emeraldcosmos1

[emeraldcosmos1]

Terms & Conditions pt.7

Part 10: Power Outage

The storm rolled in with little warning.

It wasn’t the kind of gentle rainfall you could romanticize. This was thunder that cracked like bone, wind that howled through the trees, rain that slashed sideways against the windows of the Cameron estate like it wanted in. You stood in the hallway barefoot, watching the sky bruise purple behind the glass, a wine glass loose in your hand.

The lights flickered.

And then everything went dark.

A beat of silence. Then— “Shit,” Rafe muttered from down the hall. “Of course.”

You found him in the kitchen, standing in front of the open fridge, the glow of the light inside casting sharp angles across his face. When the power clicked off entirely, his features disappeared into shadow.

He shut the fridge with a dull thud. “Generator must’ve cut out too. Unbelievable.”

You raised your brows. “Even the Camerons aren’t immune to the wrath of Mother Nature?”

He shot you a look. Dry. “Even royalty gets rained on.”

The silence after that was… not hostile. But weighted. Like both of you were waiting for something to shift.

You were dressed in one of his hoodies, oversized and soft, the sleeves swallowing your hands. You hadn’t bothered to change out of your lounge shorts. There was something unusually intimate about it—standing in his kitchen in a storm, no staff, no obligations, no cameras. Just the two of you, flickering candlelight from the emergency drawer he’d finally found, and nothing left to hide behind.

Rafe finally turned toward you. “We’re stuck here for the night.”

You raised your glass. “I was already planning on it.”

His gaze dragged over you once, too slow to be casual. “Right.”

You moved to the living room, balancing a few candles on random surfaces. He followed. His sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, hair slightly messy from running a hand through it too many times.

“I found a bottle of Oban in the cabinet,” he said, holding it up with a small shrug. “You want?”

You took it without hesitation.

He poured two glasses, handed you one, then sank into the couch beside you, a full cushion apart.

The lightning made his profile glow in flashes.

“Wanna play something?” you offered. “Truth or drink?”

He gave you a look. “You’re not sixteen.”

“I’m bored. And you look like you could use a little fun.”

His jaw twitched, but he leaned back, arm stretching behind the couch. “Fine. But you first.”

You sipped your whiskey, savoring the warmth. “Alright. What’s the worst thing your father ever said to you?”

His expression barely changed—but his knuckles tightened around the glass.

“That I’d ruin everything he built.” A pause. “That I was a mistake.”

The words landed hard. You swallowed. “You drink for that, not me.”

Rafe gave a small, humorless smile and knocked the rest back. “Your turn.”

You licked your lips, setting your glass down. “What do you want to know?”

His eyes locked with yours. “Why’d you agree to this?”

You blinked. “This?”

“This marriage,” he said, low and razor-sharp. “Why didn’t you fight it?”

You leaned back, dragging your knees up onto the couch. “Because fighting my parents doesn’t work. It never has. And because…” Your voice dropped. “I figured if I had to be married to someone I didn’t choose, it might as well be someone who wouldn’t pretend to love me just to control me.”

Rafe’s brow furrowed. His gaze didn’t waver.

You forced a laugh. “Your turn.”

He was quiet for a beat too long. Then he said, “What scares you the most?”

You weren’t ready for the softness of that question. It cut through you faster than the storm outside.

“Being unwanted,” you whispered. “Being chosen because it was convenient. Not because anyone actually wanted me.”

The silence between you grew thick again. But this time, it wasn’t distant. It was… electric.

Rafe reached out, fingers brushing your wrist. Light. Hesitant.

When you didn’t pull away, he shifted closer.

“I don’t think you’re convenient,” he said, voice barely audible.

You looked up at him. “Then what am I?”

His eyes dropped to your mouth, then your neck, lingering. “Dangerous.”

The air snapped between you like lightning.

And then he was kissing you.

It wasn’t gentle. It was too full of everything unspoken—frustration, want, the ache of too many nights keeping your hands to yourselves. His lips crushed against yours, one hand in your hair, the other dragging you into his lap. Your glass hit the carpet with a soft thud, forgotten.

You kissed him back like you were angry. Like you were alive. Your fingers curled in his shirt, tugging him closer until you felt the full length of him pressed against you.

He groaned into your mouth, deep and ragged, and murmured your name like a confession.

You felt yourself unraveling, your thighs tightening around his waist as his mouth moved to your neck, trailing heat along your skin.

But then—

His phone rang.

Sharp. Loud. Unforgiving.

Rafe froze against you. Chest heaving. Jaw clenched. You could feel the shift before he even looked at the screen.

Ward.

“Don’t,” you whispered, breathless.

But he was already moving. Already pulling away.

“Fuck,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face as he reached for the phone.

You sat there, heart pounding, lips swollen, your skin still buzzing where he touched you.

Rafe answered. “Yeah?”

Ward’s voice echoed faintly, angry and fast. “Your mother’s at the country club with the mayor’s wife and they’re getting grilled. The power outage’s being spun as a security breach. I need a statement from you both, first thing in the morning.”

“I’ll handle it,” Rafe said flatly.

He hung up, then turned back to you. He was composed again. Like nothing had happened.

You hated how practiced it looked.

“So that’s it?” you said, voice quiet but sharp. “We just pretend this didn’t happen?”

Rafe stood, buttoning his shirt back up. “It shouldn’t have happened.”

You felt the words like a slap. “Why? Because I’m inconvenient again?”

He paused. His back still to you. “Because if I touch you again, I won’t stop.”

The thunder cracked outside.

And just like that, he walked down the hallway, disappeared into the shadows of the storm-lit house—leaving you alone in the dark, with nothing but the ache of what almost was.

[emeraldcosmos1]

Terms & Conditions pt.6

The house is quiet, but not comfortably so.

You kick off your heels near the front door and pad into the living room, the faint hum of the ocean outside filling the silence. The press conference had ended hours ago, but the weight of it lingers in your chest—the flashing cameras, the practiced smiles, the moment Rafe angled himself in front of you like a shield when the questions turned sharp.

He’s already there, standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows with a glass of bourbon in his hand, staring out at the moonlit water like it might hold all the answers. His jacket is off, shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms, and his tie is loose around his neck. The ever-composed CEO mask is gone, replaced with something quieter, heavier.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you ask softly, your voice the first sound to break the hush.

He glances over his shoulder, then back at the view. “Not really. Too many calls tonight. Too many people still panicking.”

You move closer, the faint scent of his cologne—cedar, smoke—lingering in the air between you. “About the rumors? Or about us?”

His jaw tightens, but his tone stays measured. “Both. The press thinks they smell blood. Investors want reassurance. And Ward…” He shakes his head. “He wants me to make sure we’re airtight. No cracks for anyone to exploit.”

You stop a few feet from him, crossing your arms loosely. “And what about you? What do you want?”

He finally turns, eyes meeting yours. There’s something unreadable in his expression, something not quite as cold as usual. “I want this to stop feeling like we’re both walking on a tightrope every second of the day.”

For a moment, neither of you speak. The soft crash of waves through the open window fills the space, the tension thick but strangely calm.

You nod slowly. “Then maybe… we stop treating each other like strangers in a business contract. Even just when it’s just us.”

Rafe studies you, silent for a long beat, then tips back the rest of his drink. “We’ll see.” His tone isn’t dismissive—more like he doesn’t trust himself to say more.

He sets the glass down on a side table and glances toward the hallway. “Get some sleep. We’ll need it for tomorrow.”

You arch a brow. “Tomorrow?”

His phone buzzes on the counter. He grabs it, eyes scanning the screen. “You’ll see.”

You find out what “tomorrow” means over breakfast.

Your phone lights up with notifications before you’ve even touched your coffee: dozens of tags, gossip accounts, and headlines all screaming the same thing:

“Noah Fitzgerald Extends Public Invitation to Mrs. Cameron – Charity Regatta This Weekend.” “Is OBX’s ‘Power Couple’ Already Cracking? Fitzgerald Stirs the Pot.” “Spotted: Fitzgerald Liking Every Post Featuring Cameron’s Wife.”

Scrolling through, your stomach drops. There’s even a clip of Noah during a TV interview last night, smiling slyly as he says, “She deserves to be somewhere she’s appreciated, doesn’t she?”

The implication is obvious. And the comments beneath are a feeding frenzy.

You barely notice Rafe walking in until his voice cuts through, low and sharp. “Fitzgerald.”

You glance up. He’s holding his own phone, the same headlines flashing across his screen. His expression is a perfect storm—composed for now, but rigid, like the calm before something dangerous.

“Before you say anything,” you start, “I didn’t respond. I didn’t—”

“I know.” He cuts you off, his tone flat. “This isn’t about you. It’s about him trying to make us look weak. Like we’re not aligned.”

You cross your arms, heart pounding despite yourself. “So what’s the plan, then? Ignore him?”

Rafe looks up from his phone, meeting your gaze. “No. We show everyone we’re untouchable.”

He pockets his phone, grabs his jacket, and heads for the door. “Be ready in an hour. We’re having lunch at the Sandbar Club.”

“The Sandbar? That place is crawling with reporters,” you point out, half-exasperated, half-apprehensive.

“Exactly.” He pauses just long enough to glance back at you, his eyes cool but focused. “If Fitzgerald wants to start a narrative, we’ll rewrite it ourselves.”

The Sandbar is the Outer Banks’ most exclusive beach club, perched on a private stretch of coastline with white umbrellas, teakwood cabanas, and enough high-profile members to keep the paparazzi swarming just outside the gates.

Rafe’s hand is warm but steady at your waist as you walk through the entrance together, flanked by the faint hum of whispered recognition from nearby tables. You know the drill—linked arms, subtle touches, smiles timed just right for any lurking camera lens.

The host leads you to a corner table on the open-air deck, overlooking the glinting ocean. Sunlight filters through the slats of the umbrella above, casting soft shadows across Rafe’s face as he sits opposite you.

Almost immediately, you catch the subtle shift in his demeanor. He’s not just coldly composed—he’s hyperaware, eyes flicking toward any phone angled your way, posture deliberately relaxed but protective, like he’s shielding both of you from invisible crosshairs.

You twirl your straw in your iced tea. “You really think this will kill the Fitzgerald rumors?”

Rafe leans back, expression inscrutable. “It’ll remind everyone what’s real. Or what they need to believe is real.”

You meet his gaze, holding it for a beat longer than necessary. “Right. Optics.”

He doesn’t look away this time. “Optics.” The word feels heavier than it should, like it’s carrying something unsaid beneath its polished surface.

The waiter arrives, setting down a shared charcuterie board and two glasses of wine. You notice Rafe’s hand brush yours briefly as he moves the wine toward you—not deliberate, not even lingering, but enough to send a flicker of awareness through you.

Across the deck, a pair of women at another table whisper behind their sunglasses, one discreetly angling her phone for a photo. You feel Rafe’s gaze catch on the movement. Without missing a beat, he leans forward slightly, resting his forearm casually on the table, close enough that his presence feels grounding.

To anyone watching, it probably looks like intimacy. To you, it feels… complicated.

“You know Fitzgerald won’t stop here,” you murmur, keeping your tone low. “He’ll push harder. Try to get a rise out of you.”

Rafe cuts a slice of manchego, his movements precise. “Let him. The more he tries, the more we show him he’s irrelevant.”

You raise a brow. “And if the press starts eating it up?”

His eyes meet yours, calm but edged with something steelier. “Then we give them a story so convincing they won’t bother chasing his.”

The way he says it—steady, confident, almost protective—sends a ripple through you that you quickly smother with a sip of wine.

Outside the club, you can already see the silhouettes of photographers clustering by the gates, their lenses glinting in the sun. You know the photos from today will be everywhere by tonight: Rafe Cameron and his wife, picture-perfect, unbothered by the noise.

It’s all performance. It has to be.

But as Rafe’s gaze lingers on you just a moment too long while you reach for another piece of bread, you’re not entirely sure who he’s performing for anymore.

[emeraldcosmos1]

Terms & Conditions pt.5

The press conference is held in the largest ballroom of the OBX Grand Hotel—crystal chandeliers, gleaming marble floors, and rows of media personnel lining the back wall, their cameras poised like predators waiting for movement.

You stand with Rafe just behind the podium, the warm glow of the spotlights making the diamond on your left hand sparkle like a beacon. His hand rests at the small of your back, firm but… different than usual. Less for show, more grounding.

It’s a far cry from the stiff, impersonal touches he offered at the wedding and galas. Tonight, there’s something deliberate in it—as if he’s silently telling you I’m here. We’re in this together.

Your father and Ward Cameron hover near the edge of the stage, both scanning the growing crowd with the same business-like precision, but it’s you and Rafe they keep glancing at. Because tonight, the illusion depends on the two of you.

“Ready?” Rafe murmurs, leaning just close enough that his breath grazes your ear.

You inhale, straighten your spine. “Do I have a choice?”

A quiet smirk curves at his lips. “Not really. But we’ll make them believe it anyway.”

Before you can reply, a Camerons’ PR rep steps forward. “You’re on in thirty seconds. Remember, keep it warm, keep it united. Eye contact with each other, smiles for the cameras. Let them see chemistry.”

Chemistry. The one thing that’s been painfully absent between you—until recently.

The emcee announces your names, and you both step forward. Flashbulbs ignite, the crowd buzzes, and you slip effortlessly into the role you’ve been trained to play.

“Thank you all for being here,” Rafe begins, his voice steady, smooth, the perfect CEO cadence. “My wife and I wanted to address recent… speculation regarding our marriage and families.”

You nod, turning to face the reporters. “The truth is simple. Our marriage was never about convenience or profit. It’s about building a future together, for our families and for the communities we serve.”

The words roll off your tongue like silk—practiced, rehearsed, yet your voice carries a conviction you didn’t plan. Because somewhere between last week’s chaos and tonight’s spotlight, the idea of you and Rafe doesn’t feel as hollow as it once did.

Reporters throw questions like darts: “Are you living together now?” “Did your families force this union?” “Can you confirm or deny allegations about illegal practices in your family’s shipping division?”

At that last one, you stiffen. Your pulse spikes, but before you can speak, Rafe steps forward slightly, his arm brushing yours.

“My wife’s family operates with the highest integrity,” he says, tone sharp enough to cut glass. “These rumors are baseless and defamatory. Any investigation will only prove that.”

His jaw is set, his posture protective. Cameras click furiously, capturing the way he angles himself closer to you—not as a prop, but as a shield.

You glance up at him, catching something unspoken in his eyes. Not just strategy. Not just duty. Something more—something you’re not sure you’re ready to name.

The press conference winds down after twenty minutes of carefully crafted answers and controlled optics. The PR team ushers the media out, and soon, the ballroom is quiet, save for the faint hum of the chandeliers.

You exhale slowly, rolling your shoulders. “Well. That was… a performance.”

Rafe loosens his tie, watching you with a look that’s both unreadable and unusually soft. “You handled yourself well. Better than I expected.”

You raise a brow. “Is that your way of saying thank you?”

A faint smirk ghosts over his lips. “Maybe.”

You take a step closer, lowering your voice. “Back there, when you defended me… that wasn’t for the cameras, was it?”

For a moment, he doesn’t answer. His gaze lingers on yours, steady and piercing. Then he says, quietly, “Not entirely.”

The silence stretches between you, charged but fragile.

Ward’s voice cuts through from across the room. “Rafe, we need you for the post-conference debrief.”

He straightens, the cool CEO mask sliding back into place. “We’ll finish this later,” he murmurs, then walks away without another word.

You watch him go, the echo of his hand at your back and the weight of his words lingering long after he disappears through the ballroom doors.

For the first time since the wedding, the line between performance and something real feels dangerously blurred.

[emeraldcosmos1]

Terms & Conditions pt.4

Your heels click against the marble floor of the Cameron Development penthouse as you follow Rafe from the office to the living room, where a slim, serious-looking woman is already seated on the cream sectional. A digital recorder and notepad rest on the coffee table at her feet.

“This is Marissa Hale, from The Coastal Chronicle,” Rafe says, voice low. “She’ll be doing the exclusive interview.”

Marissa stands, offers a polite smile, and extends her hand. You shake it, keeping your expression neutral.

Rafe clears his throat. “We’ll need about an hour. After that, we head straight to Charleston for tonight’s staged dinner. Cameras will meet us at the restaurant.”

Marissa clicks her pen, then presses record. “Thank you both for sitting down with me. Let’s start—what’s been the most surprising part of married life so far?”

You force a light laugh. “Honestly? The number of questions I get before I even register my name. It’s… surreal.”

Rafe’s gaze flicks to you for a fraction of a second and he nods—just enough that you feel seen. He turns back to Marissa. “Surprise is a good word. But our focus has been on philanthropy and maintaining stability for both families’ employees and communities.”

Marissa leans forward. “Regarding that stability: there have been… rumors. Sources claim your family’s shipping empire—your side—was investigated last year for alleged under-the-table deals. Care to comment?”

Your heart lurches. You swallow. “Investigated? That’s… I haven’t heard anything official.” You glance at Rafe, who stiffens.

Marissa’s pen hovers over her pad. “I have documentation here from court filings—anonymous whistleblower. They allege your family used shell companies to circumvent environmental regulations on cargo ships, dumping excess fuel closer to shore to cut costs.”

The air between you and Rafe tightens. You’re acutely aware of the imported rug beneath your feet, the lush sunset view over the ocean—suddenly all the opulence feels suffocating.

“It’s false,” Rafe says, tone clipped. He stands, steps between you and the reporter. His tall frame, tailored suit, jackknife-straight posture—suddenly he’s every bit the CEO you’d seen at board meetings, but there’s steel in his voice you haven’t heard before. “My wife’s family has always operated above board. These allegations are malicious, without merit. We invite any investigation, because we know the facts will clear themselves.”

Marissa’s eyes flash—impressed, intrigued. She scribbles something. “So—”

Rafe cuts her off. “Thank you, Marissa. That’s all you need.”

He reaches down, switches off the recorder. Marissa stands, collects her things, flashes a professional smile. “I appreciate your time. I’ll be in touch if I need any clarification.” And with that, she’s gone.

You exhale, a shaky breath you didn’t know you were holding. Rafe stands between you and the sliding doors, as if daring anyone else to question you.

“Let’s go,” he says, voice low—gentler now, but still carrying that edge of command. He offers you his arm. You take it, surprised at how natural it feels.

The drive to Charleston is four hours—enough time for either of you to avoid conversation, or to fill the silence with something neither of you expected.

Rafe keeps his gaze on the road; you stare out the window at the dying light on the horizon. For a moment, you wonder what he’s thinking—if the protective stance he took back there means he actually cares, or if it was just another strategy.

He clears his throat. “Are you okay?”

You glance at him. His expression is unreadable in the rearview mirror—focused, tense. “I will be. Just… not exactly the start to married life I envisioned.”

He releases a breath. “I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize how public this leak was going to be.”

“Didn’t realize?” you echo, incredulous. “You’re the one who told me to keep my head down. You were more invested in optics than in… I don’t know, basic decency.”

His jaw tightens. He slows the car, pulling off onto an empty frontage road. You brace for the fight to flare up again—but his next words surprise you.

“I was wrong.” His voice is restrained, but earnest. “I should have told you about the risk. I… I didn’t want you to worry.”

You stare at him. In that moment, the city lights of Charleston shimmer behind him through the windshield like distant galaxies, and you see, for the first time, something vulnerable beneath his icy veneer.

“I—thank you,” you say softly, words you rarely reserve for him. “Just… don’t keep things from me.”

He nods once, then starts the car again. The silence this time is less tense, more contemplative—like two people recalibrating after an earthquake.

The restaurant is a converted warehouse on the Charleston waterfront: exposed brick, Edison bulbs draped overhead, white-linen tables set with crystal glasses. Nautical art lines the walls—a tasteful nod to both Charleston’s heritage and your family’s shipping roots.

Cameras and reporters mill at a discreet distance. You and Rafe enter together, arms linked for the cameras; the flashbulbs pop, shutters click, and every eye is on you like you’re royalty.

Inside, you’re seated at a corner table near the windows. Rafe sits opposite you—a deliberate choice by his PR team to ensure both your profiles show clearly to photographers.

The menu arrives. You scan it, stomach fluttering from nerves and the aftertaste of the morning’s scandal.

When the server departs, you clear your throat. “Rafe—about this… story. Do you think someone close to my family leaked it? Or maybe someone trying to cripple us—hurt you through me?”

He considers. “I don’t know yet. But whoever it is underestimated you. You handled yourself well back there.”

You meet his gaze, surprised by the warmth in his tone—the first genuine compliment you can recall. “Thanks.”

He studies you a moment longer, then leans back as the server returns to take your order. You choose the seared scallops; he opts for duck breast.

Once the server leaves, you glance around, then drop your voice. “How do we stop the bleeding? More statements? Or… we just ride it out?”

Rafe’s fingers tap the table, thinking. “We get ahead of it. We go live—your father and my father can definitely arrange a joint press conference. We spin it positive: your family’s philanthropic initiatives, my family’s environmental reforms, how we’re partnering for cleaner shipping.”

You nod. “Show them we’re more than rumors. United.”

His gaze meets yours, intense. “United.”

After dinner, cameras follow you out. You step into Rafe’s waiting car; he slides behind the wheel, you settle into the passenger seat. The car’s interior is quiet—just the hum of the engine and the distant lapping of Charleston’s harbor.

He glances at you. “I know tonight was… a lot.”

You turn to him, surprised by the concern in his voice. “It was. But it felt easier, somehow.”

He gives a small, almost imperceptible nod. “Good. Because we have to be on the same page from now on.”

You open your purse, pull out a small lipstick mirror. “I—thank you. For today, and for earlier.” It’s hard to admit, but genuine. “I couldn’t have handled that reporter alone.”

He watches you smooth your lipstick, then clears his throat. “You don’t have to.”

Your eyes meet in the mirror’s reflection. For a heartbeat, time stills—you and Rafe, framed side by side, forced into this alliance yet somehow… connected.

Then he says, quietly, “Come here.”

You lean forward. He reaches across the console, gently brushes a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers linger at your jawline, almost like he’s memorizing your face.

Your breath catches. You’re not sure if it’s the warmth of his touch or the proximity, or perhaps the realization that beneath the contract and the ice-cold CEO mask, there’s someone who—delicate, hesitant, but undeniably there—wants to protect you.

He straightens, pulls back, clears his throat. “We should go.” His voice is rougher now, not flawless, CEO-smooth—flawed, human.

You nod, still feeling the ghost of his fingertips on your skin. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

The drive back is quiet, but neither of you resumes the steel-cold silence that once defined every moment. Instead, there’s a shared understanding: you’re not just two strangers pretending for the cameras anymore; you’re partners in something that matters—not just to your families, but to yourselves.

By the time you reach the penthouse, it’s after midnight. You both linger in the foyer, neither wanting to break the fragile truce.

He steps closer, voice low. “Tomorrow, we meet with both dads. We’ll outline the conference, the statements. We’ll control the narrative.”

You square your shoulders. “And after that, maybe… we can talk about how we actually… live together.” Your tone is careful, but hopeful.

He quirks a brow. “Live together? Just for the cameras, right?”

You smirk, matching his old bravado. “Right. For the cameras.”

He nods, then hesitates. “For the cameras.” His words hang between you, carrying more meaning than either of you admits.

You turn to go—then he says, quietly, “Goodnight.”

You pause, glance back. His expression is softer, the lines around his eyes less severe. You realize that this—this tiny crack in his armor—is yours alone to see.

“Goodnight, Rafe,” you reply.

And as you head toward your separate quarters—still “separate wings,” still “partners for appearances”—you carry with you a startling truth: in protecting your family’s name, he protected you. And in doing so, he let you glimpse the man behind the ice.

The game is far from over. But suddenly, you don’t mind playing—because now, neither of you is playing entirely alone.

[emeraldcosmos1]

Terms and Conditions pt.3

The first lesson you’ve learned about being Mrs. Cameron? The entire marriage is a stage production.

Three weeks in, and you still don’t feel like a wife. You feel like an actress—smiling for flashing cameras, laughing softly at Rafe’s occasional polite comments during events, and pretending like you haven’t had maybe four real conversations with him since the wedding.

Tonight is another one of those nights. The Cameron Development Annual Charity Gala—a black-tie circus designed to make investors feel generous and Ward Cameron feel important.

You stand beside Rafe as another photographer snaps a picture, his hand resting on your lower back like he’s holding a portfolio, not a person. His touch is light, impersonal, the type of contact that feels rehearsed rather than intimate.

“Smile a little wider,” he murmurs without looking at you, his perfect CEO mask firmly in place.

“Maybe if my husband actually talked to me outside of photo ops, I’d have more to smile about,” you mutter back, keeping your lips curved for the cameras.

His jaw ticks, but his expression doesn’t change. “You’re not here to smile for me.”

A reporter approaches, mic in hand, with a grin that’s a little too eager. “Mr. and Mrs. Cameron—mind a quick interview? Everyone’s dying to know—what’s married life like for OBX’s new power couple?”

Rafe’s smile sharpens, flawless for the press. “It’s been wonderful. We’re lucky to have each other—and to share this moment with so many people supporting the causes we care about.”

You echo his smile because that’s what’s expected, but the reporter isn’t satisfied. They lean forward slightly, eyes gleaming. “Some people are saying this was more of a… strategic marriage, given both families’ recent business expansions. Any truth to that?”

The question shouldn’t faze you—you knew rumors like this would come. But before you can reply, another voice cuts in, smooth and slightly mocking.

“Strategic or not, she seems like a good match for you, Cameron.”

You turn. A man you recognize from earlier—Noah Fitzgerald, heir to a rival energy company—offers a smile that’s too charming to be sincere. His eyes flick to you, lingering just a beat too long. “But if you ever get tired of corporate boardrooms, Mrs. Cameron, you know where to find me.”

It’s clearly meant as a joke for the surrounding crowd, but you don’t miss the way Rafe’s fingers flex subtly on your back before he drops his hand altogether. His smile stays fixed, but there’s a new edge to it when he speaks.

“Careful, Fitzgerald. Wouldn’t want people to think you’re poaching other men’s wives at charity events.”

The group laughs it off, but Rafe’s silence for the rest of the gala is heavier than usual.

The scandal breaks less than twelve hours later.

Your phone is buzzing nonstop when you wake up. Tabloids, gossip accounts, even business outlets are all running the same story:

“Marriage of Convenience? Sources Claim the Cameron Union Is About Profits, Not Love.” “OBX’s ‘It Couple’ Reportedly Living in Separate Wings of Their Home.” “No Kiss, No Chemistry: Was the Gala Flirtation a Sign of Cracks in the Cameron Marriage?”

By the time you make it downstairs, Rafe is waiting in the kitchen, a newspaper already flattened on the counter. He doesn’t look up when he speaks.

“You’ve been busy.” His voice is low, controlled, each word precise.

Your eyes narrow. “Excuse me?”

He finally looks at you, those cold blue eyes locking onto yours. “Don’t play dumb. You and Fitzgerald had the press salivating last night. Now half the internet thinks we’re one screaming match away from divorce.”

You cross your arms, heat prickling your skin. “Right, because I encouraged some drunk CEO wannabe to flirt with me while my husband stood there acting like I was a stranger.”

Rafe steps closer, his expression still unreadable but his voice sharper now. “I told you to keep your head down. You want to make this easier? Stop giving the vultures a reason to circle.”

The way he says it—cold, commanding, like you’re one of his employees—snaps something in you. “You know what would make this easier? If you actually acted like a husband instead of some PR robot! You don’t speak to me unless there’s a camera, you avoid me in this mausoleum of a house, and when someone does notice, you blame me for not managing the optics.”

Rafe’s composure cracks, just a little. His voice rises. “You think I want to do this? To parade around like we’re some fairytale couple while my father and your parents count their profits? You’re not the only one trapped in this circus, sweetheart.”

Your chest tightens, not from sympathy but from sheer frustration. “Trapped, sure. But you don’t get to treat me like I’m part of your corporate problem to manage. This isn’t one of your acquisitions, Rafe. This is my life too.”

For a moment, the air between you is electric—anger, yes, but something else flickering beneath it. His jaw is tight, his eyes blazing in a way that feels more human than anything you’ve seen since the engagement.

Then his phone buzzes, breaking the moment. He exhales sharply, glancing at the screen. “Ward. And I’m guessing your parents are calling you too.”

Your phone lights up on the counter. You don’t have to answer to know they’re all furious.

The solution comes fast and ruthless, as always. Damage control.

An exclusive interview with The Coastal Chronicle to “set the record straight.” A very public dinner reservation at the most upscale restaurant in Charleston this weekend, where you’ll be photographed laughing, touching his arm, maybe even kissing on the cheek for good measure.

Rafe briefs you on the plan in his home office that night, his tone all business again. “We’ll kill the story in forty-eight hours if we stick to this. After that, they’ll move on to someone else’s scandal.”

You lean back in the chair opposite him, arms crossed. “And in the meantime, what? We pretend to adore each other while barely speaking at home?”

His gaze lifts from the documents, meeting yours. “We pretend to adore each other everywhere, home included, if that’s what it takes. Investors don’t care what’s real, only what sells.”

The bitterness in his voice almost makes you pause, but you bite it back. “Fine. But if I’m going to play the doting wife for the press, you need to meet me halfway. No more ghosting me in public, no more acting like I’m a liability instead of your partner. Deal?”

For a long moment, he studies you. His stare is heavy, calculating, but there’s something else there too—something you can’t quite name.

Finally, he nods once. “Deal. For the cameras, we’re perfect.”

You push yourself out of the chair, your heels clicking on the hardwood as you head for the door. Before you leave, you glance over your shoulder. “Behind closed doors, though?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “We stay out of each other’s way.”

You smirk faintly, not out of humor but defiance. “Wouldn’t dream of anything else, husband.”

As you walk away, you can feel his eyes on you, lingering just a little too long before he returns to his paperwork. You don’t turn around, but you know it—something shifted tonight. Not enough to call it attraction. Not enough to call it trust.

But enough to make the game between you far more dangerous.

[emeraldcosmos1]

Terms & Conditions pt.2

The wedding is perfect. At least, that’s what the papers will say.

Your dress was hand-stitched in Paris, flown in on a private jet. The ceremony was held at one of the most exclusive waterfront estates in the OBX, with rows of white roses, crystal chandeliers strung through the outdoor tent, and a guest list that reads like a Forbes article.

But to you? It feels like a business meeting with flowers.

Rafe stands at the altar like he’s about to negotiate a deal, not say vows. His posture is impeccable, his jaw tight, and when his eyes meet yours as you approach, there’s no warmth—just calculation. As if he’s measuring how much trouble you’re going to be as a wife.

The vows are scripted, of course. Written by lawyers. Rafe’s voice is smooth and even as he recites them, not missing a single word, but there’s no emotion behind any of it. When it’s your turn, you match his tone, cold and clear, earning a flicker of a glance from him that feels like challenge.

When the officiant tells him to kiss you, his hand settles on your waist, firm but detached. His lips brush yours for all of two seconds—just enough for the cameras to capture a picture that will end up in tomorrow’s papers under some headline about “the perfect power couple.”

But the moment the applause starts, Rafe is already stepping back, adjusting his cufflinks like nothing happened.

The house is worse than the wedding.

Technically, it’s his house—a sprawling, modern estate that overlooks the ocean, glass walls and marble floors that make the place feel more like a museum than a home. The Camerons wanted you to live there, to keep up appearances, and your parents didn’t argue.

Your suitcase sits by the grand staircase when you arrive, and Rafe doesn’t even bother carrying it in. He just nods toward one of the staff and says, “Take it upstairs. Guest room.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Guest room?”

Rafe doesn’t look at you as he walks toward the kitchen, loosening his tie. “Did you think we’d be sharing a bed? This isn’t some fairytale, sweetheart.”

You follow him, irritation sparking in your chest. “Oh, don’t worry. The thought of playing happy couple with you makes me sick. But I do recall the contract saying something about public appearances—including the occasional overnight photo op. How do you plan to spin separate bedrooms?”

That gets his attention. He turns, leaning against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. His blue eyes are sharp, glacial. “We’ll deal with that when we need to. Until then, stay in your lane, and we won’t have a problem.”

Your jaw clenches. “My lane? You mean the one where I smile pretty for the cameras while you pretend I don’t exist the second they’re gone?”

A smirk ghosts over his lips. “Exactly.”

You take a step closer, not backing down. “Here’s the thing, Cameron—I may be here because our families signed on the dotted line, but I’m not your assistant. Or your pawn. So don’t think for a second you can order me around like everyone else on your payroll.”

His smirk hardens into something colder. He straightens, towering over you by just enough to make the air feel heavier. “You might want to remind yourself who you’re talking to. This house, this marriage, this entire charade? You’re only here because it benefits your parents’ bottom line. Same as me. So let’s not pretend either of us has a choice.”

You meet his gaze, refusing to flinch. “Fine. But if you think I’m going to make this easy for you, think again.”

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, neither of you move. The tension in the room is so thick you could cut it with one of the kitchen knives gleaming on the marble counter.

Finally, Rafe exhales through his nose, grabbing a glass from the cabinet. “Stay out of my way, and we’ll get through this. Or don’t, and see what happens. Up to you.”

He leaves the room without another word, the sound of his footsteps echoing through the empty halls of the house you’re now supposed to call home.

And as you stand there, staring out at the ocean through the floor-to-ceiling windows, one thing becomes crystal clear:

If this marriage is a game, it’s one neither of you plans to lose.

[emeraldcosmos1]

Terms & Conditions Masterlist

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Part Five

Part Six

[emeraldcosmos1]

Terms & Conditions

The first time you see Rafe Cameron in months, the world feels suffocating. The ballroom smells like money—polished wood, imported champagne, and something sharper underneath. Dozens of people, dressed in black tie, chatter about “the merger of the decade.” Not of companies, of course. Of families.

Yours. His.

Your parents’ smiles are razor-sharp as they usher you forward, presenting you like a prize before the very people who know this isn’t about love. The Camerons and your family have been competitors for years, the two most powerful families in the Outer Banks. It was only a matter of time before someone decided the constant cold war wasn’t worth the headlines anymore.

Their solution? Tie you to Rafe Cameron with a diamond ring and a vow. Seal the deal in a way that guarantees profits, power, and peace for both sides.

Your chest feels tight as you scan the room for him. The last time you saw Rafe was at some charity gala six months ago. He didn’t say a word to you then either. He never does, unless it’s necessary.

And then—there he is. Standing near the bar, talking to his father, glass of bourbon in hand. Broad shoulders wrapped in a perfectly tailored black suit, hair slicked back like he’d rather be anywhere else. He notices you before you even reach him, his icy blue gaze sweeping over you in one detached motion before snapping back to Ward, like he’s checking off a box on a to-do list.

Your father clears his throat behind you, and suddenly Rafe’s walking toward you. Every step is deliberate. Calculated. You can practically feel the weight of every stare in the room, every whispered word about how “this union will change everything for the OBX.”

Rafe stops in front of you. For a moment, you think he’s going to at least fake it—say something polite, put on the charm his family is known for. Instead, his jaw flexes, and he leans in just enough so only you can hear:

“Let’s get one thing straight,” he murmurs, his voice low, controlled. “I don’t want this. And I’m guessing you don’t either. So here’s the plan: we smile for the photos, we keep our parents happy, and when the wedding’s done, we stay out of each other’s way. Understand?”

Your nails dig into the stem of your champagne flute, but your voice stays calm. “Crystal. Believe me, I have no interest in playing house with you.”

Something flickers in his eyes—amusement, maybe, or irritation—but it’s gone as quickly as it comes. His lips curl, not quite a smile. “Good. Then we won’t have a problem… as long as you remember one thing.” He leans even closer, his breath ghosting your ear. “This isn’t a love story, sweetheart. It’s a contract. Don’t confuse the two.”

Before you can fire back, a photographer calls your names, and Rafe steps back like nothing just happened. He places a firm, possessive hand on the small of your back, guiding you to the center of the ballroom. To the world, it looks natural—like he’s already a protective fiancé. But his touch feels like a warning, a reminder that this engagement isn’t about you. Or him.

The cameras flash as you plaster on a smile, one that feels foreign on your face. In the mirrored wall behind the crowd, you catch sight of Rafe’s reflection beside yours. His expression is unreadable—cold, detached—but his eyes? They cut to you like a blade, as if silently daring you to step out of line.

You don’t know if it’s the champagne or the adrenaline, but something inside you sharpens in response. Fine. If he wants to make this a game, you’ll play.

Because maybe he thinks he can make your life hell. But he’s about to find out—you’re not the type to break easily.

[emeraldcosmos1]

He Hit Me (and It Felt Like a Kiss)

You could taste vodka on your lips, the ghost of someone else’s cologne still clinging to your dress from where another guy’s hand had rested a little too long on your waist. Rafe hadn’t said a word since dragging you out of there, his fingers clamped around your wrist like a steel shackle. Now, under the pale wash of the truck’s headlights, you watched him pace, his shadow cutting sharp lines through the misty air.

“You don’t get it, do you?” His voice was raw, low but vibrating with that dangerous edge. “You think you can smile like that—let him touch you like that—and I’m just supposed to stand there?”

You tilted your head, leaning back against the side of his truck, your voice soft, mocking just enough to ignite him further. “He was talking. You’re the one who made it a scene, Rafe. As usual.”

He stopped pacing. Turned to you slowly, like a predator deciding whether to strike. The shadows made his eyes look darker, more hollow, and when he laughed, it was humorless—a dry, broken sound.

“You like it, don’t you?” he said finally, stepping closer, his boots crunching over gravel. “Watching me lose my mind over you. Watching me burn everything down just to keep you.”

Your chest tightened. Because he wasn’t entirely wrong. There was something intoxicating about it—the way he made you feel like the center of the universe, even if it was a universe collapsing in on itself.

“Maybe I do,” you whispered, your fingers brushing against the cold metal of the truck behind you. “Maybe I like knowing I can undo you with one look.”

That did it. His hand was on your jaw in an instant, not cruel but firm enough to make your breath catch. He tilted your head up, his thumb grazing the faint mark on your lower lip—left from where you’d bitten down during your argument inside. The contact was gentle, but the weight of it felt dangerous, electric.

“You drive me insane,” he murmured, his voice softer now, almost reverent, though his grip didn’t loosen. “I don’t even know if I want to love you or destroy you.”

You didn’t flinch. You never did. That was part of why he couldn’t quit you, why you couldn’t quit him. The air between you hummed, heavy with the scent of rain and saltwater, the sound of the approaching storm rolling closer over the ocean.

“Then do both,” you said softly, a challenge and a surrender in one.

His mouth crashed against yours—desperate, bruising, tasting like whiskey and rain. You let yourself melt into it even as his other hand gripped your hip, pulling you closer, the kiss bordering on too much but never enough. It was messy, aching, like you were feeding something in each other that shouldn’t exist but did anyway.

A low growl of thunder split the air as the first fat drops of rain began to fall, cold against your overheated skin. The two of you didn’t stop, didn’t move, the storm soaking through your clothes until everything clung and chilled, amplifying the fever of the moment.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath ragged, his voice was almost a whisper. “If anyone touches you again…” His grip on your hip tightened, his thumb brushing dangerously close to the bruise already blooming on your skin. “…I’ll kill them.”

You should’ve been afraid. Maybe you were. But fear and want felt the same in your chest when it came to Rafe. You tilted your chin up, catching his gaze through the rain and the headlights, and said the only thing that made sense.

“I’d let you.”

The storm raged on, the world around you dissolving into rain and distant bass, but it didn’t matter. With Rafe, there was no peace, no safety—just the dizzying high of loving something you knew might kill you.

And God, you couldn’t stay away.

[emeraldcosmos1]

The Devil You Know

The Astronomy Tower was deserted at this hour, the chill of the night air making most students retreat to their dormitories. But Draco knew someone was up there.

He’d caught a faint glow earlier while crossing the courtyard — not the flicker of a wand, but something warmer. Fainter.

By the time he pushed open the heavy wooden door, the wind tugging at his cloak, he was already sure of who he’d find.

And there she was.

Perched on the ledge like she owned the night, legs dangling carelessly over the drop. One hand cradled a bottle of whiskey, the other held a smoldering blunt, smoke curling around her like a halo made of ash. The moonlight painted her hair silver, her jaw bruise stark against her pale skin.

She didn’t even flinch when the door creaked shut.

“Trespassing after hours, drinking, smoking—” Draco’s voice cut through the wind, smooth and sharp, “—should I fetch Filch and let him drag you off in chains? Or would you prefer I send the Dark Lord himself a report?”

She took a slow drag, exhaling toward the stars before glancing over her shoulder at him. “Malfoy. Did you come up here to tattle or just hear yourself talk?”

He smirked faintly, stepping closer. “Maybe both. It’s oddly peaceful when you’re not trying to slice me in half with your words.” His gaze dropped to the bottle in her hand. “Celebrating something? Or wallowing?”

“Neither.” She tilted the whiskey toward him in mock-offer. “Or both. Want some?”

He ignored the bottle, leaning casually against the railing. “You do realize falling off this tower would be an awfully embarrassing way to die, right? Especially for a Riddle. People might think you tripped on your own arrogance.”

She snorted softly. “If I fall, I’ll make sure to grab you on the way down. Two birds, one stone.”

“Charming as ever,” Draco drawled, though his eyes lingered on her face — the bruise, the tightness around her eyes, the way she swirled the bottle like it was a lifeline.

He didn’t ask outright. Instead, he said, voice low, “So, who are we drinking away tonight? The Dark Lord? Your brother? Or someone closer to home?”

Her fingers tightened around the glass, just for a second, before she smirked like nothing had shifted. “Curious, are we? Don’t tell me you’re developing… feelings.”

Draco chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. “Don’t flatter yourself. I just don’t like mysteries that bleed whiskey on my shoes.”

She took another swig, eyes glinting. “Then maybe mind your own business, Malfoy. Unless you’re here to offer a shoulder to cry on, which, let’s be honest, you’d rather hex yourself than do.”

He stepped closer, until the wind whipped their cloaks together. His grey eyes found hers, sharp as ever. “You’re right. I wouldn’t. But I also don’t like watching someone fall apart when they’re supposed to be dangerous.”

The silence stretched, broken only by the wind and the faint crackle of the blunt.

Finally, she smirked faintly, though her voice was softer, edged with something unspoken. “Careful, Malfoy. Keep hanging around up here, and people might think you actually care.”

He reached for the bottle, plucking it from her hand with infuriating calm. “I don’t. I just can’t have you making the rest of us look bad by drinking yourself stupid and falling off a tower.”

He took a swig himself, grimacing at the burn. “Merlin, this is awful. Got anything decent, or is this all part of the punishment?”

She raised a brow, smoke curling from her lips. “Punishment for what?”

He met her gaze, unblinking. “For making your family look weak in front of the Dark Lord… or for daring to survive it?”

Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Guess you’ll never know, will you?”

And with that, she plucked the bottle back from his hand, tipped her head back, and drank until the stars blurred.

Got it — here’s the extended continuation of Part 3, with Draco pressing her until she finally cracks and admits the truth. It keeps the dark, angsty energy, with Draco still arrogant and cutting but also the first glimpse of him giving a damn.

Draco took another swig from the bottle, then set it down on the stone railing between them. “You know,” he said casually, “I’ve been patient.”

She arched a brow, smoke curling lazily from her lips. “That’s a first.”

He ignored the jab, stepping closer until their shoulders brushed. “I didn’t say a word when you vanished for weeks. Didn’t pry when you showed up looking like you’d gone ten rounds with a mountain troll. I let you play your little disappearing act.”

Her jaw tightened, but she didn’t look at him. “Congratulations on your self-control. Want a medal?”

“But now,” Draco continued, his voice dropping low, sharp, “I’m done playing along.”

Before she could move, he reached out and tilted her chin just enough for the moonlight to catch the bruise along her jaw. His fingers weren’t rough, but there was no mistaking the steel behind them. “Who?” he asked, his tone cold, clipped. “Because this wasn’t the Dark Lord. And it sure as hell wasn’t a fight. So, who?”

Her hand shot up, shoving his away. She turned back toward the open sky, grip on the blunt tightening. “Stay out of it, Malfoy.”

Draco’s jaw twitched. “I don’t care if it’s your brother, your cousin, or the bloody Minister of Magic—”

“It was my father, all right?”

The words snapped out of her like a curse, sharp and raw.

The wind caught the silence that followed, cold and biting.

She exhaled shakily, her voice low, controlled only by sheer force. “He thought I made the family look weak. That I humiliated him by… hesitating. So he decided to ‘remind me’ what weakness earns.” She gave a humorless laugh, flicking ash over the edge of the tower. “Lesson learned, I suppose.”

Draco didn’t speak right away. His grey eyes were fixed on her, unreadable. The usual smirk was gone, replaced with something harder.

Finally, he said, voice softer than she expected, but still edged, “You’re telling me he hit you because you wouldn’t torture a man to death fast enough?”

She shot him a sidelong look. “What? Going to run to the Dark Lord and tell him the Riddles are falling apart? Or is this where you pretend you care just to feel better about yourself?”

Draco’s lips curved into a faint, humorless smirk. “Please. If I wanted to feel better about myself, I’d just look in a mirror.”

But then, quieter: “Does Mattheo know?”

Her throat tightened. She looked away. “…No. And he’s not going to. I can handle it.”

Draco studied her for a long moment, the night air thick with unspoken tension. Then he reached past her, plucked the blunt from her hand, and took a drag himself.

“Fine,” he said, exhaling smoke into the wind. “But if he does it again…” He let the sentence hang, unfinished, like a threat cloaked as indifference. “Let’s just say I don’t take kindly to people making my life more complicated.”

She gave him a dry, tired laugh. “Right. Wouldn’t want me messing up your perfect, untouchable reputation.”

Draco flicked the blunt over the edge of the tower, the ember sparking against the dark below. “Exactly,” he said, stepping back, his tone back to its usual cool detachment. But his eyes lingered on hers, longer than they should have. “Try not to fall off any towers before morning. I can’t save you from your own idiocy and the Dark Lord in one week.”

And with that, he turned to leave, the sound of his footsteps fading into the stairwell.

She sat there a moment longer, the bottle heavy in her lap, the wind tugging at her cloak.

And for the first time in weeks, she didn’t feel entirely alone.

[emeraldcosmos1]

The Devil You Know pt.2

Draco didn’t see her for two weeks.

Not at the Manor. Not at any Death Eater meetings. Not even when he visited Mattheo, who only shrugged and said she was “busy” whenever Draco asked.

Which was odd, because she was never just “busy.” She was loud, sharp, always there with a scathing remark when Draco so much as breathed too close. The sudden quiet almost made him… uneasy.

He wouldn’t admit that out loud, of course.

So when he finally spotted her in the dim corridor outside the Great Hall — her hair pulled back carelessly, her head slightly lowered as she adjusted her sleeve — he nearly walked right past. Until he noticed the faint, purplish bruise blooming along her jawline, half-hidden beneath a curl.

She hadn’t seen him yet.

Draco’s eyes narrowed. He stepped directly into her path, leaning casually against the stone wall like he’d been waiting there for hours. “Well, well. Look who decided to crawl out of hiding.”

She stopped short, eyes flicking up. Her expression shifted instantly from startled to scathing. “Malfoy. Congratulations. You’re still as insufferable as I remember.”

“Flattered,” he drawled, letting his gaze linger on the shadowed mark along her jaw. “Tell me — did you get bored, or did someone finally put you in your place?”

Her lips twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “If you’re implying you had anything to do with it, you’re more delusional than I thought.”

“Hmm.” Draco tilted his head slightly, catching her eyes. They were sharp as ever, but there was something underneath — something tight, strained, hidden. “So who was it, then? Can’t imagine you went down without a fight.”

She stiffened, just enough for him to notice, before brushing past him. “It’s none of your business, Malfoy. Run along and go polish your ego somewhere else.”

His hand shot out, catching her wrist before she could move further. Not roughly, but enough to make her stop. “You don’t get to vanish for weeks, show up looking like that, and act like I shouldn’t ask questions.”

She turned slowly, eyes cold. “And why do you care? You made it very clear the other night you only stepped in because you were bored, not because you give a damn about me.”

Draco held her gaze, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “Maybe I just don’t like loose ends. Or maybe I’m wondering why the Dark Lord didn’t leave the bruises himself.”

Her jaw tightened — a tell, subtle but there.

And Draco knew. He didn’t know who, not yet, but the knowledge was there, heavy between them.

She yanked her wrist free, her voice icy. “Stay out of it, Malfoy. You don’t want to make this your problem.”

For once, Draco didn’t have a retort. He just watched as she stalked down the hall, her dark cloak trailing behind her like smoke.

And for the first time, he found himself wanting to know more — not because he was curious. Not because he was bored.

But because, whether she liked it or not, something about that bruise didn’t sit right with him.

And Draco Malfoy hated when things didn’t sit right.

[emeraldcosmos1]

Steel and Sunrise pt.22

Rafe's POV

It was almost one in the morning when Rafe realized something was off.

The house was quiet, but not the usual kind of quiet. Not the post-midnight “everyone’s asleep, Rafe, go to bed” quiet. No, this was different. A little too still.

He’d been sitting in the living room, boots still on, watching some late-night rerun he wasn’t even paying attention to, waiting for the dryer to finish. But something tugged at him, low and tight, like an instinct.

He stood, glanced toward the hallway. Milo’s door was cracked — he could see the faint glow of his phone lighting his face. The kid was still awake, which wasn’t ideal, but he was home.

Juniper’s door, though? Closed. No light underneath. Too dark.

Rafe knocked softly, just in case. No answer.

“Junie?” he called, low enough not to wake the whole house.

Nothing.

A slow, cold weight settled in his gut.

He opened the door. The room smelled like her — the faint scent of vanilla lotion and that strawberry shampoo she insisted on using — but the bed was empty. Her blanket was bunched up like she’d tried to make it look like she was under it, but didn’t commit to the lie.

His chest tightened. She was thirteen. Thirteen, and gone.

Rafe turned on his heel and went to the front door. Sure enough, the latch was unlocked. The old screen door creaked as he pushed it open and stepped out into the cool, still night air.

The driveway was empty. No bike. No scooter. Just the quiet hum of cicadas.

“Goddammit, Junie,” he muttered, pulling his phone from his pocket. His hands were already sweating.

It rang four times before Milo answered, his voice groggy and annoyed.

“What?”

“She’s not here,” Rafe said, already pacing the porch. “Juniper. Her bed’s empty. You know where she is?”

A pause. “Uh… no?”

Rafe’s jaw flexed. “Milo.”

“I don’t know, Dad. She said something about Carson and the bonfire at the lake, but I thought she was just messing with me.”

Rafe felt his pulse jump. “The lake? At this hour?”

“I’m just saying what she said—”

“Stay home,” Rafe snapped, already grabbing his truck keys. “If she calls you, you tell her I’m on my way.”

The dirt road to the lake was rough, full of potholes. Rafe barely noticed, his hands white-knuckled on the wheel, headlights slicing through the trees.

When he reached the clearing, the sound of music hit first. A Bluetooth speaker blaring some bass-heavy song. A half-circle of teenagers, silhouetted by the dying light of a bonfire. Red solo cups in hand. Voices laughing too loud.

And there she was. Juniper. Sitting on a log, knees pulled up, wearing one of those oversized hoodies she thought made her look older. Her hair was pulled back in a messy bun, her sneakers kicked into the dirt.

There was a boy next to her. Too close.

Rafe didn’t even remember turning off the engine before he was out of the truck and striding across the clearing.

“Juniper!”

Her head snapped up. The boy jumped back like he’d touched a live wire.

The group went silent.

Juniper’s eyes went wide. “Dad?!”

Rafe stopped in front of her, not even sparing a glance for the boy. His voice was low, but the edge in it made a few of the kids shift uncomfortably.

“Truck. Now.”

Juniper opened her mouth, but one look from him shut her up. She shoved her feet into her sneakers, muttered a quick “bye” to the group, and followed him back to the truck, shoulders hunched.

The ride was silent for a while. Juniper sat curled against the passenger door, staring out at the trees whipping by.

Finally, she muttered, “You’re overreacting.”

Rafe’s grip on the wheel tightened. “Overreacting? You snuck out in the middle of the night to sit at a bonfire with a bunch of teenagers I don’t know. Anything could’ve happened.”

“Nothing did happen.”

“You think that matters to me?” His voice rose before he could stop it. “You think I’d be fine with it as long as you came back in one piece? Juniper, I didn’t even know you were gone until half an hour ago. You could’ve been hurt, or worse, and we wouldn’t have known until it was too late.”

Juniper crossed her arms, her jaw set stubbornly. “I’m not a baby.”

“You’re thirteen,” Rafe said sharply. “And that means you don’t get to make decisions like this without us knowing.”

She didn’t answer. The rest of the drive was quiet, tense.

You were waiting on the porch when they pulled in.

Juniper climbed out first, stomping past you without a word, her eyes flashing. Rafe followed, his expression hard, but there was something frayed beneath it.

“What happened?” you asked, keeping your voice calm.

“She snuck out. Bonfire at the lake. Middle of the damn night,” Rafe said, scrubbing a hand over his jaw. “And there was a boy.”

You raised a brow but didn’t react as sharply as he did. “Did you talk to her, or just drag her home?”

“I told her to get in the truck.”

You sighed, touching his arm. “Let me talk to her first. You’re… heated.”

“I’m supposed to be heated,” Rafe muttered. “She’s thirteen. I can’t—” He cut himself off, shaking his head. “Just talk to her. I’ll… cool down.”

You found Juniper sitting on the edge of her bed, arms still crossed, face set like stone.

“Your dad’s scared,” you said softly, sitting beside her. “That’s why he’s so mad.”

Juniper rolled her eyes. “I’m fine. Nothing happened.”

“That’s not the point,” you said gently. “The point is, when you sneak out, we don’t know where you are. We can’t protect you if something does happen.”

Juniper’s lips pressed into a thin line.

After a moment, she whispered, “He doesn’t trust me.”

“He does,” you said. “He just… remembers what it’s like to be a teenager. And he knows not everyone out there is as good as you think.”

Juniper glanced at you, her eyes softening. “I didn’t mean to scare you guys.”

“I know. But you did. And next time, just… tell us where you’re going. Even if you think we’ll say no.”

When Rafe finally came in, Juniper looked nervous, like she wasn’t sure what version of her dad she was about to get.

He sat on the floor in front of her bed, elbows on his knees, looking up at her.

“I’m not mad because you’re growing up,” he said, his voice rough but calm now. “I’m mad because the world’s… not always kind. And I need you safe. Even when you think I’m being a pain in the ass.”

Juniper bit her lip. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think it would be a big deal.”

“It is,” Rafe said. “Because you’re my little girl. And that doesn’t change, no matter how old you are.”

After a beat, Juniper slid off the bed and hugged him. Tight.

He hugged back, closing his eyes for just a second.

When Juniper was finally asleep, you found Rafe on the porch, staring out at the dark yard.

“You did good,” you said softly.

He shook his head. “I yelled.”

“You were scared,” you corrected. “And you fixed it.”

He exhaled, leaning against the railing. “Feels like every time I blink, they’re older. And I’m just… trying to hold on.”

You slipped your hand into his. “That’s all any of us can do.”

He squeezed your hand once, then glanced back at the house. “She’ll hate me tomorrow.”

“She won’t,” you said. “She knows why you came.”

For the first time all night, Rafe’s shoulders loosened.

[emeraldcosmos1]

The Devil You Know Masterlist

Part I

Part II

[emeraldcosmos1]

The Devil You Know

The torchlight along the walls of Malfoy Manor flickered, making the skulls carved into the stone pillars leer down as if mocking her hesitation. The Mark on her arm burned faintly, a reminder that hesitation was not an option. Not when he was waiting.

“Stop glaring at the walls, Riddle,” Draco drawled from beside her, his pale hair catching the dim light. “They’re not going to bite. But if you keep that face on, the Dark Lord might.”

She shot him a sharp look, jaw tight. “Don’t you have something better to do, Malfoy? Like polish your father’s boots? Or your ego?”

He smirked, infuriatingly unbothered. “Both are already spotless. What’s your excuse for trembling like a first-year? Nervous Voldemort will ask for a dance?”

She didn’t dignify that with a response. Not when her pulse was hammering, not when she knew what awaited her inside the drawing room. She had overheard enough to know Voldemort wanted her to make an example of a prisoner tonight—a defector, apparently. Someone who had once worn the same Mark she now carried.

Killing was one thing. Publicly torturing someone—dragging it out for the others to watch—was another.

The massive doors opened with a low creak, silencing all thought. Voldemort’s snake-like eyes fixed on her immediately, and every inch of her body felt like ice.

“Ah… Miss Riddle,” he hissed, his voice soft but poisonous. “Step forward.”

She did, her boots clicking against the marble. She kept her head bowed, both out of respect and to hide the flicker of unease she couldn’t quite erase. Draco lingered at the edge of the room, leaning casually against a pillar, though his grey eyes were sharper than usual.

Voldemort gestured to the center of the room. A man knelt there, bound, his face bruised and bloodied. “A traitor. One of ours… until he decided to run.” The Dark Lord’s eyes gleamed. “Show us where your loyalty lies, child. Prove yourself.”

The wand felt heavy in her hand. Too heavy.

The man’s muffled pleas echoed in her head. Her stomach churned, but she masked it as best she could. She was a Riddle. She didn’t falter.

Still, her silence stretched too long.

Voldemort’s gaze turned cold. “Defiance… or weakness?” His voice was quiet, but the air itself felt strangled. “Perhaps you need encouragement.”

She barely had time to breathe before pain—searing, ripping pain—exploded through her nerves. Her knees buckled as Voldemort’s Cruciatus Curse tore through her. The world spun, a high, sharp ringing in her ears drowning out the sound of her own screams.

When it stopped, she was trembling, clutching the floor like it could ground her. Voldemort tilted his head, disdain dripping from every syllable. “Pathetic. Maybe I overestimated the Riddle bloodline.”

A voice cut through the suffocating tension. Smooth. Arrogant. Defiant.

“Let me do it.”

Draco.

All eyes shifted to him. Even Voldemort’s.

He pushed off the pillar, strolling forward like he hadn’t just volunteered for something most would avoid. His gaze flicked to her briefly—not soft, not pitying, but sharp, assessing. Almost… irritated.

“She’s wasting everyone’s time,” Draco continued, drawing his wand lazily. “I’ll handle it.”

Voldemort regarded him, silent for a long, suffocating moment. Then, a thin smile. “Very well. Do not disappoint me, Draco.”

Draco moved to the center, his posture confident, almost bored. But as he passed her, he leaned down just enough for only her to hear.

“Try not to look so grateful. You’re drooling on the floor.”

She wanted to claw his perfect face off. “I hope you choke on your own smugness.”

He smirked. “Adorable. Now, get up before you look weaker than you already do.”

As he turned to the prisoner, wand raised, she forced herself to stand, ignoring the tremor in her knees. She hated him—his arrogance, his theatrics. She hated that he had just made it seem like he was saving her out of amusement rather than… whatever else it was.

And she hated most of all that a part of her was relieved.

Because Draco Malfoy, infuriating as he was, had just painted a target on his back—for her.

And she didn’t know why.

[emeraldcosmos1]

Steel and Sunrise pt. 21

Milo’s POV

The night was supposed to be simple. Pick up Harper. Grab milkshakes. Watch some dumb action movie at her house until curfew. Drive home, windows down, music on.

But it wasn’t.

It was this instead.

Milo stood on the cracked sidewalk in front of Harper’s house, his hoodie clinging to him because he was sweating—part anger, part nerves. The yellow porch light flickered above him, a bug spinning circles around it.

Inside, Harper was pacing by her window. He could see the shadow of her hands cutting through the air as she talked.

Or yelled.

He wasn’t sure anymore.

She came out the door finally, her curls frizzed from the humidity, her expression stormy.

“Milo, I’m not doing this anymore,” she said. Her voice wasn’t loud, but it was tight, like she’d been holding it in for weeks. “I can’t be the only one who cares about where this is going.”

Milo’s heart thudded hard in his chest. “What are you talking about? I do care—”

“Then show me,” she snapped, her voice rising now. “Half the time you’re distracted or quiet or just… not here. It feels like you’d rather be anywhere else.”

“That’s not true!” His hands curled into fists, not at her but at himself, because he didn’t know how to explain it. “I just—look, my dad’s on my case all the time, Juniper’s always in my stuff, I barely get any space to—”

“This isn’t about your dad or Juniper. It’s about us,” Harper cut in. “And right now, it feels like I’m just… convenient. Like I’m some way for you to get out of the house, not someone you actually want.”

Her voice cracked on that last word. That hurt worse than her anger.

Milo took a step closer. “You’re not just convenient. You’re—you’re my favorite part of the week.”

“Then why doesn’t it feel like it?”

He didn’t have an answer for that. Because maybe, sometimes, he was scared of how much he cared. Because he’d seen what it did to people when things went bad. What it had done to his dad. To his mom once, before they found their way back to each other.

But Harper didn’t need to hear his fear.

“I don’t know,” he said, softer. “I’m trying, Harp. I swear I am.”

She sighed, and it wasn’t angry anymore. Just tired. “Maybe we need a break. Just a little space.”

The word break stung like a slap.

“Right,” Milo said, forcing his jaw to stay still. “If that’s what you want.”

“It’s not what I want,” Harper said. “But maybe it’s what we need.”

She went back inside without another word. The porch light kept flickering as the door clicked shut.

Rafe’s POV

It was past midnight when Milo came home.

Rafe was still awake, sitting at the kitchen table, pretending to look through invoices from the garage but really just waiting. The house was quiet, the kind of quiet where the creaks sound louder than they should.

The front door opened, closed softly. Sneakers on hardwood. Then nothing.

“Milo,” Rafe called, his voice low.

A pause. Then Milo stepped into the kitchen.

His hoodie was pulled over his head, his eyes red-rimmed. Not from tears, not exactly, but close.

Rafe didn’t ask right away. He just pushed a glass of water across the table. Milo took it and sat down opposite him.

For a while, they just sat there, the only sound the hum of the fridge.

Finally, Rafe said, “Harper?”

Milo stared at the table and nodded once.

“Want to tell me what happened?”

Milo’s shoulders hunched. “She thinks I don’t care enough. That I’m just using her to get out of the house or something. She said we need a break.”

Rafe leaned back, folding his arms. He could feel the old, familiar tension creeping in — the urge to tell his son that girls will always leave, that it’s easier not to care too much, that letting people in just gives them a way to hurt you.

But that wasn’t what Milo needed. That was his baggage, not Milo’s.

“Do you think she’s right?” Rafe asked instead.

Milo’s head shot up. “What?”

“I’m asking if you think she’s right. About you pulling back.”

Milo’s jaw worked. “Maybe. I don’t mean to. I just… I don’t know how to do all this. She’s great, but it’s a lot. It feels like I can’t screw up once or she’ll decide I’m not worth it.”

Rafe exhaled slowly. “Feels like a lot of pressure.”

“Yeah.”

“Feels familiar, too,” Rafe muttered, mostly to himself. Milo glanced at him, confused, but Rafe waved it off.

He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “You want my honest take?”

Milo nodded.

“First, she’s not your whole life. She can’t be. You’ve got school, friends, family, and a future to figure out. If she cares about you, she’ll understand that.”

Milo nodded, slow.

“But second…” Rafe hesitated, then said it anyway. “If you care about her, don’t be scared to show it. Don’t do what I used to do and shut down just because it’s easier. You shut down too long, you wake up one day and realize the person you loved gave up waiting.”

Milo’s brow furrowed. “Is that what happened to you?”

Rafe’s jaw tightened. “It’s what almost happened with your mom, before we got our act together. Learned the hard way that silence isn’t strength. It’s just… silence.”

Milo tapped his fingers on the table, thinking.

“So… what do I do?”

“Give her space if she needs it,” Rafe said. “But don’t disappear. Let her know you actually care. If it’s meant to work, it will. And if it doesn’t, you’ll survive.”

“Doesn’t feel like it.”

“No, it doesn’t. But you will.”

Milo’s POV

They sat in quiet for a few minutes, the fridge still humming, the clock ticking.

Finally, Milo said, “Thanks, Dad.”

Rafe gave a small shrug. “For what?”

“For not just saying ‘plenty of fish in the sea’ or whatever. For not making me feel stupid.”

“You’re not stupid,” Rafe said, his voice gruff but steady. “You’re sixteen. You’re supposed to feel like the world’s ending when someone you care about pulls away. Doesn’t mean it actually is.”

Milo stared at his dad for a second. “Did anyone tell you that when you were my age?”

Rafe gave a bitter laugh. “No. Wish they had.”

Milo didn’t push. He didn’t need to.

Instead, he asked, “Can we just… sit here a while?”

Rafe nodded.

So they did. Just father and son in the kitchen, no noise except the hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of the old house settling. No big speeches, no perfect fixes.

Just company.

And for now, that was enough.

[emeraldcosmos1]

Only When it Hurts

The house was dark when you got there—some old rental on the edge of Figure Eight, one of those places the Camerons used to air out for rich friends in the summer. You only knew because he’d dragged you here once, months ago, whispering about how “no one comes around.” A perfect place for secrets.

The second you stepped inside, you saw him—leaning against the doorframe of a back bedroom, hoodie on, hood up, hands in his pockets. Silent. Watching.

Your chest tightened.

“Two fucking weeks,” you snapped, before he could even speak. “You vanish, not a word, like I didn’t mean shit.”

His jaw flexed. “I know.”

“You ghost me like I’m some fucking random—and then what? You text at 1AM like I’m supposed to just show up?”

“I didn’t think you would,” he said quietly. “Didn’t think I deserved it.”

You let out a dry laugh. “You don’t.”

And still, you came.

“Why?” you demanded. “Why even text me? You need a warm body to fuck so you can forget whatever your dad did this time?”

His eyes darkened at that. “You think that’s all this is?”

He stepped toward you, slow and careful like you were something wild that might bolt.

“Don’t,” you warned, backing up. “Don’t touch me like you missed me. You don’t get to miss me, Rafe. You left.”

He pressed you against the wall, hands on either side of your head, chest heaving. “I didn’t know what the fuck to say. I’m not—” He swallowed hard. “I’m not good at this. At you. At…feeling anything that isn’t rage or guilt or—”

You shoved him back.

“Don’t try to make this poetic,” you snapped. “You left without a word. You made me feel like nothing. You don’t get to cry about it now.”

But even as you said it, his hands found your waist again. Even as anger rose in your throat, your body betrayed you—leaning in, needing his heat, his mouth, his punishment.

“Tell me to leave,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “Tell me to fuck off and I will.”

You stared at him—his red-rimmed eyes, his bruised cheekbone, the tremble in his hands—and you wanted to scream at him, but instead you whispered: “Fuck me like you mean it. Or get out.”

That was all it took.

Rafe crashed into you, lips devouring yours, all teeth and desperation. Clothes were pulled off carelessly—your shirt over your head, his sweats shoved down. He spun you around, pushed you onto the bed, the old wood frame creaking beneath you both.

He climbed over you, kissed you like it was the last time. His cock was hot and hard against your thigh, leaking at the tip, twitching with tension.

“Still so fucking tight for me,” he rasped as he lined himself up, rubbing the head against your soaked entrance. “Fuck—you’re mad, but you’re wet.”

“Shut up and fuck me,” you spat, nails digging into his back.

He thrust in deep, bottoming out in one harsh movement. You gasped—half from pain, half from how fucking good it felt.

“God, you feel like home,” he groaned, hips snapping forward.

“Don’t say that,” you choked out, eyes stinging. “You don’t get to say that.”

He fucked you harder, angrier, his hand wrapping around your throat—not to hurt, but to keep you grounded. His forehead pressed to yours.

“I do,” he panted. “Because no matter where I go, no matter what I do—you’re the only thing that feels real.”

You wanted to hate him. To tell him to go to hell. But your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper. And when you came—shaking, tears in your eyes—you hated how good it felt.

He followed, hips jerking, spilling inside you with a strangled moan.

Afterward, he collapsed beside you, chest heaving, hand reaching for yours.

You pulled it away.

“You can’t keep doing this,” you said quietly. “You don’t get to fuck your pain into me and call it love.”

He stared at the ceiling for a long time.

“I don’t know how to be anything but broken,” he whispered.

And you hated that part of you still wanted to fix him.

[emeraldcosmos1]

Quiet Like This

You were halfway through reheating leftovers when the knock came.

It was soft. Hesitant. Three slow taps that barely carried over the hum of the microwave.

You paused.

It wasn’t a neighbor—you didn’t really have any that stopped by. It wasn’t a delivery. You hadn’t ordered anything.

But somehow, you already knew.

You opened the door and found Bucky standing in the hallway, dressed in a hoodie and jeans, damp from the light drizzle outside. He carried a brown paper grocery bag in one arm like it weighed more than it should.

“Hey,” he said, voice low, almost shy. “Hope this isn’t a bad time.”

You blinked. “You brought food?”

“I was gonna make dinner. Thought you might want some.”

You stepped aside without another word and let him in.

You and Bucky had… something. No label, no dramatic origin story. You met through Sam, slowly. At first, it was polite small talk. Then it was weekly check-ins. Then it was small favors—picking up dry cleaning, grabbing coffee, fixing a leaky sink. Somewhere along the way, it became comfort.

Not friendship exactly.

Not romance either.

Just this gentle tether you both kept pretending not to notice.

He unpacked the bag at your kitchen counter like he did this all the time. Like he lived here. Pasta, bell peppers, garlic, a small loaf of bread wrapped in brown paper, and one of those sparkling lemon sodas you liked.

You watched him from the corner, stirring the pot as he chopped vegetables.

His metal hand moved with such careful rhythm. Precise. Like he’d practiced it hundreds of times to make sure it wouldn’t slip.

“You’re tense,” he said after a while.

You raised a brow. “Excuse me?”

He glanced up, a faint smirk pulling at his mouth. “You always stir clockwise when you’re anxious. You’re doing figure eights now.”

You looked down at the pot. Damn it. He wasn’t wrong.

“I’ve had a long week,” you muttered.

Bucky gave a quiet hum. “Me too.”

You didn’t ask what happened. He didn’t volunteer it.

Dinner was simple and perfect.

You sat at the tiny table by the window, the city lights bleeding through the glass. Rain tapped gently on the fire escape. Bucky passed you the bread without asking. You refilled his soda without needing to be told.

It was normal.

Safe.

Afterward, you curled up on the couch, blanket over your legs, the TV playing something neither of you really cared about. Bucky stayed a few feet away, legs stretched out, his arm resting casually along the back of the couch.

“I used to hate quiet,” he said suddenly.

You turned to him. His eyes were still on the screen.

“When I first got out. Everything felt so loud. Even silence. Like... if I wasn’t hearing screaming, something was wrong.”

You didn’t speak. You let the space stay open.

He ran a hand through his hair.

“But now I think… I think I’m okay with quiet. At least when it’s like this.”

You smiled faintly. “Quiet like this isn’t scary.”

He looked over at you. “No. It’s not.”

It wasn’t long before the conversation faded and you found yourself half-dozing against the couch cushions, the soft sound of the rain and TV blurring together.

That was when he said it.

“I don’t sleep well.”

You blinked yourself back into awareness. He was still sitting up, now with his hands steepled under his chin, staring at the floor.

“I figured,” you said gently. “You always show up around midnight.”

He gave a dry laugh. “Yeah.”

You turned toward him. “What helps?”

He thought about it. “Used to be alcohol. Or training. Or pushing everything down until it came out in a fight.”

You swallowed.

“Now it’s just… this. Being somewhere that doesn’t feel like I have to be anyone.”

You rested your head on the back of the couch. “You don’t have to be anyone here. Just you.”

He finally looked at you.

It was soft. Unguarded.

Something shifted in his chest. You felt it, even from across the couch.

“I don’t want to be alone tonight,” he said, barely above a whisper.

The vulnerability in his voice caught you off guard.

You reached for the blanket, gently tugging it toward him. “You don’t have to be.”

Later, after you gave him the blanket and pillow and offered him the couch, you went to your room. You changed into pajamas. You brushed your teeth. You stared at your reflection in the mirror longer than necessary.

You wondered if he’d still be there in the morning.

You almost didn’t check.

But something told you to.

You padded barefoot down the hall. Stopped at the edge of the living room.

He was still awake.

Sitting on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

His shoulders were trembling.

You walked in quietly, kneeling in front of him.

“Bucky.”

He looked up slowly.

There were tears in his eyes. Not many. Just enough to make your heart squeeze.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t come here to fall apart.”

“You’re not falling apart,” you whispered. “You’re just letting go.”

He shook his head like he didn’t believe he deserved that.

“I was made to be a weapon. Not a person.”

You reached up and gently touched his hand—the metal one. Cool and solid beneath your fingertips.

“You were made into one,” you said. “But you are a person.”

He stared at your hand over his.

And then, without another word, he pulled you forward, wrapping his arms around you. It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t planned.

It was needed.

You held him as he buried his face in your shoulder, his breaths ragged against your collarbone. You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have to.

He stayed like that for a long time.

Eventually, the shaking stopped. His breathing steadied. He pulled back just enough to look at you.

His eyes were tired, red-rimmed, but clear.

“I feel safe with you,” he said.

Your chest ached. In the best way.

“You are safe with me.”

You expected him to lie down on the couch after that. But when you stood and offered him a hand, he took it.

You led him to your bedroom without saying a word.

That night, you fell asleep with your head on his chest, his metal arm curled protectively around your waist, the rain still falling softly outside.

For the first time in a long time, Bucky slept.

And in the morning, he was still there.