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hunzzzzz · 5 days ago

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Save me (Bsf!Rafe x Thornton OFC): part 12

TW: mentions of sexual assault, drug use, cocaine, guns, blood, violence, non consensual drugging, dark themes, suicidal thoughts.

A/N: the only explanation for Rafe being the way that he is is his mommy issues. My heart acc breaks for him my poor meow meow beans. Deep down he really just wants to be loved </3

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.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・.

Rafe was a mama’s boy, through and through; there was no denying it.

Angela was the center of his universe, and he was hers, her precious son, her brightest star. Seeing her car pull up outside the school gates would send a bright, genuine smile cracking across his face.

He was always the first volunteer to taste her latest experimental dish, his boyish enthusiasm masking a slight trepidation, always quick to offer a resounding “Delicious, Mom!” even if his stomach churned.

She found genuine joy in the most seemingly mediocre things. Whether Rafe had managed to snag a gold star for good behavior in class, or landed a small, non-speaking role in the school play, Angela was always his loudest, most enthusiastic supporter, beaming from the sidelines as if he'd just won an Olympic medal. She had a special way of making him feel seen, truly seen, especially when his father’s attention was elsewhere.

Her enthusiasm for his small triumphs, her patient guidance, her simple acts of comfort – these weren't just parental duties; they were vital affirmations of his worth. She didn’t demand perfection or compare him to others; she simply loved him, fiercely and unconditionally, for exactly who he was.

Nights when the house settled into a quiet darkness, he would sometimes stir from sleep, feeling the soft warmth of her lips pressed against his forehead, a silent check before she quietly slipped back out. He’d drift back to sleep, the feeling of her love a soft blanket wrapped around him.

Rainy afternoons were often spent in the comfortable clutter of the garage or the dusty attic, him helping her sort through old boxes, her telling him stories about her own childhood.

Whatever she needed help with, no matter how small or mundane, Rafe would already be waiting by the door as she pulled in from grocery shopping, ready to help her carry the heavy bags inside.

If it were up to him, she wouldn’t have to lift a finger, not ever. He’d bring her coffee in the mornings, a mug too big for his small hands, careful not to spill a drop.

These small moments, seemingly insignificant to the outside world, weren't just fleeting snapshots in time for Rafe. They were everything.

While Ward's attention was focused on his daughters, Rafe often felt like he was standing just outside the frame, a blurry, less important figure. His father’s approval was a constantly shifting target, demanding but rarely given.

Angela’s love was the antithesis of that.

In a world where his father’s attention felt like a conditional reward, his mother’s love was an unwavering certainty. These memories became his most precious possessions, a hidden treasury of moments where he felt safe, loved, and completely enough. They were the proof that he mattered. They were the moments that filled the empty spaces in his chest.

Rafe always took care of his mother, especially as her struggles began to cast a shadow over their lives. He was only fifteen, but he with a certainty that settled cold and heavy in his gut, that she wasn’t okay. He’d find her sometimes, curled up on the sofa, the remote control slipping from her fingers, an empty wine bottle glinting on the coffee table. He’d move softly, careful not to wake her, unfolding a blanket and gently draping it over her.

He could see it in the subtle shifts. Sometimes, in the middle of a conversation, her gaze would simply unfocus, drifting away as if her mind had detached itself from the present moment, her eyes distant and vacant, leaving him talking to a shell. He’d have to gently repeat her name to bring her back, a small jolt that would make her blink and offer a strained apology.

At night, when the house was silent and she thought everyone was asleep, Rafe would lie in his bed, the sounds of her quiet, heartbroken crying drifting from her room, muffled but unmistakable. It was a sound that tore at his young heart, a sorrow he didn't know how to fix.

There were other signs too, small but significant. She’d be easily startled by sudden noises, her nerves seemingly frayed raw. Moments of unexpected despair would flicker across her face, fleeting glimpses of a pain she usually kept carefully hidden. Sometimes, a simple question would bring tears to her eyes, an emotional fragility that hadn't been there before.

She wasn’t doing well. But still, she pretended. She’d rally, put on a brave face, assure him with a tired smile that everything was fine, just fine.

And Rafe was a problem solver, a fixer at heart. But he couldn’t help her, not that day. Not the one person he wanted to protect most in the world.

She had picked him up from lacrosse practice, arriving late, the persistent drizzle having escalated into a torrential downpour. The rain lashed against the car windows, a drumming, relentless force.

“I’m so sorry I’m late, baby,” she said, her voice thin, stretched tight. “Time just… slipped away from me.”

It was clear she wasn't just upset; her eyes were glossy and swollen, her cheeks stained with recent tears, a fragile mask of composure barely holding.

“It’s okay, Mom,” he said, trying to sound casual, brushing it off even though a knot of unease was tightening in his stomach. “Cynthia was ready to drop me home. I could’ve just gone with her.”

“No,” Angela shook her head, a sudden, almost fierce certainty in her voice. “No, I needed to pick you up, Rafe. I needed to.” Her grip on the steering wheel was white-knuckled.

“Mom…” Rafe eyed her, his brow furrowed with concern. “Are you… are you okay?”

“Of course, baby.” Angela forced a smile. She was a masterful actress, capable of convincing the world that the lavish life they lived in TannyHill was a perfect, idyllic dream.

The sinking feeling intensified, when they passed the familiar turnoff for their street.

“Mom, you missed the turn,” Rafe said, his voice laced with confusion, turning back to watch their street disappear in the swirling rain and fading light.

“Baby we’re going on a little trip,” she said, her voice strangely light, almost childlike. She glanced at him, reaching over and gripping his hand in a tight, almost desperate squeeze, one that she needed more than him.

“What? Why? Where are we going?” His questions tumbled out, laced with growing panic.

“Just… just away for a little bit,” she tried to smile again, but the effort was futile. Tears escaped, streaming down her face, clinging to her cheeks.

“Mom,” Rafe’s voice rose, his panic escalating. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing, nothing, baby,” she insisted, her voice trembling. “It’s okay. I packed you a bag with your stuff. Don’t worry.”

It was then that Rafe turned around and saw the back of the SUV. It wasn’t just a couple of overnight bags. It was crammed full – multiple suitcases, bulging trash bags, random assortments of things shoved haphazardly inside, packed in a desperate, frantic haste.

“What about Sarah and Wheezie? And Dad?”

Her eyes, blurry with tears, met his in the dim light of the car’s interior. “Rafe baby, you trust me? Don’t you?”

“I do, but… where are we going?”

“You want to help me, don’t you?” she pleaded, her voice cracking. “You’re my sweet boy, Rafe. My best boy. You’ve always helped me, haven’t you?” She turned to look at him fully, momentarily taking her eyes off the rain-slicked road.

Rafe was terrified, not just for himself, but to witness his mother, the one person he relied on, falling apart right in front of him. And he was helpless. For all his desire to be a fixer, to protect her, he couldn’t do a single thing to stop her unraveling.

Then, a sudden, blinding flash of headlights through the rain-streaked windshield. The deafening roar of a horn, long and piercing. It all happened too quickly, a chaotic blur of metal and noise.

The last thing Rafe saw, etched into his memory in that horrifying instant, was his mother’s face, contorted with fear, yet even in the face of impending impact, she reached out, bracing an arm around him, pulling him instinctively closer, her eyes, wide and locked with his, filled with a desperate love, before everything turned to black.

The scent of rain and ozone, the jarring screech of tires, the sickening crunch of metal – and then, silence.

.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・.

Rafe had searched for his mothers love in all the corners of the world after she passed away. Because that’s what he knew love to be, the only person who had given it to him.

He didn’t think it was possible, not for someone as damaged and broken as him, until Sam, beneath the ancient oak, had whispered those three words to him – five vowels, three constants – a simple phrase that felt like a seismic shift in his universe. It felt like all the broken pieces of his heart, shattered by grief and disappointment and his own terrible choices, were suddenly slotting back together, the sharp edges aligning with a perfect, unexpected fit.

They had ended up at some gas station, the fluorescent lights casting a harsh glow on the deserted lot. Neither of them wanted the night to end. They were laying tangled in a pile of blankets in the back of his truck, Sam was curled up by his side. Rafe held her close, breathing in the scent of her hair, wishing with a desperate intensity that they could stay like this forever.

The sky in the east was already beginning to lighten, a pale gray bleeding into the darkness. The sun would come up eventually, it had to. And with the dawn came the end of their limited time, the inevitable return to the world outside their bubble, where secrets festered, and consequences loomed, and they would have to face the complicated reality they had tried so desperately to outrun.

“Sam,” he murmured, making her lift her head from his chest, angling it up to look at him.

His grip subconsciously tightened on her, his fingers digging gently into her sides, “Will you ever tell me who hurt you… that night? At the bonfire?”

“Why does it matter?” The question was soft, almost a whisper, but beneath it lay layers of pain and a deep-seated reluctance. Talking about it felt like peeling back skin that had barely begun to heal.

“Because it matters to me, okay?” His voice was low, urgent, his frustration tinged with a fierce protectiveness. He lifted a hand, his knuckles gently stroking the delicate curve of her jaw.

“I wish there was a way to talk about it without… without feeling it all over again,” she whispered, her voice catching, her gaze drifting away from his, lost in the swirling patterns her fingertips were tracing on his chest. “Talking about it right now, it’s just… it’s just too much.”.

He captured her hand in his, intertwining their fingers, “You don’t have to talk about it,” he assured her, holding her tighter, pulling her closer, his chin resting on the top of her head. “But you will… one day, right?”

“Yeah, maybe,” she whispered, burying her face in his chest. “One day.”

It wasn’t long after that her phone began to vibrate incessantly. Topper. Bombarding her with texts, demanding to know where she was, his worry undoubtedly escalating with each unanswered message. She felt Rafe’s grip loosen around her, a subtle shift that signaled the inevitable intrusion of the outside world.

Yes, they loved each other. They were utterly, irrevocably in love. The hardest, most terrifying part had been admitting it aloud.

Yet, that confession didn’t magically erase the chaos that surrounded them. They both knew, without needing to say the words, that their time beneath the moon, in this stolen pocket of peace, had come to an end.

The sun was rising, a slow, relentless march across the horizon, bleeding pale light into the bruised pre-dawn sky, revealing the harsh reality they had temporarily escaped.

They couldn’t be together. Not right now. The forces against them were too formidable, too deeply entrenched. Sam knew the backlash she would face from Topper, his protectiveness warring with his anger and betrayal.

Rafe’s world was crumbling around him; he was a loose wire, unpredictable and dangerous, and he couldn’t, wouldn’t, drag Sam down into the wreckage with him. She deserved better, a life free from the darkness that clung to his name.

Rafe had already hopped down from the truck bed, landing softly on the cracked asphalt of the gas station. He stood facing her, his body slotted between her legs as she remained seated on the tailgate, the position intimate yet marked by the impending separation.

“I don’t want to go home,” she muttered, meeting his eyes, the weariness in her voice palpable.

“I know, Sammy,” he said softly, his thumb gently brushing a stray strand of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear, his touch tender. “I know.”

“I just… I want to leave this place and never come back.”

A flicker of surprise, quickly masked by a deeper emotion, crossed Rafe’s face. He was hurt by the thought of her wanting to leave him.

“Come with me,” she urged, her hands gripping his forearms, her fingers digging in slightly

“Where?” Rafe didn’t need any more convincing. The moment she had said the words, a silent promise had formed in his heart: wherever she went, he would follow, no questions asked, no matter the cost.

“The Bahamas. Just me and you.”

Suddenly, it all came rushing back – a flood of sun-drenched memories, the taste of salt on their skin, the easy rhythm of summers spent together. Their joint holiday home there wasn't just a place; it was a time capsule of simpler days.

It was a time before anything truly bad had happened, before the shadows had begun to lengthen over their lives. It was back when they were all one big, sprawling, happy family – the Camerons and the Thorntons intertwined, no members missing, no bitter betrayals, no suffocating secrets lurking beneath the surface.

The afternoons Sam and Sarah would spend meticulously collecting seashells along the shore, their small hands sifting through the wet sand, their faces intent on finding the perfect spiral or the most vibrant color.

Meanwhile, Rafe and Topper would be further down the beach, kicking a worn football back and forth, their laughter carrying on the breeze.

Afternoons would often dissolve into lazy hours spent napping in the hammocks strung between the palm trees, the sun warm on their skin. And then, the mad dash home as the sun began to dip below the horizon, racing each other back to the house, salty and sandy, ready for dinner, their hair still damp from the ocean.

Rafe and Sam had a ritual: snorkeling together. Even though Sam was always a little terrified of the open water, clinging to the side of the boat, Rafe would patiently coax her in. They navigated the coral reefs hand-in-hand.

There were mishaps, of course. The time Sarah and Topper went quadding, and Topper took a fall and came back with a broken wrist, wincing but trying to play tough. The time Sam yelped, scrambling out of the water with a jellyfish sting, her leg red and burning. But it didn't matter what happened back then, the minor scrapes and stings, the inevitable tumbles. Because the four of them were always together, there to help each other up, to offer a comforting hand, to laugh it off and move on.

But now those memories felt like a cruel taunt. They were no longer a unit, a makeshift family bound by shared summers. They were standing on opposing sides, the lines drawn sharp and unforgiving. Sarah had aligned herself with the John B, a world away from the family she was born into. Topper, once Rafe's closest friend, was now consumed by hurt and betrayal, the bond between them shattered.

And Sam and Rafe? They were standing on quicksand, their love a fragile, dangerous thing, both slowly sinking down together into the mess they had created, nothing was the same anymore.

The innocence of The Bahamas felt like a lifetime ago, which Sam so desperately wanted back.

He cradled her face in his hands, his thumbs tracing the curve of her cheekbones, their noses brushing gently. The rising sun, a sliver of gold on the horizon, was reflected in his eyes, a glimmer of hope in their blue depths.

“We will. One day, Sammy. I promise.”

The unspoken words hung between them – but not now. They didn't need to say it; they both just knew.

.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・.

Sam wasn’t exactly sure what she expected when Rafe pulled up outside her house, the engine idling quietly in the early morning air. But it definitely wasn’t this.

Topper stood on the front porch, a furious silhouette against the rising sun, his presence radiating raw, unrestrained rage. He thundered towards the truck, his jaw tight, his eyes narrowed to dangerous slits.

“Samantha!” He snapped, his voice cracking like a whip. He wrenched her door open, roughly pulling her out of the truck and onto the gravel driveway. The sheer violence of the motion stunned her, catching her off guard.

Her cry of pain elicited an immediate reaction from Rafe. He was out of the truck in an instant, “Hey!” he called out, his voice sharp with warning. “Don’t shove her like that.”

Topper let out a short, dry laugh, the sound devoid of any humor, laced with bitter contempt. He roughly shoved Sam behind him, positioning his body between her and Rafe, as if Rafe were some kind of rabid animal, a deranged, wild bull ready to charge. His eyes, blazing with anger, fixed on Rafe.

“You’re seriously gonna tell me not to hurt my sister? After what you did?”

Rafe looked away, his jaw ticking, the muscle clenching beneath his skin. He knew exactly what Topper was referring to, the deep well of regret pooling in his stomach. The memory of the previous night flashed in his mind – the red haze of his rage. Sarah. The marina.

Topper shook his head, stepping closer to Rafe until their chests were almost pressed together, their breaths mingling in the tense air.

“You are way out of fucking line.” He jabbed a finger into Rafe’s chest, each jab a physical manifestation of his betrayal. “Showing up to my house… after everything you’ve fucking done? Leaving her on that beach… lying to my face… and what you did to Sarah? You must have a fucking death wish.”

Rafe knew what Topper was doing. He was trying to provoke him, to push his buttons, to make him snap and lose his shit in front of Sam, to confirm her fears and make her afraid of him. But Rafe wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Not now.

Sam, caught between them, her body aching with exhaustion and emotional strain from the last 24 hours, tried to squeeze her arms between their rigid bodies, a futile attempt to create space, until Topper finally yielded.

“You listen to me,” Topper spat over his shoulder, his voice raw with hatred, as he dragged a reluctant Sam back towards the safety of the front door. “Stay the fuck away from my sister. Do you hear me?”

“You show up here again,” Topper’s muffled, furious voice carried through the wood, a final, chilling threat, “and I’ll fucking kill you!” Those were Topper’s parting words, echoing in Sam's ears.

He pulled Sam across the threshold, the door slamming shut behind them, leaving Rafe alone on the driveway.

Topper was heaving, leaning against the bottom of the staircase, his chest rising and falling erratically, his fists curled so tight his knuckles were white.

Sam slipped past him, her movements quiet and hesitant, just wanting to disappear into the sanctuary of her room. She collapsed onto her bed, the exhaustion of the last 24 hours finally catching up to her, but her bedroom door didn’t just open – it flung inward, slamming against the wall with a crack, revealing Topper’s rigid, furious form. He didn’t bother to knock, his face flushed with anger, his eyes blazing.

“Top—” She began, pushing herself up on the bed, a wary question in her voice.

“You are not to see him again,” he cut her off, his voice eerily still, low and dangerous. He seemed calm now after his earlier outburst, but it was somehow even more chilling. The anger hadn't dissipated; it had settled into a hard, controlled fury.

“Excuse me?” She sat up straighter, crossing her arms over her chest, stunned by the command.

“You heard me,” he doubled down, his voice hardening, leaving no room for argument.

“You can’t just tell me what to do—”

“I just did.”

“No!—”

“SAMANTHA!” Topper roared, his voice exploding through the room, making Sam flinch.

With a frustrated cry, he punched the wall beside her bedroom door, leaving a jagged hole in the drywall. He whipped back around to face her, his chest heaving, not even registering the shooting pain in his hand.

“You’re fucking blind right now!” He yelled, his eyes wide with a desperate, almost frantic frustration. “You can’t fucking see everything he’s done! Everything he is!”

“It wasn’t his fault!” she screamed back, “Believe me, I blamed him for what happened that night for so long too! I wanted it to be his fault! But it’s not—”

“And you can’t see how that’s a fucking problem?” Topper’s voice cracked, his eyes wide and wild with disbelief. “You’re defending him? After everything? It’s not just what happened to you! He’s hurt so many people. People you care about!”

The raw pain of Sarah’s near-drowning flashed behind his eyes, a horrifying image seared into his memory.

“You don’t even know the half of it, Sam! You don’t know him!” The unspoken words hung heavy in the air between them, a suffocating weight: Not like I do. Not like I saw him. Not like I thought I did.

He knew Rafe’s capacity for darkness in a way Sam, in her misguided loyalty, couldn’t or wouldn’t see.

“He’s still… he’s still Rafe,” Sam said weakly, her heart aching.

“No, he’s not!” Topper yelled at the top of his lungs, his hands going to his hair, gripping the roots in frustration.

The commotion had woken their mother up, her footsteps heavy and hurried as she rushed down the hallway. She now stood in Sam’s bedroom doorway, her eyes darting between Sam, still on the bed, and Topper, his body rigid with fury, and the fresh, jagged hole in the wall beside the door.

“What in God’s name is going on here?” Cynthia demanded, her voice sharp.

Topper and Sam rarely fought like this; their disagreements were usually minor, quickly resolved. This raw, screaming anger was a foreign, terrifying thing, and Cynthia had no idea how to handle it.

“Topper?” Cynthia demanded answers, but she was met with his ragged breathing, his chest still heaving with exertion and rage.

“Sam?” She turned her head to her daughter, who was sat on the bed, her face pale, her lip trembling as she bit down on it to compose herself.

“Nothing,” Topper spoke up, his voice tight and strained. “Go back to bed mom.”

“Who are you to tell her what to do, Topper?” Sam snapped. “Who are you to tell me what to do?”

“What are you two bickering about?” Cynthia threw her hands up in frustration, trying to make sense of their heated exchange.

“I’m your fucking older brother!” Topper seethed, taking a few steps towards the bed, his frustration boiling over.

Cynthia instinctively moved, blocking his path, placing a hand on his chest to hold him back.

“You’re just gonna have to trust that I know better than you sometimes! No, actually— all the time! I couldn’t stop what happened at the bonfire, but I sure as hell can stop anything else from happening now. I’m putting my foot down. You are not to see Rafe. You are not to speak to him. You are not to even breath the same air as him—”

“It wasn’t his fault—” Sam tried to interject, her voice weak against his onslaught.

“—you’re right!” Topper exploded, his voice reaching a fever pitch. “It wasn’t Rafe’s fault! It was yours—” He pointed a shaking finger at her, his face contorted with a sudden, vicious cruelty.

“Christopher!” Cynthia’s voice pierced through the air, sharp and authoritative. “That’s enough!” She pressed her hands firmly against his chest, pushing him back slightly. “That is quite enough!”

Sam’s hand flew to her mouth, stifling a cry. It was a blow she had long feared, a silent terror that had haunted her. She had spent months convincing herself it was her own fault, a twisted form of self-preservation.

Maybe that was the real reason she never told anyone what happened to her – the fear that someone else would confirm the blame she had already placed on herself. But for it to be delivered by her own brother… it cut deeper than any wound.

Topper’s anger seemed to simmer down slightly in the face of Sam’s stunned silence, his eyes softening, a flicker of immediate regret replacing the fury.

“Sam,” his voice was quieter now, laced with a desperate plea, trying to get her attention, to take back the cruel words that had already left his lips. “Sam, I.. I didn't mean it.”

But her gaze was fixed on the floor, “Get out,” she whispered, her voice broken, barely audible.

He stayed rooted in place, “I said GET OUT!” She lifted her head then, her eyes meeting his, and in their depths, he saw an emptiness that mirrored the hole he had punched in her wall, the hole he had just torn in her heart.

As he was led away by his mother, Topper couldn’t forget the look in Sam’s eyes, the utter devastation reflected there. He had gone too far. He had said the one thing he could never take back, the one thing that could shatter the fragile trust she had just begun to rebuild in him.

After finally getting her to open up to him, to confide in him about what happened, he had, in a fit of misguided anger, given her a reason to shut him out completely, to retreat back into herself. All the hard work she had done towards healing, felt like they had been erased in an instant. It was always one step forward, two steps back, and this time, he was the one who had pushed her back into the darkness.

.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・.

Sam sat curled on the wide sill of her bay window, her mind racing, trying to formulate some kind of escape plan from the confines of her own home – a home that suddenly felt like a prison, guarded by her overbearing brother.

This wasn’t the Topper she knew, who used to barely bat an eye at what time she got home or who she was out with. Back then, she’d had the unspoken excuse of their father’s recent death, a shared grief that seemed to grant them both a certain leniency, a pass on the usual rules.

But ever since he had finally learned the truth about her assault, something had shifted fundamentally in him..

He insisted on picking her up and dropping her off everywhere, no one else allowed to give her a ride. If she was out with friends, a curt text or a sudden appearance would signal that it was time to come home, cutting her nights short at an arbitrary 10 pm curfew.

Every outing was preceded by an interrogation – where was she going, and with who?

And now, the ultimate restriction: he had explicitly banned her from seeing Rafe. It was like being under house arrest, every movement monitored, every decision scrutinized.

She knew sneaking out wouldn't be easy, not with Topper on high alert. She looked towards the dock; the boat was parked there, a potential getaway vehicle, but the roar of the engine would instantly alert him. Their jeep sat in the driveway, a silent symbol of freedom, but the keys were undoubtedly in Topper’s pocket. Her bike, her usual mode of independent transportation, was miles away, forgotten in the back of Rafe’s truck. She felt trapped, suffocated by his well-intentioned but ultimately controlling grasp. There didn’t seem to be any viable option for escape.

She was lost in her thoughts when she felt a sharp tap against the glass of her window. Startled, she peered down and saw Sarah standing below, waving up at her, a silent signal towards the guest house across the lawn.

Minutes later, she was slipping under the covers in the twin bed of the guest house, the familiar scent of Sarah filling the small space. She leaned her head on Sarah’s shoulder, exhaling softly, and for a moment, it felt like old times again, their countless sleepovers in each other's rooms.

“What are you doing here?” Sam asked, her voice muffled against Sarah’s hoodie.

“Topper said I could crash here,” Sarah explained, shifting to angle her body to face Sam. “I heard yelling a little while ago and woke up. Is everything okay?”

“Honestly…” Sam shook her head. “No. It’s really not.”

It didn’t matter that Sarah was hanging out with the Pogues these days, practically living a totally different life. Or that Sam had shut everyone out after her dad died, building emotional walls sky-high to protect herself. It didn’t even matter, in the grand scheme of things, that Sarah was her brother’s ex-girlfriend, a fact that could easily complicate things. None of that stuff mattered one bit when it came down to it.

Sarah was still, and would always be Sam's best friend. The sister she never had. That bond was just… solid. Nothing, no distance, no dumb fight, no different friend groups, could actually break it.

Even after months of barely talking, of their lives doing totally different thing. The second she was there, it was like no time had passed at all. All the walls Sam had up? They just disappeared because it was Sarah. Simple as that.

“What’s going on?” Sarah asked again, her voice laced with worry.

The last time they’d spoken properly, when Sarah and John B had briefly shown up, everything had been a whirlwind. Sam hadn't had a real chance to explain the chaos, to make sense of Rafe’s sudden, violent appearance at John B’s house, screaming about someone hurting her. The image of him, wild-eyed and armed, was burned into Sarah's mind.

“Sam?” Sarah nudged her gently, her touch a featherlight reassurance. And with that small, physical connection, the dam broke. Sam’s carefully held composure shattered, and the story poured out of her in a torrent of tears and ragged sobs, the raw pain finally given voice.

Sarah sat up straighter, pulling Sam into a fierce hug, then pulling back just enough to hold both of her hands, her own eyes brimming with tears.

“I’m so, so sorry that happened to you. I’m so sorry.” Sarah whispered, pulling Sam into another tight hug

“It’s not your fault,” Sam assured her, pulling away slightly, needing her to understand that this wasn't on her.

“This guy, whoever did this… he can’t get away with this,” Sarah insisted, a flicker of anger in her eyes.

Sam just shook her head, a wave of nausea rolling through her. It felt useless. What good would come of telling anybody it was Kelce? Kelce – the golden boy, the future valedictorian, a fixture in their Kook social circle. Nothing would happen to him.

No justice would be served. It would only twist the knife deeper, dragging Sam’s name through the mud, leaving her reputation tarnished while his remained spotless. The thought of it, the sheer unfairness, made her stomach churn.

It made her physically sick to remember that, at one point, she had even harbored a fleeting, misguided crush on him.

“It’s not that easy. You don’t get it,” Sam said, the weariness in her voice heavy. How could she explain the invisible chains that held her captive?

“Nothing will come of me telling you who it is. Believe me.” The certainty in her voice was chilling.

“Was it… was it someone from the Cut?” Sarah asked hesitantly, her mind scrambling, trying to place a face, a name. Sam shook her head, a silent negative.

“Someone from Figure Eight?” Sarah’s voice was tinged with disbelief. And Sam’s silence was all the answer she needed. Sarah’s eyes widened further. “Is it… is it someone we know?”

“Sarah,” Sam sighed, “It’s fine. You don’t need to launch an entire investigation. It was… it was my own fault anyway. Even my own brother knows it. So please… please don’t worry about it.”

Sarah gripped Sam’s shoulders, her gaze intense, “Sam. Look at me. Whatever Topper said… he was wrong. He shouldn’t have said that. Ever.”

She wanted Sam to understand that his words, born of anger and fear, were not the truth. But even as she said it, she knew the damage was done.

“He's right though—”

“No. He shouldn’t have said that,” Sarah said firmly, her voice full of a protective loyalty that mirrored Topper’s, albeit less explosive. “He’s your older brother; he just… he just wants to protect you—“

As Sarah spoke, Sam’s eyes registered something else. Faint but unmistakable bruises circled Sarah’s neck, dark against her skin.

“What happened here?” Sam reached out tentatively, her fingertips brushing against the tender skin, making Sarah flinch instinctively.

“It’s okay,” Sarah said quickly, pulling back slightly. “Topper actually… he saved my life last night.”

“What happened?” Sam repeated, her voice tight with a sudden dread, her gaze locked on the bruises.

Sarah took a deep breath, “Look, I know you want to see the best in Rafe, Sam. I know you two are… were close. I know…”

She didn’t have to say it all; the unspoken acknowledgment of Sam’s complicated feelings for Rafe, the history between them that went beyond friendship, hung in the air.

Sam’s cheeks flushed, surprised and slightly embarrassed. All this time, their entire lives, Sarah had known? Sam had thought her connection with Rafe, their secret moments, her feelings were a pretty well-kept secret.

“It wasn’t like that,” Sam mumbled, a weak protest.

“I know, Sam,” Sarah said softly, her sad smile returning. “I’ve known forever. The way he followed you around at parties like a lost puppy, when you’d sneak off to his room in the middle of the night thinking no one saw, how he’d chase away any guys that tried with you or when you two went skinny dipping together.” A faint smile touched her lips at the memory, quickly fading. “I know it all.”

“Sarah…”

“And it was okay then,” she continued. “Honestly, it was. And I was happy to let you guys figure that out on your own.”

Sarah took a deep, shaky breath, bracing herself, knowing that the easy part was over. Now she had to rip off the band-aid.

“But… you don’t know the Rafe I know now. You don’t know what he’s done.” She reached up, subconsciously rubbing the raw, bruised skin on her throat, her gaze distant for a moment.

“Rafe did that to you?” Sam’s heart sank, a cold dread washing over her. The implication was horrifying, and a part of her, a desperate, foolish part, didn’t want to hear the answer.

“Yes,” Sarah nodded, “He… he tried to drown me last night. I would have… I would have died if Topper hadn’t been out there.” Her voice broke, tears welling in her eyes again.

“Why… why would he do that?” Sam asked, the question a choked gasp. Even if there was a twisted reasoning, it still wasn't excusable, wasn't understandable.

And Sarah explained. The whole horrifying situation unfolded in her words – what happened on the airstrip: the gold, the chilling truth that Rafe had shot Peterkin, framing John B for murder.

Her friends had seen Ward shoot, Gavin, the pilot— the body bag, the same one that haunted her distorted memories— it had to be.

The terrifying run-in with Ward and Rafe in The Bahamas, the moment Rafe had shot Sarah herself. The gold, always the gold, a driving force behind the Cameron family’s destruction.

And finally, last night, Rafe almost drowning her because she threatened to tell Shoupe about Peterkin’s murder.

Sam didn’t say a word through Sarah’s recounting, only silent tears streamed down her cheeks, a river of grief and shock.

“I know you don’t want to believe all of this,” Sarah said softly, reaching out to take Sam’s hands again. “I know… I know you love him.”

The acknowledgment was gentle, free of judgment.

“But Topper’s right. You need to stay away from Rafe. He’s not okay right now. He’s really not. I… I can’t even go home.” Sarah’s voice trembled, fear creeping in. “Not when he’s there… God knows what he’ll try if he sees me again. That’s why I’m crashing in your guest house and not your room. Please… please don’t tell your mom I’m here. I can’t have my dad and Rafe finding out I’m here.”

There was so much Sam wanted to say, so many questions swirling in her mind, so many emotions warring within her. But the words died in her throat, choked by the weight of the truth.

She knew, deep down, that Rafe was troubled, that there was a darkness within him. She had seen glimpses of it, chosen to ignore it, chosen to let her love, her longing for the boy she knew, overpower that terrifying side of him.

But how could she look the other way now, when her best friend, Rafe’s own sister, was clutching her bruised throat, sobbing as she recounted how her brother had tried to end her life? How he had threatened her life with a gun on two separate occasions and was even successful once? How he had murdered Peterkin, framed the boy Sarah loved?

How could Sam pretend not to know, not to see, not to understand the full, horrifying extent of his actions?

How could she possibly let it go this time? The truth was laid bare. She knew now, the full truth. And she had to pick a side.

“I’m sorry,” Sam whispered, the words barely audible. “I… I didn’t know any of that.”

They had both been so out of tune with what was truly going on in each other’s lives, lost in their own pain and secrets.

Their reunion was cut short however when Topper shuffled into the guest house with a tray of food, freezing when he saw Sam laid beside Sarah.

Before he could come out with an apology, Sam held her hand to stop him. “Sarah, I'll come see you later.” She didn’t even look him in the eyes as she climbed out of the bed and brushed past him.

Topper sighed and sat down at the edge of the bed, placing the tray down.

“She’s mad at me.”

“And rightfully so.”

“I know.” He rubbed a tired hand over his face. "I fucked up, bad."

“You did,” was all that Sarah could offer him, "Just give her some time."

.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・.

Taglist: @rafecameronswhoore @insanesosciopath @hockeybabe87 @congratsloserr @chillgal135

@xoxosblogsblog @drewstarkeyswife-7 @karlamoreno20 @iluvblue @meetmeintheemeraldpool

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hunzzzzz · 8 days ago

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OBX TWEETS: part 18 (Rafe Cameron x reader x John B SMAU)

Taglist:

@yktayy9669 @urmomaahoe @rafesgurl @rafesdrew @sophreakingfunny @hannaa20002000 @furiouscopshepherduniversity @mirellef2001 @colbysbrocks @drewstarkeytruelove @luzstarkey @sassyvilliantrope @wintercrows

@lolasangelz @scream4mami @pixieflu @beavee11 @wtfisastiles @pandxra @Ivxstarr @kissylec @hannieskzzz @soulsearchinginkauai @mysticbby2009 @matildalittlefreak @giouvarlakia @yncoded @my-name-is-baby @harryzcherry @lilithblackkk @drewstarkeyswife-7 @ethanthequeefqueen

@angelicameron @rafecameronswhoore @Imaowhatt @jun13bug @sqfewrd @chillgal135 @angeldiaryy @bee-43 @chirpchirp69 @klarxtr

@countryclubwhore @ayy1234567 @gublerstylesobrien1238 @sophhdelrey

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hunzzzzz · 10 days ago

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OBX TWEETS: part 17 (Rafe Cameron x reader x John B SMAU)

A/N: some writing at the end. don't miss it!

TW: daddy issues

To say you'd been "checked out" for the past week was an understatement. Your daddy issues had always been the punchline of a self-deprecating joke, the kind that gets a nervous chuckle and a quick subject change. But deep down, you knew that particular brand of emotional baggage wasn't just a problem; it was the fertile ground from which all your other charming neuroses bloomed.

Your parents' relationship wasn't exactly a gentle stream flowing through a meadow. More like a constant, head-on collision between two very stubborn, very loud freight trains (unless you count your eventual trust issues as a logical outcome of witnessing the wreckage). You were the resident eavesdropper, a tiny, silent gargoyle perched atop the stairs, knees tucked so tightly to your chest you could practically feel your kneecaps fusing. The yelling was the soundtrack to your childhood, a discordant symphony of slammed doors and raised voices.

Then, one day, the music stopped. Not a fade-out, more like a sudden, jarring silence. And just like that, the man who was supposed to be your superhero vanished into thin air. Your mom, bless her tight-lipped heart, offered no grand explanations, no dramatic pronouncements. Just a simple, devastating "Daddy's not coming back." At eight years old, that sentence was a linguistic black hole, sucking up all understanding and leaving behind a void.

Fast forward eleven years, past a graveyard of missed birthdays, silent Christmases, and Thanksgivings where his absence was a louder guest than anyone present. He didn't show up for your high school graduation, a milestone that apparently ranked at the bottom on his list of priorities. And it was in those years, navigating the minefield of adolescence and burgeoning adulthood, that you truly began to catalogue the sheer, unadulterated damage his disappearing act had inflicted.

Your teenage years were a masterclass in misguided control. Since you couldn't control whether a parent stuck around, you decided to control the one thing you absolutely could: your own body. Turns out, an eating disorder is a fantastic (and by fantastic, I mean soul-crushingly awful) way to feel like you're in charge when your world has gone completely sideways.

And relationships? You were the queen of the emotional hit-and-run. Anything past the one-month mark felt less like a budding romance and more like an impending disaster. The script was always the same: they'd either get fed up with your expertly crafted emotional unavailability (a skill honed over years of practice, thank you very much) or you'd execute a swift, silent ghosting – your signature move. It wasn't conscious, not really. More like a highly effective, deeply inconvenient trauma response. After the original heartbreak, delivered by the man who was supposed to be your ultimate protector, you never quite rebuilt the part of you that knew how to stay. So, you perfected the art of abandoning ship, because being the one who left felt a hell of a lot better than being left again.

Letting anyone new into the inner sanctum of your messy, complicated self was like asking you to perform open-heart surgery with a rusty spoon. Terrifying didn't even begin to cover it. The thought of someone seeing the darkest corners of your mind, the echoes of that original wound, and then choosing to walk away? Your nervous system literally couldn't tell the difference between vulnerability and getting shot at point blank.

You decided to walk back to John B’s from work. The chateau wasn’t exactly down the road. Given your recent car troubles you usually got Rafe or John B to pick and drop you from work. But these days you enjoyed walking.

Headphones on, world off. Your standard defense mechanism was in full effect, drowning out everything but the carefully curated soundtrack to your current state of advanced avoidance. You were so deep in the rabbit hole of your own making you almost clotheslined Rafe, who was leaning against his truck like he owned the street.

"You're avoiding me," he said, no preamble, just the accusation hanging in the air as he stepped closer.

You mumbled a "Sorry," yanking off your headphones like they were suddenly too loud, your gaze fixed firmly on the ground. "Just busy." The lamest excuse in the book, but it was all you had.

Your previous setup with Rafe had been demolished. You'd practically lived at his place, especially after the fallout with your mom when you got back from rehab making home feel less like a sanctuary and more like a battlefield. Rafe's bed was a five-star resort compared to your aunt's lumpy sofa.

Then came the fight. Just a few lines, a shift in his usual easygoing dynamic, but it had felt like a physical blow. All that tough-girl bitch fasacde? A paper-thin shield. You were raw and exposed underneath. The sudden anger in his words, the sheer force of his frustration – it had tripped a wire deep inside you. Your built-in eject button was slammed. He's pissed. He's going to bail. You had convinced yourself you were unlovable, too damaged to make a relationship work. The thought wasn't logical, but it was loud, a siren screaming through your brain. The only way to control the inevitable was to trigger it yourself. Pull the pin. Run.

So you'd been bunking at John B's, perfecting the art of ignoring Rafe's attempts to reach you for the past seven days. Your friends weren't stupid; they knew the whole "my deadbeat dad is back" drama was only part of the story. They just waited, blessedly, letting you self-destruct in peace.

“You know,” Rafe started, his voice rough, etched with hurt, "I was hoping your phone spontaneously combusted. I was seriously considering 'missing persons report.' Figured it was more likely than you just not answering my calls for a week." He rubbed his temples, the gesture speaking volumes about his stress.

You stared resolutely at the ground, the worn-out treads of your sneakers suddenly fascinating. Any attempt to speak would shatter the fragile composure you were desperately clinging to, unleashing the tidal wave of tears you felt building behind your eyes.

"Can't even look at me?" A heavy, frustrated sigh. Then, gently, his fingers were under your chin, lifting your head until your watery gaze was trapped by his. "Baby, I'm sorry. I'm so damn sorry I blew up at you."

"It's okay," the words were thin and unconvincing, accompanied by a weak, wobbly smile that felt alien on your face.

"No, it's not okay." He shook his head slowly, his eyes scanning your face, cataloging the damage the past week had wrought. The dark smudges beneath your eyes, skin unnaturally pale despite the relentless summer sun. It was a clear report card of sleepless nights and relentless anxiety.

"Are you mad at me?" He asked, his voice softer now, taking your hands in his. You managed a small shake of your head. "Are you upset with me, then?" His eyes searched yours, a silent question begging for an answer you couldn't give. "What is it, then? Just tell me. What did I do?" His voice climbed, a note of desperation making it sharp.

That sudden tension, the rise in his voice – it hit you like a physical blow. Tears welled instantly, spilling over and tracking down your cheeks. You recoiled, stepping away, instinctively wrapping your arms around yourself, shrinking inward. The sound transported you, stripping away the years until you were that small, scared child huddled at the top of the stairs, the sound of yelling echoing around you.

"Hey, hey," Rafe was there in an instant, circling you, his arms gentle as he pulled you into a hug. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to raise my voice."

You collapsed against him, the carefully constructed walls crumbling. Deep, racking sobs tore through you, shaking your entire frame. Your face pressed into his chest, soaking the front of his shirt. He held you close, murmuring reassurances, shushing you, rocking you side to side in his arms.

After a long moment, you pulled back, catching your breath, biting down hard on your lip to steady yourself. Your eyes, still glistening with tears, met his concerned gaze.

"It's okay," he said quietly, his voice low and comforting, guiding you towards the open door of his truck. "We don't have to figure it all out right now." He helped you in. "Let's just go home, yeah?"

You knew exactly where home was.

.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・.

"God, I missed you so fucking much," Rafe groaned, pulling you into him, tangling you both in the sheets.

"I'm sorry," you mumbled into his chest, the apology a small, inadequate offering for the week of silence. "I... I don't know why I'm like this."

It was a lie, a reflex born of habit, because you knew exactly the root of this twisted behavior.

"It's okay," he murmured, his hand stroking your hair.

"No," you pushed yourself up, crossing your legs on the bed. "It's really not."

Rafe sat up with you, leaning against the headboard, his expression open, waiting. He didn't demand answers, just reached out, his fingers finding yours, lacing them together, his thumb stroking the back of your hand.

The words felt like shards of glass in your throat. "I'm a leaver," you choked out, the confession a raw wound. "That's what I do. When things get... real, or tough, I run. It feels like it's just... in my programming. Part of the factory settings."

You finally looked away, shame heating your cheeks. "So when we argued... it felt like the beginning of the end. And I just thought it would be easier to... handle the exit myself."

"Baby," Rafe's grip tightened slightly on your hand, his voice soft but firm. "That was a stupid argument. My fault. It wasn't the end of anything."

"You don't want this, Rafe," you insisted, shaking your head, a dry, humorless laugh escaping you. "Trust me. Because this is what you get. Someone who disappears, who shuts down, who builds walls the second things get hard. No one in their right mind would sign up for that."

"Well, maybe I'm not in my right mind then," he said, a faint smile touching his lips, but his eyes were serious. "Listen to me. I see the walls. I see you pushing. And yeah, it hurts like hell. But I also see you. The person underneath all that. The person who's been through some serious shit and is still standing. Still sarcastic. Still amazing." He squeezed your hand. "And I don't care if you push. I'm starting to understand how your defense mechanisms work. I just... I want to be here for you. If you'll let me."

Your throat felt tight, your eyes blurring again. "I don't know how," you whispered, the admission a painful one. "I don't know how to... let anyone help me."

A flicker of hurt crossed his face. "Like you do with your friends?" The question hung in the air, unspoken acknowledgment that he meant John B.

"It's just... easier with him."

"How?" His voice was gentle, curious, not accusatory. He genuinely wanted to bridge the gap.

"He knows," you explained, the words finally flowing, carrying the weight of years. "He was there. When my dad left. He knows the before and the after. He knows all the messy parts. I don't have to explain. He just... gets it. Automatically."

Rafe nodded slowly, a dawning comprehension softening his expression. "So... that's what this week was about? Your dad?"

You nodded, a hesitant dip of your head. Swallowing hard, your stomach twisting with nerves, you made the decision. A leap of faith. He'd stayed through your silence. He was still here, holding your hand. You wanted this to work. You wanted him to last.

And then you started talking. The words tumbled out – the sudden reappearance, the complicated, painful history, the gaping wound of the "daddy issues." You laid it all out, the ugly parts, the fear, the feeling of being fundamentally flawed. And as you spoke, pouring out years of buried pain, the weight on your chest began to lift, just a fraction.

"Baby," Rafe murmured when you finished, pulling you into a fierce hug, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head, the other stroking a soothing path down your spine. "I'm sorry you had to go through that. Trust me, I know a thing or two about shitty dads."

"I'm sorry I don't... open up," you mumbled into his shirt, the apology feeling small but necessary. "It's just... hard. Because if I let myself feel things, if I let someone see... all of it..." You pulled away from him, meeting his eyes. "...I'm terrified they'll leave. That you'll leave." The confession was a quiet ache in the air. "It's easier to be the one who walks away than to stand there and watch someone else do it. It hurts less to expect it than to be blindsided."

"Listen to me," he said, his voice low and earnest. "I know that's your default setting. I know you've been hurt. But I'm not him." He paused, letting the unspoken name hang in the air, acknowledging the shadow of your father. "I'm not going anywhere just because things get a little messy, or because you're having a tough time, or because you show me the parts you try to hide."

"I'm here. And I'm staying. You pushing me away for a week? It didn't make me want to leave. It made me worry. It made me want to figure out what was going on. It made me realize... how much you mean to me." He reached out, gently cupping your face in his hands.

"I'm not going to leave you, baby. Not for this. Not for anything." His voice was a solemn promise, etched with sincerity. "You don't have to be afraid of falling apart in front of me. I'm not going to run."

"When you're shutting down, tell me. Just a word. 'I need space.' 'I'm freaking out.' Something. So I'm not left guessing. Communicate what's going on. Okay? Can you do that?" He continued.

"I can do that. I'm gonna work on it,” you promised him, and you meant it.

.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・.

Taglist:

@angelicameron @rafecameronswhoore @Imaowhatt @jun13bug @sqfewrd @chillgal135 @angeldiaryy @bee-43 @chirpchirp69 @klarxtr

@countryclubwhore @ayy1234567 @gublerstylesobrien1238

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hunzzzzz · 12 days ago

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OBX TWEETS: part 16 (Rafe Cameron x reader x John B SMAU)

Taglist:

@angelicameron @rafecameronswhoore @Imaowhatt @jun13bug @sqfewrd @chillgal135 @angeldiaryy @bee-43 @chirpchirp69 @klarxtr

@countryclubwhore @ayy1234567 @gublerstylesobrien1238

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hunzzzzz · 12 days ago

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TRUSTTTT I HAD SO MUCH TO SAY but then my eyes started watering and I knew it was game over 🥀

Something so traumatic happened to me that my nervous system shut down for an entire day

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hunzzzzz · 12 days ago

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A man yelled at me

Something so traumatic happened to me that my nervous system shut down for an entire day

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hunzzzzz · 12 days ago

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Something so traumatic happened to me that my nervous system shut down for an entire day

#my roman empire #PTSD

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hunzzzzz · 16 days ago

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Save me (Bsf!Rafe x Thornton OFC): part 11

TW: mentions of sexual assault, drug use, cocaine, guns, blood, violence, non consensual drugging, dark themes, suicidal thoughts.

masterlist

.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・.

“Aunty Angela!” Four-year-old Sam’s voice, small and laced with distress, echoed across the sunny backyard. “Help!”

Angela, her apron dirty from making dinner, rushed out of the kitchen. The screen door banged shut behind her. She found Sam kneeling beside six-year-old Rafe near the old, slightly rusty swing set.

“Baby, what’s wrong?” Angela’s warm smile immediately softened with concern as she crouched down beside them. Rafe was lying on the grass, clutching his hand to his mouth, his small shoulders shaking with silent sobs. “Did you fall, sweetie? Tell Mommy where it hurts?” She gently helped him sit up, her eyes scanning his face for any sign of injury.

“He fell off the swings,” Sam explained, her brow furrowed with worry, her wide, innocent eyes filled with childish horror. “And… and his tooth fell out!”

“Oh, honey,” Angela murmured, gently wiping away Rafe’s tears with the corner of her apron. “It’s okay, baby. It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not okay!” Rafe wailed, carefully opening his mouth to show her his gums. He swiped his tongue over the gap where his front tooth used to be, wincing slightly as it grazed the tender cavity. “I’m gonna have no front tooth now! They’re gonna call me the missing tooth boy at school!”

“Rafey,” Angela said, her voice full of gentle sympathy, giving him a reassuring hug. “It’s just a baby tooth. It’s going to grow back, you’ll see.” She explained to both children that these were just their first set of teeth, and soon they would get bigger, stronger ones.

“Really?” Sam asked, her earlier distress replaced by curiosity. She poked tentatively at her own front teeth with a small finger. “Are all my teeth going to fall out too?”

“Yes, sweetheart,” Angela chuckled, ruffling her hair. “But then the tooth fairy comes! She takes the tooth and leaves a shiny coin under your pillow.”

“Really?” Both kids exclaimed in unison, their eyes wide with wonder, their earlier worries momentarily forgotten.

Angela called them in for dinner, the aroma of lasagna wafting through the air, but both Rafe and Sam were too engrossed in their mission to find his missing tooth, crawling around the base of the swing set, their little hands searching through the grass.

“Rafe, tell Daddy what happened today,” Angela said later, as they all sat around the dinner table.

Topper had now joined them after football practice, and Sarah had arrived, still glowing from her ballet lesson.

“My tooth fell out!” Rafe announced proudly, flashing a wide, gap-toothed grin.

Ward glanced at Rafe with a brief, almost dismissive nod before turning his full attention to Sarah. “And how was class today, my little ballerina?” His smile widened as Sarah eagerly recounted every detail – the new plié she had learned, her excitement over getting new pink ballet shoes, the whole nine yards.

Rafe’s smile faltered slightly, and he picked at his lasagna in silence.

“I think you look so cool with no front tooth,” Sam whispered, her small face earnest.

“I look like a goofy pirate,” Rafe snorted.

“A funny pirate!” she giggled, bumping her shoulder playfully against his. “You’re lucky!” Sam pointed out. “You’re gonna get so much money from the tooth fairy!” She always looked for the bright side, even in missing teeth.

Rafe finally lifted his gaze from his plate, his eyes meeting Sam’s. A genuine smile spread across his face. “Yeah, you’re right, Sammy. I’m gonna be rich!”

Later, the kids had all been tucked into sleep. Sam’s parents were out of town hence why she and Topper were staying the weekend with the Camerons. Angela and Ward found themselves in the dimly lit living room. Angela was carefully folding a pile of laundry, her brow furrowed in thought, while Ward was flipping through the channels on the television, his attention seemingly elsewhere.

“Ward,” Angela began softly, her voice carrying a hint of weariness.

Ward grunted in response, his eyes still glued to the screen.

Angela sighed, placing the folded clothes on the coffee table. “Did you even notice how excited Rafe was about his tooth?”

“Of course,” Ward said dismissively, without looking away from the television. “Lost a tooth. Happens to every kid.”

“It’s more than just losing a tooth, Ward,” Angela said, her tone becoming more pointed. “He wanted to share his news with you, his father. He was looking for your enthusiasm….your acknowledgement…”

Ward finally lowered the remote, his gaze settling on Angela, a hint of irritation flickering in his eyes. “Acknowledgement for that? He’s six years old, Angela. He needs to grow a thicker skin, not expect a medal for every little thing. Stop babying him.”

“That’s exactly my point! He is a little boy! He needs his father’s attention, his approval. You barely even glanced at him.” Angela’s voice rose, her frustration boiling over.

“Sarah had something significant to share. She’s showing real talent. Rafe just… lost a tooth. He’ll be fine.” Ward’s tone was dismissive. “Stop making a drama out of everything.”

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about!” Angela exclaimed, throwing her hands up in exasperation. “You always do this! You dismiss his feelings, his accomplishments, everything he does.”

“You coddle him rotten. He needs to learn to stand on his own two feet, not cling to your apron strings for the rest of his life.”

“He’s a sensitive child. He needs encouragement, not constant dismissal. You’re so focused on everyone else that you’re completely blind to Rafe’s needs. He looks up to you, Ward. He wants to make you proud. But you never even give him the chance.” Her voice softened, “I’m genuinely worried about the damage you’re doing to him.”

Ward sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair, his expression one of utter indifference. “Look, Angela, the boy’s fine. He’s just… soft. He’ll either toughen up or he won’t.” He picked up the remote again, turning back to the television, effectively ending the conversation, leaving Angela’s words hanging in the air, unanswered and heavy with unspoken concerns for their son.

.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・.

The scent of white lilies, heavy and cloying, permeated every corner of the Cameron household, a stark reminder of the absence that now defined their lives. Close friends and family, their faces etched with grief, gathered at the Cameron’s home, a silent vigil in the wake of their profound loss.

The funeral itself was a study in contrasting emotions. Ward stood ramrod straight, his face a stoic mask, not an ounce of outward emotion betraying the devastation he must have felt. Fifteen-year-old Rafe stood rigidly by his side, a mirror image in a matching polished suit that seemed too big for his still-boyish frame. He had been told, with a harshness that belied his age, to swallow his tears, to “act like a man.” A curt pat on the back from his father had been the only acknowledgment of his immense grief, a silent command to be strong, to be emotionless.

Sam, just thirteen, sat beside a heartbroken Sarah, her small hand clasped tightly in Sarah’s trembling one. Sarah wept throughout the entire ceremony, her blonde hair falling over her tear-stained face. Sam, despite her own profound sadness, managed to maintain a fragile composure. She needed to be there for Wheezie, Sarah and Rafe. That composure, however, began to fray when Rafe was called to deliver the eulogy.

He walked to the podium, his hands trembling slightly as he gripped the microphone. He looked out at all the faces, a blur of sadness and sympathy, and took a shaky breath.

“Hi everyone,” he began, his voice a little higher than usual, a tremor running through it. “Thank you all for being here. My mom… Angela… she was… she was the best. Everyone who knew her, they knew that. She had this way of making you feel like you were the most important person in the world. Her smile… it could light up a whole room. And her laugh… God, her laugh. It was the best sound in the world.” He paused, swallowing hard, his eyes starting to water.

“I remember… for my tenth birthday, she tried to bake me a cake. It was supposed to be, like, a pirate ship, because I was obsessed with pirates back then. But… it kind of ended up looking more like a lopsided blob with some toothpicks sticking out of it. It was awful. But she was so proud of it, you know? She had this huge grin on her face, and she was so excited. And we all just laughed, even though it tasted… well, let’s just say we ordered pizza that night. But it didn’t matter. It was the thought that counted, and that’s just how she was. Always trying, always loving, even when things didn’t go exactly right.” A small, watery smile touched his lips.

His voice started to waver then, the carefully constructed composure beginning to crumble. “She always knew what to say, no matter what. If I had a bad day at school, or if I messed up at lacrosse practice, she always knew how to make me feel better. She just… she always believed in me.” His voice cracked, a raw, heart-wrenching sound that echoed through the silent church.

“Mom,” he whispered, his voice barely audible, thick with grief. “I… I love you so much. I don’t know what we’re going to do without you…” He tried to continue, his words catching in his throat, a choked sob escaping before he could suppress it.

Ward watched his son, his face remaining impassive, but a subtle tightening around his jaw, a flicker of disappointment in his eyes. A son of his should be stronger, he seemed to think, even at a time like this. He remained seated in the front pew, Instead, it was Topper, his own eyes red-rimmed, who was the first to move. He quickly made his way to the podium, placing a comforting hand on Rafe’s back helping him back to his seat.

Sam searched for Rafe throughout the crowded house. She had barely managed a few stolen moments with him at the church or the burial, the sheer volume of well-wishers pulling them apart like opposing tides. He had retreated into a shell of himself, his eyes distant. All she had been able to offer was a fleeting touch, her hand resting briefly on his arm, a silent offering of comfort before he turned away, a polite, almost automatic smile plastered on his face as he greeted family and friends. She saw it though, the tremor in his hands, the forced brightness in his eyes – he was barely holding himself together, a fragile dam threatening to break at any moment.

She finally found him alone on the balcony, his blazer lay discarded on a nearby chair, his shoulders slumped over the railing, his posture radiating a profound weariness that belied his fifteen years.

“Rafe?” she said softly, her voice barely a whisper in the quiet evening. She moved to his side, one touch, the lightest brush of her fingertips against his cheekbone, was all it took. The carefully constructed facade crumbled, and he turned into her arms, burying his face in her shoulder, a choked sob escaping his lips. “I know,” she murmured.

His grip on her waist was desperate, almost painful. He wished he were holding his mother, he wished she were here, offering her familiar comfort. “I know, Rafe. I’m so sorry,” Sam whispered shakily, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill.

Soon, they were on Rafe’s bed, the silence in his room heavy with unspoken grief. His head rested on her lap as she leaned back against the headboard, her fingers gently threading through the dirty blonde strands of his hair.

Rafe just wanted her to hold him, make him feel better. Promise that he was good enough. That she could love him, even the worst of him. He needed to hear it before he was forced to face the world and its expectations again.

His mother had been the only person on the entire earth who truly saw him, who saw past the bravado and the expectations, and loved him unconditionally. In her eyes, he was a star, capable of anything. Without her, he knew, the already strained relationship with his father would become even more brittle, more demanding.

Because that’s what a father is, a blade that doesn’t stop cutting.

His mother had always been the gentle buffer, the one who smoothed the sharp edges of Ward’s expectations, who offered Rafe unwavering love even when his father’s approval felt impossibly out of reach. Now, that buffer was gone, leaving him exposed and vulnerable.

.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・.

“Topper!” Sam called out, her voice echoing with a mixture of concern and exhaustion as she hurried after her brother. The disastrous Thanksgiving dinner was finally over, the strained smiles and forced pleasantries replaced by a heavy silence that had followed them home. While their mother slept fitfully, both Sam and Topper had spent a restless night, the events of the day replaying in their minds.

She heard Topper’s bedroom door creak open in the pre-dawn hours, and from her own window, she saw him make his way down to the dock, his movements stiff and agitated, each step carrying a palpable tension.

He sighed, turning around to face her as she approached. His jaw was clenched tight, his eyes shadowed with fatigue and something darker. He exhaled a long, drawn-out breath, his gaze lingering on the still water before returning to her. “I’m not mad at you, Sammy.” His voice was low, the anger carefully controlled.

“I know.” She reached out, her hand finding his arm, her touch tentative. “I know you’re mad at Rafe, and I was too, for a long time. But… it wasn’t his fault, what happened that night. Not entirely.” The words felt inadequate, a feeble attempt to explain the complicated mess of emotions swirling within her.

“But it is,” he insisted, his eyes hardening, the anger flaring again. “He left you, Sam.”

Rafe had been more than just a friend to Topper; he was family. They weren’t bound by blood, but their bond was as strong, forged through years of unwavering loyalty. Topper had trusted Rafe implicitly, especially when it came to Sam. Countless times, Rafe had been the responsible one, the designated driver, the person Topper knew he could count on to get Sam home safely from parties, to drive her home from school. If Sam wasn’t in her room at night, a simple text to Rafe would always bring the reassurance that she was with him, that she was safe.

But now, that bedrock of trust had shattered. Rafe had left her at the bonfire, alone and vulnerable, and he hadn’t told Topper about it that night. If he had known, Topper’s mind raced, he would have gone there himself, he would have brought her home, he could have prevented… everything. The thought of what Sam had endured, the violation she had suffered, fueled a burning rage within him, directed squarely at Rafe.

And then, the lie. When Topper had finally asked him about that night, confronted him with his suspicions, Rafe had looked him straight in the eye and lied. The betrayal cut deep, a sharp, agonizing wound.

Topper was furious with Rafe, a white-hot anger that threatened to consume him. He was also angry with Sam, a quieter, more complicated anger born from her silence, her reluctance to confide in him about that horrific night. But beneath the anger, a heavy weight of self-blame pressed down on him. He was her older brother; it was his job to protect her. He should have been there for her. He should have never trusted anyone else with her safety. That failure, that lapse in judgment, felt like a brand seared onto his soul.

“Where are you going?” Sam called out, her voice laced with worry as he stepped onto the boat, the engine sputtering to life.

“Just need to clear my head, Sammy,”

.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・.

Sam didn’t go back to sleep. With Topper gone, a restless energy propelled her out of the house and onto her bike. She cycled aimlessly, the cool morning air stinging her cheeks, her mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. Without consciously deciding, her wheels turned towards the familiar path leading to the great oak tree.

To her surprise, Rafe was there. She froze, her breath catching in her throat at the sight of him. He was on his knees, his shoulders heaving with ragged breaths. The sound of her bike’s tires crunching on a fallen branch made his head snap up, his face a mask of raw fury.

“Sam,” he breathed, his eyes softening, the anger replaced by a weary resignation.

It had been 5 hours since she heard it last, she missed his voice. The wall she had painstakingly built around her heart, brick by painful brick, was slowly but surely chipping away at the edges.

There was something to be said for all of this missing but she didn’t know what it was. But it just felt right to say it. She missed him. She knew that much. She had missed him for months. She had missed him since the bonfire.

The past summer there was something bleak and barren about the world, she thought it was just her fathers absence. But a deeper part of her knew there was another presence she was yearning for. She was missing the person who knew her best.

And even now beneath all pent up resentment and anger. She missed her Rafe. She missed who she used to be, she missed what they used to be.

The last time she had stood beneath this ancient tree, she had been consumed by fear, terrified of the person Rafe had become. But now, seeing him broken and vulnerable, she remembered the boy she had known her entire life.

And even the horrifying thought of him at John B’s with a gun… a twisted part of her understood. In his warped perception, he had been trying to protect her, to avenge the wrong done to her in the only way he knew how – a violent, misguided attempt to help.

She knew she should have turned back, should have kept her distance. But her legs moved of their own accord, carrying her forward until she was kneeling on the damp earth in front of him.

Right now he was helpless and it made her forget all the ways he had hurt her.

“What's wrong?” she asked softly, her gaze searching his ravaged face. “What happened?” She noticed a fresh bruise blooming on the other side of his jaw, a mirror image of the one Topper had landed at Thanksgiving dinner just mere hours ago. “Rafe?” she pressed, her voice laced with concern.

“I fucked up,” he breathed, the words a ragged exhale, his eyes glazed over, seeing nothing but the wreckage of his own making. “God, Sam, I’m… I’m so utterly fucked up.” He squeezed his eyes shut, his fingers digging into his temples, trying to claw his way out of his own skin.

“What’s going on?” She gently cradled his face in her hands, her thumbs stroking his cheekbones. He winced slightly at her touch, the tenderness a stark contrast to the throbbing pain of his bruises.

He was spiralling, the weight of his recent actions crashing down on him. He had just tried to drown his own sister, a desperate act born of a twisted loyalty, a horrifying attempt to silence the voices in his head.

He had done what his father would have wanted, hadn’t he? Find the problem, eradicate the threat. That’s the Cameron way, etched into his very being. He kept repeating it to himself, a desperate mantra against the rising tide of his own conscience. But even as he clung to that justification, a cold certainty gnawed at him: his efforts would be overlooked, his sacrifices unnoticed. Ward’s gaze would always linger on Sarah, his golden child.

The sadness that consumed him tonight wasn’t truly his own. It was a borrowed grief, a reflection of his father’s perpetual disappointment. It was the sorrow of a son who knew, with a bone-deep certainty, that he would never measure up, would never be the son Ward could truly be proud of.

“Rafe, are you okay?”

“I’m not,” he spat out, shaking his head with violent self-disgust, his messy bangs falling across his forehead like a curtain of despair. “I just need it all to stop, don’t you understand? I can’t fix anything. I try, I swear I try to keep it together, to keep… everything from falling apart. But I just make it worse. I’m poison.”

“I’m so fucked up,” he continued, his voice hollow, devoid of any hope. “You should run, Sam. Just run as fast as you can and don’t look back.”

“I’m not leaving.” She said firmly, stroking her finger over his cheekbone. “I’m not leaving you, not now, not ever.”

“I’m terrible. I’m a truly terrible person,” he choked out, shaking his head in self-loathing. “You need to get away from me. Leave while you still have a chance.”

“No.” Seeing him like this, broke her.

Yes he had turned his back on her, left her at the bonfire. But she couldn’t hold a grudge, she couldn’t just walk away like he did.

“You don’t know the things I’ve done, Sam—”

“I don’t care,” she whispered, tears welling in her eyes, a sickening realization blooming in her chest: her love for him was unconditional, a force far beyond her control. It didn’t matter what he had done or what he hadn’t done, it was a fact engrained in her ribcage.

“Just go!” he yelled, the raw desperation in his voice tearing at her heart.

“I can’t!”

“Why?” His eyes, wide and questioning, searched hers, a flicker of disbelief in their depths. He couldn’t fathom why anyone would stand by him, would offer him support, would have his back after everything he had done. He didn’t believe that he deserved it. How could he?

“Because…” she reached out, lacing her fingers through his calloused ones. She leaned forward, the space between them shrinking until her forehead rested against his. Her eyes fluttered shut, his hot, ragged breath fanning across her face, “Because I love you, Rafe.”

Rafe stilled, every muscle in his body going rigid. He had dreamt of a love so big that it consumed him whole, so damning that it burnt him alive. Yet, hearing those three words he had yearned for, spoken with such quiet conviction, felt like a cruel illusion. He didn’t dare to believe it, couldn’t reconcile the purity of her confession with the darkness he knew resided within him.

He had never truly believed himself worthy of love, not a love like this, a love that felt like a lifeline in his drowning world. He had constructed elaborate scenarios in his mind, impossible circumstances that might somehow justify such a miracle, only to wake up each time consumed by shame.

“Even the worst of me?”

She looked into the depths of his haunted blue eyes, saw the hell that raged within, “All of you, Rafe. I love all of you.”

“But…” The word caught in his throat, a dam holding back a torrent of confessions, every horrible thing he had done poised to spill forth. Peterkin. Sam’s “overdose.” Sarah.

Sam shushed him, her fingers pressing softly against his lips, silencing the words before they could escape. She leaned in closer, her breath mingling with his, their lips mere millimeters apart, the tips of their noses brushing in a tender, hesitant dance.

After what happened to her at the bonfire, she had been calculated, distant, and unavailable, not out of any sort of strategy, but out of fear. Fear kept her from a lot of things, but perhaps the most poignant was that it kept her from love and opening myself to another person. It kept her from something fundamental: intimate human connection.

But with Rafe, in this moment, it felt right, undeniably, inexplicably right. There was no hesitation, no second-guessing, just a profound sense of coming home.

He didn’t move, every nerve ending in his body on high alert, convinced this was a mirage that would vanish with the next breath. He fully expected her to pull away, to realize the magnitude of what she was doing, the mistake she might be making. But then, he felt it – the softest brush against his lips, a tentative exploration, warm and tender, like the first hesitant touch of sunlight after a long winter.

Rafe let her take control. He understood, on a level that transcended spoken words, the fragility of this moment for her. He knew about the lingering trauma that clung to her like a shadow. His own desires were secondary; he wanted her to feel secure, cherished, in control. Sam reached for his hands, guiding them, placing them gently on her hips, a silent invitation.

.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・.

Taglist: @rafecameronswhoore @insanesosciopath @hockeybabe87 @congratsloserr @chillgal135

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hunzzzzz · 18 days ago

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Man you got me blushing and shiii🥹 TYSM I appreciate tf out of you! I’m so happy you’re feeling better🫶🏼🫶🏼 laughter is the best medicine sometimes!

OBX TWEETS: part 15

Taglist: (when I’m trying to tag some people it’s keeps saying ‘blog not found’ ?? How do I fix this?)

@angelicameron @rafecameronswhoore @Imaowhatt @jun13bug @sqfewrd @chillgal135 @angeldiaryy @bee-43 @chirpchirp69 @klarxtr

@countryclubwhore @ayy1234567

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hunzzzzz · 19 days ago

Text

OBX TWEETS: part 15 (Rafe Cameron x reader x John B SMAU)

Taglist: (when I’m trying to tag some people it’s keeps saying ‘blog not found’ ?? How do I fix this?)

@angelicameron @rafecameronswhoore @Imaowhatt @jun13bug @sqfewrd @chillgal135 @angeldiaryy @bee-43 @chirpchirp69 @klarxtr

@countryclubwhore @ayy1234567

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hunzzzzz · 22 days ago

Text

Save me (Bsf!Rafe x Thornton OFC): part 10

TW: mentions of sexual assault, drug use, cocaine, guns, blood, violence, non consensual drugging, dark themes, suicidal thoughts.

A/N: I put my entire p*ssy and heart into this chapter! Enjoy<3

masterlist

.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・.

Thanksgiving 2018

“Game’s about to start,” Rafe announced, barging into Sarah’s room without so much as a knock.

Sam was sprawled on the bed, thumbs flying across her phone screen, completely absorbed. Sarah was already downstairs, no doubt strategizing with Ward for the annual game.

“Family friendly” was a blatant lie. Thanksgiving football was war. Cameron versus Thornton sibling rivalry at its finest, or rather, most brutal. Lines were not just crossed, they were obliterated. Shoving, tackling, biting, scratching, ball tapping, wet willy’s, trash-talking – it was all fair game.

Rafe still bore a faint scar on his arm from the year Sam had bitten him to break his tackle, drawing blood. Winning was everything, and the post-game Thanksgiving dinner was always a tense affair. The victors, bruised and battered but smug, reveled in their triumph, while the losers sulked, picking at their turkey and harboring simmering resentment— grudges usually dissolving by dessert.

Rafe sauntered over to the bed, casually dropping onto it and resting his head in her lap, angling his gaze upwards. Sam didn’t even register his arrival, her focus laser-locked on her phone, a soft smile playing on her lips as her fingers danced across the screen.

“Hello?” he grumbled. Jealousy, sharp and unwelcome, twisted in his gut.

“Uh-huh.”

Rafe knew she wasn't even registering his presence. “You know, you’re gonna get creamed later. Thorntons are going down this year.”

“Yeah, sure, sounds good.”

“Oh yeah?” Rafe persisted, “Remind me again, do you enjoy losing to me?” He leaned up slightly, his smirk widening.

“Yeah, uh-huh,” she repeated, a distracted chuckle escaping her lips, her eyes still glued to the screen.

Rafe’s stomach clenched tighter, jealousy morphing into a simmering irritation. Sam’s stupid boyfriend on that text thread was clearly winning her attention.

“You know,” he drawled, a deliberate casualness to his tone that belied the possessive edge underneath, “your boyfriend’s a real… prude.”

That finally snagged her attention. A flicker of annoyance in her eyes as she finally looked down at him. “Bitter that you’re still single?” She flicked his forehead. “I know the holidays are a lonely time. Hang in there bud.”

“Please, I could get any chick I wanted, I chose the single life. And that seashell necklace wearing prude? It would be better to spend the holidays with a mop bucket. I don’t know what’s got you so dick whipped,” Rafe pressed, ignoring her glare. “Have you guys fucked yet?”

Sam’s eyes widened, a flash of genuine shock and a blush creeping up her neck. With a swift, sharp movement, she smacked his bicep, a firm reprimand.

“Ouch,” he chuckled, rubbing his arm theatrically, but his smirk remained firmly in place. “So, he’s gotten you all… fucked up, huh? Dick game that good?” he taunted, deliberately pushing her buttons.

She shoved his head off her lap with a huff, scrambling off the bed, desperate to escape the increasingly uncomfortable conversation. “That’s none of your business.”

Before she could reach the door, escape his probing questions, he grabbed her arm, his fingers wrapping around her wrist, spinning her around to face him.

“Oh, but it is my business,” he said, his voice dropping, a low, intimate murmur that sent a shiver down her spine, despite her annoyance.

“Careful there,” she warned, pulling her arm free, stepping back. “You’re starting to sound… jealous.” The accusation hung in the air, a playful jab, but with an undercurrent of something more, something that made Rafe’s jaw clench.

He scoffed, dismissing the notion with a derisive laugh, but his eyes betrayed him, hardening, narrowing. “You seriously fucked him?”

“So what if I did?” Sam retorted. “Maybe I’ve finally found a guy you couldn’t scare off.”

“For fuck’s sake, Sam,” Rafe exploded. “The fucking guy wears loafers and has a pedo comb over!” He gestured wildly, his disgust palpable.

“So what?” She shot back, mirroring his dismissive gesture, shrugging her shoulders defiantly. “I’m into it.”

“No, you’re not,” he stated flatly, his voice brooking no argument, his certainty absolute, possessive.

“Yes, I am,” Sam insisted.

“Have you fucked?”

“I already told you, it’s none of your business!”

Rafe nodded slowly, a victorious smirk spreading across his face, a smug, knowing look in his eyes that made Sam want to punch him.

He clicked his tongue against his teeth, a sound of smug satisfaction. “You haven’t,” he declared, his voice dripping with certainty.

“Maybe we did, maybe we didn’t,” Sam crossed her arms defensively, trying to regain some semblance of composure.

“Nah,” Rafe repeated, shaking his head dismissively, his smirk widening, utterly convinced of his assessment. “You didn’t. I know you, Sammy.”

“I’m done talking about this,” she snapped, planting her hands on his chest, intending to shove him away, to create some space, to escape. But it was like pushing against a brick wall.

He leaned into her hands, unyielding, unmoving, pressing her back flush against the closed door, effectively trapping her.

“What’s the problem, huh?” he drawled, his breath warm against her face. “You’re eye fucking him through your phone but can’t—“

“If you say ‘fuck’ one more time,” she hissed, “I swear to god I’m gonna bash your head in with that goddamn football.”

��What’s the hold up?” he persisted, ignoring her threat. “What’s the big deal?”

“If you must know,” Sam finally relented, her voice dropping to a near-whisper, her gaze flickering away from his. “We just… we just haven’t had the… opportunity yet, okay?”

“Awww, how cute,” Rafe teased, the word dripping with playful sarcasm. He reached out, his knuckles lightly stroking her cheek. She instinctively tensed, her teeth baring slightly in a threat to bite his hand.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” he chuckled, withdrawing his hand just out of reach, his grin widening. “None of that this year. Now, get ready to lose.” He stepped back, finally releasing her.

“Never in a million years.”

“Yeah?” Rafe challenged. “If you’re so damn sure you’re gonna win, princess, care to make a little wager then?”

Sam raised her eyebrows, her interest instantly piqued, the competitive fire in her veins igniting. “Wager?” she echoed. “What kind of wager?”

“Hmm,” Rafe hummed, pretending to consider, his eyes narrowing in mock concentration. “If I win,” he declared, emphasizing the ‘I’ with arrogance, “which, let’s be honest, is inevitable, you break up with… what’s-his-name again? Jeremy?”

“Jared,” she corrected him automatically.

Rafe simply shrugged indifferently, Jared’s name, Jared’s existence, utterly irrelevant to the game about to unfold between them.

“What does this have anything to do with him?”

“He’s not a good guy.” Rafe’s eyes hardened. “I don’t know why you’re even entertaining it.”

“Okay,” Sam nodded, not even taking his threat seriously because she was confident her team wouldn’t lose, “and when I win…” she countered, her mind racing, considering the stakes, the possibilities.

She thought long and hard, her gaze sweeping over Rafe, searching for something truly valuable, something that would sting if she won, something he wouldn’t easily part with. What did Rafe Cameron hold closest to his heart in the entire world?

“What do you want, princess?” Rafe prompted, leaning in slightly.

Her gaze landed on it, the familiar weight of gold chain nestled against his throat, the chain he wore constantly, a seemingly permanent fixture. “Your chain,” she pointed a finger at it, the ultimate prize, the ultimate symbol of victory. “I want your chain.”

“You’re on, Sammy.”

Halfway through the game, the Cameron team, a well-oiled machine of strategic plays and ruthless tackles, held a comfortable lead. Rose, surprisingly nimble for her age, had snagged an interception, Sarah, quick and agile, had weaved through the Thornton defense for a touchdown, and even Ward, despite his booming pronouncements of being “past his prime,” had laid down a bone-jarring tackle that sent Topper sprawling. The Cameron cousins, a rowdy bunch were no match for the Thorntons, they were giants in comparison .

The Thornton side, while playing with equal ferocity, seemed to be perpetually playing catch-up, their faces grim with determination, but the scoreboard painted a clear picture: Cameron dominance, at least for now.

During halftime, a temporary truce descended on the battlefield. Panting, slightly bruised, and definitely losing,

Sam retreated to the sidelines, collapsing onto the grass. Her phone screen illuminated, revealing a string of notifications – mostly from group chats about weekend plans and post-game bragging rights.

Then, a new message, a private notification from her friend: "Girl, you are NOT gonna believe who I just saw at the club. Jared. And not alone. Making out. Like, full-on tonsil hockey, with some blonde. Just thought you should know. Ugh, guys are trash."

The energy that had fueled her competitive spirit in the first half of the game seemed to drain away, replaced by a heavy weariness. What was the point, really? Winning, losing, football games, boyfriends… it all felt strangely meaningless now.

The whistle blew again, signaling the start of the second half. Sam dragged herself back onto the field, her movements sluggish, her usual spark noticeably dimmed. Her heart wasn’t in it anymore, it was battered and bruised.

Midway through the third quarter, Rafe, quarterback for the Cameron team, launched a long, spiraling pass intended for Sarah. Sam, positioned perfectly to intercept, found herself in open space, the ball hanging in the air, practically begging to be caught. In any other game, she would have launched herself, a human missile, intercepting the pass with a triumphant grin, turning the play into a momentum-shifting turnover.

But this time, she hesitated. She watched the ball arc through the air, watched Sarah sprinting to receive it, and… she just didn’t move. She barely even attempted to contest the catch. Sarah snagged the ball easily, jogging into the end zone for another Cameron touchdown, the cheers of her team echoing around the field.

Rafe frowned, his gaze narrowing on Sam. He jogged over to her, a mixture of confusion and irritation etched on his face. “Sammy? What the hell was that?” he demanded. “You just… stood there. You could have got that. Easy.”

He searched her face, his eyes scrutinizing hers, the initial irritation softening into genuine concern. “You good?” he asked, “You look… off.”

Sam shrugged, still avoiding his gaze, her foot scuffing against the grass, dislodging a small clump of dirt. “Who cares?” she mumbled, “You guys are winning. Isn’t that what matters?”

Rafe’s frown deepened. He hated seeing her like this, listless, unengaged. Thanksgiving football wasn’t fun when Sam wasn’t trying to rip his head off on the field, when she wasn’t pushing him to his limits, when they weren’t at each other’s throats. The game, without her usual fierce rivalry, felt flat, hollow, utterly unsatisfying. He didn’t understand what had shifted, what had stolen her fire, but he knew he didn’t like it. Not one bit.

Predictably, the Cameron’s clinched the win. Topper and the rest of the Thornton cousins erupted in accusations of rigging, Sam was usually the one shouting the loudest whether she won or lost. But she simply walked off to the side with a quiet sadness that had nothing to do with the scoreboard.

Her father jogged over, “Hey, seaweed,” he ruffled her hair with a reassuring smile. “We’ll get ‘em next year.” It was clear to everyone that Sam hadn’t been herself out there. “S’not your fault, kiddo. Don’t beat yourself up.”

Rafe watched Sam from across the the long, laden Thanksgiving dinner table. She picked at her food, pushing the mashed potatoes and cranberry sauce around her plate. He noticed Sarah reach across the table, her hand covering Sam’s, giving it a brief, reassuring squeeze as they spoke in low, hushed tones, their heads bent close in conspiratorial whispers.

As the evening wore on, the post-dinner lull settled over the house. The adults migrated to the living room, the clinking of wine glasses mingling with the soft crackle of a vinyl record spinning on the turntable.

Sarah, Wheezie, Sam and a few others huddled together on the back porch, wrapped in thick blankets, their faces illuminated by the flickering flames of the fire pit.

Rafe was down by the dock with Topper and their cousins, the cool night air carrying their boisterous laughter across the still water. But his gaze kept drifting back towards the porch. Finally, feigning a need to use the bathroom, he excused himself from the group, his real intention fixed on intercepting Sam, who he saw slipping back inside the house.

Just as the bathroom door creaked open, Rafe was already there, waiting. He firmly steered her back inside, his hand resting lightly on her arm, and closed the door behind them, the click echoing in the small, suddenly intimate space.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, his eyes scanning her face, searching for any tell-tale sign of what was causing her such obvious pain. He needed to know what was hurting her, and how he could help.

She looked up at him, her eyes brimmed with unshed tears, her bottom lip quivering precariously. Then, the dam broke. A choked sob escaped her lips, followed by another, and she dissolved into a torrent of tears, her hands flying up to cover her face.

Rafe reacted instantly. One hand cradled the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair, while the other held her waist, holding her close.

“He… he… cheated,” she finally managed to choke out between heart-wrenching sobs, her words fragmented, her body trembling violently in his embrace.

He pulled back slightly, his hands gently prying hers away from her tear-streaked face. “Who? Jared?”

She nodded, a single, jerky movement of her head, confirming his suspicion. Her eyes, now red and swollen, flickered away from his, a wave of shame washing over her, the humiliating sting of feeling unwanted burning in her chest.

“I’m gonna fucking kill him,” Rafe muttered, his jaw clenching so tightly his teeth felt like they might shatter.

“He didn’t deserve you,” Rafe said softly, his hands cupping her cheeks, gently forcing her to meet his gaze. “He’s a fucking idiot. A blind, stupid idiot.” His thumb traced the delicate curve of her cheekbone.

Rafe leaned in, his gaze dropping to her lips for a fleeting second before rising to meet her watery eyes. Sam’s eyelids fluttered shut. She waited, hoped, yearned. But instead of the kiss she might have subconsciously craved, she felt the soft, gentle press of his lips against her forehead.

And then the shame burned a hole through her. She had finally, painstakingly, managed to distance herself from the confusing, overwhelming feelings she’d harbored for Rafe ever since that stolen kiss years ago – her first kiss, a moment etched in her memory with a bittersweet ache.

In her naive teenage heart, she’d wanted him to be her only kiss, the beginning of something real, something lasting. And sometimes, in stolen glances and moments of unexpected tenderness, she’d allowed herself to believe, just maybe, that he felt it too.

She’d deliberately pushed aside the whispers of Rafe’s numerous side quests with numerous girls, each fleeting romance a tiny, sharp thorn in her heart. But the crushing realization that he only saw her as his little sister to protect, had forced her to erect walls around her heart, and force herself to move on.

Moving on, however, had been a far more arduous task than she’d anticipated. Most of the guys she’d attempted to date had barely made it past the first date.

Unbeknownst to her, Rafe had been her unwitting gatekeeper, his overprotective nature manifesting in hushed interrogations, thinly veiled threats, a silent campaign to scare away any boy who dared to show interest in Sam. So, finding someone who wasn't immediately intimidated by the intense Rafe Cameron had been a rarity.

Then Jared had come along, his interest in her blatant, unwavering– undeterred by Rafe’s brooding presence, by his possessive glares. And Sam had fallen, hard and fast, head over heels for the attention, for the feeling of being truly seen in a way she never had been by Rafe.

In a way, Jared was a lot like Rafe – tall, broad-shouldered, the star quarterback, head of the lacrosse team. But it wasn’t just the superficial similarities; there was a mirroring of confidence, of a certain effortless charm that drew people in, a similar intensity in their gaze when they focused on something they wanted. They both possessed that same easy arrogance that often came with being a popular athlete in their privileged world.

Jared’s reputation, much like Rafe’s, preceded him. He moved through the country club with an air of entitled ownership, given that his father owned the club. Girls flocked to him, drawn to his picture-perfect image, a dynamic Rafe was equally accustomed to, with a constant stream of admirers vying for his attention. They both had that same magnetic pull, that undeniable charisma that made them the center of their respective social circles, the kind of guys who commanded attention without even trying.

The fact that Jared had chosen her, Sam, had felt like a miracle, a validation she hadn’t realized she craved. For the first time in her life, Rafe hadn’t been the central figure in her romantic landscape.

And now? Now she was back at square one, the fragile illusion shattered. She felt foolish, naive, for ever believing that anyone, truly, would want her, especially when measured against the unattainable standards she’d unconsciously set, standards unknowingly shaped by the very person she was trying to forget. Rafe.

She shook her head, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. “You got what you wanted. You won the bet. You would have gotten it anyway, even if you hadn’t won that stupid game.” She inhaled sharply, pulling away from him, wiping the lingering tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand. She turned away, her gaze fixed on her reflection in the bathroom mirror.

“No,” he said softly, his voice laced with a sincerity that cut through her cynicism. “This isn’t what I wanted. You know I hate seeing you like this.”

This was precisely the reason why Rafe chased away any guy who showed an interest in her. He never wanted to see her hurt.

“It’s fine,” she insisted.

Rafe reached up and unclasped the gold chain from around his neck. It was the one his mother had given him, a piece he never took off. He stepped closer, his hands gently reaching around her neck, he fastened the clasp, the delicate click echoing in the small space. Their eyes met in the mirror, Sam’s fingers traced the intricate links of the gold chain, the weight of it settling against her collarbone.

It wasn’t about the chain. It wasn’t just a lost bet. It was so much more than that.

.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・.

“Mom, please, just leave me alone,” Sam mumbled, her voice muffled by the thick duvet pulled over her head.

Sunlight, aggressively invited into the room by Cynthia’s determined hand drawing back the curtains, assaulted her sensitive eyes.

“Samantha Angela Thornton,” Cynthia said, her tone firm, laced with a familiar maternal warning that made Sam wince even under the covers.

“Mom…” she groaned again.

“That’s enough. It is Thanksgiving.” Cynthia stated, as if that single fact should magically cure all of Sam’s ailments.

“Mom, please!” Sam buried her face deeper into her pillow, trying to block out the light, the noise, the insistent reality of the day.

“You have been holed up in this room all week!” Cynthia stood at the foot of her bed, her hands planted firmly on her hips.

It was true. The days since Sarah’s revelations had blurred into a nightmarish haze. Sam had retreated, burrowing into the perceived safety of her room, desperately trying to process the horrifying truths swirling in her mind. Sarah, Rafe, gun, Peterkin.

She didn’t know what to do. If she told her mom or Topper, their immediate reaction would likely be suspicion, the dreaded accusation of relapse. The thought of another forced stay in the psych ward, the sterile white walls closing in, filled her with a fresh wave of panic.

Even though a part of her, a small, desperate voice, whispered that maybe she did need help, because lately, she’d found herself craving the oblivion, the numbness that had once been her escape. Since getting clean, every emotion, every terrifying thought, was amplified, a relentless assault on her fragile mind.

Her mother’s patience, never boundless, had clearly reached its breaking point. The fragile peace that had tentatively settled over their household after Sam’s discharge was dissolving, the familiar friction returning, their old, combative dynamic reasserting itself.

“I won’t say it again.” Cynthia said, her voice leaving no room for argument. “Get up. Get dressed. We’re leaving for the Camerons’ in one hour.”

“What up,” Topper drawled, his usual laid-back greeting echoing across the front porch where Rafe and both their cousins were gathered.

Sam tried to slip past them, her only goal to get inside. The last thing she wanted was to speak to Rafe, to look at him. But she felt his eyes boring into her back, and then the unmistakable thud of his footsteps pounding behind her. She quickened her pace, almost power-walking through the house, out the back door, and down to the end of the dock, until there was nowhere left to run.

A sigh, heavy with defeat, escaped her lips. She tilted her head back, gazing up at the unforgiving glare of the midday sun, letting it blind her momentarily.

“Planning on swimming to get away from me, Sammy?” Rafe’s voice, laced with a bitter amusement, cut through the silence as he stepped onto the end of the dock behind her.

She remained stubbornly still, her back to him, refusing to acknowledge his presence.

“The silent treatment? Wow. Yeah super mature.” He drawled sarcastically, his footsteps circling her until he stood directly in front of her, his shadow falling over her.

The corners of his eyes tightened as he braced himself, ready for the barrage of accusations he likely expected.

But Sam had no accusations left. The questions had died in her throat, choked by the overwhelming weight of Sarah’s truths. She didn’t want answers anymore.

“How long do you plan on doing this for, Sam?” His voice was sharper now, the sarcasm replaced by a raw edge of frustration. “I could go another three months without talking. Guess that’s just what we do now, huh?” He gestured between them.

She nodded, a small, almost imperceptible movement, refusing to give him the emotional reaction he seemed to crave. Then, she turned to walk away, but his hand shot out, clamping around her forearm, his grip tight, yanking her back against his chest.

“See that! That right there— that’s your problem!” His face was a rigid mask, his jaw clenched tight, but the frantic pulse in his temple and the raw hurt that flickered in his usually confident blue eyes.

“Let go,” she struggled against his hold.

“You don’t give a fuck about me anymore, do you?” His voice rose, cracking with pain and anger, the sheer volume of it startling a flock of birds into flight from the nearby trees. “You can just walk away so easily! Like it doesn’t even affect you. Like I mean nothing to you?” His eyes, wide and desperate, searched hers for any flicker of the connection they once shared.

“You walked away from me,” Sam spat, finally breaking free of his grip, shoving against his chest with all her strength, putting precious inches between them.

The bonfire night, it always came back to that night.

“Remember? You left me! You were the first one to turn your back!” She jabbed a finger into his chest with each word, each jab a physical manifestation of the pain he had inflicted. “So don’t come at me, accusing me of some bullshit that you did.”

“And I’m sorry for that!” he yelled, his voice raw with remorse. He grabbed her hand again, this time flattening it against his chest, holding it firmly over his racing heart. “I swear to you, Sam, I’ll never forgive myself. I’ll never forgive myself for what happened to you.”

“I never said it was your fault,” she said, her voice surprisingly steady, her gaze unwavering, locked onto his piercing blue eyes. “It was my own fault.” The words were a bitter admission, a self-inflicted wound.

“No—”

“Yes—”

“No, it wasn’t,” he insisted, his grip tightening on her hand, his knuckles white. “I’ll fucking kill him, Sam. Please, I’m begging you, tell me who it was.”

“I can’t—” The words caught in her throat, a choked whisper.

How could she tell him it was his own friend, Kelce. Knowing what Rafe was capable of now, knowing that he had shot Sarah, shown up to John B’s guns blazing, and whatever transpired with Peterkin— Sam was absolutely terrified of what he would do. He would end up locked away for a lifetime. Why was she protecting him, even after everything that had happened between them?

“I can’t help you if you won’t tell me!” he roared, his voice cracking, bangs falling across his forehead.

“I don’t need your help now!” Sam’s screamed, not caring if anyone heard her. “You know when I needed you, Rafe? That night. That’s when I needed you. I called you—”

“29 times,” Rafe finished her sentence, his voice dropping, a wave of guilt washing over his face, his eyes darkening with the memory.

“I didn’t know what was going on at the time, Sam. I didn’t know about your dad, you didn’t tell me. I didn’t know someone… someone forced themselves on you. If I knew… if I knew then…”

He squeezed his eyes shut, “If I had known… if I had known that night… if I had just picked up the phone. I regret everything. Not being there. Not being able to stop it.”

“And what about after that?” Her voice was cold. “After that night? You came to my dad’s funeral the next day. You knew my dad was dead then. And that is when I needed you, Rafe. All summer I needed you!” She finally broke eye contact, her gaze drifting to the endless, uncaring ripples in the water. “But you left me. Like I didn’t matter. Like I was just… the dirt under your shoe.”

“I was hurt,” he said so quietly, the words almost swallowed by the gentle breeze.

Rafe’s emotions were a tumultuous storm. Regret, sharp and agonizing, twisted in his gut, a deep-seated wish to rewind time, to erase his failures, to simply cease to exist rather than face the enormity of his mistakes.

He had left Sam there on the beach, broken and alone, utterly failing to protect her in the aftermath of her trauma. He hadn’t picked up her calls, hadn’t reached out while she was grieving and finding comfort in drugs.

His own bruised ego and unrequited feelings for her eclipsing her desperate need for support. The memory of her rejection, her inability to say those three words he had so carelessly thrown at her, still stung, but he realized now how wrong it was of him.

All of that warred with a furious rage directed at the person who had dared to hurt her, to violate her. He was a whirlwind of conflicting emotions, his manic energy shifting erratically going from yelling at the top of his lungs one minute to whispering confessions.

“You were hurt?” A bitter, incredulous laugh escaped Sam’s lips. “You were hurt, Rafe? My dad died… and you were hurt? All for what? Because I couldn’t say those three words back to you?”

A long, heavy silence descended between them, broken only by the soft rhythm of their breathing, their gazes locked in a fierce, unspoken battle. In that silence, a torrent of emotions passed between them – silent apologies, lingering regrets, a desperate yearning for something that felt irrevocably broken.

“Do you?” Rafe finally broke the silence, his voice a low, almost desperate plea. The unspoken question hung in the air. He couldn’t bring himself to utter the words, couldn’t bear the crushing weight of rejection a third time.

Sam’s eyes flickered away, her teeth sinking into the soft flesh of her inner cheek.

“Just say it, please, Sammy,” Rafe begged, his eyes wide and pleading. “Please, Sam.”

Her own eyes welled with tears. “Rafe—” she began, her voice trembling.

“You could’ve gone to the police…. With whatever Sarah told you,” he cut her off. “You could have, you should have. But you didn’t…”.

Sam shook her head, a single tear escaping and tracing a lonely path down her cheek.

Yes, she could have. The logical, rational part of her screamed that she should have. But she hadn’t. She couldn’t bring herself to shatter the fragile remnants of their bond, to unleash the devastating consequences of revealing everything she knew – Sarah’s accusations, the gun, Peterkin. She knew, deep down, what the outcome would be: Rafe in prison. And despite everything, despite the anger and the hurt, the thought was unbearable.

She knew, with a sickening certainty, that whatever Rafe had done was terrible. That’s why she had stopped asking, why she had deliberately avoided pressing for the full, horrifying details.

Because to suspect he was capable of such violence was one thing, a dark cloud hanging over her thoughts. But to hear him confess it, to fully accept that reality, to know the truth and still be unable to do the right thing, to betray him to the authorities, to go against the boy she had known and cared for her entire life… that was a burden almost too heavy to bear.

She was trapped in a suffocating grey area, knowing enough to paint a disturbing picture, to make a damning assumption, but clinging to the sliver of hope that the full canvas wasn’t as dark as she feared.

She knew he was involved in Peterkin’s murder, that much was undeniable. But to what extent? Was he solely responsible? Had there been others? She wasn’t sure, and a terrifying part of her didn’t want to be sure. Ignorance, in this moment, felt like a fragile shield against the full force of the horrifying truth.

“Why, Sam?” Rafe pleaded again, his voice cracking, eyes boring into hers. “Why didn’t you go to the police?”

The answer was there, hanging unspoken between them. He knew it, she knew it. But he needed to hear her say it, needed the words to leave her lips, a tangible confirmation of the truth his heart both yearned for. His heart beat with a desperate hope for those three little words.

Because, despite him abandoning her, the lies, the betrayal, the anger— she loved him.

“Why, Sam?” His voice rose again, the desperation turning to a raw, almost violent frustration. He gripped her shoulders, his fingers digging into her skin, shaking her gently but insistently. “Why didn’t you?”

“Hey!” Topper called out, “What’s going on out here?” He was already striding out the back door, his brows furrowed.

He had been watching their tense exchange through the glass, trying to give them space but unable to completely ignore the angry screams and shouts echoing from the dock.

Sam broke free of Rafe’s grip. She turned abruptly, her steps quick and unsteady as she made her way off the dock, meeting Topper halfway up the yard.

“Woah, what’s wrong?” Topper reached out, his hand hovering near her arm.

But she brushed past him, muttering a choked “Nothing,” her face averted, and stormed back towards the house.

Topper’s eyes, narrowed to dangerous slits, locked onto Rafe. “What the fuck was that?”

Rafe pinched the bridge of his nose. He had no idea how much of his and Sam’s argument Topper had overheard.

“Nothing, bro. Don’t worry about it.” He mumbled, trying to brush past him, desperate to avoid this confrontation.

But Topper wasn’t letting it go this time. “No,” he firmly planted himself squarely in Rafe’s path, his chest puffed out with righteous anger. “I think I will worry about it this time.”

“Top, whatever you heard,” Rafe sighed, running a hand roughly through his already disheveled hair, his frustration evident in the tense set of his jaw. “Just… don’t get involved, okay?” He couldn't handle another explosion, not right now.

Topper let out a short, dry chuckle, his head shaking slowly, his lips twisting into a humorless mockery of a smile. “Really?” His eyes were now cold and hard, reflecting a deep sense of betrayal. “Really?” He repeated incredulously.

“Top—” Rafe began, trying to diffuse the situation before it escalated.

“I gave you a chance, bro,” Topper cut him off, his voice rising, the hurt in his eyes palpable. “I asked you if you knew Sam was at the bonfire… I asked you first, because I thought you’d be straight with me, thought you’d tell me the truth. I thought you were my best friend…” he shoved Rafe hard, sending him stumbling back a step. “…My brother,” he added with another harsh shove landing squarely on Rafe’s chest. “I thought I could trust you, to not lie straight to my fucking face.”

“I didn’t mean for any of this to happen, man.” Rafe mumbled, his own jaw clenching. He knew he had fucked up, royally.

Yes, he had left Sam on that beach, a decision that would likely haunt him for the rest of his life. Yes, he had lied to Topper about it, a selfish act of self-preservation at the time. But that was before he knew the full extent of what had happened to Sam after he left, before the weight of his inaction had truly sunk in. The past, his past mistakes, were a constant, suffocating presence.

“I asked you what happened between you two and you acted like you didn’t have a single fucking clue!” Topper shook his head, his hands trembling with rage. “You fed me bullshit this whole time.”

Rafe didn’t say anything.

“You left my sister on the fucking beach?” Topper demanded, confirming the fragments of their earlier argument he had overheard, his eyes blazing. “Alone. Drunk. Crying. Because of some petty fight?” The words hung in the air, heavy with accusation and disbelief. “My fucking sister? No actually, your own fucking bestfriend? You left her?”

When Rafe remained silent, his gaze fixed on the ground, unable to meet Topper’s furious stare, Topper nodded slowly, a grim understanding dawning in his eyes. He turned away abruptly, his back rigid with anger, but then spun back around with lightning speed, his fist connecting with Rafe’s face with a sickening thud, catching him completely off guard.

Rafe’s head snapped to the side, a sharp pain shooting up his jaw. He gasped, letting out a ragged breath, his mouth slightly open from impact.

Before he could even register the blow, another punch came flying towards his cheekbone. This time, his reflexes kicked in, and he managed to narrowly dodge it.

“Top, let’s not do this,” Rafe warned. He wasn’t planning on fighting back. He knew he deserved this, deserved Topper’s anger, but not here, not on Thanksgiving. He didn’t need to give his dad another reason to call him a disappointment.

But Topper was seeing red, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated rage. With a guttural cry, he lunged at Rafe, tackling him to the ground, sending them both tumbling across the lawn in a tangle of limbs.

It wasn’t until Rose spotted the two young men rolling around on the ground that she let out a startled shriek. The commotion drew everyone outside – aunts, uncles, cousins, all rushing to witness the unfolding drama.

Sam stood frozen, her heart pounding in her chest, watching as Ward and several burly cousins wrestled Topper off of a surprisingly compliant Rafe.

But Topper refused to back down, his body straining against their grip, his eyes still locked on Rafe, burning with fury. “You’re fucking liar! You hear me?”

“Take a walk, son,” Ward commanded, his voice low and dangerous, giving Topper one final, forceful shove towards the edge of the yard, his hand clamped firmly on his back.

Topper, his face a thundercloud of anger and betrayal, had no choice but to huff and storm off, disappearing around the side of the house.

Ward turned back to Rafe, who was slowly picking himself up from the ground, dusting off his clothes. He didn’t offer a hand, didn’t say a word. His face was a mask of cold disappointment, a look that cut Rafe far deeper than any punch. Without a word, Ward turned and walked away,

Rafe’s eyes met Sam’s. Her expression mirrored Ward’s– a profound disappointment that made his stomach clench. She simply shook her head slowly, that was the final blow.

The tension at the dinner table was thick enough to cut with a knife. The annual football game, their Thanksgiving tradition, had been cancelled due to Topper and Rafe’s fight.

Topper sat stiffly, his anger radiating off him, his gaze occasionally flicking towards Rafe with a look of raw betrayal that Rafe pointedly avoided. Every clink of silverware against plates seemed amplified in the strained quiet.

Across the table, Rafe, sporting a visible bruise beginning to bloom on his jaw, kept his head down but Sam would occasionally feel his eyes on her. She subconsciously played with the chain clad around her neck, Rafe’s chain.

Rafe could feel the weight of Ward’s disappointed stare on him, a silent reprimand that stung far more than Topper’s punches.

Ward wore a tight-lipped expression. He spoke in clipped tones when necessary, his usual booming laughter absent, the air around him radiating a cold displeasure.

Sam’s attention was a million miles away, a heavy ache in her chest for the empty chair at the other end of the table. Her dad’s chair. Now occupied by Rafe’s cousin. It didn’t feel like Thanksgiving. Sarah’s absence, too, was a gaping hole. Sam desperately wished they were both here right now, because she had never felt so utterly alone.

“So, what’s everyone feeling thankful for this year?” Ward asked from the head of the long dining table, his usual hearty tone sounding slightly forced.

A beat of awkward silence hung in the air before Rose cleared her throat, offering a tight smile. “Well, I’m thankful for my health.”

Wheezie mumbled something about being thankful for “good Wi-Fi,” her attention seemingly glued to her phone under the table.

Some cousin offered a hesitant, “I guess I’m thankful for… another year?” It came out sounding more like a question than a statement.

The responses continued in a similar vein – short, unenthusiastic, and lacking the genuine warmth that usually filled the Thanksgiving table. A distant aunt mentioned being grateful for her knitting club, while an uncle mumbled something about the mild weather.

Rafe simply shrugged when Ward’s gaze briefly flickered towards him, his silence speaking volumes.

Ward’s smile tightened, a forced, almost pained expression that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He let out a small, almost imperceptible sigh before nodding slowly.

Sam kept her gaze fixed on her plate, the untouched turkey growing cold. She offered no response to the forced pleasantries, the hollow words washing over her like meaningless static. It was all background noise to the deafening roar of her own thoughts.

It wasn’t until her mom spoke, her voice clear and bright, saying she was thankful for family, that something inside Sam snapped. Her head jerked up.

Thankful for family?

The words tasted like ash in Sam’s mouth, a sick and twisted lie, one she had been pushing down, burying deep for far too long. A secret that wasn’t even hers, a burden she had been forced to carry in silence. Her mother’s affair. A secret Sam had stumbled upon in the most devastating of moments, when her dad was in his final weeks, his breaths growing shallow, his life slowly slipping away. It was a secret that had twisted in her gut, a silent scream she had never dared to voice, never confronted her mother about. This secret, this unspoken betrayal, had created a chasm between her and her dying father, keeping her emotionally distant during the precious, dwindling moments she had left with him.

Before she even registered the movement, her chair scraped loudly against the polished wooden floor. All conversation ceased, every eye at the table turning towards her as she mumbled a barely audible “Excuse me.”

Too many problems crashed down on her. She felt like she was drowning, each gasp for air bringing in more pain.

Pandora’s Box had been thrown open, releasing a torrent of horrors:

Her mothers affair;

Her dad’s empty chair;

the bonfire night, Kelce;

The night at TannyHill, the body bag, her alleged ‘overdose’;

Sarah’s frantic words echoed in her mind – Rafe, gun, Peterkin – a devastating accusation;

And now, the raw anger and betrayal erupting between Topper and Rafe.

She found herself in the cool, dimly lit wine cellar. She sank to the floor, pulling her knees up to her chest, her forehead resting against them. She was spiralling, she wanted to scream, to tear at her hair, to bite her fingernails until they bled.

The craving hit her– a bump, a line, an entire fucking bag at this point, anything to silence the screaming in her head.

She was towards the end of the bottle of wine when the urgent need to empty her overflowing bladder finally forced her to move. Pushing herself unsteadily to her feet, she crept out of the wine cellar. She leaned against the hallway wall for a moment, the world tilting slightly.

That’s when she heard it, cutting through the muffled chatter and laughter that still emanated from the living room.

“You can’t even look at me when I talk to you! You can’t have a real conversation!” Rafe’s voice echoed from the dining room.

Sam crept to the doorway, peering through the narrow crack. Rafe was standing inches from Ward, his posture tense, his eyes pleading, almost frantic. Ward, in contrast, stood ramrod straight, his face a mask of cold fury.

The sound came before the sight – a sharp intake of breath from Rafe, followed by the sickening thud of his body hitting the heavy wooden chest of drawers against the wall. Then, the unmistakable crack of a slap, sharp and brutal. Sam’s hand flew to her mouth, stifling a gasp that threatened to betray her presence. She saw it, felt it.

Rafe was hunched over, one hand pressed to his stinging cheek. “How many times did I bail you out before this, huh?” Ward’s voice was low, dangerously controlled, each word a taunt, a deliberate twist of the knife. “You saved me?” he repeated rhetorically, a harsh, humorless laugh escaping his lips. “Rafe, you fucked us! All of us!” He erupted, the sound echoing off the walls, filled with a volatile, unrestrained anger Sam had never witnessed from him before.

She had only ever heard vague, clipped remarks from Rafe about his father’s temper, things Ward would say in the heat of the moment. But she had never seen this raw, unadulterated rage, this viciousness. Ward was always so polished, so impeccably composed, the epitome of control. This glimpse into the monster lurking beneath the surface was chilling.

Rafe finally looked up at his father, his chest heaving, his eyes wide and filled with the pain of a broken boy.

Sam waited, her breath held captive in her lungs, until Ward, with a final, contemptuous glare at his son, strode out of the dining room. Only then did she hesitantly step into the room, quietly closing the door behind her, as if sealing off the ugliness she had just witnessed.

“Rafe?” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. He was sitting heavily on one of the empty chairs at the table, his back to her, his shoulders slumped in defeat.

She moved towards him, her hand reaching out to tentatively touch his shoulder. His body was rigid, unyielding, his gaze fixed on the intricate grain of the oak tabletop.

Why? Why, despite the mountain of anger, the web of lies, the crushing weight of his betrayal, did her heart ache for him? Why, against all reason, did she find herself reaching for him, her hands sliding around his shoulders, pulling him back against her, his cheek resting against her chest?

“It’s okay,” she murmured, the words automatic, a reflex born from years of picking each other up after every fall, every fight.

It was a temporary truce, her fingers instinctively tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck, her other hand soothing the tense muscles of his shoulders.

“It’s okay, Rafe.”

She could feel his shoulders trembling beneath her touch, his breathing ragged and heavy, each inhale catching in his throat. And then, finally, his arms came up, wrapping tightly around her hips, burying his face in her chest, a choked cry escaping him before he could force it back down, a sound that echoed the deep-seated ache within him.

Rafe was homesick for arms that had never truly held him, starved for a paternal embrace that remained perpetually out of reach. He was also homesick for arms that had held him, the comforting embrace of his mother, Angela, who was a lost memory now.

This wasn’t like the other times, under the comforting canopy of the old oak tree. This was different, raw, exposed. What she had just witnessed with Ward… she had never known that side of him. And judging by Rafe’s utter lack of resistance, the way he had simply absorbed his father’s anger, made it chillingly clear that this wasn’t the first time.

Sometimes Rafe found peace with his father, accepting that he would never amount to anything in his eyes. Other nights he was bargaining with God asking— what he had to do or give up for him to be proud. The very person whose approval he craved most was the one who consistently broke him down, piece by agonizing piece, leaving him feeling utterly worthless.

The constant one sided war didn’t kill Rafe, and it certainly did not make him stronger. It simply was, a raw, open wound that felt like it always had been and always would be, scorched onto his soul.

Tears, hot and heavy, soaked through the fabric of Sam’s shirt, spreading droplets against her skin. She didn't say anything, because she knew, with a profound sadness, that no words she could offer would ever truly fix this deep-seated longing, this gaping void within him. Nothing she could say would ever fill that empty bowl of his father’s approval. She simply held him, resting her head gently on his.

It was late now, Sam emotionally exhausted, layed on the weathered planks of the dock, the sky was irritated by stars.

Rafe, with the same abruptness he had broken down, had gathered himself and left without another word, disappearing back into the house. Topper was still conspicuously absent, likely nursing his anger and hurt somewhere in the darkness, everyone else was dispersed somewhere inside.

Sam’s mind was running a million miles per hour.

Rafe had told her he loved her. He had confessed those three monumental words to her on the bonfire night, amidst the raw grief and hysteria that had consumed her in the immediate aftermath of her father’s death.

She hadn’t been in the right headspace then, her mind a chaotic whirlwind of pain and disbelief. It hadn’t mattered how she might have felt about him in some distant, untainted corner of her heart; she simply hadn’t been capable of processing the weight of his declaration.

Five vowels, three consonants – the very words she had unknowingly yearned to hear her entire life had been spoken, and she had been too broken to grasp their significance. Although she hadn’t said them back, she hadn’t outright denied them either, lost in a strange, detached numbness that had settled over her heart since that horrific night.

She shut her eyes, a few stray tears escaping and tracing damp paths down the sides of her face, towards her ears. He had told her he loved her again on the boat, that fraught night at Tannyhill, just before her “overdose”.

Amidst the profound pain of the present, an undeniable truth resurfaced, a secret her heart had fiercely guarded, a stubborn ember refusing to be extinguished: despite everything he had done, despite the lies and the hurt, she couldn’t hate Rafe. If there was a way to simply switch off those feelings, to sever the ties of the heart just because someone betrayed you, she desperately wanted to know the answer.

And now, with the loosening grip of the wine and the absence of any other numbing agent, the realization hit her with a renewed force. She still loved him. She had always loved him. She had never truly stopped loving him. She would love him tonight, and tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow, and still so many more tomorrows stretching out before her.

But what could ever come of this love? Where would it leave them, both equally broken and scarred? Sam couldn’t even bear the casual touch of another person without the phantom sensation of Kelce’s violating hands washing over her, the nightmare an inescapable shadow.

How could she ever be in a relationship, truly intimate with anyone, no matter how fiercely her heart yearned for Rafe? Every time he held her, even in comfort, a primal fear would clench in her chest.

She just wanted to feel whole again, to reclaim her body and her peace of mind. She hated herself for feeling this way, for the involuntary flinch, for keeping Rafe at arm’s length when a part of her, a desperate, foolish part, so badly wanted to run into his arms and never let go.

She was in love with him, and he was in love with her, and it was a tragedy. Because she looked at him and saw the stars, a dazzling, unattainable distance, and he looked at her and saw the sun, a blinding, overwhelming force. And they both thought the other was just looking at the ground, lost in their own shadows.

They never quite looked up at the same time, never saw each other clearly, in the right light, in the right space, in the right time.

It was all lost time now, a missed connection, a love story tragically unwritten.

.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・.

Taglist: @rafecameronswhoore @insanesosciopath @hockeybabe87 @congratsloserr @chillgal135

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hunzzzzz · 24 days ago

Text

Save me (Bsf!Rafe x Thornton OFC): part 9

TW: mentions of sexual assault, drug use, cocaine, guns, blood, violence, non consensual drugging, dark themes, suicidal thoughts.

masterlist

.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・.

“What the fuck, man? Let me talk to her!” Rafe snarled, wrenching his arm away from Topper’s grasp.

Topper stood firm, shaking his head, his jaw clenched tight, physically steering Rafe towards the gym in the garage, a desperate attempt to keep Sam’s mind at ease.

“You seriously gonna just sit around on your ass and do nothing about this?” He squared up to Topper, shoving him back.

“You think I want to be a sitting duck?” Topper retorted, his own temper flaring, his chest puffing out, his eyes blazing with a frustrated anger that mirrored Rafe’s own, though channeled differently. “But I can’t . I can’t just fucking throw a goddamn tantrum like you,” he seethed. “Not like this, not by forcing her. Can’t you see that? We can’t just bulldoze her. Not when she’s like this.”

“Okay, okay,” Rafe muttered, pacing restlessly, the gym suddenly feeling too small to contain the tempest raging within him.

The bonfire night. Sam had called him. Twenty-nine times . Twenty-nine fucking times that night, her name flashing on his phone screen, unanswered, ignored. If he had just picked up, if he had just listened, maybe… maybe she would have told him. Maybe she would have confided in him, trusted him enough to share the horror that had shattered her world.

Guilt twisted in his gut, sharp and agonizing, mixing with the white-hot rage that threatened to consume him. But now, that chance, that fragile possibility of connection, was gone, lost in the tangled web of lies and manipulations, his father’s insidious plan to silence Sam’s memory with a medically induced coma.

“Okay, what do we do?” Rafe asked, his voice strained, trying to force a semblance of calm. He ran a hand through his hair, his fingers trembling slightly. “What the fuck do we do, huh? I fucking leave town for two days, and you barely even deal with this shit?”

The Bahamas. Sarah. The gold. A gun pointed at his head. The past forty-eight hours had been a blur of adrenaline and near-death experiences, a chaotic whirlwind that had left him raw and exposed, his nerves frayed, his mind teetering on the edge of instability. And now, this. Learning what had happened to Sam, the violation, the betrayal, the sheer, brutal injustice of it all – it pushed him over the edge. Reason vanished, replaced by a primal, unreasoning rage, a burning desire for vengeance, for retribution, for blood.

“I don’t fucking know man!” Topper exploded, finally losing his own tenuous grip on composure.

He scrubbed a hand roughly through his hair, his face etched with exhaustion and despair, sinking heavily onto the weight bench, the metal groaning under his weight. “There’s no fucking rule book, Rafe. No goddamn guidelines on how to deal with this shit. I’m fucking trying , okay? I’m trying to be there for her, to give her space, to be… to be something resembling helpful. But she doesn’t want to talk about it. She doesn’t want to press charges. She just… she just wants to be left alone. And I don’t fucking know what else to do.”

Rafe stared at Topper, his lip curling in disgust, his eyes narrowed with contempt. Topper, usually so solid, so dependable, now slumped on the bench, shoulders hunched, radiating an air of defeated helplessness. Bending over. Giving up. Pathetic.

Rafe wasn’t going to sit around, paralyzed by indecision, waiting for Sam to magically find her voice, to hand them the answers on a silver platter. He was a proactive guy, a man of action, and he was going to get answers, by whatever means necessary. Justice, vengeance, whatever you wanted to call it – he was going to find it, carve it out of the darkness, even if it meant tearing the world apart in the process.

.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・.

Sam was adrift in her own world, perched on the edge of the dock in her backyard, her legs swinging listlessly above the water. The dock felt like her only escape. Since leaving the hospital, her world had shrunk to the walls of her house, punctuated only by mandatory school days and therapy appointments, each journey meticulously orchestrated by Topper.

The low hum of an approaching boat broke through her reverie. Two figures ducked low in the vessel, their movements furtive as they drew nearer. Sam got on her feet, ready to bolt back inside. She didn't recognize the boat, didn't know who to expect. A chilling fear coiled in her stomach – Kelce?

But before she could flee, a voice, achingly familiar, cut through the air, calling her name. A voice she had mourned, a voice she had believed silenced forever by the storm’s fury.

“Sarah?” The name escaped Sam’s lips in a raw whisper, disbelief and hope warring in her chest. The boat glided closer, finally nosing gently against the dock, and there she was. Sarah. Solid, breathing, real .

“Sarah… is it really you?” Relief, so potent it almost buckled Sam’s knees, leaving her trembling and lightheaded. It felt surreal, like the recurring dream that haunted her sleep, the one where her father walked back through the door, healthy and whole, the one where Sarah was alive again, laughing, vibrant. A fragment of that impossible dream had somehow, miraculously, materialized before her eyes.

“Shhh,” Sarah hissed, her voice hushed, urgent, her eyes darting nervously around the dock.

And then Sam saw him, standing beside Sarah in the boat— John B— the murderer.

“Sarah,” Sam’s hand flew to her mouth, stifling a gasp. “What— how are you here— what are you— why is he here?” She struggled to form sentences, she was overwhelmed. She was relieved Sarah was alive, but now she was terrified at the site of her with John B, especially after everything she had heard about him.

“Listen to me,” Sarah’s time was urgent, her voice low and serious as she glanced back at the house, a silent warning in her eyes. “We need to talk. But not here. I can’t be seen.”

John B reached out a hand to her from the boat. Sam hesitated, her gaze flicking between Sarah’s earnest plea and John B’s outstretched hand. He was still a fugitive, a murderer, still a figure of danger and uncertainty. Should she call the police?

“Just trust me,” Sarah pleaded. “Please, just trust me.”

This was Sarah, her bestfriend, the one she had pushed away along with everyone else after her fathers death. The same girl who braided her hair, painted her nails. She had known her entire life, they were born a month apart. Their moms had told them that they planned it, they wanted their baby girls to be bestfriends, to be sisters.

The moment she was onboard, she surged forward, pulling Sarah into a bone-crushing hug.

“I thought you were dead,” she choked out, her voice breaking.

“I’m very much alive,” Sarah squeaked, struggling to breathe.

Sam pulled back slightly, her hands gripping Sarah’s shoulders, her eyes searching her face, desperate for answers, for explanations, for reassurance that this wasn’t just another cruel illusion.

“What happened, Sarah? Where… where were you? Everyone thought…” The unspoken words hung in the air between them: everyone thought you were dead.”

“Sam, listen to me! We don’t have much time. Rafe just showed up at John B’s… with a gun. He was threatening to shoot us all.”

“What?” The word was barely a whisper, a disbelieving exhale. “Why would he… he wouldn’t do that?”

Sam knew Rafe had a temper, a volatile streak that could flare up in an instant. She remembered the guy at the party he almost beat to death, the hole in her bedroom wall, the near-road rage incidents. But a gun? Threatening to shoot people? This felt like a grotesque caricature, a distorted image of the Rafe she thought she knew. This couldn't be him .

“He did!” Sarah’s voice was laced with desperation, her grip tightening on Sam’s arm. “He’s not… he’s not himself anymore. He shot me .” With a swift, trembling movement, Sarah pulled up the hem of her shirt, revealing a small, square bandage plastered to her side, dried blood faintly around the edges.

“What the fuck?” Sam’s breath caught in her throat, a strangled gasp. “You need to go to the hospital—“

“No, it’s fine, it’s healing. He shot me in The Bahamas.”

“The Bahamas? Sarah, what? When? You’re not making sense—” Sam echoed, but Sarah didn’t have time to get into all the details, she just needed to warn her best friend, to pull the curtain on her deranged brother.

“Yes, Sam. Yes, he did,” Sarah’s voice was firm, cutting through Sam’s frantic denial. “He’s not okay. He really isn’t. Please, I need you to believe me. He’s not the same Rafe anymore.” Sarah cupped Sam’s face in her hands, forcing her to meet her gaze, her eyes pleading for understanding, for trust. “Sam, please , promise me you’ll stay away from him.”

Sam’s mouth was wide open as she struggled to process the information being thrown at her.

“He showed up at my place, with a gun,” John B interjected, his voice low, serious, his gaze fixed on Sam, a question hanging in the air between them. “Threatening to kill us all, saying… saying one of us hurt you?”

“Yeah, what was he talking about?” Sarah asked, her voice softening with concern.

“I… I don’t understand anything you’re saying right now, Sarah. I really don’t,” Sam whispered, shaking her head. “But… but you shouldn’t be here right now. Not with… with him out there.” Her voice dropped to a hushed urgency, her gaze flicking nervously towards John B.

“Look, whatever Rafe told you—” John B began, his voice strained but he was cut off by someone calling Sam’s name. It was Topper on the back porch.

Sarah had so much more to say to Sam, but her parting words were: “Ask him about Peterkin.”

Sam’s ears were buzzing, her legs trudging forward as she met Topper on the back porch. She gave him some excuse that it was her friends dropping something of hers off.

.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・.

The great oak stood sentinel, draped in the emerald cloak of its leaves, its branches reaching out like welcoming arms. Around its sturdy trunk, a tangle of bushes and shrubs formed a natural curtain, shielding it from the casual gaze. This was their spot. Neither Sam nor Rafe could pinpoint the exact moment it became theirs, it had simply… happened.

Sam had been the first to stumble upon it, her focus entirely on the bushy tail of a particularly audacious squirrel. The chase had led her through a thicket, and then, there it was – the oak, big and proud, its canopy creating a cool, shaded haven. Not long after, Rafe, his brow furrowed with worry, had tracked her down. They had sat beneath its sprawling branches that day, the distant rhythm of waves crashing against the shore a constant, soothing murmur. It was quiet, secluded, a world away from everything else.

Now, years later, their initials were etched into the rough bark, a testament to countless hours spent. A simple swing, a piece of weathered wood tied to a sturdy branch with a length of rope Rafe had found, swayed gently in the breeze. It was their unspoken meeting place. A quick text – "Meet me at our spot" – was all it took. No explanations, no questions asked. Instinct alone guided them there.

Countless times, beneath the oak's shade, Sam had been Rafe's solace. She'd calmed his anxieties, tended his wounds, a role she would embrace endlessly. Night after night, his head would find its familiar place on her lap, tears glistened on his cheeks, catching the moonlight like tiny, scattered diamonds. Her fingers would trace soothing patterns in his hair.

"He loves you, Rafe. You just need to show him. Prove to Ward how wrong he is."

The injustice of Ward's perception burned within her, because the Rafe she held in her arms, the one laid bare by his pain, was a person his father seemed incapable of seeing, and she desperately longed for him to witness the truth of the boy she knew.

She would listen to him talk all night if she had to, until the first rays of dawn painted the sky. This spot, this quiet sanctuary beneath the watchful gaze of the old oak, held the weight of their shared history, their unspoken promises, and the quiet strength of their bond. It was more than just a place; it was their world.

Until it shattered. Rafe had navigated his life with a self-imposed mission: to shield Sam from heartache. Irony, sharp and cruel, twisted in her gut the summer of 2018. Because it was Rafe, her Rafe, who delivered the first, and deepest, crack. As she approached their spot, the scene that unfolded stole her breath. Beneath the very branches where she had soothed his tears, where his head had rested on her lap countless times, he was kissing someone else. Not a quick peck, but a deep, passionate kiss. Tears welled, blurring the already distorted image, and a silent gasp caught in her throat. Without a word, without a sound to betray her presence, she retreated. He had brought someone else to their spot.

She had always known about the girls who fluttered around Rafe. He hadn't exactly discouraged their attention, and a part of her, the best friend part, had almost accepted it. She knew, deep down, that none of those fleeting connections could truly touch him the way she did. But this… this was a different kind of hurt. It felt as though everything they had shared, every whispered secret, every moment of comfort, had been rendered insignificant, disposable, if he could so carelessly bring someone else into their world.

.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・.

Rafe was teetering on the precipice of oblivion at Barry’s, the cheap whiskey and lines of coke coursing through his blood. His failed confrontation at John B's played on repeat in his mind, a loop of frustration and escalating rage. The Pogues. They were the only logical culprits, the festering underbelly of Kildare County, the scum he’d always looked down upon. Only they were depraved enough to commit such a vile act. And when he learned they had been spotted back on the island he didn’t hesitate to take justice into his own hands.

He’d stormed into Barry’s, a whirlwind of fury and paranoia, dragging him along as his accomplice. Barry, ever opportunistic, was easily swayed by the promise of payback against the Pogues for their own petty theft. But the place was empty, leaving Rafe more volatile.

Now, back in Barry’s dimly lit, dust-choked den, he was snorting lines off a grimy table.

Then, a flicker of light, a vibration against the dusty table – Sam’s message: meet me at our spot.

He stared at the message, his heart lurching, a jolt of something akin to hope, or perhaps just manic anticipation, surging through him. The first time she had texted him in months.

He saw her standing beneath the oak. Her bike leaned against the trunk. Even from afar, he could feel the rigid set of her shoulders, the defensive posture, arms crossed tight – a clear barrier. Sam was there, waiting. Not for reconciliation, but for a confrontation.

“Ready to talk now?” Rafe asked, approaching her, his fists curled up into balls. He needed a name, he needed to know who hurt her.

“Is it true?” Sam’s voice was barely a whisper, her eyes wide, pleading for a denial, but already knowing the answer.

“What are you talking about?” he deflected, the question itself a carefully constructed performance of innocence.

She forced the words out, each syllable feeling like lead on her tongue, each one a step closer to the terrifying truth. “Did you shoot a gun at Sarah?”

The question hit Rafe like a physical blow. His mouth dropped open. “Sam—” he began, reaching out instinctively, his hands outstretched to grasp her shoulders, to pull her back into his fabricated reality.

“No!” Sam recoiled violently, screaming the word, stepping back sharply, putting distance between them, between herself and the man she suddenly couldn't recognize. “Don’t touch me! No more lies, Rafe! I don’t want to hear another single lie from you!” Her voice cracked. “Tell me the truth, Rafe! For once, just tell me the goddamn truth!”

That hazy night at TannyHill, the body bag, the gunshot wound on Sarah’s abdomen.

“I don’t know who’s been poisoning your brain,” he drawled, his voice suddenly dripping with a condescending pity, a calculated attempt to gaslight her, to dismiss her concerns as delusion. His pupils were dilated, swallowing the blue of his irises, twice their normal size, betraying the drugs coursing through his system. “You’re not thinking straight. That overdose fried your brain.”

“You’re high right now,” Sam scoffed, shaking her head.

“You saw Sarah?” he demanded abruptly, his tone shifting, hardening, suspicion narrowing his eyes to dangerous slits. “Didn’t you?” He closed the distance between them, his hands suddenly gripping her arms, his fingers digging in, a bruising grip. “She’s spreading shit. Lies. Trying to save her own ass— making shit up, twisting everything. All for what? To protect her manic boyfriend?”

“Let go of me!” Sam struggled against his grip, fear spiking, adrenaline surging through her veins. “You’re the manic one right now!”

“Sam, don’t let her do this,” he pleaded, his eyes remained wild, desperate, clinging to hers. “Don’t let Sarah do this to you. To us . She’s a liar. She’s trying to turn everyone against me. Don’t let her win. Don’t let her take you from me.”

“Did you show up at John B’s… with a gun?” Sam pressed, her voice trembling but firm, her gaze locking with his, demanding an answer, an admission.

“So you’re talking to pogues now?” he wiped the corner of his mouth with a finger, his face suddenly unreadable. “You really believe them over me?”

“ Did you do it ?” Sam repeated, her voice rising, the question hanging in the air between them.

And then she doubled down, with the final blow, “What happened on the airstrip that day? With Peterkin? Tell me the truth.”

And at that Rafe’s face fell, his eyes wide with panic, the facade slipped. Sam felt her heart drop, his reaction was enough to tell her that whatever had happened that day, whatever fabricated version he had fed her was far from the truth. And suddenly she regretted asking him to meet her. She didn’t want answers anymore, she wanted to be a million miles away from him.

Subconsciously, she began to back away from him, putting more space between them. She didn’t know this person. Not anymore. The Rafe she had known, the boy she had loved, was gone, replaced by this volatile stranger, this unpredictable, dangerous man capable of unspeakable violence. Someone capable of murder. Someone who had fired a gun .

“Sam,” he pleaded, taking a tentative step closer, his hands outstretched. “Hey… hey, it’s me, okay? Just… just listen to me.”

“No!” she screamed, her voice raw with terror, holding her arms out, a desperate, futile barrier between them. “Stay back! Don’t come near me! You lied, Rafe! You lied to me! You lied about the body bag… you… you told everyone I had a drug overdose! You’re the only liar here! And I was stupid enough… stupid enough to almost believe you!” She stared at him, tears streaming down her face, the betrayal a physical ache in her chest, a gaping wound where trust had once resided. “You shot at Sarah! You… you said John B murdered Peterkin— but— but that’s not the truth… is it?”

Silence descended again, heavy and damning, punctuated only by Sam’s ragged breaths, by the frantic pounding of her heart. Too many lies. Too much broken trust. And then, with a sudden, decisive movement, she turned on her heel, abandoning her bike, her escape instinct overriding everything else, and she ran. She ran blindly, desperately, on foot, away from him, away from the horrifying truth.

Rafe was close behind, she could hear his heavy footsteps pounding on the path, his voice yelling her name, a desperate, frantic pursuit. But adrenaline had taken over, fear lending her speed, blurring the world into streaks of green and brown. She could taste copper in her mouth, her lungs burned with each ragged breath, the sensation chillingly familiar, a terrifying echo of the bonfire night, of her desperate flight through the woods, a lifetime ago, or so it felt.

She risked a glance over her shoulder, the wind whipping her hair across her face, catching a fleeting glimpse of Rafe, gaining on her, just a few feet behind.

Her foot caught on a jutting rock, her ankle twisting sharply, and she stumbled, her body pitching forward, crashing to the ground, her knees scraping painfully against the gravel path.

“Sam!” Rafe’s voice was closer now, laced with panic, with a twisted kind of concern. “Fuck, you okay?” He hunched over her, his shadow falling over her, and she scrambled back instinctively, fear overriding pain.

“Please, Rafe,” she choked out, her voice trembling. “Please… don’t.” The sheer, unadulterated terror in her voice, the desperate plea in her eyes, finally penetrated the drug-fueled haze of Rafe’s rage. He recoiled, taking a few steps back, giving her space.

He held his hands out, palms open, in a gesture of surrender, trying to project a semblance of calm, of non-threatening intent. “Just, stop, okay?” he pleaded, his voice softening again, attempting a calmer, more reasonable tone. “Whatever you think you know… trust me. You don’t. You don’t understand.”

“I don’t trust you,” she spat, pushing herself to her feet, hissing in pain as the scrapes on her knees protested.

“Okay, okay,” he tried to reach for her again, “Let me just… let me take you home. You’re hurt. Let me help you.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you!” she retorted, her voice rising again, fueled by a righteous fury. “You’ve done nothing but lie to me! You’re a liar!”

“Yeah? And what about you ? Huh?” he fired back. “You didn’t tell me shit about the bonfire! You still won’t tell me what son of a bitch did that to you! You keep secrets too!”

“You don’t deserve to know anything about me anymore!” she screamed, pointing a trembling finger at him, her voice thick with disgust and finality. “Not after what you’ve done!”

And then, with a final, defiant glare, she turned on her heel and ran again, limping slightly, but fueled by a desperate need to escape.

Rafe watched her go, his body frozen, his breath ragged, his outstretched hands falling limply to his sides. He let her run. He didn’t chase her. He knew, with a chilling certainty, that pursuit was futile now. He had lost her. He had irrevocably shattered the fragile bond between them, destroyed the one connection that had anchored him, the one person who had ever truly seen him, truly understood him.

He didn’t care anymore if she went to the police, if the truth came out. None of it mattered now. Because he had lost her. And this time, he knew, with a bone-deep despair that settled like ice in his veins, he had lost her for good.

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