American Heartbreak - Ii

american heartbreak - ii

summary: a big win and one too many tequila sunrises could be just the right push to idiots in love needed, or could possibly create more self doubt.

warnings: rafe x oc, fem reader, drinking, bull riding ?, vomit, cussing, mutual pining, ward being ward, excessive use of nicknames (sorry?), cowboy!rafe (yes it needs a warning)

wc: 4.8k

an: I know nothing about bull riding so please bare with me lmao I researched as best as I could. This took soooo long but I did it! I love where this series is going & I hope you guys do too. Next series to be updated is seeking arrangments <3

series master list - previous part

June looked herself over in her mirror brushing her hands over her dress. In her usual sundress and boots she let out a satisfied sigh and grabbed her big denim jacket. She was hoping to catch Rafe’s attention tonight, maybe he would want to spend time with her. Instead one of the girls he always ended up having hanging off his every word.

“James is here Juney!” Amber shouted from the bottom of the stairs. Her boyfriend was going to give the two a ride tonight.

“Coming!” She replied. She grabbed her bag and headed downstairs to meet the couple.

“Hey James,” She said and smiled at the dark haired man.

He nodded at her, “Hey June Summers.” James always said her full name for some reason. June never questioned it. Amber came out from the kitchen and grabbed James’ hand.

June followed behind them. She always felt like they were her parents when it was just the three of them, “We better hurry because June’s gotta help with the raffle tickets. Oh and she needs some time to stare at Rafe,” Amber smirked looking back at the girl who was locking the front door.

“Hey!” June scolded as she turned around quickly.

James laughed and said, “Don’t act like it’s a secret that you’re crazy for him.” He opened the truck door for his girlfriend before she climbed in.

June rolled her eyes opening her door, “I’m not crazy about him! I just have a small crush on him. Just like a school girl crush.”

“Oh please you’ve had a school girl crush on him since you were literally a school girl.” Amber laughed.

“Can we talk about something else please,” June said with a huff no longer wanting to be ridiculed for her crush.

“You’re coming to Rooster’s right June?” James asked as he drove to the rodeo.

June shrugged, “Yeah I guess so. I don’t want to miss out on another night of Amber falling off the mechanical bull.”

Amber laughed at the memory, “I will be that damn bull one day,” she turned to James, “she’s also going because Rafe explicitly asked if she was going.”

“I’m gonna jump out of this truck right now.”

-

After they arrived James walked them over to where the riders were. He was going to meet Rafe to make sure everything was good to go before his first ride. There was still over an hour before it was supposed to start so June had some time to be with Amber before helping Mrs.Mayfield. She shivered lightly at the cool autumn breeze and also because of her nerves. She was nervous to see Rafe, he always made her a clammy mumbling mess.

Amber was walking with her going off about a girl they went to high school with’s pregnancy announcement. Amber always knew all the gossip and she always passed the information along. June laughed at something Amber said closing her eyes for a split second, but with her clumsiness her she tripped over a rock. Her heart dropped as she felt herself go forward but she never hit the ground. A pair of arms held onto her waist firmly keeping her in place. She gasped and looked up at whose arms they were and of course it was Rafe. Her knight in shining armor.

“June bug gotta watch where you’re goin’” Rafe gave her a lopsided smile as she regained her composure.

She felt hot all over as she stood up and took a small step back. Being too close to him was making her dizzy. She cleared her throat, “Well the rock should watch where it’s going.”

She cringed internally at her failed attempt to be witty. His smile turned into a full one as he chuckled, she was thinking that he either agreed she was cringey or maybe thought she was funny. Either way she still felt hot from embarrassment.

“Rafe and I have some prepping to do so we better get a move on,” James said as he walked over to Amber and gave her a hug and a kiss. June had almost forgotten that the couple was there. She watched with admiration, she liked Amber and James together. Mostly because he made her best friend the happiest she’d ever seen her.

While James and Amber were being lovey dovey Rafe had stepped to stand beside June. He leaned down and nudged her shoulder with his, “Am I seein you tonight? After?”

She looked over at him with a shy grin not wanting to show how on the inside she was screaming that he had asked her again about after the rodeo, “Only cause you’ve been askin so nicely.”

Rafe wanted to eat her up. She had no idea of the affect she had on him. He had always harbored a crush for her, ever since he was nine years old. His sister had met her when he was in fourth grade and they were in second grade. Sarah had dragged a girl behind her as she ran towards Rafe and their mom waiting in the pick up area of school. Once he laid eyes on her he couldn’t hear anything Sarah was saying. All he could do was stare at her pretty face.

June started coming over to Rafe’s house and he preteen brain couldn’t handle it. He swears that he stopped finding girls gross when he saw June for the first time. He always kept his distance from her because she was Sarah’s friend. Once he got to high school he had become somewhat of a Casanova since his bull riding career had begun to take off the girls started to pay more attention to him. June never really showed that he liked him as more than a friend so he started dating girls. He was blind to the way her smile got weaker when she’d see him out with a girl. He couldn’t tell that she always held back tears whenever she’d go to their house and he’d be leaving with a bouquet of flowers in hand for his date he was late to pick up because he was waiting to run into her.

He always felt like she was too good for him. Too pure for someone like him. Of course he made flirtatious comments towards her and was always a gentleman. Helping her unload new flower pot shipments if he happened to walk in after a delivery. Rafe held doors open for her, always walked her to her car when she’d leave the Cameron house late. He wanted to at least show her that he was always there if she needed him.

June simply thought Rafe was an extreme gentleman and incredibly charming towards everyone in the way he was with her. She learned not to get her hopes up when she kept seeing him with a new girl every week. It was just how Rafe was, she wasn’t any different to him.

“I’m honored,” He smirked.

The couple had finished their goodbyes and walked up to them. Amber wrapped her arm around June’s shoulders, “Rafe your girl has to go help Mrs.Mayfield.”

“Make sure you’re watching when I’m out there,” Rafe pointed at June as him and James began to walk away. She nodded and gave him a small wave as he left. That incredibly charming smile never leaving his face.

“That boy is so smitten,” Amber laughed throwing her head back.

June rolled her eyes, “He’s like this with everyone.”

“Whatever you say honey,” Amber patted her back. They reached the booth where Mrs.Mayfield was setting up the tickets and the cash box.

“Well if it isn’t my favorite flower girls,” The older woman beamed at the girls. She was a sweet lady who everyone in town knew. She was in charge or everything. If there was a community even Martha Mayfield was most likely organizing it.

June hugged the woman, “Mrs.Mayfield you look as beautiful as ever.”

“You’re too good to me dear,” She turned towards the red head next to June, “Now Miss Amber I still do not see a ring on that finger.”

Amber sighed dramatically walking over to the woman, “Soon I hope, please talk some sense into that boy next time he delivers your eggs.”

“I always do honey,” She patted her cheek gently, “Now lets sell some tickets and make some money for the dance.” She clapped her hands and went behind the booth where June had started to help her.

-

Rafe sighed as he listened to his dad try and coach him. Ward was hard on Rafe, he always passed it on as him caring so much about his son. Rafe knew that his dad just wanted bigger trophies and bigger checks. He couldn’t hate the guy because he had given Rafe so much and pushed him hard to be the best. Frankly it worked and Rafe became the best.

It’s why now he was really getting a coaching lesson because tonight was either all or nothing. If Rafe got first place he’d move on to the semi finals. Of course he wanted to win the championship but making it to the semis of the southern eastern bull riding championship (SEBRC) would bring him a lot of attention. He’d be closer to going pro. Rafe was already being watched by a lot of sponsors and recruits but a win would prove just how good he is.

“Whatever you do Rafe do not let go,” Ward looked at him intensely, “And do not let your hand fall. You have to use everything in you son.”

“Dad I got this okay? Trust me I can do this,” He nodded his head, “I will do it.”

“Alright lets get out there is almost time.” Ward patted his son on the shoulder as he led him out of the stables where they had been talking.

They walked back over to where his team was watching the current rider. Rafe put his hands on James shoulders startling him.

“Holy shit dude,” He gasped.

“Lets get ready,” They walked over to the bull pen.

James looked over at his best friend, “is tonight the night?”

“What the night I win?” Rafe smirked.

“No idiot, the night you finally ask her out or do something.”

He shrugged, “I’ve got something in mind.”

“Just don’t let those buckle bunnies near you of else she’s gonna keep thinkin you don’t see her that way.”

-

After all the raffle tickets had been sold June joined Amber and Sarah in the stands. They were sitting with Amber’s parents and a few of their other friends. June sat next to Sarah who was texting intently on her phone.

“Is it John B?” June asked her.

Sarah huffed, “Yeah he thinks he might not be able to drive here next weekend because his van keeps breaking down.”

“I’m sure he’ll figure something out,” She smiled.

“Last but certainly not least is the guy everyone has their eyes on, home town hero Rafe Cameron!” The announcer shouted over the speakers.

Everyone cheered and clapped for Rafe. June felt a pit of nervousness in her stomach. She always worried about him when he rode because anything could happen. She was confident in his abilities but bulls are unpredictable animals.

“This always feels like the longest ten seconds of my life,” Sarah muttered leaning forward in an anxious stance.

“He’ll be okay, he always is okay.” June reassured placing her hands over Sarah’s that had been picking at her cuticles anxiously. She didn’t just say it for her but for herself.

“He has to beat 6.76 seconds and get more than 88 points to move on,” Amber leaned forward telling the girls.

The blow horn sounded and they lifted the gates. Everything always happened in slow motion. The bull bucked and thrashed around as Rafe held on tight to the rope. His arm steady in the air never faltering. He needed to stay on for three more seconds and he’d most likely win. The clock ticked 6, 7, 8. Then Rafe was finally bucked off, he flew off of the large brown bull landing almost under its heavy hooves. Everyone held their breath as they waited for him to get up. He stood up grabbing his hat swinging it in the air and yelling with excitement as the crowd started cheering. He had stayed on for 8.96 seconds, the best score of the whole night.

June stood up along with everyone else clapping and cheering for the cowboy. Rafe looked out into the crowd with a big smile on his face trying to catch his breath. It was like he knew where she was because his eyes landed on her. He couldn’t hear the crowd cheering he could just see her as she smiled widely and clapped. He would ride a million bulls over and over again if it meant she’d be there cheering him on.

He walked back to his team who was patting him on the back. James came up to him and hugged him with a big smile, “Man you’re a monster, you’re in this fuckin thing. You’ve made it.”

“We’re in this thing. I couldn’t have done this without you man,” Rafe was grateful for his best friend who had become more like his brother. James placed a hand on Rafe’s head ruffling his hear out of endearment.

“Judges have their final scores in,” Ward said walking up to the two men. Ward never really congratulated his son on his achievements all the more reason why he was grateful for James.

They climbed on the gates to watch the score board. Rafe placed his hat back on his head. He looked back over the the bleachers looking at June again. She was talking to Sarah her eyes going back and forth from the score board to her best friend. As long as she was here Rafe knew everything would be okay if he didn’t score as good as he wanted. Whenever he looked at her the trophies, money, and title’s didn’t matter.

“The judges have their final score for Rafe Cameron, and are we surprised? The 22 year old bull ride comes in with a score of 94!” The announcer says before the crowd goes wild, “Ladies and gentlemen we have our first place winner! Rafe Cameron is headed off to the semi finals!”

James whooped in excitement and wrapped his arm around Rafe. They climbed down from the fence as people came up to Rafe to congratulate him. The other winners were announced but Rafe didn’t care he was riding an unbelievable high.

The girls had practically ran down the bleachers to go find Rafe. Sarah was beyond excited for her brother, all of his hard work was paying off. Once they got to where the team was they saw them hand Rafe a bottle of champagne.

“Rafe! You did it!” Sarah shouted as she ran up to hug her brother, “Mom is so proud.” Rafe nodded his head feeling a bit emotional wishing his mom could be there to witness his success.

“Congrats Rafe,” Amber hugged him next.

“Couldn’t have done it without your man,” He said pulling away and pointing at James.

June wasn’t sure if she should hug him or not. She always got anxious in these situations, wishing she was like those girls that had confidence. Rafe looked over at her as she shyly watched him.

He knew her better than she knew herself so he walked up to her, “Guess you gotta come out now.” He smirked.

“I guess I do,” She shrugged, “Congratulations Rafe. You’re gonna do incredible things.”

Rafe’s heart burst at her words. He reached forward and hugged her. She immediately reciprocated wrapping her arms around him. They pulled away and looked at each other for a few seconds. Their friends around them never interrupting because they knew.

“Champagne anyone?” Rafe said turning to all of them. He shook the bottle before popping the cork and spraying it everywhere.

“Rafe!” Sarah laughed covering her face.

“To Roosters we go!” James said pointing up.

-

June and Sarah interlocked arms as they walked behind James and Amber. Rooster’s was packed as well as the other bars on main street. June sometimes worried that their flower shop a few blocks down would get damaged by a bunch of drunks but they’ve never had any actual problems. Rafe was coming by later after he took care of some things at the rodeo.

“Are you drinking tonight Junie?” Sarah nudged her.

She nodded her head, “I actually am. I just want to have some confidence tonight, not be in the background like always.”

“Tonight is going to be so fun. You’re never in the background babe,” Sarah reassured her as they walked through the bar doors.

It wasn’t too crowded yet as people were still leaving the rodeo. Someone was already riding the mechanical bull and country music was already blasting through the speakers. They went up to the bar where their favorite bartender Sam was.

“My favorite people!” He said wiping his hands on a towel, “What can I get you guys?”

“Jameson and coke for me and three tequila sunrises,” James said knowing the girl’s orders.

“What a gentleman James,” Sarah said.

“Hey first round is on me guys. Gotta treat the champions’ people right,” Sam winked at them.

“Sammy boy you’re too kind,” James said sliding him a twenty as a tip.

Once they got their drinks they found a couple unoccupied tables by the pool tables. They pushed them together before sitting down with their drinks. June’s leg anxiously bounced as she waited for Rafe. Her eyes moving around the room as she looked at everyone. She felt like there were too many pretty girls here for Rafe to even give her an ounce of his attention. The confidence she had was slowly diminishing as the seconds passed.

Her thoughts were interrupted by loud cheering, she looked behind her towards the door. Rafe had walked in changed into a white tee shirt and open flannel with a brown jacket. His riding boots traded out for his nicer ones, black hat still perched on his head. She felt light headed, the half of the tequila sunrise she had drank already getting to her. When his eyes met hers she looked away nervously trying to focus on anything else in the room. Her focus landed on all the women ogling him and sending him flirtatious smiles.

He walked up to the group standing beside June, “Started without me guys?”

“Get your drink so we can celebrate now,” James nodded his head towards the bar.

“June bug will you come with me?” Rafe asked turning towards the girl who had yet to make eye contact with him again.

She looked up her face getting hot, “Sure.”

They walked over to the bar and Sam immediately took Rafe’s order. June placed her hands on the bar her eyes looking anywhere but Rafe. The liquor bottles behind the bar were really fascinating.

“How did selling the raffle tickets go June bug?” Rafe asked trying to make conversation.

She turned to him trying to set her nerves aside, “It went well, definitely got some money for the community.”

“That’s good,” He smiled, “how’s the flower business going darlin?”

She laughed softly, “Uh it’s actually going really good. Even with the weather gettin colder sales are still good. We even have a huge wedding coming up that’s going to be beautiful and so great for business. They ordered tons of bouquets with the most amazing colors,” she rambled on about her work. June was very patient about flowers, she loved how something from the earth could make someone feel so happy, loved, cared about, and seen.

Sam brought over his drink telling him that it was on him. Rafe nodded his head at him before taking a sip, “You know I love when you talk flowers,” he smiled at her.

Her eyes widened slightly, “You do?”

He nodded, “Of course, your eyes light up and you’re just so passionate. It’s attractive sweetheart.”

June’s skin was going to melt off if she felt herself getting any hotter, “You’re too ki-“

“Rafe!” A high pitched voice interrupted. Both Rafe and June turned towards the noise.

“Oh hey Rachel,” Rafe said trying to be polite. Rachel was one of Rafe’s endeavors that he returned to a few times too many. Now she thought that her and Rafe could be something more when he never promised her anything.

“You were amazing tonight. You’re sooo talented,” She twirled her blonde hair paying no attention to June.

“Thanks, um this is June,” He nodded towards the girl he really wanted to be alone with.

The blonde turned her attention towards her a small furrow in her brows, “Oh hi, how do you two know each other.” Rafe knew that Rachel was trying to figure out if June was hooking up with him.

“I’m friends with Sarah so we kind of grew up together,” June said feeling a spark of jealousy in herself.

“Cute,” Rachel said tilting her head a teasing smile on her lips. She turned to Rafe again putting a hand on his arm, “Rafe come sit with us I’d love to congratulate you on your big win.”

Rafe didn’t really want to deal with Rachel and her friends at the moment. He had someone else he wanted to focus on. He turned to where June was and found her spot empty. He looked around the room and found her walking back to the table. He sighed, “Actually I’m gonna hangout with my friends tonight,” he tipped his hat at her and walked back over to where they were all sat.

Sarah glared at him, “Rachel again? Seriously?”

Rafe rolled his eyes as he sat next to June, “Actually no.”

June felt like maybe it was because of her that he didn’t hangout with her. Or maybe he just wanted to be with his friends. Either way she was glad that Rafe was sitting next to her.

-

After a lot of laughing and three more drinks June was definitely drunk. She had been laughing at something one of their friends, Stevie, had said when Rafe started to notice just how drunk she was. He had never seen her be so social and he liked it but he was also worried because he’d never seen her drink this much.

“James and I are gonna head out. We’ve got the farmer’s market tomorrow Junie,” Amber said placing a hand on her friends back.

“Oooo can you guys drop me off please?” Sarah asked with a slight slur.

Amber wrapped an arm around her shoulder, “well of course dear.”

June’s eyes widened at the mention of the market, “Oh nooo the farmer’s market, I forgot about that,” she put her head down on the table starting to regret that last shot she took with Sarah, “I’m gonna be so hungover.”

“Come on babe we’ll take you home,” Amber said patting her head.

She sat up and looked over at Rafe with a pout, “I don’t wanna go home yet.”

He gave her a small smile and brushed some hair out of her face, “I can take you home in a bit bug, I only had a couple beers.”

She smiled widely and quickly turned back to Amber, “Rafe is taking me home,” Her smile never faltering.

“Okay babes,” She laughed knowing her friend wanted more time with the guy she’s been in love with since they were 7, “Rafe please get her home safe.” She pointed at him with a stern look.

“Yes ma’am,” He said tipping his hat at her bidding the trio good bye.

The other guys that had been with them had joined a group of women at the dart boards working moved on them trying to teach them how to play. June looked around the room at all the people having fun and drinking. They all seemed so care free, like they did this all the time. She wished she could be this fun all the time, then maybe Rafe would like her.

“Rafey I wish I could be this fun all the time,” She pouted looking over at him.

Rafey. She hadn’t called him that since they were kids. He didn’t realized he missed hearing her saying it until his body felt tingly all over. It rolled so smoothly off her lips like only she could say it because she was the only one who made it sound good.

“Sweetheart you are fun all the time,” He reached forward and brushed her hair back again. Admiring her pretty face.

She leaned her head against his hand enjoying the warmth they brought, “mmm then why don’t you see me more.”

“I’d see you every day if I could bug. I’m gonna make more time for my girl,” He smiled lovingly at her. He really hoped she’d remember this tomorrow.

She looked at him with tears in her eyes a dopey smile on her lips. Before she could say anything she felt her stomach turn. The tequila was catching up to her now. June sat up straighter with wide eyes. That’s when she felt everything coming up. She slapped her hand over her mouth and as best as she could in her drunken state she ran out of the bar doors.

Rafe wasn’t far behind her as she turned the corner to puke on the side of the bar. The contents of her stomach spilling all over the dirt, some of it getting on her favorite pair of boots. Rafe stood behind her holding her hair up and patting her back. He made a mental note that three drinks was the cut off for you.

“Oh god this is so embarrassing,” She sniffled once she was done. She was a lot more sober now and definitely wishing she could get swallowed by the earth. Rafe Cameron just saw her puke her guts out. The guy she’s been in love with forever.

“No no it’s okay June,” He held her hands, “let’s get you home okay? You’ll feel a lot better once you’re in bed.”

She frowned as she walked with him to his truck, “You probably think I’m so gross.”

“I could never. You’re always an angel to me,” He opened the door for her and helped her in.

She had no words. June felt like she didn’t deserve Rafe, he was always so kind and never judged her. The world was lucky to have him. He jogged over to the drivers side and got in. The drive to June’s house was quiet except the rock music that was softly playing from the radio. It was a nice silence.

Once they arrived to June’s house Rafe opened the door for her. Holding her hand as she climbed down. He placed a hand on the small of her back leading her up the porch stairs to the front door. She pulled out her keys and unlocked the door.

She didn’t go inside yet she turned to Rafe looking down at the ground not really wanting to meet his eyes. She was still feeling ashamed from the parking lot fiasco, “Thank you for driving me home Rafe.”

“Anytime, you good to go up on your own?” He asked wanting to make sure she makes it up the stairs and into bed.

She nodded her head finally looking up at him, “I’m a bit sober now so I’m good. Thank you,” she gave him a shy smile. The liquid courage was definitely leaving her system.

“Call me if you need anything at anytime, okay? I’ll be there,” he reached for her hand giving it a small squeeze, “I’ll see you tomorrow June bug.” He leaned forward and pressed a small kiss to her cheek.

Her eyes widened in shock, maybe she was drunk? He pulled away and started walking down the porch steps. Once he got to the bottom he turned towards her with a small smirk, “I’m not leaving till you go in darlin.”

She cleared her throat and blinked a few times before turned the door knob, “Right uh good night Rafe.” She waved stepping into the house.

After locking the door behind her she leaned against it with a sigh. June listened as Rafe drove away already missing him. He was so sweet to her that night. She wanted to think it was because things were changing between them, what if he does see her in a different way.

As soon as those thoughts entered her mind they left. Who was she kidding? Rafe could have anyone why would he choose me? she thought to herself as she walked upstairs to her room. She decided that if this was just Rafe being kind then she’d savor it and enjoy it before he finds someone who actually interests him.

so im crying

And isn't it just so pretty to think?

All along there was some / Invisible string / Tying you to me?

wc 9.4k

a/n this Rafe is softer than my usual, so divergent from canon it’s kind of embarrassing. I hope you love him anyway. Because I do. He’s so 🥺

When you’re seven and a half years old, you make a playground pact with your best friend and neighbour, Kiara Carrera. 

It’s reinforced with twined pinky fingers and homemade friendship bracelets, the red and gold cotton floss shiny and half-hitched. 

I won’t leave the Outer Banks, never ever, you say, solemn eyes to the sky, legs crossed over itchy bark. And you repeat those words a few times, voice low and conspiratorial, the recess clamour like white noise against the backdrop of your conviction.

It doesn’t matter that she’s younger than you are, less sage, with a larger house to return to and shinier toys on her bed. When you attend the same elementary school, are afforded the same lunch-time break, social structure appears a menial concept — Kiara Carrera is your neighbour, and therefore she is your best friend. Six and three quarters with unkempt hair and a missing tooth, she echoes your sentiment with a hand on her heart, the other connected to yours, a sacred finger wreath.

Later, when you’re satisfied with your pinky promise enchantment, you steal away to a hidden corner of the playground to continue scheming.

Rafe Cameron and his friends, two grades above you, take over the hallowed spot to organise a game of Lava. It’s how, unbeknownst to him, even more so to you, a loose strand of red string gets caught in a sneaker groove. He brings it home with him, forgotten friendship bracelet floss, the same type of thread used to embroider the promise on your wrist.

Arguably, this is where your story begins.

It takes several more—fourteen, exactly—years for this fact to become obvious.

You’re twenty-one years old when you return to the Outer Banks for good. Driving the same, beaten-down Honda Civic with worn tires and a crooked bumper — you’d snagged it secondhand from a mechanic your father knew, its disposal at the hands of a Kook who deemed it decrepit. Something about how his kin deserved a newer model, the shiniest vehicle on the block, the car they’d used to practice on now your mainstay means of transportation. 

Not that you minded, of course. As someone who had always toed the line between Kook and Pogue, the class war had never been something that piqued any overt vehemence. You were perfectly content with your humble, middle-class roots; they’d provided you with the means to a good education, summer jobs galore, a roof over your head and food on the table that didn’t feel too much like a chore.

The callow freedom to decorate a reasonably sized bedroom, still embellished with the dangling fairy lights, glossy posters of your youth. It’s strange, being grown and surrounded by forgotten trinkets. The sun shines through a small crack in your curtains, lemon-yellow light that stripes your face with bittersweet nostalgia. 

You drop your belongings to the ground and make your way to the window, unlatching it to free a swell of stale air. Outside, the scenery is violently suburban — trim hedges and picket fences, winding streets of melted asphalt. Sticky honey-suckle in the air, distant traffic rivalling the trill of cicadas. You may reside within just another, run-of-the-mill American neighbourhood, but there’s magic in the thin wafer of sea in the horizon; nothing beats an Outer Banks summer, and of that you’ve always been certain.

Your gaze lingers over glimmering blue before it’s dropping again, falling onto the pavement just as someone there detects your presence.

When Kiara’s parents enrolled her into the Academy instead of Kildare High, you were understandably inconsolable at the prospect of starting afresh. She’d been your trusted confidant since before you’d had secrets to share; making brand new friends was a terrifying concept, one thirteen-year-old you definitely wasn’t ready to accept. But time doesn’t make allowances for anyone, as you’d come to realise — freshman year came and went, lack of best friend notwithstanding, and you managed to survive it the same way you would sophomore year, junior and senior year following. When she did finally transfer to Kildare High, growing pains and teenage ailments hindered any meaningful reconnection. Friends without the consigliere title — menial small-talk friends, the acquaintances you greet in the hallway between periods. 

History enough to make your wistful chest ache, not so great that you’re debilitated by a plaintive sense of regret.

She meets your gaze with a surprised smile on her face, any prior ambivalence giving way to affable delight. Two untidy plaits frame her otherwise flawless face, the rest of her brunette hair tucked behind sunburnt ears. Streaks of paler bronze shine in the sun. 

“No way!” She exclaims loudly, cupping one hand around her mouth. The other crimps the cardboard box of beers in her hand, curled under her arm and pressed into her side. “When the fuck did you get home?”

Beside her, a girl you recognise as Sarah Cameron furrows her brow. She’s wearing frayed denim shorts and a white baby tee, her silky blonde tresses lifting up in the breeze. The converse on her feet are pristine white, untouched. 

“Like,” you squint down at your watch, its polished face glaring in the sun, “ten minutes ago.”

Kiara nods approvingly, grinning up at you. “For summer break?”

“For good,” you correct, and then you balk, weak stomach lurching. Saying it out loud makes everything feel that much more real. 

The Outer Banks end-game, settling down and starting a family. You’ve always known that this is where you wanted to end up, but the prospect of getting started—of a ground-up, suburban conception—has your poor gut knotting, abdomen in stitches.

Job-hunting, check. House-hunting, check. Significant-other hunting… a burdensome detail. You haven’t quite hacked the art of sifting through the duds on dating apps.

Kiara’s eyes widen in surprise, her soft jaw slackening. “You’re kidding,” she says, disbelief evident on her features. “Why?”

“Shit, Kiara, the Outer Banks isn’t all bad,” you respond, breathing out a diffident laugh. “I’ve always liked it here.”

Kiara makes a face, sharing a look with Sarah beside her. “To live? Forever?”

“Well.” You pause, you shrug abashedly. One of your hands lifts to your face, knuckles scrubbing over your cheek. “I don’t know, yeah. It’s safe. Warm. Has enough beaches to keep kids pre-occupied.”

“Woah,” Sarah pipes up then, her face crumpling in tandem cynicism. “Dude. Kids?”

You grimace in embarrassment, the tips of your ears warming. “I — eventually.”

“Well fuck,” Sarah responds, her bronze eyes full of mirth. “I thought my brother was the only person who had something good to say about this place.”

She pauses, crinkling her nose in disdain. “Oh. And my dad.”

“Um, anyway,” Kiara coughs out reproachfully, sending Sarah a meaningful glance. “Enough about your twisted family. Y/n/n — you got anything planned for the summer?”

“Just settling back in.” You shrug again. “Job hunting, house hunting, the usual crap. You guys?”

Above them, the tangerine sun is beginning to sink below the horizon, a drupe of low hanging fruit. Sticky humidity presses into your skin, hot beads of sweat prickling over your nape.

“It’s our last summer before the end, baby,” she returns tenaciously, bumping her hip against the box under her arm. Your gaze falls with the movement, registering the familiar logo of a brand of beer you’d forgotten. Kildare Island’s finest, it boasts in emblazoned letters, prior memories of the lager reminding you of stale, basement air.

Delightful. It appears that some things truly never change.

“Shit, of course,” you nod, grinning approvingly. “I forgot that you’re not actually in my year, Kie.”

“That’s because grades didn’t matter when we became friends,” she says, furrowing her brow thoughtfully. “Nothing did, really.”

A poignant ache sears through your chest, gone before you’re able to truly acknowledge it. “Shit, I know,” you say softly, more wistful now. “Nothing but friendship bracelets and the Winx club, huh?”

Kiara’s face splits into another sweet smile, the box of liquor raised in make-shift cheers. “Cheers to that, Flor.”

The old nickname pulls a peal of laughter from your lips, and you shake your head bemusedly, the nostalgia making it spin. “Fucking hell, I almost forgot how much I loved her.”

“Not as cool as Stella, though.” Kiara raises her eyebrows meaningfully, sharing in sacred Winx scripture. “She was my fucking idol.”

Beside her, Sarah’s head has fallen, eyes trained on a string coming undone at her frayed hem. Rare moments of silence are filled by the cicada’s faint trill. 

“Did you watch it, Sarah?” You ask, looking toward her expectantly. 

Sarah’s chin lifts in surprise, her pretty eyes softening. “Shit, uh,” she flounders, turning to Kiara for help. “The what club?”

“Dude, Winx,” Kiara enunciates, sending her an incredulous look. “You’re kidding. You really don’t know?”

“I never had first pick of the TV when I was a kid, alright?” She defends indignantly, raising her arms in surrender. “Rafe and his dumb friends monopolised it with their video games.”

“God.” Kiara makes a face. “I don’t miss how much of an asshole he was when we were kids.”

Somewhere near the back of your mind, you park this revelation. The telling past on present tense juxtaposition — was an asshole, is as in love with the Island as you are; though you’ve crossed paths with Sarah’s older brother on several occasions, never once has anything about him managed to stick with this much permanence.

Except his name. Everyone on the Outer Banks knows the name Rafe Cameron. 

“Right?” Sarah agrees, grimacing in tandem. “Whatever, he spends most of his time at the firm these days. The only time I ever see him is at Kook parties or the Club.”

“Speaking of,” Kiara says, her brown eyes widening as they lift to your window-side figure. Several minutes have elapsed since they halted in their tracks, and not a single pedestrian has passed you by, let alone a motorcycle, a jeep full of passengers. You’ve missed the quaint purlieus of middle-class suburbia. There’s something so comforting about being able to hear the bird’s chirp, to hear anxious leaves rustle in wait of Kiara’s proposal. “We’re — listen, Y/n, we’re on our way out to the beach for a bonfire right now. Kooks, pogues, tourons… you know the deal, everyone’s going. You should come.”

You balk, gaze falling to your simple attire — white singlet and linen shorts, a wafer of bare waist in between. 

“You look hot,” she adds meaningfully, as if reading your mind. “Total Island boy bait. C’mon. We’re well overdue for a catch up, don’t you think?”

“Kie,” you hesitate, looking behind you surreptitiously, “I only just got back —”

“So?” Kiara interrupts impatiently, raising her eyebrows. “You’re here for good, right? Whatever you were planning on doing tonight can wait.” She turns to Sarah then, her eyes widening pointedly. “Right, Sar?”

Sarah’s split-second quizzical look dissipates under her glare, and she falters, her head whipping to yours before she’s nodding. “No really, Y/n. You should come. It’ll be fun.”

There’s a bulging suitcase a few feet away that needs unpacking. A bedroom full of dusty old trinkets that belong in an antique store; you’d promised your parents your grown-up presence at dinner, and the prospect of shirking responsibility has you feeling young and stupid again.

Adrenaline buzzes through your veins, a quick jolt of electricity to your senses. You realise, as it fills you with a kettle full of warmth, that you like it — like this, the latitude you’ve always associated with the Outer Banks. 

“Fuck it,” you acquiesce after a beat, cracking a defeated grin. “Wait there, okay? I’m coming down now.”

—

Rafe Cameron doesn’t think he’s going to make it out tonight.

Admittedly, he rarely ever does, these days — his father, ever the tyrannical leader, is intent on churning long hours out of every one of his workers.

His eldest included, bequeathal of an impressive legacy notwithstanding. 

When he receives Kelce’s text about the imminent bonfire, he’s hunched over a set of financial documents at his desk. 

Smooth mahogany with a sole, coffee mug rim blemish, it’s an organised clutters of pens and highlighters, staplers that double as impromptu paperweights. A single framed photo is propped up in one corner, ten-year-old Rafe posing beside an elegant woman. Her irises shine vivid blue in sunlight, smile lines that crinkle identical to her son’s. She’s beautiful, immortalised. A grounding presence.

When his phone screen lights up, the LED makes her pixelated figure glow.

Smithy: we 🔛 for tonight ?

Rafe’s brow furrows as it registers, his tired eyes drawn to the text like moths to a flame. He gives his surroundings a furtive once-over before sliding his phone into his lap, thumb braced over the keyboard.

Cameron: can’t, bro. Working overtime

Kelce’s typing bubble pops up almost instantaneously.

Smithy: miss me with that shit. It’s fucking Friday!

Rafe sighs defeatedly, a long, haggard exhale. He doesn’t know whether Kelce’ll ever understand the magnitude of patriarchal pressure he’s under. It’s as he’s attempting to contrive another excuse—simpler, less niche devoir and more relatable in nature—that the process is cut short by the arrival of his father.

Needless to say, Rafe straightens in a hurry. Suddenly, the stack of documents on his desk feels inadequate. 

“Getting through it all alright?” Ward asks menially, not bothering to look up from his phone as he enters. His paces are slow and purposeful, heavy-footed, his demeanour like dynamite you’re afraid to set off. This is a man who’s mastered the art of commanding a room with his presence.

“Uh, yeah,” Rafe answers, hunching over the desk protectively. The weight of his chest makes the financial statements crumple.

“Good.” It’s obvious that Ward Cameron isn’t the least bit interested. “So, listen, I’ve got to jet off and take care of some Bahama’s business tonight. I can count on you to dismiss the office staff and lock up?”

His gaze is trained on his phone screen, thick brows heavily furrowed as he types text after important text. Eye contact is reserved for business partners, clients of significance.

Not Rafe. If it was, he might’ve even noticed his son brighten, exhaustion giving way to a quiet sense of elation. 

“Oh — uh, yeah, definitely,” Rafe reassures after a beat, careful to keep his tone level. “When will you be home?”

“Sunday,” Ward answers curtly, his eyes lifting fleetingly. They move over Rafe’s face before dropping to his desk and narrowing, the hand that isn’t holding his phone gesticulating toward it intently. “Tidy this up,” he adds sternly, turning around. “And don’t leave until all financial paperwork is done.”

“Right.” Rafe nods, reaching up to scrub the back of his neck absentmindedly. “I won’t.”

Ward has his back to him when he halts near the exit, the menacing timbre of his voice almost making Rafe flinch. “Better not. I’m counting on you.”

He shoulders his way through the hardwood door before Rafe can so much as open his mouth — not that he particularly minds this, there isn’t much to say when a threat’s involved. Once Ward’s unwieldy footsteps have muffled out of existence, Rafe allows his shoulders to relax, retrieving his phone from its home in his lap.

It’s sheer luck, he decides, a serendipitous coincidence, that Ward’s business trip affords him an early finish in this instance. Temporary freedom from his father’s despotic regime is much appreciated — this way, Rafe can complete his tasks in his own time, allow for much-needed breaks and social activity. 

Total fluke. Right?

Cameron: what time?

Smithy: there he is! Got you some bud light btw, heading there now

—

“You’re sure?” You ask again, eyeing the white claw dubiously.

“Dude.” Kiara cuts you a cajoling faux-glare, thrusting it into your chest. “Please drink. You’re totally not enjoying yourself.”

“I don’t need alcohol to have fun,” you grumble back weakly, accepting it with reluctance. There’s a quick hiss as you pull open the tab, wispy carbon dioxide rising from within it. 

“No you don’t,” Kiara agrees sagely, raising her eyebrows. “But fuck, it makes fun more achievable, don’t you think?”

Around you, a sea of familiar faces. 

You’re huddled underneath a bald cypress tree with Sarah and Kiara, a modest, people-watching distance away from the bustling bonfire. Scorching flames ascend from a pith of deep ochre, clouds of grey and black smoke unfurling over the scene. The air is dry and slightly acrid, an alloy of saltwater and cheap liquor, the familiar scents of summer. Sweat, damp skin, body heat. A cedar-wood and musk cologne you didn’t realise was committed to memory.

“Not wrong,” you allow, tipping back the can and taking a generous gulp. It’s as you acquiesce and allow you head to fall that someone catches your eye; tall with broad shoulders and a Bud Light in his hand, Rafe Cameron is an overwhelming presence in your periphery. 

And he’s staring. He hasn’t had enough bottles of the American-style lager to blame the alcohol for this supposed indiscretion.

Perhaps it’s because it’s you, again, standing a few feet away from him, again. In the same place at the same time under the same, presumable act of divine providence; Rafe Cameron doesn’t know whether he’s overthinking it, but this fate-enacted déjà vu is getting a little ridiculous.

—

When you’re eight-years-old, Rafe Cameron asks you to join his game of Capture the Flag. The proposition comes after his mother—your classroom teacher—Mrs Cameron pulls him aside during her recess duty, having noticed your small frame hunched over and alone in a hidden corner of the playground. 

She beckons him over discreetly, alerting him to the issue at hand.

“Sweetheart, listen,” she murmurs quietly, bowing her head to his level. “Think you can do something for me?”

Rafe looks up at her quizzically, furrowing his brow. “What?”

“That girl over there,” she whispers, nodding toward you surreptitiously, “looks awfully lonely, don’t you think?”

He follows her gaze with a bemused frown on his face, unsure what this has to do with him. A gust of wind lifts his overgrown locks off his forehead, strands of ashen blonde that his mother pats down absentmindedly. 

“Mom,” he groans abashedly, ducking away from her hand with an angry scowl. “Stop. So?”

“So,” she echoes sternly. “Haven’t I taught you about the importance of the phrase ‘no man gets left behind’?”

“She isn’t a man,” Rafe argues meekly, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Rafael,” his mother warns, raising her eyebrows.

Rafe huffs out a frustrated sigh, wriggling his folded arms tauter, an airtight seal. “Can’t you ask someone else? A girl?”

“I could.” She allows a purposeful pause, her voice gentle but appraising. “I’m asking you.”

“Why?” Rafe groans out defeatedly, his small shoulders crumpling forward.

“Imagine if it was Sarah over there, or little Wheeze without anyone to play with.” Rafe’s heart pulls. “Wouldn’t you want another older brother making sure that they were okay?”

He keeps his gaze averted lest his mother see it soften, but it’s clear he acquiesces, his small feet beginning to drag him forward. 

“That’s my guy,” she says approvingly, stretching forward to comb through his wind-mussed hair, again. And as he dodges her fingers for the second time today, he thinks, why me? And then, why her?

Because of course you’re all alone on the one day of the month that his mother’s on recess duty, a cruel twist of fate. Of course he’s a convenient, beckon-able distance away, of course your isolated figure is within discernible range.

Of course, of course, of course… how many more before coincidence becomes something more, something greater, something he isn’t able to explain?

As Rafe nears, he realises that you’re folded over a tattered book. You’re clasping the hardwood cover with an intensity that makes your small knuckles blanch; your face is hidden, a wide brim sunhat on your head, and your knees are pulled close, right up against your torso.

An interlude to the warm sun on your back, cool breeze predominating. You slacken the draw-cord of you sunhat and tug it free, mildly bristled by the shadow-framing perpetrator that’s stopping you reading.

When you look up at him, you startle momentarily. He’s older and taller with brilliant blue eyes and a frown on his face; were it not for the fact that his hand was outstretched, you would’ve been certain that he was here to shun you away.

“Uh, hey,” he greets gauchely, his expression a little pained. “I’m Rafe.”

“Oh.” Your eyes widen in tandem diffidence, and you scramble to shut the book in your lap. “Y/n. I’ll get out of your way —”

“Wait — no, listen,” Rafe interrupts impatiently, stepping forward and placing his hand on your shoulder. “You know how to play Capture the Flag?”

You balk, gaze dropping to where his fingers fold over your skin. “No.”

“Oh.” Rafe grimaces, retrieving his hand in a hurry. “Right.”

From across the field, Kelce’s strident voice rings clear — he’s on an urgent, recess-induced time crunch, one that’s sure to garner the attention of his friends. They probably caught the absent-minded action, too, him reaching out for this pretty girl’s shoulder, all alone. Disinterested. Delaying a game of Capture the Flag in lieu of fraternising with the enemy. He swallows. The tips of his ears feel overwhelmingly warm all of a sudden.

“Sorry,” you say, frowning up at him.

“Um, yeah,” he returns, looking over his shoulder furtively. He’s going to kill his mom for putting him in this tricky position. “Listen. Want to learn?”

You blink. “Me?”

“Sure, why not,” Rafe replies awkwardly, scrubbing his palm over the back of his neck. 

A pause as your gaze moves over his features, screens for signs of insincerity, any vacillation in his demeanour. When you fail to find cause to doubt his proposition, you acquiesce, dusting off your linen shorts before standing up and straightening. 

Even at your full height, he has a generous few inches on your figure. The revelation does something funny to his underdeveloped heartstrings, makes his weak pulse lurch like it’s supposed to mean something.

He attributes this feeling to those aforementioned, older brotherly instincts. It isn’t as though there’s any other reason his resolve is so unwavering.

“Okay,” you say, smiling wide, unabashed. Rafe’s pulse does another funny little jolt, taunting him, refusing to dulcify.

He overcompensates for it by muttering a stilted no problem in response, guiding you through the recess bustle to the game-playing space his friends have designated.

And maybe you’re a faster learner than he’d initially anticipated, fitting right into the group despite being in a grade below him. Later, he’ll justify his closeness to you with similar sentiments — you were an asset to his team, he’d insist to his best friend Kelce, small and quick and difficult to catch, the perfect person to swipe the opponent’s flag.

Not pretty, or anything, easy to look at. Rafe Cameron refuses to touch how fundamentally right your proximity feels to him. 

There aren’t any more overt instances of contact until you’re ten. 

Sure, you’re placed in Rafe’s former classroom in third grade, and sure, you’re assigned the same window-side desk as him. You even manage to carve your initials in a wooden corner that opposes his — it’s a curious twist of fate, this immortalisation of your shared presence in that space. And it’s definitely just coincidence that you happen to take the same detour home, everyday; kicking up loose gravel on the same length of grey pavement, best friends with K-names and a joint affinity for ice-cream truck circumvents.

Right?

Rafe Cameron is twelve-years-old when he realises that you’re the coach’s daughter. With your mother working overtime and no spare cash for a baby-sitter, you’re forced to tag along to soccer practice after school.

Your figure on the bench is a familiar sight — the same shoulders folded over the same, small torso, a tattered book in your lap that’s near identical to the one before it. 

Admittedly, it’s a debilitating sight. He hasn’t experienced this overwhelming, pulse-lurching feeling in a while.

The coach’s firm hand on his shoulder breaks him out of his reverie. He realises that he’s gawking at you in the middle of a running drill.

“You alright, son?” He asks gruffly, frowning down at Rafe. 

“Oh, uh —” Rafe flounders, ducking his head in embarrassment. Damp strands of dirty-blonde kiss the top of his eyebrows before lifting, “— I — yes. Sorry.”

The coach cocks his head to one side curiously, following Rafe’s gaze to near-empty bench in the distance. His eyebrows lift in stern appraisal as your figure registers. “Ah,” he says, trying not to look too pleased. “You know my daughter?”

“No I don’t,” Rafe answers in a hurry, and then he falters, grimacing abashedly. “I mean… yeah, kind of. Same school.”

“Hm.” He nods, reaching for the whistle around his neck before blowing it dismissively. “Take five, alright?”

Rafe doesn’t want to. He can feel ten sets of eyes staring at him, the coach’s stern instruction doing little to quell their curiosity. But regardless of his willingness to re-introduce himself, there’s a pull in his chest that supersedes any reluctance, dragging his feet forward like a moth drawn to a flame.

You’re prettier at ten than you were at eight. When you look up at him today, free from the shackles of a wide brim hat, your lashes are longer and your soft cheeks fuller, a kind smile on your face as you look over his features.

Recognition. It’s comforting and terrifying at the same time. You say, shutting your book and angling your chin up toward his face, “Oh, hey. Capture the Flag Rafe.”

Rafe isn’t ready to admit what the sweet nickname is doing to his brain. “Y/n. Again,” he acknowledges, grinning weakly in tandem.

“I know.” You make a face. “Can’t go home until my dad’s done here.”

“Didn’t know he was,” Rafe says, glancing over at him wistfully. “Your dad, I mean. Must be nice to have coach around all the time.”

There’s something sombre in his tone as he says it, down-trodden, as though having a decent father is a privilege and not a right. Your brow furrows. “This team’s all he ever talks about,” you reply, clearing your throat in an attempt to adopt a lower, gruffer lilt. “You know, they’re a good set of lads, sweetheart,” you pause, raising your eyebrows, “if I’d have known one of them was you, I might’ve even told him I agree."

Rafe’s cheeks warm. “I’m nothing special.” You’re the special one.

“You’re good at Capture the Flag,” you return, shrugging easily. “Plus, your mom’s definitely my favourite teacher ever. Makes sense that you get my dad as a coach. Parent swap.”

“Parent swap,” Rafe echoes, still grinning. He reaches up to mess with his overgrown, blonde locks, yellow sunlight making his sweaty skin glow. 

“She’s been off sick a lot recently, though,” you add, chewing on your bottom lip thoughtfully. “Is everything okay?” 

“Oh.” Something in Rafe’s features tenses, an unreadable emotion flickering over his blue irises. “Um. I don’t know. She’s had to take time off to go to the hospital for some stuff.”

From the way his voice thickens, shoulders braced, you know not to pry or press him with more questions. You say, “I hope she’s okay.”

“Yeah,” Rafe responds roughly, clearing his throat.  “Uh, me too.”

A pause. You scramble for purchase on another conversation starter, absentminded gaze moving over his tense figure. Lingering over perspiration.

“How’s Kildare middle going, though?” You ask faux-nonchalantly, pretty eyes dropping again.

“Alright, I guess,” Rafe answers, his arm falling back to his side. “Not too long left. Moving on to the Academy after this year.”

“Oh.” You pause, disappointment etching your features. “Damn. We’ll just miss each other, huh?”

A beat. Though you’re right in principle, Rafe isn’t sure he agrees; take this rendezvous for example, the one before it, a set of superimposed coincidences that just happened to work in your favour. 

It’s strange. Something at his heart’s core tells him it’s certain you’ll meet again. “I don’t think so,” he responds, less bashful and more sure. “Sure we’re gonna find a way to bump into each other again, soon.”

And there’s truth in his admission, sanctioned by sweet conviction, your grandmother’s brief stint at the hospital coinciding with one of his mother’s.

He’s thirteen-years-old and staring down a vending machine when you find him. 

It bathes him in an offensive hue of fluorescent white, etching every frown line and forehead crease, a mirror machine of self-erosion. Just over a year since your bench-side tryst, but Rafe’s haggard appearance makes it feel far longer. 

You find yourself swallowing as you look over his figure, a subconscious urge to draw nearer taking over. Your bones ache. Walking slow at first, his unshed tears prompt your ginger paces to gain a quickness.

“Rafe,” is all you say at first, quiet, a little unsure. 

His face moves to yours before he’s ducking away in embarrassment, scrubbing the heel of his palm over his damp cheeks roughly. When he lifts his head again, the quiet desolation he displayed hides behind an armour of indifference. 

“Uh, hey,” his voice cracks, and he resists the urge to grimace. “What are you doing here?”

You balk, chewing on your bottom lip nervously. “My grandma’s sick.”

“Oh,” Rafe says quietly, his tense features softening. “I’m sorry.”

“Me too,” you return, more meek than anything disconsolate. “You?”

“My mom.” Rafe clears his throat abruptly, averting his gaze. “They’ve been giving her some stuff, I don’t know. Isn’t really helping.”

“Oh,” you say, furrowing your brow apologetically. “I’m sorry too.”

“And… and they won’t tell me anything,” he adds urgently, his quiet voice taking on a frustrated edge. Rafe isn’t sure where exactly this sudden burst candour is coming from — he’s barely able to confide in his best friend, Kelce, let alone the random girl from whom he appears to never stray.

That’s unfair. You aren’t that random to him. Though the pair of you have only shared a handful of meaningful conversations, the synonym isn’t well-suited — there has to be a reason that he feels so comfortable in your presence. 

Perhaps it’s to do with the way your features soften, the promise of proximity like a warm embrace, grounding. Not random, but pretty, he decides. Pretty girl. He’s struck with the sudden, surprising revelation that over Kelce, over his father, over almost anyone, you take precedence. 

Almost. He adds, “I don’t even know why. I — I mean, my dad’s been treating me like a grown-up since Wheezie was born, anyway. What’s different now? What — what’s wrong with my mom? I don’t get it. I’ll —”

He’s cut off when you wrap your arms around his torso, fingers intertwined and pressed into his back. It’s the way your mother’s always calmed you down when you’re stressed — pulled you close and squeezed you tight, held you until the anger and desolation acquiesces. 

Slowly, gingerly, Rafe’s arms encircle your shoulders, a heavy exhale leaving his lips and pressing into your hair. 

“I’m sorry,” you mumble into his chest, not particularly sonorous but vibrating over his skin anyway. His muscles relax. He allows his chin to drop an inch, sun-bleached strands of ashen blonde flopping over his forehead. 

“Me too,” he croaks out, clearing his throat again. He’s endured enough lectures about being strong for his mom to last him a lifetime, Ward’s stern voice imposing. About how men don’t cry and he should strive to do the same, emulate the undaunted older brother, hold down the fort he’ll inherit one day.

In this moment, all of that external noise melts away. How are you always in the right place at exactly the right time? There’s years within minutes when you do finally break the embrace.

“I don’t know why adults do that,” you admit after a beat, furrowing your brow apologetically. “I know you can handle the truth. You’re brave.”

Something in Rafe’s chest cracks. “You don’t know that.”

“You asked me to play Capture the Flag.” You shrug. “Even though we weren’t in the same class. And… and even though you didn’t even know me. That’s brave.”

“Is it?” Rafe asks, a hopeful lilt to his quiet voice.

“Yeah,” you nod reassuringly, frowning a little. “Don’t worry about your parents, they’re just being stupid. They’ll come around, I swear it. Do you trust me?”

It’s perplexing. Without access to the context clues that denote your perpetual closeness, it’s difficult for Rafe to justify how easily he’s able to answer that question. Yes, absolutely yes, and he means it too, with every ounce of conviction in a chest that beats for you.

But he doesn’t understand it, where this unwavering faith is coming from. And it’s because he doesn’t know of the red string in sneaker grooves that he’s outgrown.

He doesn’t know that the humble chalet he can see from his bedroom window is yours, that there’s a reason his eyes are drawn to the rectangle of light on the second floor. If he squints really hard, he can even catch vague details of its interior, small bed and smaller bed bathed in a lemon-yellow hue. You’ve always lived on the cusp of the Figure Eight and the Cut, a reasonably modest neighbourhood that’s kept you a convenient, stone’s throw away.

He isn’t educated on the statistical likelihood of such coincidences, of chance and seeming circumstance thrusting you together once again.

“Okay,” he agrees after pause, exhaling heavily.

“Good.” You nod again, glancing over your shoulder ruefully. “Will you be here tomorrow, too?”

“Maybe.” You need to head back, and he understands that. It doesn’t matter. He isn’t ready. His chest tightens and his haggard bones ache. “You?”

“Dunno,” you say, frowning sadly. “Don’t get told anything either.”

Rafe nods curtly, the column of his throat constricting. “Hopefully.”

“If not,” you pause, pretty eyes widening meaningfully, “doesn’t matter. We’ll see each other again. We always do.”

And your promise rings true, of course it does, when you’re fourteen-years-old and on an after school detour.

Three years without reconnection, growing pains and callow indisposition, has allowed the pair of you to forget about the string. But the string hasn’t forgotten. It’s formed through invisible locks of unfaltering, gold thread, made of strong fibres that maintain this look-don’t-touch distance.

For example, Rafe’s running route often cuts through your neighbourhood. It winds through the Figure Eight before trailing the outskirts of a public garden, the same one you enjoy reading in, neglected roots notwithstanding. And though he hasn't always been a stickler for aerobic endurance, the habit developed a little while after his mother’s passing.

It’s underpinned by a compulsion to tire himself out lest he expend his energy elsewhere. Agonise over all the thing he failed to tell her, failed to do, all the times he could’ve held her tight and said I love you. Men don’t cry, though. They run until their lacrimal ducts are void of any tears.

You’re studying the impressive array of candy in aisle four when he lumbers past it, paces broad and unwieldy. He’s following by an inebriated posse that’s causing ruckus; drunk and underage at the expense of attending fifth period, the group of Academy juniors are grappling with multiple misdemeanours.

It’s why they’ve opted to shop at this smaller supermarket instead of the haughty WholeFoods that’s a little closer to home; there aren’t many people that’d recognise them here, on the outskirts of the Eight with greater ties to the Cut.

Or so he thinks. A strange twist of fate that you’re here, sure, but even stranger is the fact that he looks over as your head turns.

Of course the one aisle he hazards a glance at has you. In the midst of drunken clamour, voices blaring and blissfully ignorant, his paces stagger to a halt, heartbeat sky-rocketing.

You startle as he registers, surprised gaze meeting his before you’re breaking eye-contact and looking away. The two years he hasn’t seen you are evident on your figure — Rafe isn’t sure whether it’s the dodgy liquor talking, or him, but there’s enough inches of bare skin on display for his brain to short-circuit. Cute uniform, longer limbs, same soft, airbrushed skin. Prettier eyes and fuller lips, as if that’s fucking possible, as if there’s ever been a time that he hasn’t agonised over your features.

He doesn’t mean to balk and take inventory, his sharp jaw slackening and palms beginning to grow clammy. It’s just that the alcohol he’s consumed has his self-control disintegrating.

“Yo, Cameron,” calls Kelce in front of him, stumbling back around with a bemused frown on his face. “The fuck are y’doing, bro?”

“You guy s’go ahead,” Rafe urges, grimacing at the slight slur to his words. “I’m coming.”

Kelce attempts to squint appraisingly, swaying in place for a beat before acquiescing. “Whatever,” he allows, turning around. “We’ll be in the snack aisle.”

Rafe nods distractedly, changing his trajectory to traverse the long aisle toward your figure. Slower, a little circumspect, hyper-aware of your tense shoulders and backpack braced hands. Bare limbs. The way the column of your throat shifts as you swallow.

The artificial lights overhead make your skin glow, and Rafe struggles to focus on placing one foot in front of the other. Once he’s close enough to touch, he rocks back on his heels, sheepish grin on his face and several inches on your frame. 

“Uh, shit,” he flounders, his voice liquefying around the edges. “We’ve gotta stop meeting like this.”

He’s mostly joking, but there’s an exaggerated edge to his voice that the alcohol isn’t able to liquefy.

“Yeah,” you say curtly, sending him a quick smile.

It doesn’t quite meet your eyes, though, and Rafe really aches.

He adds, “Especially since it always catches me off guard,” the slur hardening as the weight of your indifference washes over him.

A pause. You use the silence to take inventory of the features you’ve forgotten, the features that’ve changed — longer torso and broader shoulders, slanted jaw and sharper cheekbones. A gold signet ring on his forefinger. He flexes and relaxes his hand absentmindedly, a bulb of yellow light folding over its flat surface.

“Really?” You ask, gaze softening as it lifts to meet his. The ache ebbs. “I’ve come to expect it.”

“Yeah?” He steps closer still, unable to help himself. “Should I be flattered by that, Y/l/n?”

You raise your eyebrows at him. “I don’t know, Cameron. Should you?”

“Well,” he murmurs slowly, more sure, more willing to flirt with fate as his hazy mind clears. There's more blue in his eyes than there was a second ago, deep cerulean that appears to glint brighter with mirth. “If it means you think about me from time to time…”

“Hm.” You shrug again, heavy appraisal in your voice. “Even if I do, it definitely isn’t this you.”

Rafe grimaces, reaching up to scrub his palm over the back of his neck. He doesn’t know why your approval means so much to him; in theory, you’re just the girl he happens upon every few years.

Except that you’re not. Except that you never left.

Except that your favourite haunt is a hidden alcove that verges on Tannyhill Estate; that his mother’s grave is along the route to your grandparents, that his younger sister Wheezie has a best friend in your neighbourhood. He’s driven past your house a number of times over the past few months, oblivious to its significance, your presence beyond a white picket fence and garden.

“I haven’t had a lot,” he tries.

You raise your eyebrows again. “It’s 3.30 on a Wednesday afternoon.”

“And you’re buying candy,” he says, his arm dropping again. A pause as it swings dangerously close to your wrist, billowing air like static over your too-warm skin. “What’re you up to later?”

“Not much,” you answer easily, and then you balk, face crumpling in embarrassment. “I mean — shit, not that I don’t have friends to hang out with, or anything, I just —”

“— freshman year?” Rafe supplies helpfully, giving you a convenient out. You aren’t sure why you’re desperate to explain yourself to him; hypothetically, he’s just the boy you know through seeming coincidences.

Except that he’s not. Except that they’re astrally excogitated.

Except that you seldom stop at the supermarket on the way home — it’d been a spur of the moment decision, one you’d never predicted would end in another reconnection.

“Yeah,” you breathe out after a beat, fidgeting with your backpack straps. Rafe’s gaze drops with the movement, and he’s struck with the sudden urge to reach out and squeeze away your diffidence. He swallows. “I — it’s whatever. Making friends is hard, you know? I’d been banking on the fact that my best friend Kiara’d be joining me next year, but she just texted me saying her parents’d enrolled her into the Academy.”

“Oh.” Rafe pauses, furrowing his brow thoughtfully. “Kiara Carrera?”

“Uh, yeah?” You send him a bemused look. “You know her?”

“She’s Sarah’s friend,” Rafe affirms; another incidental link, another chance connection. His heart pulls. “My younger sister.”

“Right,” you say, chewing on your bottom lip thoughtfully. “Huh. This island’s way too small.”

Rafe’s about to disagree when Kelce’s garbled yell cuts him off, loud and liquor heavy from a few aisles away.

“Cameron!” He slurs out urgently, loudspeaker raucous with an inebriated posse of accomplices. “Bro — the fuck are you?”

“Shit.” Rafe grimaces apologetically, his heavy gaze skating over your features. Slow, agonisingly slow, memorising the subtle details that are sure to change in a year or two. Rafe hopes a year; he hopes less, he hopes tomorrow. “Sorry. I better…”

“No biggie,” you allow, smiling affably. That’s one of them, the way your full lips curve up as you address him. The soft creases on your forehead, the way your uniform hugs your figure. Undeserved inches of bare skin, glowing yellow in artificial light. It’s going to be harder to keep his hands to himself the next time your proximity is this evident. 

“And hey, about what you said,” he adds softly, pacing backward slow. “I think the island could be smaller, don’t you?”

He’s turned around and hastened to a jog before you’re so much as able to decipher his words, let alone effuse over the insinuation.

Rafe Cameron wants Kildare to shrink. He wants to see you more than he is already. The revelation rockets through your ribcage like tempest, wreaking havoc on every chamber of your heart, every nerve-ending. 

It’s terrifying. At least you don’t have to wait as long for your next reunion.

Rafe, along with the rest of the Camerons, spends the summer before college at the Bahamas house.

And though he has a grand time in the Caribbean, flirting with locals for fun and slurping down Mai Tai’s at beach clubs, when he returns to the Outer Banks in late August there’s a hankering in his bones that grows stronger with your absence.

A stroke of luck, really, that you’re working your final shift at the Club the same day as Rafe’s farewell dinner. 

Right? 

You’re assigned to their table as soon as you begin. It’s an amity sham orchestrated by his step-mother Rose, no doubt to assert a kindred front to the rest of its Figure Eight patrons. From your kitchen safe haven, you aren’t able to see Rafe right away; only his father and younger sister are visible, Wheezie rattling away about something insignificant.

But then you step away from guarded quarters, brave the bustling interior of the Club and spot him. 

He’s wearing a checkered button-up that stretches taut over solid biceps, less gel in his hair, the overgrown strands fabric mussed. A signet ring you recognise. There’s a shadow of stubble over his chiseled jaw, sharper blue in the eyes you memorised in third grade. 

He’s tense. You’re struck with the sudden, overwhelming need to make your presence known and relax him. 

When you do sidle up to their table, however, desire gives away to self-effacement. Even sheltered as you are in the no man’s land between Pogue and Kook, Ward Cameron’s stature and notoriety are well-known to those in your neighbourhood. 

“Hello,” you greet pleasantly, plastering on a smile. “I’m Y/n, and I’m going to be your server tonight. Can I get you started on some drinks?”

At the mere mention of your name, Rafe’s head whips up in surprise, his bright eyes flaring as they make contact with yours.

“Shit, you work here?” He exclaims, his entire demeanour changing in acknowledgement. Shoulders dropping, features softening, the angle of his torso slanting toward you. It makes your chest whir.

“Uh,” you balk, looking around the table helplessly. “Just over summer, yeah. This is my last shift.”

Lucky. “You’re kidding.”

“Like I said,” you return, pretty lips pulling up more genuinely now. “Small island.”

And it’s been… what? Two years since the last time he saw you? 

You’re wearing a cute uniform that affords him the luxury of bare limbs, skirt hemmed above your knee and button-up tighter than it should be. He bets you get hit on a lot around these parts, all soft eyes and kissable cheeks, exposed legs that glow in sconce lighting. Sweet voice that’s incapable of saying the wrong thing. He swallows thickly. A lot of his graduating class have a membership to this Club. 

“Huh.” Rafe grins too, reaching up and flicking your notepad playfully. “Good gig, though?”

“Definitely,” you answer, glancing over the dining room gratefully. “Super busy, but good to get some work experience, you know?”

Ward Cameron clears his throat significantly. “Well said, my dear,” he acknowledges faux-amicably, cutting his son an imperceptible glare. “See, Rafe? It isn’t just me who understands the significance of hard work.”

An unreadable emotion flickers over his blue irises, fierce but defeated, a battle he’s lost before. “I wouldn’t have enjoyed the internship, dad,” he mutters evenly.

“Work isn’t meant to be enjoyed, son,” Ward chastises, a cruel undercurrent to his tone. 

“Yeah, well,” he sighs out tiredly, running his fingers through his hair. “I’m glad it went to someone who deserved it. Leah probably got more out of it than I ever would’ve.”

“Leah isn’t the one that’s going to be inheriting the firm one day,” Ward rebukes, angrier now.

A pause. The tension in the air has shifted enough to feel palpable.

“Uh.” You gaze moves over the table feebly, scrambling for purchase before settling on your notepad. “I’ll give you guys a sec.”

“Nonsense, we’re fine,” Ward instructs firmly, halting you in your tracks. 

He parrots an order on behalf of the table that you scrawl down slovenly, resisting the urge to steal a glance at Rafe. Make things worse, somehow, his now chagrined son the center of your gaze. When you return with their drinks, with their entree’s and mains, you hope he doesn’t notice the newfound scarcity of your interactions.

But Rafe notices. He always notices.

It’s the reason he hangs back as they’re leaving the premises, lingering near the kitchen doors in an attempt to intercept you.

You’re carrying two steaming plates of Alfredo when he does so.

“Shit,” you curse, stumbling back in surprise. The mains wobble dangerously, heart hammering into your throat. “Don’t do that.”

Rafe’s features crumple apologetically, acquiescing into a weak grin. “Sorry. Just needed to see you before I left.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Why?”

“Uh.” Rafe falters. He combs his calloused fingers through his hair, loose strands creating a flyaway halo around his head. “Shit — I don’t know. Maybe ‘cause I’m heading to UNC tomorrow and you’re not.”

“So I gathered,” you return softly, more bashful now. “Your dad’s quite intense about it, huh?”

“Fuck,” Rafe sighs out, making a face. “I know. He’s — I’m sorry you had to see that shit, he usually reserves his stupid lectures for when we’re not out in public. Doesn't wanna fuck with his image, you know? He’s super heavy on all that happy family crap.”

“Oh,” you say, chewing on your bottom lip nervously. A rim of sharp heat is beginning to transfer from plate to palm. “No, it’s fine. You don’t have to apologise.”

“I do,” Rafe labours, stepping closer still. A tantalising inch of space between your figure and his, though his vetiver and musk cologne makes it feel like far less. “Because… fuck, because there’s only one reason he felt the need to make a scene.”

You frown bemusedly. “There is?”

“Yeah.” A pause. “To make me look bad. In front of you.”

“You didn’t look bad to me, Rafe,” you say gently, voice quiet but firm. 

“Listen,” he murmurs urgently, looking over your softened features. “D’you know where you want to go to college?”

“Not yet,” you answer slowly, your nervous breath stilling. His eyes have fallen over your soft cheeks and skidded at your lips, lingering.

“You should come to UNC.” He exhales heavily and takes a long step back, as though doing so is tying up every ounce of his conviction. It is. The invisible string loosens. “That’s where I’ll be.”

Another pause. You say, frighteningly sure of yourself, “Knowing us, I probably will.”

And though this revelation doesn’t quite ring true, fate bestows upon you one more chance encounter before present day.

When you’re eighteen-years-old, Rafe Cameron tells you you’re the one.

You’re strolling along the beachfront at dusk, ruminating. An amaranth hue presses over your silhouette, darker carmine wine, softer pink pulling away.

As sunlight recedes, it takes any discernible features with it. Rafe knows this. He knows he shouldn’t recognise you as easily as he does.

But he’s breathing heavy by the time he’s caught up with you, anyway, a sheen of sweat lining his limbs, damp strands of ashen blonde kissing his forehead. His throat burns and his heaving lungs bleed, though it’s the ache in his cracking ribcage that really has him panicking.

He needs to know whether or not you’re coming to UNC. Kildare Island may be small, but the world beyond it is dangerously big.

“Rafe!” You exclaim in surprise, stumbling back as he doubles over. He gulps down several pockets of cool air before straightening.

“Y/n,” he greets slovenly, his gaze skating over your figure. Big mistake — you’re so beautiful it steals the newfound oxygen from his lungs. He swallows thickly. “Thank fuck.”

“Thank fuck?” You echo, raising your eyebrows appraisingly.

“It’s been a while,” Rafe says then, stepping closer without meaning to. You’re wearing a white singlet and raw-hem denim shorts, a taunting rectangle of bare waist between them. It glows in waning light, the column of your throat, too. He’s struck with the sudden urge to dip his head and bruise it blue.

You soften a little, something demure about it. “Has it?”

“Yeah.” His arms swings forward absently, forefinger brushing over the pulse point on your wrist. The fleeting skin-on-skin rockets through you like static. “Was starting to get worried.”

“Oh,” you say quietly, gaze dropping to his hand. “You shouldn’t, really. Knew you’d find me eventually.”

“And next year?” He asks, an urgent edge to his voice. “When you head to college? Am I gonna be able to find you as easily as I do now?"

You exhale softly, eyes moving back up to his. “I’m going to Northwestern, if that’s what you mean.”

Rafe’s stomach lurches. “Why?”

“Rafe.” You pause. You try to ignore the deep woe in your ribcage. “It’s only three years away.”

“That's a year more than usual,” Rafe returns impatiently, his self-control wearing thin. He reaches up and presses his rough palm against your cheek, the other squeezing the side of your waist, thumb swiping over bare skin.

Your breath hitches. “Rafe —”

“No, listen, I promise I’ll fuck off in a sec.” His eyes drop to your soft lips, a peach-scented gloss making it difficult to concentrate. Maybe he should stop making promises he can’t keep. “But I — shit, I have to say this in case things don’t work out like you think they will.”

You swallow down a still-beating heart, nodding slowly. “Okay.”

“We’ve been…” he falters, shaking his head, “…fuck, I don’t know, it doesn’t make any sense. It’s like the Universe knows something I don’t and I think that something is that you’re it.”

“It?” You echo abashedly, voice messy and fond, barely audible.

“It, the one, the girl I’m going to end up with,” he clarifies, exhaling heavily. “And I just… I need you to know that I wouldn’t mind that. Shit — I want that. So bad.”

Your pretty eyes widen at the revelation, poor heart stuttering. “Three years, Rafe Cameron.”

Rafe pulls away, like he said you would. A part of you wishes he wasn’t so good at following through. “Three years. Longer, if you need. I’ll be here. I’ll wait forever.”

—

Thankfully, your presence at the bonfire confirms the former. His gaze, more pupil than brilliant blue iris, moves over your pretty features, over your bare limbs and surprised expression. Glowing skin. Soft lips he’s wanted to taste for a while now.

The way he drinks your figure in, as though he’s a poor man starved, has your weak knees threatening to buckle underneath you, pulse whirring alive as it pulls you toward him.

You meet in the middle, the rest of the bonfire fading away. It’s only you and him, now, and that invisible string of fate.

“You know what I think everytime I see you?” He asks, his voice a quiet murmur, low and gravelly around the edges. It spills over you like the first pull of a warm beverage, his cedar-wood cologne encircling you, a body-heat warm embrace. 

You cock your head to one side, smiling your sweet, unabashed smile. It makes his heart sing. “What?”

“I think.” He steps closer, the tips of his sneakers making contact with the tips of yours. “Fucking hell, she’s prettier than she was the last time I saw her. As if that’s fucking possible.”

“Three years, Rafe Cameron,” you say softly, smiling wider.

He nods meaningfully, reaching up and tucking his hand underneath your jaw. His thumb swipes over your too-warm cheek, soft on rough in a way that makes your pulse jolt. “Think this is it, now?”

“I don’t plan on leaving the Banks,” you answer, raising your eyebrows. “I hear from Sarah that you don’t either.”

Rafe scoffs, more amused than exasperated. “Of course you’ve seen Sarah.”

“With Kiara.” His thumb slides over your bottom lip absentmindedly, exerting a gentle pressure. You lean into it without meaning to. “Who d’you think told me about tonight?”

“Of fucking course,” he murmurs, exhaling slowly. “Just another one of those coincidences, huh?”

You swallow slightly, and his gaze drops to the column of your throat, bonfire flames painting them a burnt ochre hue. Back up to your lips, soft and glossed over. It’s debilitating, how badly he wants to taste you right now. “Must be.”

He ducks his head in the beat that passes, a kissable inch of space between your lips and his. “This is stupid,” he breathes out, warm and liquor-heavy as it fans your features. Your lashes flutter. “We’ve barely had five conversations over the course of our lives.”

“What’s stupid?” You ask quietly, a little bashful. Rafe’s deep voice has this sweet, terrifying effect on your havoc-wreaked insides.

“How badly I want to skip all the getting to know you bullshit and just kiss you.”

Your breath hitches. “You don’t think you know me?”

“That’s the thing,” he murmurs urgently, his torso pressing into yours, now, a rough hand on your waist. “I — fuck, I shouldn’t, but I do.”

You lean in first. There’s a soft brush of lips on his before he’s taking over, kissing you hard, fond and messy as he attaches his mouth to yours. A teeth-scraping pressure. He’s peppermint and warm beer and sunshine twang, the essence of an Outer Banks summer, a sloven osculation that has you craving more.

When he pulls away, your lips are bruised and kiss-heckled, warm cheeks glowing in the scorching flame of the bonfire. The embers crackle in appreciation. 

“That's not stupid,” you breathe out after a beat, voice hushed. “So do I. Hard not to, you know? Feels like you’ve been in my life forever.”

“Doesn’t it?” Rafe grins this fond, messy grin, his thumb swiping over your saliva-glossed bottom lip. “Makes no fucking sense, but it’s like we’re connected by a tiny bit of thread.”

“Hm.” A pause. It’s pretty to think about, all the ways astral influence thrust the pair of you together. “You’re right. An invisible string tying you and me together.”

--

--

--

Y’all being in this Drew drought is so hard.

thank you for this i love you and your brilliantly, talented self

The Euro Trip Universe (reposted)

Euro Trip:

Part 1

The extended cut: Bad Habit (new!)

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

College Trip:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

The old blurbs: the look, gold rush, Perfect Timing, The Beginning, Late Night Talking, Super Rich Kids, Not that guy, the first time

babe wake up, college trip pt 2 is up

College Trip

(the Euro Trip sequel, part 2/5)

I don’t know it but I feel it coming / Might be so sad might leave my nose running

a/n: I forgot how angsty this was until just now, damn 💔💔 this part also features some smut so minors please DNI, 18+ only!

wc: 12.5k

Noah hesitated, brow snapping together as the revelation washed over his features. “It might have been out of his control.”

“Yeah, for sure.” Rafe scoffed, his words strangled in his throat. “He’s had a copy of the UNC calender since before I even fucking enrolled.”

He paused, his breath forced through gritted teeth. “He did this shit on purpose. He doesn’t fucking care.”

Rafe Cameron stumbled to a halt, the carpet under his feet worn thin. “Oh.”

“You understand, of course?” Ward continued, his fingers clutching his phone lazily, almost bored. “Business comes first.”

“Yeah.” Rafe muttered, his jaw painfully tight. “Of course.”

“Good.”

Ward cocked his head to one side, a desirive amusement evident on his features. “And how are classes?”

Rafe bit the inside of his cheek, his twisted features doing little to subdue his disappointment. “Uh, fine.”

“Fine?” Ward repeated, letting out a mirthless laugh. “I hope fine is enough, son.”

“Good.” Rafe corrected, wincing slightly. “I meant to say good. They’re going great.”

He paused, the next few words coming out in a nervous jumble. “And listen, I know you said no, but if you could find even a little time to come to Parent’s Weekend, I could tell you more about it, and everything, and I don’t know, it’s better than hearing about it over the phone –”

“I have real work to do, Rafe.” Ward interrupted, his voice stern, forbidding enough to blanch Rafe’s features. “I don’t have time for a silly little weekend of fun –”

“It’s not –”

“That’s enough.” 

Ward’s voice resonated through Rafe’s phone at a dangerous pitch, unforgiving as ever, leaving an uncomfortable silence in its wake. “Have I made myself clear?”

Rafe willed his jaw to slacken, shaky fingers brushing over his stubble in an attempt to coax it loose. “Yes.”

“Yes, sir.” Ward corrected, his figure so sharply contrasting Rafe’s, slumped and absent as he shuffled through paperwork. “Now if that was all…?”

Rafe allowed a beat to pass before he responded, his splotched cheeks uncomfortably taut. “That was all.”

“Good.” Ward nodded, and as his finger hovered over the end call button, it seemed as though speaking to his only son was nothing more than an irritating chore. “I have a meeting.”

He didn’t bother to say goodbye before he hung up the phone; such pleasantries seemed arbitrary, at this stage, almost invalid, against the backdrop of their strained relationship.

“Of course you do.” Rafe muttered, the heavy silence settling on his broad shoulders, appearing to aid, almost inevitably, in his painful self-destruction. “Your time is much more important than mine.”

“It’s probably going to be boring, anyway.” Noah offered, his tone careful. “You can spend it with my family.”

Rafe forced his features to soften, absently tugging at the bill of his backwards cap. “For real?”

“Dude. Of course.” Noah grinned, leaning back into his chair, satisfied. “My parents fucking love you.”

“Yeah well.” Rafe muttered, his expression dull. “At least one set of parents does.”

He let out a harsh breath, pushing past Noah’s figure with an uncharacteristic haste. “Listen, I just need some air, alright?”

“Uh, of course.” Noah faltered, watching Rafe shove his shoulder against the door. “See you later.”

Rafe Cameron barely registered the sentiment, his gait dangerously erratic as he strode toward the hallway elevators. It felt as though his body was moving of its own accord; his grip on his phone unforgiving, tight enough to leave reddened imprints on his palm. His chest rose and fell with rapid breaths, a forefinger punching your contact — the only thing he saw, within the anger blurring his vision — before his rational mind could intervene. 

“Rafael!” You whispered, the gentle lilt to your tone comforting beyond belief. “I’m just in the middle of finishing an assignment, baby —”

You faltered as you registered his shallow breath, the sound alone enough to prompt you to rise from your seat. “— hold on, let me just get out of the library.”

“Okay.” Rafe nodded, your — his girl — voice impossibly warm against his skin. “Thank you.”

“Rafe.” You frowned, the near imperceptible quaver to his tone quickening your pace. “What’s wrong?”

Rafe bit his bottom lip until he drew blood, an untenable attempt at halting its tremble. “Parents Weekend this weekend.”

He paused, feeble tone leaving you helpless, willing the air around you to swallow you whole. “They’re not coming. Typical.”

“You’re golden.” You murmured, the revelation softening his features almost immediately. “I’m sorry. You don’t deserve this.”

“My girl.” Rafe sighed, leaning his forehead against the adjacent wall, the smooth paint cool against his skin. “Thank you. I just needed to hear your voice.”

You nodded slowly, and though the admission was far from accusatory, you couldn’t help but feel small, projecting your own insecurities onto them with a characteristic haste. “I’m sorry. I know I’ve been distant.”

Rafe felt his shoulders tense, hands pressed against the wall as he straightened. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know!” You insisted, shaking your head vigorously. “I know. I just needed to say it. For you to hear it.”

“Sweetheart.” Rafe frowned, readjusting his backwards cap. “I get it. We’re busy. You’re busy. I’ll always get it.”

And though you nodded, and hummed appreciatively, you couldn’t help the painful wince that twisted your gentle features; the sentiment almost threatening, laced with a feeling of imploration that felt far too equable to overlook.

Were you busy? Were you really?

You swiped through Rafe’s latest photo dump for what felt like the tenth time today, your forehead creases gaining permanence against the backdrop of your hardened skin.

It was as you were zooming in on picture in particular, Rafe’s undeniable charm appearing to match Amber’s so strikingly, that the once comforting flash of a FaceTime call took over your bright screen, your boyfriend’s contact photo lighting it up with an unwavering sense of confidence.

Your forefinger punched the decline button before it fully registered, drawing back, as though burned, to clutch Rafe’s signet ring immediately after.

Rafe: busy?

You hesitated, the contents of your stomach swirling dangerously.

Y/n: unfortunately :( soon?

Rafe: always

Rafe slumped back against his pillow, a defeated sigh escaping his lips. 

Having suffered through two long weeks of limited contact (courtesy of a busy frat schedule, one that you insisted — “Rafe. We’ll talk after rush week.” — he participate in wholeheartedly), he welcomed a steady class schedule with open arms, eager to finally have an excuse to spend his nights holed up in his dorm room.

It was therefore rather unfortunate that he played the unbothered boyfriend so well; your equally slumped figure, all splotchy cheeks and downturned lips, convinced that he was better off without the monotony of your presence.

And though that remained the only time you avoided his call, it was obvious that the cracks were beginning to show; the distance was hurting you, and this in turn, was hurting Rafe Cameron.

“Babbbbyyyyyy.” You slurred, stumbling slightly with Chloe’s worried figure close behind. “S’me.”

Rafe sandwiched his phone against his shoulder and ear, swivelling his hat so it sat backwards on his head. “Sweetheart. Are you drunk?”

“Shhhh.” You giggled, pressing his signet ring to your lips before lowering your voice conspiratorially. “Don’t tell anyone.”  

“Y/n.” Rafe lilted, an endeared smile tugging at his lips. “I won’t. Swear.”

“Good boy.” You grinned, carelessly moving the phone toward your lips, a wet kiss pressed against the surface. “S’for you.”

Rafe felt a familiar flutter erupt in his chest, and the feeling alone was enough to warm his cheeks. “Thank you baby.”

He paused, brow furrowing slightly as he heard a small yelp come through the phone. “Y/n. You alright?”

“Oh my god.” Chloe tutted, wrapping an arm around your waist before tugging your phone from your hand. “Watch your step, dumbass.”

She cast you a stern glance, shifting slightly to press the phone against her ear. “Don’t worry about it Rafe, she’s just had one too many white claws.”

“Chlo.” Rafe recognised, relieved. “She’s alright, though?”

Chloe nodded slowly, her eyes darting toward your tired frame before lowering her voice. “She’s been a real mess over you, you know that? Just went overboard trying to get her to have some fun. That’s all.”

“Oh.” Rafe swallowed, scrunching up his features momentarily before responding. “Really?”

“Really.” Chloe affirmed, her voice careful, but exact. “I mean I know it’s not my place or anything, but long distance is hard, and —”

“Thanks, Chloe.” Rafe interrupted, his jaw tightening, defensive. “You’ll be alright getting her home?”

“Mm-hm.” Chloe exhaled, frowning slightly as you leaned into her side. “Here, I’ll pass it back to her.”

Rafe nodded slowly, using a calloused palm to smooth out his hardened features. “Hi, baby.”

“Miss you.” You mumbled, and it was as though it was only now registering, your wide eyes swimming with unshed tears as you spoke. “Lots.”

“Me too.” Rafe sighed, helplessness seeping into his skin, so heavy he wasn’t able to think straight. “I miss you so much it hurts.”

“M’too.” You slurred, your bottom lip trembling dangerously. “Come home.”

Rafe Cameron had, of course, booked the first flight out of North Carolina the next morning, already zipping up his near-empty suitcase when a familiar ring resonated through his dorm.

“No way, Rafe.” You groaned, headache doing little to settle the unease in your stomach. “Cancel it. You’re not dropping everything because I said something when I was drunk.”

“But I would.” Rafe insisted, though his shoulders were slumping, all the same. “Drop everything, I mean. If you wanted me to, I would.”

“You shouldn’t.” You frowned, throat dry and raspy. “Not for me. College is important.”

“You’re infinitely more important.”

“Rafael.”

“Y/n.” Rafe sighed, and when he spoke again, his voice appeared so alarmingly strained all you wanted to do was wrap yourself in his arms. Home. “I love you always.”

You drew in a long breath, feeling small. “I love you always.”

Such agonising exchanges had dotted the past month at an unrelenting pace, blurring them into one, long, steady path to self-destruction. And though there remained an obvious, physical distance between the two of you, the forbidding promise of an emotional distance loomed dangerously over your head; threatening to engulf you whole, threatening to shatter you entirely into pieces. 

You needed to fix this. And you needed to do it before your ability to ruin everything you touch managed to take over the rational part of your mind.

“Listen.” You started, swallowing a harsh breath. “It’s Parents Weekend for me too.”

Rafe’s eyes widened apologetically, ever in tune to the subtleties in your emotions, aware of the immense amount of pressure your parents put on you. “Sweetheart. How are you feeling?”

“No, no, no.” You dismissed, gesticulating wildly as you spoke. “I mean, if you’re going to be free this weekend, you should come. You can spend it with my family.”

You paused, chewing at your bottom lip nervously. “If you want to, of course.”

Rafe’s lips parted slightly at the offer, the brilliant blue of his eyes impossibly bright, all you saw when you closed your eyes. “Really?”

“Of course.” You nodded, the encouragement in your tone lacing Rafe’s softened features. “It’s a good excuse for us to see each other, too.”

You hesitated, the pout on your lips audible. “I miss you.”

“So much it hurts, sweetheart.” Rafe affirmed, turning back to walk toward his dorm. “When are your parents arriving?”

“Saturday morning, I think.” You responded, cocking your head to one side. “Why?”

Rafe pressed his tongue against his cheek, already falling back into his old habits; falling back into you. “Because I want to come a day early, of course.”

“Right.” You scoffed, rolling your eyes pointedly. “Because they’re going to be totally okay with us sharing my dorm —”

“Relax, sweetheart.” Rafe grinned, his free hand opening the dorm room door with a characteristic ease. “I’ll sneak out before they arrive. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

You felt a familiar flush creep up your cheeks, your hand reaching out, almost instinctively, to swat at his non-existent broad chest. “Rafael.”

“Y/n.” Rafe teased, tugging his laptop into his lap. “I’ll see you Friday, yeah?”

“Night, okay?” You frowned, faltering momentarily. “Don’t miss any classes for me.”

Rafe drew his bottom lip between his teeth, feeling his excitement fade, if only a little. “Okay.”

“Okay.” 

You blinked several times, the spontaneity of it all throwing you, a beat passing before you regained your composure. “Love you always.”

“Love you always.”

—

You were waiting in front of your dorm building impatiently, the pads of your forefinger and thumb raw, still clasping the magnificently golden signet ring between its callouses. 

Chloe Peterson, gracious as ever, had promptly exited your dorm room no less than two hours ago, promising to make herself scarce in anticipation of the return of your golden boy. An hour after her willful departure, you had dragged your feet toward the elevator, fingers smoothing out non-existent creases like a nervous tick, feeling so impossibly flustered it felt almost nostalgic.

You clicked the side of your phone for what felt like the millionth time, Rafe’s last message — in an Uber now! — a comforting presence atop the screen. 

Rafe Cameron barely registered the Uber driver’s audible gasp as he pressed a wad of cash into his outstretched palm, the steady thump of his chest quickening as he registered your figure across the road. You look so effortlessly beautiful, in the late Autumn sun, the creases on your forehead begging to be smoothed out, loose dress waiting to be wrapped up in his arms.

“Keep it.” Rafe smiled politely, giving the man a fleeting once-over before turning fully. “Got me to my girl.”

It felt as though the world was moving in slow motion; his peripheral vision appearing to blur, feeling spectral, seeing only you, amongst the very fabric of reality. Gait quickening slightly, he threw his bag over his shoulder, shoes hitting gravel at the same pace at his heartbeat, quickening, quickening still, when you finally registered his figure.

Your jaw slackened as you caught his eye, the magnificent glint of his signet ring dancing across your gentle features, so close Rafe could barely breathe. “Sweetheart.”

“Rafael.” You breathed, your arms finding their way around his neck almost immediately. “Oh my god. You’re here.”

Rafe dropped his bag carelessly, wrapping his forearms around your waist with his head buried in your hair. “I’m here.”

He breathed in the sweet smell of your lavender shampoo, his fingers ghosting over the soft skin of your back before gently tightening his grip. He willed you to melt into him, picking you up easily before twirling you around. “My fucking girl.”

“Mm-hm.” You giggled, feeling so impossibly free in his arms, skin electrified, warm to the touch. “Your girl.”

Rafe kept you flush against him as he guided you back to your feet, meeting your lips in a beautifully slow kiss. Balancing on tip-toes, your fingers found themselves in his ruffled hair, tugging at it teasingly as you deepened the passionate embrace. 

“God I’ve missed you.” Rafe breathed, each word punctuated by an ardent peck on the lips. “So fucking much, baby.”

“Me too.” You responded, lips brushing against his skin with your eyes half-closed. “I can’t believe you’re really here.” 

Rafe’s intense gaze left you breathless, his eyes taking in every part of you, creating the only memory that ever mattered. “Me either, sweetheart.”

He pouted as you made to unclasp your fingers, his hands pressed into your waist, unwilling to ever let go. “No way.”

“You’re not going anywhere.” He continued, keeping his arm wrapped around your figure as he reached for his bag. “Ever.”

“Of course.” You nodded solemnly, kissing the prickly stubble on his jaw. “Never.”

He pressed his lips against your temple, slotting you into his side before guiding you forward. “So what’s the plan for tonight?”

“Whatever you want.” You responded, doe-eyes catching his gaze with a teasing sense of feigned innocence. “We can get some dinner, or watch a movie, or you can, you know, take this tiny dress off me —”

Rafe stumbled to a halt beside you, his bottom lip drawn between his teeth. “Where’s your dorm?”

“Third floor.” You grinned, wriggling out of his grasp with a wink. “Well don’t just fucking stand there —”

“Y/n.” Rafe muttered, tugging at his shirt collar as he gave the foyer a once-over. “Don’t make me throw you over my shoulder.”

You cocked your head to one side, teasing. “You wouldn’t.”

“Oh?” Rafe challenged, smirking knowingly at the way your breath hitched. “Wouldn’t I?”

He slipped a finger under the loose strap of your dress, tracing it’s hem before reaching the signet ring on your neck. “Mine.”

You swallowed, registering the way his blown-out pupils caught the dull glow of the overhead light. “This way.”

Purposefully, you took his hand in yours, tugging his figure toward the elevator with an uncharacteristic haste. 

His free hand found its way to the curve of your ass, a small squeal escaping your lips as he gave it an appreciative squeeze. 

“Rafael.” You hissed, dragging him into the elevator with pursed lips. “Stop.”

“Y/n.” He echoed, whirling you around before pushing you against the opposing wall. “No.”

He placed his hand on either side of your face, his biceps rippling slightly, hungry gaze keeping you frozen in place.

“What was that you said?” He breathed, bowing his head to graze his teeth over your collarbone. “About taking this tiny dress off?”

“Not in the elevator, Rafe.” You swallowed, lashes fluttering shut as he began sucking on the sensitive spot on your nape. “Rafe.”

“Really?” Rafe challenged, his lips ghosting over the reddened bruise. “You sounded awfully eager, before —”

Your eyes snapped open as you heard the familiar ding of the elevator, using the heels of your hands to push Rafe’s figure backward.

“Jade!” You smiled weakly, attempting to fix your curls. “Hey.”

Jade raised an eyebrow at your harried expression, her lips parting slightly as she registered the boy standing to your left. “Hey, Y/n/n.”

“This is Rafe.” You announced, catching his eye fleetingly before ushering him forward. “Rafe, this is my friend Jade.”

“Hey!” Rafe smirked, his tone lilted, mischievous as ever. “Would love to stay and chat, but this one —”

“Oh my god, shut up.” You hissed, promptly reddening. “Anyway, Jade, good to see you, I’m just showing Rafe my dorm room —”

“Ah, of course.” Jade nodded sagely, the corners of her mouth twitching. “Well enjoy exploring her room, Rafe —”

“Good bye Jade.” You groaned, mouthing an irate “I’m going to kill you” before pivoting on your heel. “Let’s go, Rafael.”

“You know.” Rafe grinned, thumbing over the bruise on your neck, enjoying the way it blanched under his touch. “You’re cute when you’re flustered, baby.”

“I’m not flustered.” You argued, tugging him through your dorm door with a small pout. “Don’t be mean.”

You stepped forward as he closed the door behind him, twirling coyly as you gestured around the room. “My humble abode.”

Rafe nodded, closing the space between with a single, purposeful stride. “Respectfully…”

He trailed off, fingers slipping down the straps of your dress, feather-light touch eliciting a shudder. “…all I’m able to see right now is you, sweetheart.”

The loose fabric bunched up at your feet, Rafe’s palms pressed against your waist as he leant backward.

“Fuck.” He groaned, his eyes raking over your figure shamelessly. “Is this new?”

“Mm-hm.” You nodded, cocking your head to one side, playful. “It’s for you.”

The words alone made Rafe’s crotch tighten, attaching his lips to your neck before desperately grinding into you.

“Baby.” You continued coltishly, tugging down the waistband of his grey sweatpants and palming his cock through the fabric of his Calvin Kleins. “Do you like it?”

“Do I like it?” Rafe breathed, his voice straining slightly. “I —”

The rest of his words caught in his throat as you pushed him onto the bed, slipping down his boxers before curling your fingers around his hard cock. “Mmm? You were saying?”

You gazed up at him for a split second, jacking it teasingly before taking it in your mouth. 

“Fuck.” Rafe cursed, his finger bunching your curls to one side as you began bobbing up and down. “Fuck.”

You hummed around his cock in response, his strangled groans spurring you on, eyes trained on his features, just how he liked it. 

“Y/n.” Rafe breathed after a beat, carelessly cupping your cheek before slowly pulling you upward. “As much as I love you taking control —”

He paused as you straightened, quick to wrap an arm around you and pin you down against the mattress. “ — I want you to feel me in your stomach, now, angel.”

He near ripped the lacy bra and underwear from your figure, his lips attaching themselves to your hard nipple almost immediately. Pulling away, he lubricated his forefinger with his tongue, groaning appreciatively as he slipped a finger in your core.

“Already so wet.” He breathed into your skin, his lips leaving bruising kisses in the valley of your breasts. “Did you miss me?”

“Mm-hm.” You managed to mumble, using your weak grip to tug off his polo. “Can we fuck now, baby?”

Rafe’s fingers curled against your core teasingly, circling your swollen clit one last time before meeting your eye. “Those words alone are going to make me cum, sweetheart.”

You moaned into the crook of his neck, a small gasp escaping your lips as he teased his cock over your entrance. Tangling your fingers in his hair, you nodded slowly, encouraging him to push himself in fully as you tightened.

“Fuck.” He muttered, propped up on his biceps as he began thrusting into you. “You’re so fucking tight.”

The silver chain on his neck glinted slightly in the light, hovering above the skin of your neck as he quickened his pace. A desperate moan escaped your lips as he hit your swollen clit, fingers clutching at his chain to pull him in for a breathy kiss.

“Baby.” He managed to say, his fingers leaving red marks on the skin of your waist. “M’not going to last.”

He continued to thrust into you deeply, fingers curling around your head as it hit the headboard, muttering strangled curses into every inch of your soft skin, so desperate he could barely breathe. You felt the familiar sensation building in your stomach, shallow breath matching his in a symphony of pure pleasure.

“Neither.” You breathed, your head rolling back as you keened. “I’m —”

Rafe grunted as he felt you tighten, the action feeding his own orgasm, bucking desperately against your core as you finished, his own climax close behind. With a satisfied sigh, he pulled himself out of you, an emerald ring clad forefinger tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear.

“I’m so fucking lucky.” He mumbled, absently cupping your breast in his calloused palm. “How are you real?”

You crinkled your nose playfully, ghosting over the skin of his jaw, nimble fingers so gentle Rafe was certain he was dreaming. “I missed you.”

“So much it hurts, baby girl.”

—

“Oi!” Chloe shouted, her fingers twisting the door handle warningly. “It’s been 2 fucking hours, I swear to god if you’re still going —”

“Relax, Chlo.” You laughed, Rafe’s arm reluctantly slipping off your shoulder as you straightened. “We’re ready.”

Taking Rafe’s hand in yours, you brushed over his calloused knuckles, allowing a beat to pass as you marvelled at his physical presence, your golden boy, here, with you. “Come on. We haven’t eaten.”

Rafe cocked his head to one side, teasing. “There’s actually something else I’d like to eat —”

“Rafael.” You admonished, the tips of your ears reddening. “Stop that.”

“Can’t.” Rafe shrugged, and when he bowed his head, his breathy voice raised goosebumps on your skin. “All I can think about is the lingerie you’re wearing under this tiny dress, baby.”

“Caveman.” You quipped, poking your tongue out at him before reaching for the door handle. “Focus. Need you to meet my friends.”

Rafe raised his arms in surrender, nodding obligingly. “If there‘s one thing high-school has taught me, it’s how to focus when you’re around.”

You shook your head bemusedly, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Unbelievable.”

“Y/n!” Chloe announced excitedly, Jade and Priya flocking either side as you opened the door. “Dinner?”

She peered over your shoulder shamelessly, interest piquing as she spotted Rafe’s tall figure. “Hometown boyfriend?”

“Rafe.” Rafe corrected, a roguish grin decorating his features. “The infamous Chloe?”

“The very same!” Chloe nodded, wrapping an arm around his shoulder for a fleeting, side hug. “And this is Jade and Priya!”

Rafe waved an arm in greeting, a polite symphony of ‘hello’s and ‘how are you’s ringing through the air as you locked the door behind you.

“So, hometown boyfriend.” Jade lilted, smirking mischievously. “Y/n really gave you the whole tour.”

“Of your room, I mean.” Jade added, brow furrowed in feigned concentration. “Does it really take two hours to look over 130 square feet nowadays —”

“Anyway.” You interrupted, fixing Jade with a pointed glare. “Where are we going?”

“Denny’s?” Priya offered, chewing at her bottom lip thoughtfully. “Think it’s the only place that’s open.”

Rafe nodded obligingly, punching a forefinger against the ground floor button before responding. “I don’t mind.”

He paused, wrapping an arm around your neck to pull you back into his chest, his impossibly soft lips brushing over your temple, electrified. “As long as I’m with you.”

“Jesus.” Chloe whooped, sharing a knowing look with Jade and Priya before continuing. “You really are down bad, huh.”

“Absolutely.” Rafe grinned without missing a beat, his eyes flitting over your reddened features, endeared beyond belief. “Always have been.”

Chloe let out an ardent sigh, pausing momentarily before following your figures into the elevator. “Hey, hometown boyfriend?”

“Yeah?”

“How was she like in high-school?” Chloe asked, surveying your intertwined figures with interest. “From the limited contact I’ve had with Topper and Kelce — Kelce by the way, totally hot, you should set me… anyway, not important — she was really different in high-school.”

“Really?” Rafe frowned, resting his chin atop your shoulder, his cheek pressed against your ear. “How so?”

“For starters.” Chloe grinned, waggling her eyebrows suggestively. “I don’t know about her being shy, she’s actually super fucking sassy, bit annoying, really —”

“Chlo.” You interrupted sternly, feeling helpless under Rafe’s searching gaze. “Not true. Only sassy with you three.”

“And that James guy.” Chloe added boorishly, wincing almost immediately after the admission escaped her lips. “Not that he’s important, or anything —”

“James?” Rafe repeated, and when you felt his figure tense, your hand flew to the golden signet ring on your neck, fiddling with the weathered metal as though your life depended on it. “Johnson’s here?”

You hesitated, drawing your bottom lip between your teeth before slowly nodding. “Mm-hm. He’s in my Stats class.”

“Oh.” Rafe responded, his expression unreadable. “You guys are friends now?”

“I don’t know, really.” You swallowed, tilting your head to offer him a tight-lipped smile. “It’s no biggie. Amber’s at UNC and that’s no biggie, right?”

Rafe lifted an eyebrow at the comparison, the tension in the air palpable. “Right.”

“Anyway.” You coughed, averting your gaze to follow your friends out of the elevator. “C’mon. Denny’s is a walk away.”

—

Rafe Cameron, all undeniable charm and carefully planned quips, had required only a few hours to win over all your friends; gracious as he paid for their food, cheeky as he set them up with his many friends.

After a far-too-long dinner spent recounting an embarrassing number of high-school memories (“No fucking way this was your almost promposal… Y/n, where the fuck can I find one of him?”), you had promptly retired to your dorm room, Chloe’s generosity affording you a night alone, wrapped up in Rafe Cameron’s strong arms.

Currently, your head was resting atop his chest, fingers absently fiddling with the emerald ring on his forefinger, talking about everything and nothing all at once.

“And how’re classes?” You questioned, sidling impossibly closer to his finger, attempting to melt completely into him. “Have you had any tests yet?”

“Just assignments.” Rafe responded, making a face. “Boring as ever. How about you, sweetheart?”

“Good.” You nodded, moving your head into the crook of your neck, pressing lazy kisses onto his jaw. “I mean, psych papers are lame, but the one art history paper I have this Semester is incredible, I mean…”

Rafe’s lips parted slightly as you rambled, marvelling in the way your bright eyes lit up, his heart soaring as he registered the pure joy emanating from your features. In this moment, it felt as though his sole mission in life was to keep you this happy, always. In this moment, it felt as though he would die if anything messed with your ability to feel so impossibly free.

“… and then, I have to take Stats, for some reason —”

Your mention of the compulsory paper forced Rafe out of his reverie, shaking his head slightly as he gathered his thoughts. “The one with Johnson?” 

You winced, eyes wide as you tilted your chin. “Yeah.”

“Right.”

Rafe cleared his throat awkwardly, threading his fingers through his hair. “How is he?”

“You know we’re family friends, Rafe.” You frowned, tone impossibly meek, almost catching in your throat. “Right?”

“He’s a fucking douchebag, though.” Rafe sighed, his nostrils flared as he thought back on the Bonfire incident. “I mean —”

“I can’t avoid him, though.” You interrupted, shrugging helplessly. “It’s hard, being here, Rafe.”

You paused, eyes squeezed shut as you forced out a harsh breath. “Gets lonely when you’re so far from home.”

“Sweetheart.” Rafe murmured, thumbing over the bare skin of your waist soothingly. “I know.”

“Do you?” You questioned, brow knitted slightly. “Everyone’s at UNC with you. And you can make friends easy, and —”

“Your friends are lovely, too, though.” Rafe encouraged, and as his lips ghosted over your temple, you realised how much you had missed his comforting touch. “But I get it. I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault.” You mumbled, turning slightly as his grip around your waist tightened, keeping you close enough to feel his chest rise and fall. “I’m just… that’s why, okay? He’s just a familiar face. That’s all.”

Rafe nodded, a forefinger raising your chin to give you a kiss, gentle and slow. “I get it.”

He brushed his lips against yours tenderly, his next few words spoken carefully, purposeful. “How are you feeling about tomorrow? Your parents coming down?”

“I don’t know.” You responded honestly, the inside of your cheek chewed raw. “Obviously I want to see them, and everything, and my dad is insanely excited, but…”

You trailed off, paling. “…I don’t know if we’re going to be on the same level. And it scares me, a little.”

Rafe nodded slowly, propping himself up on his elbows to better survey your features. “I get it.”

“Like…” You laboured, scrunching up your features frustratedly. “…I don’t want to talk about his old Law professors, and how he topped all his papers in first year, and…”

“What do you want to talk about?” Rafe encouraged, gentle as he unclasped your whitened knuckles where they clutched his signet ring. “Art history?”

“Art history.” You affirmed, absently nibbling on your cuticle. “Like I was with you, you know?”

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him back into your side with a small smile. “Doesn’t matter, though. I’ll get over it.”

“Yes, it does.” Rafe frowned, a calloused palm brushing over your forearm, coaxing your harsh breath to slow. “You shouldn’t have to get over it, baby.”

“It’s fine, Rafe.” You sighed, fingers carding through his hair, body flush against his chest, so close it felt as though nothing bad could ever happen, so close you finally felt like yourself again. “Used to it.”

“Y/n.” Rafe started, his voice comfortingly low, careful not to butcher his words. “You should bring it up, tomorrow.”

“Listen.” He continued, registering your furrowed brow. “When they see how happy it makes you, they’re going to want to reconsider. Trust me.”

The image of your beautifully free features swam to the forefront of his mind, your imperceptible words blurring into each other, focussing only on your excitement; the very sense of delight that had warmed your skin as you told him about the subtleties of Art history.

“But —”

“Trust me.” He repeated, whirling you around so your back was pressed against his chest. “They love you. Always.”

—

“Y/n.” Rafe murmured, gentle as he caught your wrist. “I’m going to need you to breathe, baby.”

Thumbing over the blanched skin of your knuckle, he coaxed your clenched fist loose, lips feather-light, tender to the touch, as they brushed over the reddened, signet ring shaped imprint within it.

He paused, breaking contact for a moment in order to wrap his strong arms around your torso. When he pulled you close, it was with every ounce of conviction he could muster, his bowed head tucked over your shoulder, his brows pinched — Is there any way I can take away your worry? If I press my forehead against yours, will it seep through your skin and into mine, instead? — as he surveyed your features.

“It’s just a reception.” Rafe encouraged, his lips ghosting over your temple, comforting beyond belief. “And I’ll be right there.”

“I know.” You managed to sigh, drawing your bottom lip between your teeth. “But my dad’s going to be whisking me away every five seconds —”

“I’ll still be right there.” Rafe interrupted, splaying your palm as he guided it toward your beating heart. “Right here. Always.”

Your features softened almost immediately, the admission prompting you to turn around and wrap your arms around his neck. “I love you. Always.”

Balancing on tip-toes, you pressed your lips against his; the action, not breathy nor particularly ardent, occurring with such a habitual sense of opulence you weren’t certain who you were before you were his. 

“I love you.” He murmured, lips brushing over your cheek, forefinger tracing soothing circles into the small of your back. “Always.”

When you did pull away, it was after an infinitesimal beat, a low groan escaping your lips as you registered the notifications lighting up your phone screen.

“They’re here.” You announced grimly, rolling your eyes as you scrolled through the impatient messages. “We better go.”

Rafe let out an easy laugh, faltering momentarily to tuck a stray lock of hair back into place.

“You know.” You lilted teasingly, ignoring Rafe’s protests as you ruffled his gelled hair. “Like it better messy.”

Rafe cocked his head to one side, a knowing smile tugging at his lips. “Why do I feel like this is building to something that’s going to get me frustrated?”

You crinkled your nose in feigned innocence, raising your chin to playfully nip at his bottom lip. “Mm-hm. Probably shouldn’t say it with my parents waiting downstairs, huh?”

“Probably.” Rafe nodded sagely, tightening his grip on your waist, his biceps rippling against the fabric of his dress shirt. “Let’s go. Before my imagination gets the better of me.”

Slotting you into his side, he pressed a chaste kiss on your temple, giving his own reflection a fleeting, once-over before guiding you toward the exit. Traversing the long hallway with a characteristic ease, he kept his eyes trained on your concentrated features, brow furrowing as he registered the shallow creases lining your forehead.

“Sweetheart.” He murmured, callouses thumbing over the puckered skin tenderly. “What are you thinking about?”

“Art history.” You frowned, meek. “About whether I should bring it up to my dad.”

Rafe’s thumb traced the curve of your cheek, brushing across the soft skin of your jaw, feather-light as it reached your nape. “Why don’t you just see how things go?”

He paused, his free arm outstretched momentarily — an almost laughable understatement; drawn back to your side with a characteristic haste, eager to keep you close — to press the elevator button. “Don’t put any pressure on it. It’s a difficult conversation.”

“Yeah.” You nodded, chewing at your bottom lip nervously. “You’re right. See how things go.”

Your tense figure sidled impossibly closer, the wordless action Rafe’s queue (though he seldom required one; the need to melt into your skin almost innate — quintessential) to snake his strong arm further around your waist.

And though there remained a hushed silence in the air, interrupted only by the distant hum of dorm room chatter, it didn’t feel heavy, nor threatening, nor suffocating beyond belief; it wrapped around your figures like a warm blanket in winter, affording you a single moment of relief — of matching heartbeats, arduous breaths, and the shared will for time to stand still. 

Staying close, you strode through the large foyer toward the double doors, your parents easy to spot amongst the throng of college students loitering in the courtyard.

Rafe plastered on a winning smile, his figure straightening as they came into view. The bright sun cast an intimidating shadow against the frown lines decorating your father’s features, his steady gaze — punishing as ever — forcing Rafe to falter.

“Sweetheart.” Rafe swallowed, his lips barely moving. “Did you tell them I was coming?”

Your eyes widened, a few, imperceptible curses forcing their way through the rasp of your dry throat. “Fuck. Fuck. Forgot. I’m sorry. I completely forgot, I was… fuck, I —”

“Shhh.” Rafe hushed, rubbing his hand up and down your forearm, soothing the goosebumps raising your skin. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Rafe!” Your father exclaimed, fixing his features admiringly quickly (in customary, Figure Eight fashion, of course; false pleasantries the mainstay of almost every, forced interaction). “I didn’t realise you were joining us, son.”

“I apologise, sir.” Rafe responded, his brow knitted in concern. “I don’t mean to intrude on family time —”

“Nonsense, dear.” Your mother dismissed, giving his taut cheek a gentle pat. “It’s lovely to see you.”

Rafe offered her a gentle, almost reverent smile, loosening his grip on your waist as you stepped forward.

“Oh come here, sweetheart.” Your mother laughed, her voice slightly strained as she pulled you into a tight hug. “How are you?”

She allowed a beat to pass before she leant backward, pinching the side of your waist with a feigned sense of austerity. “Have you been eating? What are they feeding you at this place? Dear me — Bill, I told you we should’ve sent her that care package — I simply…”

She trailed off, shaking her head crossly. “Are you taking care of yourself, young lady?”

“Jesus, mom, it’s college.” You groaned, a familiar flush creeping up your cheeks. “Will you give me a break?”

“She’s hardly given me a break, back home.” You father laughed, his booming voice reverberating through the still, Autumn air. “Honestly, Y/n, it’s as though she’s forgotten how much she used to party back when she was here —”

“Bill.” Your mother chided, though a small smile was tugging at her lips, allowing him to pull you away from her and into his side. “Now I’m sure our Y/n is being extremely responsible —”

She paused, quirking an eyebrow at your averted gaze. “ — or at least, has the common decency to pretend she is. Right, sweetheart?”

“Totally.” You nodded earnestly, stealing a glance at Rafe’s expression, registering the way his mouth twitched, teasing. “Anyway…”

You cleared your throat awkwardly, offering your father a fleeting, side-hug before stepping back toward Rafe’s figure. “Shall we go?”

“Of course.” Your father smiled, gracious as ever as he beckoned you forward. “So, Rafe, how UNC?”

“Good, sir.” Rafe nodded, unsure what exactly to do with his hands without the comforting presence of his backwards cap. “Yeah, getting into the swing of things.”

“Bill.” Your father corrected warmly, giving his shoulder a firm pat. “And how’s Ward? I’m sure he wasn’t happy that he had to miss parent’s weekend!”

You felt Rafe’s broad shoulders tense against your side; your fingers finding their way to his hand almost subconsciously, brushing over the roughened skin of his knuckles, encouraging a small sigh to escape his pursed lips. 

“Uh, yeah.” Rafe coughed after a beat, his stiff figure relaxing as your fingers intertwined. “He had a whole heap of business meetings.”

“A busy man.” Your father nodded knowingly, his tone careful, exact. “Well, I’m certainly happy you’re not spending it alone.”

He paused, and when he spoke again, it was through a genuine smile. “You’re always welcome, you know. Even during a holiday as menial as parent’s weekend!”

“Menial?” Your mother scoffed, affording Rafe a moment to let out a heaving sigh of relief. “Honey, this weekend is absolutely all you’ve talked about since she left.”

“Yes, well.”

Your father puffed out his chest proudly, weathered features appearing younger, a smug smile tugging at his lips. “It is my alma mater, of course —”

“Yeah.” You interrupted, the corners of your mouth twitching mischievously. “Alma mater, as in, former place of study, not —”

“Now now, Y/n.” Your father chastised, his tone lilted playfully. “Once I introduce you to all my old professors…”

The remark was enough to set him off on an animated ramble, his bright eyes flitting over the campus grounds, missing the way your shoulders slumped into Rafe’s chest. After an endless stream of similarly spirited conversations shared throughout your senior year, the sound rang through your ears like white noise; forehead creases gaining permanence against your soft skin, features paling, paling still, with every painfully intermittent mention of Law School.

“...anyway!” Your father finished airily, a boyish excitement evident on his features. “I believe this is the spot. Correct?”

You bit the inside of your cheek, a languid attempt to fix your pained expression. “Yes. Yeah, I think this is it.”

Forcing out a harsh breath, you drew your hand back to your side, taking solace, instead, in fiddling with the emerald ring adorning Rafe’s forefinger. He was quick to recognise the action, giving your hand an encouraging squeeze (and though your grip was tight enough to blanch his knuckles, the pinch of pain appeared indiscernible; willing to do absolutely anything — suffer through far worse — for his girl) before guiding you forward.

“Y/n!” Your father called, jerking his head backward impatiently. “Come on, now.”

“Go.” Rafe encouraged, giving your cheek one last, fleeting kiss before making to step away. “I’ll be here.”

You shook your head discreetly, unwilling to let his hand go, purposeful as you pulled him forward. “Coming!”

Flocking your other side, your mother’s brow furrowed ever so slightly, narrowed eyes careful as they surveyed your harried features.

“Rafe, honey.” She smiled sweetly, gently threading her fingers through your curls. “Do you mind if I have a quick word with Y/n?”

“Not at all!” Rafe responded quickly, his tenacious desire to please your parents endearing beyond belief. “Sorry, of course.”

“No, no.” Your mother dismissed, an arm raised in farewell as Rafe broke into a slow jog. “I won’t keep her for long, don’t worry!”

She allowed her smile to fade as Rafe’s figure slotted into your father’s side, her expertly shaped brows drawn together, contemplative. “What’s going on?”

You offered her a shrug far too exaggerated to reign true, the steady heave of your chest shifting her stern gaze. “Nothing. What are you talking about?”

“Honey.” Your mother frowned, her tone impossibly gentle. “Talk to me.”

“I don’t know.” You laboured, sucking in a harsh breath through gritted teeth. “Dad’s so excited about pre-law that he hasn’t bothered to ask how I’m feeling about it all.”

“And he never does.” You added, the comforting smell of her signature perfume wrapping around your desolate figure, acting to cajole every gnawing insecurity. “Even in senior year, he never wanted to hear about my minor, or if I even wanted to do Law —”

You faltered, swallowing dryly as you registered your mother’s expression in your peripheral vision. “— that’s not to say that I don’t want to, of course. I just…”

You trailed off, squeezing your eyes shut frustratedly. “…I don’t know. He doesn’t even want to have a conversation about it.”

“Y/n.” Your mother exhaled, drawing her bottom lip between her teeth. “You’re our only child. We’ve always had a plan for you.”

“And I understand that Art History is important to you.” She continued, raising her forefinger when you opened your mouth in protest. “But it’s not a degree you can do if you want to live comfortably, sweetheart.”

She paused, muffling a defeated sigh as she smoothed out her tense features. “I don’t want you bringing this up with your father. Not today. Have I made myself clear?”

You kept your eyes trained on the smooth gravel below your feet, fingers kissing the space between your collarbones, willing the signet ring within your palm to be Rafe’s comforting hand, instead. “Okay.”

“Now.” She cleared her throat with conviction, tucking a stray curl behind your ear before beckoning your forward. “Come on. Before he throws a fit.”

You nodded reluctantly, linking arms with your mother’s figure before purposefully quickening your pace. 

“There they are.” Your father shook his head bemusedly, pulling you into the space between himself and Rafe. “I already see an old classmate, come on!”

“Rafe?” You questioned, and when you offered him an outstretched palm, Rafe Cameron — enamoured as ever — was briefly reminded of the fated nights you had shared during your summer in Europe. “You coming?”

Rafe paused, his eyes flitting toward your father’s figure momentarily, prompting him to jam his hands into his front pockets. “I’ll catch you up after introductions, yeah?”

You knitted your brow, folding your arms across your chest defiantly as you turned. “Dad. What did you say to Rafael?”

“Absolutely nothing.” Your father retorted, his eyebrows raised warningful, daring you to continue. “And I don’t appreciate your tone, young lady.”

“Well why can’t Rafael come meet everyone, too?” You scorned, stubborn as ever, frustratingly so. “He doesn’t have to stay back.”

Your father pinched the bridge of his nose defeatedly, adopting a gentler lilt when he spoke again. “This is just something I’ve been waiting to do with my daughter for a long long time.”

He shifted slightly, his features earnest as they scrutinised Rafe’s figure. “And I’m sure Rafe doesn’t mind. Do you, son?”

“Not at all!” Rafe nodded obligingly, hands drawn behind his back, awkwardly rocking back on his heels. “I completely understand, sir — uh, Bill.”

You chewed at your bottom lip gloomily, fingers clammy where they fiddled with Rafe’s signet ring. “Fine.”

“Well, come on.” You lilted, quick to fix your features. “Let’s go talk about how much of a nerd you were in college —”

“Like father, like daughter.” He winked, pointing toward the large ‘Welcome, alumni!’ sign decorating the very front of the building. “Look. They knew I was coming.”

You let out an exaggerated groan, shaking your head warningly (and promptly mouthing suck-up when your father averted his gaze) at the forced laugh Rafe offered in response. “Don’t encourage him. He won’t stop. It’s torture.”

“Hey.” Rafe grinned, raising his arms in surrender. “I thought it was funny.”

Your father nodded appreciatively, his hand finding its way to the small of your back in order to guide you forward. “Enough about all that. I think I saw an old friend, come on!”

__

“...I simply cannot believe that he’s still here!” Your father continued, a crooked smile hidden beneath a mouthful of pasta. “The same man who handed me my Law degree. Still here to hand you yours.”

You spluttered weakly, swallowing several mouthfuls of water before responding. “I’m still pre-law, dad –”

“Oh don’t worry about that.” Your father dismissed, his twinkling eyes, once bright and enigmatic, appearing almost punishing against the backdrop of the stuffy reception. “It’s in your blood, Y/n. You’re a shoe in.”

“Besides.” He added thoughtfully, a triumphant smile tugging at his lips. “Now that you know everyone who’s everyone…”

“Good to see you, old friend!” Your father boomed, calloused palm raised in greeting. “I want you to meet someone very special.”

He gave you a meaningful nod, encouraging you to step into view. “My daughter, Y/n. Pre-law.”

“Ah, of course!” The man smiled, giving your hand a firm shake. “And what’s your major, Y/n?”

“Psychology.” You answered weakly, absently rolling your silver chain between your forefinger and thumb. “And uh, art history minor.”

“Art history?” The man repeated, quirking an eyebrow at your father’s figure, almost amused. “You definitely don’t take after your old man, then, eh?”

“Oh, no.” Your father chuckled, his tone lilted dangerously high, falsely cheerful. “Not that the art history minor is important, by any means –”

He paused, mockingly raising his fingers in air-quotes. “‘Just a bit of college fun’, isn’t it, Y/n?”

“Oh.” You coughed, biting the inside of your cheek until you tasted metal. “Yeah. Course.”

“...you’re exactly where you want to be.”

“Proud of you, my dear.” Your mother added, leaning in to give your shoulder an encouraging squeeze. “Aren’t you hungry? You haven’t touched your plate.”

“Had too much at the reception.” You offered languidly, forcing your breath to slow, coaxing your clenched jaw loose. “Don’t worry about me.”

“I’m sorry.” You muttered apologetically, accepting the small napkin of hors d'oeuvres Rafe thrust into your chest. “My dad is being fucking insane.”

“Don’t be.” Rafe insisted, gracious as ever despite enduring several, forced conversations in your absence. “I get it.”

He wrapped a comforting arm around your torso, allowing you a moment to swallow a mouthful of bruschetta before continuing. “How’s it going, though?”

“Well.” You responded grimly, sucking your bottom lip between your teeth. “We’ve had a total of five conversations with five different Law professors, and every single one of them consisted of my dad dismissing my minor.”

“So.” You continued, forcing out a strained laugh. “Great. It’s going great.”

Rafe let out a defeated sigh, hating the situation for rendering him so frustratingly powerless. “I’m sorry. He…”

He trailed off, his eyes squeezed shut in concentration, careful not to butcher his words. “...he does it because he cares about you, you know? He wants you to be successful. I’m sure he doesn’t mean anything by it.”

“I know.” You mumbled, focussing on the soothing pad of his forefinger, the way it traced small circles on the skin of your palm. “I know. It’s just a whole lot of pressure.” 

You paused, a painful grimace twisting your features as you recalled the conversation you had shared with your mother. “Like, my mom before, she was going on about how I’m ‘the only child’, as if my shoulders aren’t already fucking weighed down with their impossibly expectations –”

“Sweetheart.” Rafe interrupted, his brow knitted slightly, apologetic. “I’m sorry, I hear you, your dad’s just coming over.”

He scrunched up his features momentarily – When you’re unhappy, it makes me want to die. Does the colour of the tall ceiling appear muted, to anyone else? Does the low hum of gentle birdsong appear irreverent, to anyone else? – your distress demandings a moment’s pause before he raised his chin.

“There you are!” Your father hummed, the astute figure of a greying man bringing up his right side. “Allow me to introduce you to one of my favourite professors, Dr. Leonard Knight.”

“A pleasure, Miss. Y/l/n.” Dr Leonard smiled, giving your hand a firm shake before turning toward Rafe’s figure. “And you are…?”

“Rafe Cameron, sir.” Rafe answered confidently, accepting his outstretched palm with a gracious nod. “Just here to visit.”

“I see.” Dr Leonard nodded, his eyes flitting toward your figure momentarily. “The boyfriend?”

“Correct.” Your father answered, Rafe’s mouth half-open as he waved a dismissive hand in the air. “Anyway, I believe you’re teaching some of Y/n’s first year papers…”

“Of course!” Your father accepted easily, imperceptive to the point of deliberate ignorance. “Flitting around that party like a busy bee with your hors d'oeuvres in hand. Fitting right in.”

He paused, puffing his chest out proudly. “Just like your old man.”

You offered him a weak, half-smile, shifting your gaze to the wilting spinach mixed into your fettuccine. “Yeah. Definitely.”

“And how did you enjoy it, Rafe?” Your father questioned, letting out a powerful laugh before continuing. “Not too overwhelming for you?”

“Dad.” You grimaced, jaw tightening. “Why would it be overwhelming for him?”

“I’m just saying.” Your father dismissed airily, stealing a glance at your mother’s stern expression before awkwardly clearing his throat. “All I mean is that you’re going to be surrounding yourself with powerful people over the new few years, Y/n –”

“Or I won’t.” You muttered, the clang of cutlery rendering your voice near inaudible. “Or I’ll just fill my timetable with Art History papers –”

“It wasn’t overwhelming.” Rafe coughed, coaxing your clenched fist loose under the confines of the large tablecloth. “A lifetime of Figure Eight events has definitely helped.”

“Ah, of course.” Your mother laughed, the sound particularly over-eager as she attempted to change the subject. “Enough about all that, you two! Do you have any evening plans?”

“I think a few of my friends are going to a party.” You shrugged wryly, pushing your plate away from your figure before forcing yourself to straighten. “When are you guys heading back to the hotel?”

“Probably soon, sweetheart.” Your mother responded, hazarding a glance at the slender watch on her wrist before turning toward your father. “You wanted to finish off some paperwork, didn’t you Bill?”

Your father drew his brows together, setting his fork back onto his plate before shaking his head. “Paperwork? I didn’t –”

He faltered, lips parting slightly as he registered your mother’s pointed glare. “ –oh yes, of course.”

“Okay.” You nodded, feeling yourself relax. “We can do a bit of sight-seeing tomorrow morning? Before your flight?”

“Of course.” Your mother smiled, absently combing through your curls before shifting her gaze toward Rafe. “When are you leaving, Rafe?”

“Tomorrow morning, Mrs Y/l/n.” He responded without thinking, letting out a spluttered cough as realisation dawned. “Uh – I’m staying at a hotel, too, just on the outskirts of campus, so I won’t be –”

“Rafe.” Your mother interrupted amiably, an affectionate smile tugging at your lips. “If you stop talking now, we can pretend we didn’t hear a thing.”

“Right, Bill?” She added, quirking a pointed eyebrow at your father’s expression. “I can’t quite remember what he said. Can you?”

Your father cocked his head to one side, drumming his fingers on the table with gentle remonstrance. “Well…”

He narrowed his eyes punishingly, satisfied when he registered Rafe’s Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “...just this once. Are we clear?”

“Yes.” Rafe swallowed, his features – so impossibly earnest your mother had to bite back a pleased chuckle – frozen as he met your father’s eye. “Yes, sir. Uh, Bill. Yes, Bill.”

“Good man.” Your father responded, and though the smile on his face was menial, his grip on Rafe’s shoulder was sure to leave a lasting bruise. “Now. Shall we?”

__

Rafe propped himself up on his elbows, abdomen tense as he surveyed your features. “Sweetheart, we don’t have to go –”

“No way, hometown boyfriend.” Chloe chided, jerking the curling wand toward his figure warningly. “We’re definitely fucking partying tonight.”

“Chlo.” You groaned, slumping forward to bury your head in your hands. “I’ve had a shitty day.”

“So…” Chloe cajoled, bumping her shoulder against yours teasingly. “We get extra fucked up to help you forget about it.”

“I’m not getting fucked up.” You grumbled, though the lilt to your tone was playful, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Not when Rafael is here.”

“Especially when hometown boyfriend is here.” Chloe grinned, mischievous as ever as she turned toward him. “He’ll take care of you.”

“Not just when she’s drunk.” Rafe frowned, sliding off your blue comforter to wrap his arms around your waist. “She’s right, though, baby. I don’t mind staying sober.”

You pouted appreciatively, your palms splayed across his broad chest as he pressed a slow kiss on your lips. “Rafael, you fucking simp.”

“Don’t fucking complain.” Chloe scolded, fixing you with a pointed glare. “Hometown boyfriend, what’s the 411 on Kelce?”

“Ooooh.” You teased, turning around (Rafe wrapped his arm around your neck after an infinitesimally small beat, eager to keep your back flush against his chest) to better survey Chloe’s features. “You know he’s my best friend, right?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Chloe dismissed, rolling her eyes playfully. “But you’re here. Not very useful.”

She paused, cocking her head to one side as she shifted her gaze. “Go on. Is he seeing anyone at UNC?”

“I don’t think so.” Rafe responded, brow furrowed in concentration. “A few hook-ups during syllabus week, but –”

“A few hook-ups during syllabus week?” You gawked, folding your arms across your chest crossly. “Why the fuck didn’t he tell me?”

“Ignore her.” Chloe insisted, leaning forward, interested. “Continue. Nothing steady?”

“Nothing steady.” Rafe affirmed, biting back a laugh at your frustrated huff. “Sweetheart, he’s probably just been busy –”

“Fake friend.” You scowled, making a face. “Chloe, don’t go out with him. He’s a fake fucking friend.”

“A fake fucking hot friend.” Chloe corrected, clicking her curling wand off before uncrossing her legs. “Anyway, I’ll be right back.”

She let out a dramatic sigh, hands on her hips as she gave her reflection a defeated, once-over. “Nothing to wear. Going to force Priya to let me borrow that tiny dress she wore last week.”

“The dress she wore when she hooked up with that pledge?” You questioned, grinning appreciatively when met with Chloe’s nod. “Approved. See you soon!”

Your eyes followed her figure to the door, only allowing your shoulders to wilt once you were certain she was out of sight. Tense against his feather-light touch, the action demanded Rafe’s attention, prompting his chin upward in an attempt to study your hardened feature.

“We don’t have to go.” Rafe murmured, peppering gentle kisses along your exposed nape. “Seriously.”

You let out a laboured sigh, gratefully leaning into his touch. “No, no. Just…”

You squeezed your eyes shut arduously, attempting to gather your thoughts. “...a lot on my mind. I don’t know.”

Rafe swallowed, features appearing so painfully assiduous it was almost as though he knew. “What’s on your mind?”

You drew your bottom lip between your teeth, gaze averted as you shifted uncomfortably. “Today was hard.”

“Not just because of my dad.” You added, forcing Rafe to falter. “Because of me too. Because of everything.”

“Pre-law is, of course, extremely competitive.” The man pressed, gesticulating animatedly as he spoke. “Though I’m sure you’ll be fine, if you’re as serious as your father was.”

“Oh, don’t act coy, Andrew.” Your father chuckled, shaking his head bemusedly. “You were second in our class, were you not?”

“Good memory.” Andrew inclined, his eyes twinkling mischievously as he turned toward you. “Nasty pain in my ass, your father. But he sure kept me in check!”

You nodded awkwardly, smoothing out the shallow creases decorating the hem of your dress. “I’m sure he did.”

“I’m not sure I’m as serious as he was, though.” You added, forcing a laugh. “He sets the bar too high, you see.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’re great.” Andrew dismissed airily, giving your shoulder an encouraging pat. “As long as you’re not being held back by any distractions…”

He paused, quirking an eyebrow knowingly. “ …any 6 foot 4 distractions, I mean –”

“Oh.” You spluttered, words catching in your throat. “I, uh –”

“A joke, my dear.” Andrew interrupted, eyes widening as he registered your subtle grimace. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“Nonsense, Andrew.” Your father responded quickly, his eyes darting toward you, willing your mouth to snap shut. “She’s got a great sense of humour.”

“Because of you?” Rafe repeated, his brow knitted worriedly. “Sweetheart, you’re perfect –”

“I just mean.” You interrupted, frustrated. “I can’t afford to not get into Law school, especially not after today, and it’s so hard to do, and…”

You trailed off languidly, unwilling to continue. “... whatever, just in my head.”

Rafe was halfway opening his mouth in retort, his bottom lip chewed raw, when the swing of the door interrupted his train of thought, the beguiling figure of Chloe Peterson twirling into your line of sight.

“Chlo!” You exclaimed, false cheerfulness twisting his features, if only for a single moment. “Dress acquired?”

“Dress acquired.” Chloe affirmed, narrowing her eyes pointedly as she surveyed your intertwined figures. “Why aren’t you ready?”

She stepped forward, tugging you upward by the nimble strap of your singlet. “We’re going to be fucking late!”

“Relax.” You grumbled, rubbing at your shoulder irately. “It’ll only take me a second.”

“One less second that you could be downing a tequila shot.” Chloe sang, pausing momentarily before ushering Rafe toward the door. “Hometown boyfriend, you’re going to have to give us a moment to change.”

Rafe gazed up at you with his tongue pressed against his cheek, his pointed once-over more expressive than the endless stream of teasing quips swimming to the forefront of his mind. “Of course.”

__

Rafe wrapped a protective arm around your neck, rolling his shoulders preemptively.

“Baby.” You grinned, shaking your head bemusedly. “I’ve been to this frat, like, a million times –”

“You may know this frat.” Rafe grumbled, eyes trained on his surroundings as he pressed an ardent kiss on your temple. “But I know frats.”

“Alright sigma phi.” You quipped teasingly, tilting your chin to kiss him slow. “Let’s relax with the testosterone, alright?”

His calloused palm found its way to your cheek, his other tracing the curve of your ass, eliciting a breathy moan as he deepened the embrace. “You know I’m all testosterone when you’re around, right, baby?”

“Shut up.” You retorted, nipping at his bottom lip playfully. “C’mon, let’s get a drink.”

You took your hand in his, craning your neck in an attempt to find your friends amongst the bustle. Beside you, Rafe Cameron’s punishing gaze created a muted halo around your figure, his fingers pressed against your waist as he pulled you back into his chest. 

“Rafael.” You chided, swatting at his hands to minimal avail. “Will you let me fucking walk?”

“No fucking way.” Rafe retorted, prompt to slot you into his side. “Not without me.”

Using his height to his advantage, he spotted Chloe’s figure easily; found leaning against the wall beside the kegger, batting her lashes at the soon-to-be besotted pledge manning it. He flitted through the throng with a characteristic ease, his grip on your waist comfortingly tight, woody cologne threatening to overtake your senses. By the time you had traversed the busy room, her lips were already attaching themselves to his, drink sloshing against her knuckles as she wrapped an arm around his neck.

“Oh.” You snorted, stifling a laugh. “We should probably leave her be, huh?”

Rafe nodded sagely, whirling you around and pushing you up against the opposing wall. “Definitely.”

He cocked his head to one side, smirking teasingly. “What should we do while we wait, sweetheart?”

“Hmmm.” You mused, doe-eyes meeting his with a coy sense of feigned innocence. “Not sure. We can talk about the weather – beautiful day today, though the humidity was particularly irritating – or perhaps about the seven o’clock news – I can’t believe I’m missing it for a fucking frat party, by the way –”

You faltered, feeling the steady ripple of Rafe’s biceps against your cheek. “-- or, uh…”

“Or.” Rafe offered, his hungry gaze raising goosebumps on your skin. “We can talk about that time we fucked against a wall.”

“Rafael.” You swallowed, absently chewing at your bottom lip. “This wall is sticky.”

Rafe quirked an eyebrow at the remark, letting out a knowing laugh as you groaned, the opportunity presented to him on a silver platter. “You know what else is sticky?”

“Shut up.” You muttered, reddening slightly. “And kiss me, you idiot.”

He didn’t require further encouragement, of course, trailing lingering kisses up your neck before meeting your lips in an impossibly heady embrace. His hands roamed your figure fervently, teasing the high hem of your dress, ghosting over the raised contour of your bra clasp, and when you arched your back into his chest, flirting with the idea of slipping his calloused thumb under the spaghetti strap of your dress.

“Stop.” You mumbled lamely, palms splayed across his chest. “We’re at a party.”

“So.” Rafe teased, his lips brushing over the sweet spot on your neck. “Let’s go home.”

You were half-way nodding in response, knees weak under his desperate touch, when the steady ring of his phone interrupted the stolen moment, Rafe letting out a disgruntled sigh before sliding it out of his back pocket.

His eyes widened as he registered the caller ID, giving your hand a gentle squeeze before stepping backward. “It’s my dad. Sorry.”

“Oh.” You swallowed, nodding vigorously. “No, yeah, of course, go.”

Rafe scrunched up his features helplessly, forcibly dragging his feet along the beer-stained, hardwood floor. “I won’t be long. Stay right here, yeah?”

“Of course.” You proffered, brows drawn together earnestly, an encouraging smile on your puffy lips. “Right here.”

Rafe answered the phone on it’s very last ring, a forefinger pressed his tragus as he separated from the animated crowd. “Hey, dad. What’s up?”

“What’s up?” Ward repeated, a cruel derision lacing his tone, eliciting a painful grimace. “Why am I hearing that you’re not in the Carolina’s from the likes of Frank and Martha?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Graham?” Rafe echoed, paling. “They’re at UNC for Parent’s Weekend?”

“Of course they are.” Ward scoffed, slamming his fist against his desk, the sound reverberating through the phone and raising goosebumps on Rafe’s skin. “When I told them that I wasn’t going to make it, they offered to take you out to dinner.”

Rafe faltered, sucking in a sharp breath through his teeth. “You didn’t tell me that.”

“You didn’t tell me you were going to see Y/n.” Ward snarled, grinding his jaw until it prompted an audible exhale. “When did you make this plan?”

“When you told me you weren’t coming.” Rafe muttered, the admission acting to renew his sense of defiance. “What else was I supposed to do? Spend the weekend alone?”

Ward let out an exasperated huff, his fingers jerky as they raked through his hair. “You weren’t going to be alone. Everyone that matters is at UNC –”

“No.” Rafe deadpanned, his mouth set in a hard line. “The only person that matters is at UPenn.”

Ward halted in his tracks, allowing a single beat to pass, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose until they left reddened imprints against the wrinkled skin. “This is exactly what I was afraid of.”

“What?”

“Rafe, it’s barely been a month since college started.” Ward sighed, drawing his bottom lip between his teeth. “And you’re already running off to meet her every whim.”

“You need to focus on UNC.” He continued, ignoring the muffled protests threatening to interrupt his reductive train of thought. “You need to focus on Business School. Not on a silly little fling –”

“It’s not a silly little fling.” Rafe gritted, feeling a muscle in his jaw twitch. “I can focus on school and be with her. It doesn’t have to be one or the other.”

“But why are you making it so unnecessarily hard on yourself?”

Ward screwed up his hardened features, his taut cheeks splotched red. “I want you home on the next flight. Do you understand?”

“It’s already booked.” Rafe muttered, tugging at the bill of his backwards cap, defeated. “First thing tomorrow.”

__

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Rafe frowned, his eyes trained on your features as he zipped up his Nike bag. “You’re being quiet.”

“What was that about?” You questioned gently, allowing Rafe to find solace in the soothing lilt to your tone, pulling you into his chest to breathe you in fully. “Everything okay?”

Rafe buried his head in your hair, focussing only on the pads of your fingers, impossibly gentle as they brushed over his nape. “Mr and Mrs Graham are at UNC for Parent’s Weekend.”

He paused, willing your curls to muffle his voice, render it almost imperceptible. “Apparently they were planning on inviting me to spend it with them.”

“Oh.” You swallowed, fingers freezing against his skin. “Right.”

“And my dad.” He continued, drawing backward with his brow knitted. “I think he just wanted an excuse to yell at me. He kept going on about how I should be at UNC, and should be focusing, and…”

He trailed off with a small shrug, seemingly unbothered. “Whatever. It doesn’t matter. He’s not ruining my last night with my girl.”

You kept your gaze trained on your trainers, forcibly plastering on a smile before raising your chin. “Yes! I’m totally fine. Just sad to see you go.”

“Me too, baby.” Rafe frowned, closing the space between you with a single, purposeful stride. “I’ll visit again. Soon.”

The admission – an arduous attempt at relieving the tension – did the exact opposite of what it was intended to do, earning Rafe a subtle grimace as he pulled you into his chest. He faltered, thumbing over your puckered forehead with his tongue pressed between his teeth.

“Y/n.” He sighed weakly, ever in tune to subtle changes in your demeanor. “What’s going on?” 

“You guys are the bestest.” Chloe pouted, the slur in her voice appreciable as she stumbled into your side. “Soooooo cute. M’gonna puke.”

“Not actually.” She added hurriedly, her eyes narrowed as she registered your stern glance. “Just you too. In looooovvvveeee.”

You offered her a weak, half-smile, the day’s events swirling through your mind, dangerously close to prompting a spiral.

“D’ya think y’ll last?” She questioned, punching a forefinger against Rafe’s chest. “B’cause long distance’s hard. For…”

She paused, squinting slightly as she brought her hand to her face. “...one, twoooo, three? Mm-hm, three, years.”

“More.” You managed to cough, acutely aware of Rafe’s brilliantly blue eyes as they bored into the side of your face. “If I get into Law School, probably more.”

Rafe fidgeted with the buckle of his backwards cap, forehead puckered as the revelation washed over him. “It’s no biggie. Always just a flight away.”

“Yeah.” You nodded, and though you privately agonised over the sheer number of air miles, you forced the corners of your mouth to lift. “True.”

The tension in the air felt suffocatingly tight, forcing a harsh breath as it swathed your figure; lacing your skin with a dangerous sense of foreboding, forcing you to avert your gaze. “Don’t you think…”

You trailed off helplessly, unable to find the right words, unsure if they even existed. “...I don’t know, that this weekend was kind of a reality check?”

Rafe tensed, swallowing nervously. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know.” You laboured, squeezing your eyes shut defeatedly. “Like with the reception, and the pressure from my dad, and then your dad calling, and his obvious disapproval, and –”

You faltered, attempting to hide your unshed tears by gazing heavenward. “– three years is a long time, Rafael.”

“I know.” Rafe managed to choke out, a shaky breath escaping his lips. “But it’s us.”

He leaned forward in a panicked fit of desperation, his thumb brushing over the soft skin of your cheek, vision dangerously close to blurring. “It’s not three years apart, we’ll see each other on the holidays, and I’ll visit, I don’t care about what my dad says, nor yours –”

“But I do.” You interrupted, wincing as a single tear splotched your reddened cheek. “I care about what your dad says, and how he wants you to stay at UNC, and…”

You trailed off, paling. “...and I need college to go well for me, I –”

“It will, sweetheart.” Rafe insisted, though his breath was dangerously heavy, words strangled against his dry throat. “You’re going to be absolutely fine, you’re so bright, and I –”

“I was a mess during rush week.” You interrupted, barely registering the pinch of pain as you bit the inside of your cheek. “A mess. Because you were calling me when you were meant to be having fun, and you were worrying about me when you shouldn’t have to, and –”

You paused, forcing a breath through gritted teeth, willing it to halt the tears flooding your bloodshot eyes. “ – and now you’re getting yelled at by your dad, because you’re here, with me, and I just…”

“... it shouldn’t be like this.” You finished, exhaling sharply. “It can’t.”

“So, what?” Rafe swallowed dryly, the colour draining out of his face. “That’s it?”

Your shaky fingers found the clasp of your silver chain, nimble as they slid the golden signet ring from it’s thin shackles.

“Here.” You muttered, your bottom lip trembling dangerously. “It doesn’t belong to me, anymore.”

“That’s it?” Rafe pressed, ignoring you. “We’re done?”

“Rafael.” You laboured, coaxing his fingers loose to place it in his palm. “Please.”

Rafe studied it for a single moment, drawing blood as he chewed at his bottom lip. “I’m not accepting this.”

He used his forefinger and thumb to press it back into the space between your collarbones, fingers lingering over the soft skin of your nape – How am I meant to go back to my own life after living in a fucking dream? How am I meant to willingly let you go knowing that I need you to breathe? – as he sucked in a sharp breath. He paused, leaning in to brush his lips against it; a conduit for every, single, beautifully broken memory, imbibed with every stolen glance, laced with the very thump of his beating heart.

“It’s always going to belong to you.” He coughed, using every ounce of conviction in his chest to reach forward and grab his Nike bag. “You’ve had my heart since I was fourteen, sweetheart.”

Your chest rose and fell with rapid breaths, fingers clutching the ring against your skin, committing his feather-light touch – This can’t be the last time I feel your soft lips. This can’t be the last time I hear your confidently lilted voice. This can’t be the last time I call you mine – to memory. 

He halted as he reached the threshold, the way his eyes met yours – I can’t lose you. I can’t fucking lose you. What happens if I refuse to walk away? What happens if I keep you close until you let me stay? – forcing you to avert your gaze. “I’m not your sweetheart, Rafael.”

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drew starkey in the other zoey (2023) reblog if you agree