your head?”

The question tugs something in your heartstrings. Why does he care?

You push it away. “Better. Might refrain from sneaking around in the dark, though."

You go to push open the door but Rafe beats you, opening it for you despite the two bags he carries.

Thinking back to the dresses, that former guilt of him spending all that money on you resurfaces as you pause. Rafe expectantly holds the door open, gaze flickering from his arm down to you, who stares at the bags in deep thought.

A shot of panic flashes to his mind, thinking you caught a glimpse of all the things for you stuffed deep in the bags, but instead you peer up at him sheepishly, a kind of look he hasn’t seen from you before. It has him tilting his head to the side in concern, half torn between making a chide comment in teasing and half resisting the urge to kiss you.

“What?” he whispers, gazing deep into your eyes.

You bite your lip, frowning ever so slightly. “You really didn’t have to buy them. The dresses, I mean. They were expensive.”

Rafe’s mouth curls up into a smile, the cost having little to no effect on his wallet and it’s endearing to him that that’s your concern.

Hell, he’d buy you anything you wanted with no questions whatsoever – if only you asked.

Asking isn’t in your nature. Rafe learned that pretty quickly after the computer debacle. Plus, he just had to fuck you stupid in order to buy two dresses for you alone, so he couldn’t imagine what he’d have to do to convince you to let him take care of you more often.

“I just…” you continue, hating the way he’s practically beaming at you, “don’t expect me to let you buy stuff for me just because you fuck me nice.”

That earns a belly laugh from him, throwing his head back precariously close to hitting the doorway and you have to refrain from mirroring his smile, switching your demeanor back to serious as best as you can to keep up your firm facade. Although, it's proven difficult because he has the audacity to look incriminatingly handsome.

Rafe’s grin burns a hole through your heart. His eyes gleam with pride. “So you’re admitting I fuck you nice?”

Cheeks burning embarrassingly red, you turn away from him and roll your eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. But I’m not letting you buy me anything else ever again.” You point to him in warning, then brush past him to enter the cottage.

Rafe’s laugh echoes throughout the house as you storm into the bedroom, partially laughing at how mad you’re going to be at him later.

Boy, is he wrong about that.

Dinner runs swimmingly.

Lorenza makes your favorite kind of meals: gnocchi with a crab based tomato sauce, breaded chicken with lemon squeezed over the top, along with a homemade tiramisu that the neighbors bring over just an hour before you all eat. The older woman prepped with two bottles of wine: one to drink during the cooking and another to drink while eating.

It’s wonderful.

It’s all you want out of your birthday: having a lively dinner full of laughter and conversation with a belly full of wine. Rafe asks a bunch of questions to Lorenza and she answers, trying to tie a few English words into her stories to help him understand. However, you end up translating for most of the night, but you don't mind.

Not in the slightest. Not when your mouth hurts from smiling so much.

After eating, Lorenza slips a gift into your hand when Rafe leaves the room to play with Ticino, an assortment of your favorite Italian chocolates and an old pendant of hers that you once complimented. Along with the present, she gave you a smooch on each side of your cheek with a quiet, “Tanti auguri.”

You tell your nonna that she absolutely did not need to get you anything, but, in Lorenza-like fashion, waves you off with a scoff, nearly offended at the thought of not doing anything for you.

When you retreat back to the room, a little tipsy and toying with the gift in your hand, you sit down on the edge of the bed, a stupid smile painting your lips as you close your eyes and hum dreamily.

This is the most content you've felt in a while, and you feel incredibly grateful at the notion of your nonna getting you a gift. It’s small and light, wrapped delicately with a ribbon, a short handwritten note folded inside with something so beautifully written that you can't bring yourself to read it right now, otherwise you'd probably cry from the sappiness.

The door creaking causes you to open one eye, seeing Rafe poke his head in to see if you're in here. He reciprocates your smile as he pushes inside, walking over to you and kneeling between your legs.

The sensation of his cool hands gently running up and down your thighs makes you hum sweetly and brace your hands on his shoulders, smoothing down the ridges of his collar.

“Hi, pretty,” he says softly.

You beam at him and he swears he’s never seen a better sight. “Hi.”

Rafe drums his fingers on your soft skin in anticipation. “How do you feel?”

“Good.”

“Good?”

“Mhm.” You shut your eyes in contentment, sighing dreamily as the effects of wine make you feel warm. “Great.”

Rafe taps your thigh gently. “Hey. Don’t fall asleep.”

You open your eyes obediently and pout. “But ‘m tired,” you nearly whine, especially when his smile grows larger.

“Wake up.”

Your eyes flutter shut again. “Why?”

“‘Cause we’re going out.”

Then they shoot open, staring down at Rafe in confusion.

Your feather-light touches around his collar and the nape of his neck cease. He taps your thigh again, noticing he's trying (and failing) to suppress a grin, one that screams trouble. If you weren't so tired, you'd tease him for his eagerness.

But curiosity gets the best of you, especially when he has this look in his eyes that means he’s up to something.

“Why?”

“Did you really think I wasn’t going to do something special for your birthday?”

You freeze, the confession causing a moment of panic to rise like bile in your throat.

God, you're going to kill your nonna.

Your gaze darts between his eyes to see if he’s going to add anything else, or berate you for not saying anything. People usually go berserk when you neglect to tell them your birthday, seemingly more upset about it than you. Over the years, you've gotten used to the lectures, and it's given you more reasons not to tell people the day to avoid such grandiose scoldings.

However, Rafe simply stays quiet, watching you intently with a gaze so genuinely soft that it makes your stomach somersault. Suddenly, the wine doesn’t make you feel so nice.

You hate the way your voice is barely above a whisper. “We don’t have to do anything.”

Then Rafe sits up, placing a caressing hand on the side of your neck as his lips place a chaste kiss on one cheek. “We’re going out.” He alternates and places another on your other cheek. “You’re going to wear your pretty new dress.” And then his gaze flickers from your eyes down to your lips, pausing for a moment before leaning in and kissing you. “And we’re gonna take your nonna’s Vespa.”

That pulls you from the moment, brows furrowing and blinking stupidly. You move a fraction away, still confused about the whole matter.

“Nonna has a Vespa?”

Rafe nods. “Mhm. It took a lot of convincing. But she eased up when I told her I know how to drive a motorcycle.”

A...what?

The confession sends warmth to your tummy, the thought of Rafe operating a motorcycle has you shifting in your seat. “You do?”

“Mhm. What do you say, sweet girl? Wanna go?”

God, if you ever say no to that question...

It doesn’t take you long to get ready, simply pulling on your new dress and putting on some mascara. The whole time, Rafe simply watches you, lounging lazily on the bed after quickly changing with an arm tucked under his head.

It isn't until you're digging through your bag to take out your heels – meant to be for the wedding – Rafe stands and stops you, putting his hand over yours and pulling something out from behind his back.

You want to slap him silly when it’s a pair of heels, shoes that you voiced interest in earlier during your shopping (or browsing) spree. Of course, you were never going to buy them, and placed them back on the rack, but it seems as though he snuck his way around you.

You never really know how to accept gifts. Usually it’s with reluctance and dismissal, but right now, in this very moment, you've found a new reaction when he hands them over to you: a scowl.

“Okay, this is the last thing you buy me. Deal?”

Rafe puts his hands up in surrender, dressed adoringly in a collared shirt and dress pants. He looks so ridiculously handsome that it makes you blush, especially with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and the top button undone. It almost makes you angry at his audacity. Truthfully, he looks good in anything: T-shirts, flannels, polos, nothing. It isn't fair.

The urge to stab him with the stiletto of your shoe but also pull him in for a bruising kiss comes into fruition, and you have to shove it to the back of your mind when you stand with the heels on, slinging your purse over your shoulder. You have the sudden realization that you're dripped out in clothes he's bought you, and you'd be pretending if you said it didn't make you feel some type of way.

Like his.

"Ready, baby?"

Shamelessly watching you, Rafe crosses his arms and tilts his head, drinking the sight of you in.

Thank god you're still a little buzzed from all the wine you drank, because you can't stand it when he looks at you like that.

So, instead of babbling like an idiot, you smile sweetly and nod.

And, jesus, the sight of it makes him bite his lip.

You're annoyingly beautiful, especially dressed in clothing that he's gotten you. A wild wave of possession rolls over him, much to his dismay, and it only makes his heart lurch when he remembers that you're not his.

Not really, anyway.

But regardless, Rafe ignores the thought.

Lorenza escorts you to the scooter waiting patiently at the edge of the gate, exchanging a few words with you and forcing a helmet into your nimble hands. Rafe waits patiently on the vehicle, biting back a grin when you nuzzle in behind him, wrapping timid arms around his middle and pulling yourself flush against his back. He can feel your breath on the back of his neck, and it makes the hair stand up with a chill. Before he starts driving, he gives your hand a gentle squeeze in reassurance.

The ride is, admittedly, stupidly fun.

Rafe is careful on the dirt road, rightfully so, focused on his task so intently that he barely registers you hugging him tighter, expressing your thanks in the only way you know how.

The sun sets low in the sky, casting a golden hue over the horizon that your eyes seem glued to, and soon the drive is illuminated by street lamps, making it into the heart of town as the roads slowly transition to cobblestone. Watching the life on the streets pass by, you rest your helmet clad head against his back, looking out towards the sea in longing and glancing at the locals basking in the setting sun.

Only now, you allow yourself to relish in the moment, shutting your eyes and simply existing, feeling his warm chest against your palms, the wind blowing against the exposed skin of your leg, hearing the sounds of laughter emitting from the street. The whole journey is so achingly pleasant that you forget you're actually stopping.

Rafe parks on the street in a small designated spot, hopping off before you can think. He slips his helmet off then proceeds to unbuckle yours, diligently lifting it off your head and holding both of them in one hand by the straps.

Then he offers a polite hand to help you off. “M’lady.”

You raise a quizzical brow. "Is this the Rafe Cameron boyfriend experience?”

“Shut up and take my hand.”

You roll your eyes, taking his hand anyway and allowing him to help you off the scooter. “How charming.”

Ignoring the thumping of your heart, you walk across the street to a quaint little restaurant, his hand splaying on the small of your back possessively as you enter.

You peer further into the restaurant to see they have outdoor seating with a view of the ocean, deciding to indulge in the pleasantries of a birthday and attempt to learn how to ask for (seemingly small) things.

Before the host can pull them into a corner to hide you from the locals, you ask, “Se è possibile, possiamo per sederci fuori?” (if it’s possible, can we sit outside?)

The request is successful, because the host leads you to their private tables outside, and you nearly sigh when you feel the ocean air brush your cheeks. You and Rafe sit away from others, tucked in your own world as the ocean laps gently to your left, his right. The table is lit gently by hanging lanterns and a single candle on each table, impossibly romantic in a way you try to disregard.

You order two red Chianti’s for them, the same wine you drank earlier at dinner.

When the waiter disappears, the silence stretches between you.

It suddenly dawns on you that you're on a date. With Rafe Cameron.

He seems to have the same epiphany simultaneously, and he chuckles out an anxious laugh and scratches the back of his neck.

The act makes you reel. Is he nervous?

You decide to elongate his misery as he comes up short on things to say. “How’d you find this place?”

“Oh,” he murmurs, the question catching him off guard.

He can’t look you in the eye.

It makes you grin.

“Lorenza recommended it. Said it was fancy to the locals, but far enough from the tourists.”

“Technically, we are tourists,” you tease.

Big, bad Rafe Cameron nervous on a date. Who would’ve thought?

Rafe finally meets your gaze, rolling his eyes when he sees your big grin at his stupidity. The hard edges to his exterior slowly smooth out, letting out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Repressing his own smile, he shakes his head and turns away from you, hating the way he feels his cheeks turn pink.

“Shut up.”

“You’re being awfully rude to me on my birthday.”

“You were being awfully rude to me on your birthday,” he retorts as the waiter brings the wine, setting each glass in front of you.

Despite his playful tone, the accusation has you frowning.

You definitely were an asshole all day, no doubt about it given the dressing room treatment. There really was no excuse to take out all the anger surrounding your birthday and the upcoming wedding out on him, who simply has been helping you this entire time and going above and beyond in front of your nonna. A flicker of embarrassment coats your features at the thought of it.

After the waiter pours you each a glass, he places the bottle on the table and walks away, leaving you alone once again.

This time, it’s you who can’t look him in the eye, absentmindedly swirling the wine by the leg of the glass.

Fuck it.

You decide to swallow your pride because, regardless of how insane he drives you or how much of an asshole he is or everything in between, he didn’t deserve to be at the receiving end of your behavior today. After all, he did buy you two beautiful dresses and heels despite being your personal punching bag all morning.

Guilt washes over you. You don't even remember if you thanked him.

“I’m sorry for being such a dick today.”

The confession catches Rafe by surprise, his brows rising as he brings the glass to his lips, pausing his sip mto see if he heard you right. The genuine tone of your voice renders him speechless as he's only able to stare at you.

His silence makes you continue. As well as the alcohol.

“I don’t really like celebrating my birthday just because of…stuff that’s happened in the past. It’s not an excuse, but contrary to popular belief, I’m juggling a lot of shit right now and I took it out on you.” You struggle to get through the sentence, finding a shroud of bravery to look him in the eye. “So, I’m sorry.”

Rafe takes a sip, then puts the glass down on the table. A moment of silence stretches between you before he finds himself asking, “Do you…want to talk about it?”

You raise a brow. “Which part?”

“Any of it.”

Rafe knows his tone reeks of desperation, but he wants you to be able to trust him, even if it’s for one night.

Because, fuck, he wants you to tell him what’s bothering you, and he wants you to know that he’s here to listen. He stills, nearly holding his breath and waiting for you to reject it, to shove him back into a cloud of mystery surrounding the pleasantries of your past. The pounding in his ribcage only augments the longer you stay silent, contemplating opening up to him.

Taking a long sip of your drink, you take a moment to compose yourself, swirling the drink more as you stare at it.

Fuck it.

“My birthday brings up a lot of bad memories,” you murmur quietly, almost reluctantly. You refuse to look at him but he doesn’t even mind, eager to pick on the breadcrumbs. “I, uhm, am used to not celebrating it because it’s so close to the holiday, so it usually just gets…brushed over.”

You decide that’s a nicer term than what the reality is.

But Rafe simply doesn’t understand. How could anyone treat you like that?

You fidget with the glass, finding it really interesting to look at all of a sudden as you feel his gaze burning into you.

“As a kid, I used to have to beg my mom for the family to sing me happy birthday, trying to compromise that I didn’t even need a cake or presents or anything. Obviously that went nowhere, so after thirteen I stopped asking.”

You find yourself faintly smiling, remembering the gift your nonna gave you and the clothes he bought you today.

“I can’t remember the last time I got a birthday gift. So, thank you,” you say so gently.

The expression on his face is indifferent, you realize, when you look up at him.

It’s a mixture of concern, pity, admiration, and a bunch of others that you can’t quite pinpoint. He doesn’t offer an immediate response, instead staring at you as if he’s carefully collecting his thoughts by darting his piercing blues around your features.

You once again fidget under his gaze, unsure of what to make of it.

But Rafe takes a deep breath, sliding his hand forward to cover yours that anxiously picks at the glass, ceasing your movements altogether. The gesture of comfort makes your shoulders visibly relax, leaning into the conversation instead of shying away from it.

Rafe squeezes your hand, as if to coax you to continue, to let you know that he’s here to listen.

So he does.

Rafe listens intently to you lament about (most) issues plaguing your mind: how the whole concept of celebrating your birthday feeling foreign and disingenuous to you, the upcoming stress surrounding the wedding – more so having to see all of your extended family and deal with your mother at the same time – and how you wish you could just exist with them instead of constantly trying to prove yourself, the term paper that you have to submit by the end of the month that you forgot to start, and the thought of leaving nonna again since your mother is forcing you to come home for winter break.

The bottle of wine is eventually finished, and Rafe insists on getting some food so you're not stumbling around on an empty stomach.

You share a calamari appetizer throughout the night as you go over your checklist of worries. Rafe offers a few of his own so you don't feel left out: the fact that he has to say goodbye to the greatest dog he’s ever met, the nagging reminder that he has to call his dad at some point and give a thorough explanation of why he didn’t come home for the holiday, the excuses he has to come up with as to why he doesn’t want to spend Christmas with them, and how he doesn’t want to leave Italy to return back to the cold.

"I almost have maternal instincts for him," you frown after you're both long finished with the lamenting. "If I was having a really bad day, I think I would get irritated with him even though he doesn't know any better. He would probably think it was his fault."

"Sweet girl, Spongebob isn't real, you know."

This exact conversation is a tale-telling sign that you're tipsy.

You're babbling about nothing, but you really don't care. "It doesn't matter. No one understands him-"

Rafe is grinning at you taking this conversation so seriously.

"-I mean, his own best friend participated in the 'No Spongebob Day' for fuck's sake." Your cheeks flush at Rafe's teasing expression. "Stop looking at me like that. How would you feel if your best friend celebrated in a 'No Rafe Cameron Day'? It probably wouldn't feel good, you know. You're not being very sympathetic right now."

"Sorry, baby." His tone is hardly apologetic.

All you can do is narrow your eyes. "You're on thin ice, Cameron."

He nearly laughs. "Whatever you say."

You reluctantly let Rafe pay for the drinks and food despite a million protests, claiming that Lorenza gave you money to spend on the evening, but he doesn’t buy it for one second, flashing a wad of Euros to the waiter to take care of the bill without so much a thought.

Once you finished your last glass of wine (not Rafe, he stopped drinking hours ago), he guides you out of the restaurant by the hand, intertwining his fingers with you gingerly. You blame the overly affectionate act as special treatment for today and today only.

The ride back is calming, hugging him impossibly tight the entire time. When the cottage comes into view, you frown under the helmet that the little excursion is over already, nearly laughing in disbelief that your date with Rafe Cameron was actually pretty decent (maybe excluding the part where you drunkenly ranted about the implications of modern day make-up in period pieces or the Great Molasses Flood).

Even if it was all pretend, anyway.

Lorenza’s asleep given all the lights are off except the entryway, so you and Rafe quietly tip toe towards the bedroom. It’s much easier for him than it is for you, so it’s mainly him guiding you through the house by your waist, careful not to bump into anything or make a lot of noise. At one point, you almost knock over a vase that makes Rafe pull you taut against his chest, not letting you an inch from his grasp until you make it to the room.

He shuts the bedroom door behind you, flickering on the lamp behind his bed before turning back to the birthday girl.

Rafe isn’t sure if it’s technically your birthday still, but none of it matters because he still needs to do a few things before you fall asleep, starting with showing you how much you mean to him without having to say anything.

Without further ado, he gently takes your hand, slips your dress off, and guides you to bed, all while kissing your knuckles, your cheeks, your forehead, your lips, murmuring sweet nothings against the goosebumps on your skin in a tone that seems only reserved for you, his sweet girl.

Then Rafe proceeds to make the softest love he knows how to you.

There isn’t an inch of your body that goes unnoticed, un-kissed, unappreciated. It’s slow, gentle as he can, and completely, irrevocably, impossibly revealing his true feelings, spilling secrets he can’t seem to speak into fruition or else it’ll simply confirm the rawness of it all. So he lets his body do all the talking, and all it does is worship you.

Frankly, you relish in the princess treatment, liking it a little too much that you can’t even find the gall to tease him for how doting he’s being.

So you both submit to each other, emotionally and physically.

When you lay under his sheets together, limbs entangled with one another with quiet chatter spilled across cotton sheets, it’s the most content he’s felt in a really long time. He could spend the rest of his life in this twin bed with you if he had the ability to choose, to forget about everything else happening and solely devote himself to you and only you.

Fatigue creeps up on you in your body and soul, your core aching in a pleasant way as you nuzzle into the sheets that smell like him while adorning one of his t-shirts, the clothing practically swallowing you whole. You're surrounded by him, physically, emotionally, mentally, a thick fog that clouds your vision.

Your eyes start to lull shut, but a calloused palm shakes your shoulder gently.

"Hey, don't fall asleep yet."

You whine, but obey nonetheless as you watch Rafe turn over and nearly hang off the bed, reaching underneath to pull out a bag and the sight of it makes your heart throb.

It’s the same bag he carried around all day, you recognize with a pang of guilt.

And he's handing it to you.

Moving to sit up, you reluctantly take the bag from him and he twiddles his thumbs together as he watches you.

“What’s this?”

“It’s for you.”

Your shoulders sag. “I told you not to get me anything else.”

Rafe simply shrugs, not entertaining the thought.

You have half a mind to tell him off, but your eyes catch a glimpse of something in the bag and your heart flutters, freezing as your gaze flickers between the contents and his nervous expression. Reaching into the bag, you can’t help but grin as you hold up the ceramic sardine you so patiently admired earlier today.

Leaning back to pull something out of his backpack, he holds up another ceramic sardine, the one that he picked out. “I got one, too. Now we can match.”

God, the whole thing is so fucking thoughtful that you want to cry.

You pull out more objects, the gifts seemingly never-ending: the fish, more clothes, a scarf, a book, jewelry, and more.

The realization dawns on you like a tidal wave. He got you everything you expressed interest in at the stores and managed to do it right under your nose. The whole thing is severely overwhelming and you cradle each item with such love that he nearly melts at the care.

You've never had someone do anything like this for you, never had to not ask to get something, never had someone who simply understood what you wanted without needing to outright say it.

You're hugging him before you can process it.

The action startles Rafe, your arms hooking around his neck as you press yourself impossibly tight against him. He hesitates to reciprocate it in a moment of surprise, but Rafe eventually slides his arms around your waist, warm hands settling on your back as he shuts his eyes at the sensation of simply holding you, being held by you, holding each other.

Rafe decides that he really likes hugging you.

Being a hugger is not in his day to day agenda, not even his year to year. Hugs are viewed as hello and goodbyes in his family, nothing more. When someone was upset, he simply talked it out. When someone had something great happen, he poured them a drink. When someone was expressing gratitude or love or genuine appreciation, it was through words or not expressed at all. Rafe doesn’t realize what he’s been missing out on all his life, not knowing hugs can just be. They can simply happen because it can, no need for an occasion.

But when your shoulders start to gently shake with a quiet sniffle, his eyes snap open.

Are you crying?

Rafe tries to pull back to inspect the damage but you only grip onto him tighter, holding yourself there in his arms for a little longer before you have to face reality again.

He says your name so fucking soft that it brings upon more tears.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, worry evident in his tone.

Fuck. Was it too much? Was it not enough?

Rafe nearly huffs in frustration at the thought of fucking it all up, kicking himself because he was doing so well, or at least he thinks he was doing well, but all of that goes out the window by making you upset. No, not just upset: he made you cry. Now that’s a new low, even for him, and panic rises in his throat as his heart drops at the sound of your sniffling.

He decides he hates the noise, never wanting to hear it again after tonight.

In another attempt to comfort you, Rafe pulls back again and you let him.

He doesn’t get a glimpse of your face as you immediately cover it with your hands, sniffling once more as he frowns deeper. His hands ghost over your forearms, unsure if he should touch you right now or give you a bit of space. There’s always a caution when it comes to people crying, and he normally doesn’t handle it correctly.

But his anxiety simmers when you let out a strangled laugh, aggressively wiping your tears away and sniffling once more as you finally manage eye contact with him, faintly smiling at his severely worried expression.

“I–” you hiccup, “I was so mean to you all day, and you were doing all of this for me.”

Rafe’s shoulders drop in relief, huffing out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

Gingerly, he lets his hands run up and down your arms endearingly as you continue to wipe away your tears, the nerves in his chest simmering down because, phew, you aren't mad at him or upset or, more importantly, he didn’t overstep.

Brushing a stray tear away with his thumb, he manages a tired smile. “Don’t scare me like that. I thought I upset you.”

You pout, confused. “Why would I be upset? This is…so thoughtful. I’ve never…” you trail off.

But he understands what you're trying to say. And he hates that he's the first to do so.

“You deserve all of it,” Rafe says quietly before he can stop himself. “All of it. And more. I’m sorry that no one has done it before.”

He opens his mouth again to say more, but the words die in his throat, not wanting to say too much even though a small part of him fears he has. Instead of speaking, Rafe settles in silence, keeping his hand against your cheek as he caresses your jaw and stares deeply into your eyes to compensate for his lack of words, trying to telepathically tell you what he's trying to say.

You do the same, so confused on how someone could think you deserve all of this, especially when that someone is Rafe Cameron.

Melting into his touch, you nearly sigh, relishing in the moment and trying to draw the line between real and fake. However, dwelling on the fine line of the arrangement will only make you more upset, so instead you lean into his touch and decide you'll indulge in your delusions for tonight.

At that, Rafe breaks eye contact to look at your lips. It doesn’t take long for him to lean in, kissing you slowly, passionately, earnestly. The kiss ends as soon as it begins, you feel, because he’s already pulling away and tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear.

“C’mon, sweet girl. Let’s go to sleep.”

After carefully putting all the gifts back in the bag and setting it on the floor where you won’t step on it in the morning, you settle into his bed as he turns the lamp off, following suit and pulling you taut against his chest. Your face nuzzles into his neck as a big hand cradles your back, rubbing gentle circles along your spine underneath his shirt.

In the dark, you feel a little more comfortable and a little less vulnerable (despite literally crying in front of him a few mere minutes ago), but the confidence to say what you've been meaning to say all night comes easy in the pitch-black.

“Thank you,” you whisper against his neck, voice so quiet you aren't sure he hears you.

But Rafe hums, confirming he does. He says your name quietly. “You don’t ever have to thank me for that…for anything. I want you to know that.”

Your heart beats uncontrollably at his words, at your name. “Okay.”

“I’d get you anything you wanted if you just asked.”

Your chest feels funny at the confession, confusion running awry in your mind at all the implications that statement can have. What is he trying to say to you right now?

Exhaustion fatigues you, eyes lulling shut as you lay in his big, warm arms. Despite all the nagging and overly complicated emotions plaguing your mind, you manage to softly smile against his skin, pressing a featherlight kiss on him.

“Even a Mary Poppins umbrella to save myself from a tsunami?”

Rafe chuckles above you. “Anything you want, baby.”

“What about a talking car?”

“Sure.”

“A magic crystal that turns me invisible?”

“Mhm-hmm.”

“The Fairy Godmother’s wand from Shrek 2?”

“‘F course.”

You pause, biting your lip. “What about a cannoli tomorrow at the bakery by the beach?”

Rafe snorts. “Now you’ve crossed a line.”

You can't help but laugh, nuzzling even closer to him as you hum in contentment.

The sensation of being in his arms, the warmth of the bed, and the fuzzy feeling pooling in your chest quickly lull you to sleep, soon turning limp in a matter of minutes. The last thing you register is Rafe's lips pressing on your hairline, pulling you just a fraction closer than before.

notes please leave comments. i yearn for feedback.

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