rafeprincess

[rafeprincess]

Cruel Summer

a/n: blink and you’ll miss it — it’s a folkloreslovechild original 💐 18+, minors PLEASE dni as contains mature content

Fever dream high, in the quiet of the night

You shouldn’t be walking the streets alone.

It’s the first thought Rafe has when he spots your figure from a distance, smooth legs exposed and pretty face hidden. Above him, the argent moon wanes, a half-crescent of silver light that does little to illuminate your features. A lone star twinkles further north of the horizon.

He begins to slow down and squints hard, pupils sharp and thick eyebrows furrowed. You have your head down as you walk along the path ahead of him, worn sneakers kicking up loose bits of gravel from the asphalt.

Of the paltry details he is able to discern, perhaps most valuable to him is your thready, white singlet and raw-cut, denim shorts. Glowing inches of bare skin. Rafe’s gaze skates along the poorly-defined edges of your silhouette, taking careful note of your slender limbs, the shadows created by the column of your throat. His pulse does something strange. You really, really shouldn’t be walking the streets alone, especially not looking like that.

He’s frozen in place, a conspicuous few feet away, when you do finally lift your head and meet his gaze.

You startle as his figure registers, stumbling backward in surprise.

“Fuck,” you curse, clutching your chest with adrenaline-weak fingers. Underneath them, your poor heart staggers forth in quick surges. “You scared the shit out of me.”

The street lamp overhead stripes your face with lemon-yellow light. A thick band of kiss-able cheek, a soft corner of your parted lips. You must be a touron. There’s no other explanation for why someone as pretty as you has evaded him until now.

“Me?” He asks, mostly joking as he raises his eyebrows. “What about you?”

You lift yours in tandem, the rate of your pulse acquiescing a little. Through the inches of velvet night that fill the space between your figures, there’s enough solid torso for your eyes to find purchase. Shadowing light defines his chiseled jaw, the strong biceps that become stronger, forearm muscles.

He’s hot. You almost forget that he’s also the stranger that’s blocking your path.

“What about me?” You return, faux-indignant.

“I’ve been walking this path since I was a kid,” he answers easily, taking a step closer. There’s something woody–vetiver, maybe, warmer notes of crackling musk–in his cologne that draws you in. “And never before have I seen you walking it, too.”

You shrug. “Maybe you’ve just never bothered to notice.”

“Trust me.” Rafe pauses, his voice low, gravelly around the edges. “When it comes to girls like you, I always bother to notice.”

You feel your pulse leap. The summer air presses into your skin, an all-encompassing heat, but it’s the sincerity in his tone that really has your warm cheeks burning.

“Girls like me?” You ask quietly, more bashful now.

He steps even closer still, the tips of his sneakers making contact with yours. And maybe it’s the stillness that twilight tends to bring, the way that dead of night suburbia warps time into something meaningless. But Rafe swears, in that moment, that you’re definitely not real. There’s a thin film of sweat that shines over your bare skin, and Rafe swears, bathed in dim moonlight, it looks honest-to-God iridescent.

The way his train of thought is veering toward Jane Austen prose is perplexing. His hand twitches toward yours without meaning to, an absent-minded action.

“Yeah,” he says, his heavy gaze falling over your features slow, agonizingly slow, like he’s trying to commit all of you to memory. “You’re the whole reason I’m out here so late at night in the first place.”

Lie. His father’s stern instruction about taking care of family business was the only thing capable of bringing him back to the Banks in the first place.

He’d only docked at the anchorage near Tannyhill a short while ago, the sky bleeding burnt ochre, dusk his only accomplice. And though he’d managed to sit down at Ward’s desk and get started, the restless whir in his brain had prevented any meaningful progress.

All he’d needed was some air. Clearly, your presence had given more than he’d bargained for.

“What?” You narrow your eyes jokingly. “Because I’m easier to kidnap in the dark?”

Rafe cocks his head to one side, his roguish grin cracking through. “Like… in a sexual way? Or…?”

“Oh my god,” you admonish, breathing out an exasperated laugh. “No way you’re trying to pick me up right now.”

“That’s the whole reason you’re out here, right?” Rafe asks seriously, furrowing his brow in feigned bemusement. “God’s put you in my path because he knows how much I need it.”

You raise your eyebrows appraisingly. “It?”

“You know,” Rafe answers vaguely, waving his hand in the air. His signet ring glints as the street light folds over it. “Beautiful girl with an end-of-summer deadline. Something to live for until the shit I’m running from catches up with me.”

This gets your attention. Your expression falters as the weight of his words wash over you, parenthetical tone with an allusion to something deeper.

And it makes Rafe’s chest ache, the concerned crease between your brows, pretty lips he wants to kiss pulling down into a frown. He’s even about to call it quits on grounds of your worry alone, when he realizes, questionable motive or not, you’re a touron that’ll be leaving in two months.

There isn’t time enough for you to wind up in his fucked-up orbit. He can still have you, he attests, he’ll just have to keep at arm's length; resign himself to touching, not marking, letting the bruises he leaves fade away.

Amongst other things. He adds, definitely overcompensating, “Don’t look at me like that, it’s nothing serious, yeah? I just mean the boring family business I’m supposed to inherit from my dad.”

“Oh,” you say, features relaxing it a little. You cock your head to one side and regard him for a moment, the moon’s glow bringing light to the mirth within your gaze.

When you’d first moved into your grandparent’s quaint beach house a few days ago, never once had you imagined stumbling into a no-strings-attached arrangement.

Not that there was any harm in one, especially not with a boy with as much small-town charm as this one. He’s just enough brash to make this fling a forgetful one, maintain a safe enough distance to ensure your heart remains unharmed.

You blink. Would-be fling. “So I’m something to live for, huh?”

“Worship, even,” Rafe murmurs quietly, his gaze dropping to your lips.

Your eyes widen in surprise, his rough voice rousing something deep in your stomach. “Little excessive, don’t you think?” You ask weakly, clearing your throat in an effort to regain your composure.

“Probably.” Rafe shrugs. So close now, you can almost feel the rustle of his polo as he does so. “Working though, isn’t it?”

A pause. You hate how right he is about that. Trying for more fire, you answer, “Maybe it’d work better if I knew who you were.”

“Fair enough,” Rafe says through a roguish smirk, pressing his tongue against his cheek. “Rafe Cameron.”

“Cameron?” You echo slowly, brow furrowing in thought.

Of the slew of unfamiliar names your grandfather had mentioned on his Outer Banks tour, Cameron was one of the few with enough significance to consolidate for good. The details were a little hazy — something about a powerful patriarch, a Pogue on Kook war gone awry. You’re sure the island slang would rouse more concern if you knew what any of it meant in the first place.

“Like…” you pause, looking up at him in astonishment, “…Ward Cameron who owns all of Tannyhill estate?”

Rafe makes a face. “Of course you’ve heard of my dad and not me.”

“Rafe Cameron.” You say his name slowly, soft eyes widening as they skate over his features. “The family business you’re inheriting is Cameron Development?”

Rafe could get used to this. Not often does he come across strangers—let alone pretty strangers—who correctly identify him as the big deal he is. He raises his eyebrows playfully, returning, “You sure you’re a touron, Polaris?”

“Pogue, kook, touron,” you list, shaking your head exasperatedly. “Why do the people that live here speak another language?”

Rafe chuckles appreciatively, strong arm swinging forward as he runs his hand over his buzz cut. Goosebumps bloom as the air shifts. “It’s a superiority complex thing.”

“To hold over tourons?” You half-admonish, mostly tease, the sticky heat of night pressing over you in waves.

Rafe doesn’t miss a beat. “To impress them. You.”

You balk, frowning bemusedly. “Why would you want to impress me, Rafe Cameron?”

“Are you kidding?” A gust of wind lifts your hair from your shoulders, exposing a smooth canvas of bruise-able neck. He could definitely get used to this. “You’ve gotta know that you’re the most beautiful thing on this Island right now.”

“This thing has a name, you know,” you say indignantly, your traitorous cheeks warming. “And it’s not Polaris.”

“You’re sure?” He grins easily, placing his hands on your shoulders, a soft-on-rough pressure that has your skin burning. In one, swift motion, he pivots you on your heel, stretching an arm above you to point out a lone star that's twinkling. “It was right above you when I spotted it, you know that?”

His broad torso folds over you easily, a blanket of vetiver and musk body heat. “The North Star?”

“Yeah,” Rafe says, his head above yours, chin this close to your hair. “Pretty, huh? Sure your name’s prettier.”

A pause. You can feel his chest wall lifting with every breath he takes, a barely-there force that presses into your chest.

“Guess you’ll never know,” you say with a shrug, pulling away slowly. Charming as he is, you’ll be damned if you make the chase that easy. You step out of his sphere of influence and turn back around, regarding him warily.

“Anyway,” you add, beginning to walk past him. “I better get back before my grand-parents realize I’ve left.”

“Hey – wait,” Rafe says in a hurry, reaching out to clasp your wrist. Hold you in place. He squeezes gently, jolting fire along veins that are already half-singed. “I can’t let you go alone.”

Your gaze drops to his rough fingers encircling your wrist, the way his thumb swipes over the skin of your forearm. You blink. “Of course you can.”

“No I can’t.” Rafe pulls ever so slightly, just enough force to return you to his side. “Not in good conscience, at least.”

“Seriously, Rafe,” you argue, drawing your hand back when his hold acquiesces. An imprint of sloven heat lingers. “I’ll be fine.”

Rafe frowns, looking over your features carefully. “Why’re you out here this late, anyway?”

Your lips pull down in tandem, a little meaner, a little more defensive. “Why’re you?”

“I know this neighborhood inside out,” he answers, raising his eyebrows.

“So you’ll know that the Clarence Lane cul-de-sac is only two streets away,” you return, folding your arms across your chest.

“Uh-huh.” He beckons you forward expectantly. “Won’t talk very long to walk you there.”

You frown down at his calloused palm, all the rough grooves and ridges that he’d pressed into your shoulders. “Alone.”

“Not on my watch.”

“If you’re trying to be chivalrous –”

“Would it help if I wasn’t?” Rafe interrupts faux-solemnly, splaying his large hard across the center of chest. “If I was only offering to walk you home as an excuse to get your number?”

“No.” You pause, the corners of your mouth twitching despite your feigned disinterest. “Maybe. Yes.”

“Alright then,” he says, nodding soberly. “I’ll be a total fucking douchebag from here on in.”

“From here on in?” You echo, raising your eyebrows playfully. “What? Because you weren’t being one of those when you scared the living daylight out of me ten minutes ago?”

“Shit, I know right?” He agrees apologetically, resting his hand on the small of your back to guide you forward. “I’m such a fucking tool. You’ve gotta make me pay by forcing me to walk you home.”

The warmth of his palm filters through your singlet, a spiderweb of heat that unfurls over your skin. You hadn’t realized, until now, how much comfort you’d find in his presence. It makes your pathetic pulse lurch, heart racing in juxtaposition.

“A five minute walk hardly counts as a punishment,” you say.

“You know what else you could do?” Rafe’s thick brows furrow as he pretends to think. “You could… wait, I know — you could let me take you out. I hate doing that shit. Fucking hate taking out pretty girls. Especially hate paying for them, bringing them home with me for another drink —”

“Fucking hell,” you interrupt exasperatedly, laughing despite yourself. “You know how creepy this’d be, Rafe Cameron, if you weren’t as hot as you are?”

“And rich,” Rafe supplies unhelpfully. “You forgot to mention my lord of the manor shit.”

His large hand sinks lower, a little less chaste and a lot more firm. You turn a corner in tandem and kick up more loose gravel, your grandparent’s large beach house growing in your line of vision.

“Cocky, too,” you return with a shake of your head, shying away from his touch. “Not used to people saying no.”

“Is that what you’re doing?” A few houses away from yours, now. The quaint cul-de-sac ends at a shortcut to the beach, and suburbia begins to thin as you near this man made trail. “Saying no to me?”

“If I am,” you say, raising your eyebrows at him. “It’s mostly just because I want to knock you down a peg.”

Rafe pretends to look affronted, his bright eyes full of mirth. “After I’ve taken the time to walk you all the way home?”

“Five minutes,” you remind him.

Rafe shrugs. “Feels longer.” His palm makes contact with your skin before drawing back, the rectangle of bare waist that’s exposed between hem and buckle. The heat of his touch lingers. “Actually, no, feels shorter. Five insanely short minutes where I still haven’t got your number.”

“Or your name,” he adds significantly, looking over you with a frown.

“Shame,” you say evenly, slowing to a stop as you near their gate. It’s paneled with driftwood and rustic bamboo, still quietly unlatched from when you’d snuck away before.

This time, when you step away from him, Rafe Cameron doesn’t catch your wrist and stop you. You walk backwards and nudge it open with your hip, trying to ignore the way your bones ache in protest. A phantom of his rough, clasping touch folds over your forearm.

“So…” Rafe trails off helplessly, running his fingers over his buzz cut, “...shit, I mean, that’s it?”

“I don’t know, Rafe Cameron,” you say softly, slipping through the gate and closing it on him. “Is it?”

“Fuck.” His pathetic heart lurches. “I hope not.”

“Hm,” he only just catches your silhouette shrug, any definable features shrouded by velvet night. “I guess all you can do is just keep hoping.”

—

Bad, bad boy shiny toy with a price

It’s a week before you see Rafe Cameron again.

The sky is a seamless, periwinkle blue, the sun shining over the horizon, a yellow bulb of light. Tepid seawater glimmers below it.

As you roll along the Island Club green in a golf-cart, the coastline dances in and out of sight. You veer to the right as hole eight comes into view, your grandfather and his old friend, Judge Thornton, close behind you.

You don’t recognise him at first. His buzz cut is hidden under a regal, white cap, a salmon-coloured polo stretching over taut biceps. He’s in the process of loosening the Velcro straps of his glove, and as he slips his fingers free, a signet ring glints in the sun.

An identifiable signet ring, with a flat surface of buttery gold. You swallow down the beating heart that’s bounding into your throat, trying not to think about the implications of him being here.

You being here. There’s something about the looming proximity that’s making your chest whir.

When the cart is close enough to cast his figure in shadow, he straightens and looks over, deep, blue eyes squinting hard. Acquiescing. He’s able to recognise you without any extra thought.

The whir in your chest grows deafening. It replaces the golf cart’s ignition as you slow, stopping just short of his figure by the hole.

“Looks like all that hoping’s paid off,” he says by way of greeting, grinning down at you as you climb out of your seat.

“All that hoping, huh?” you return playfully, folding your arms across your chest in faux-skepticism.

Rafe’s gaze drops with the action, an absent-minded gesture, and he catches an eyeful of cleavage that has him balking. You’re wearing a tighter singlet than you were a week ago, a black skirt instead of denim, shin-high socks with embroidered sunflowers. More gloss on your pretty lips, a sunscreen shine to your tired complexion.

And a visor. Rafe gives it a careless, little flick before responding.

“Think we can make a deal, Polaris?” He asks blithely, cocking his head to one side.

You raise your eyebrows. “Depends on the deal.”

“Alright,” Rafe says, gesturing to the tee below him. “I get this hole below par, and you let me buy you a drink.”

“And if you don’t?” You return with a frown, looking over the assessingly. The low rumble of Judge Thornton’s golf-cart grows louder.

“I will,” Rafe answers confidently, not missing a beat.

“That wasn’t my question, Rafe Cameron.”

“I know.” Rafe grins handsomely, strapping his golf glove back on. “That is my answer, though.”

You let out a defeated sigh, shaking your head exasperatedly. “What’s par for this hole, anyway?” You ask, obliging as he motions you backward.

Rafe doesn’t answer right away. He steps up to the tee with strong shoulders hunched, a punishing grip on the club that brings his knuckles to a blanch. When he swings, the metal heel clips the golf ball neatly, its trajectory through the air a majestic, half-crescent. It lands just short of the putting green, a few feet from a hole-in-one.

Behind you, your grandfather wolf whistles appreciatively. You blink. How did you fail to register his arrival?

“That was a beautiful shot, son,” Judge Thornton says then, stepping past you to give his broad back a firm pat.

“Beautiful shot for a beautiful girl,” Rafe returns smoothly, flashing you a quick, roguish wink as he straightens.

The compliment roars through your traitorous cheeks, a burning heat. You say, fighting hard to maintain nonchalance, “Par, Rafe Cameron.”

“Four,” he answers through a smirk, pressing his tongue against his cheek. “Does two under mean two drinks instead of one?”

“Woah there, country club,” you return playfully, trying not to smile. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Your ball’s on the putting green, you haven’t even got it in yet.”

“C’mon,” he faux-chastises, raising his eyebrows. “What did I say before?”

“Something fucking cocky, I’m sure,” you snort out, shaking your head exasperatedly.

“Cocky or not,” he returns, plunging the club back into his bag slovenly, “I was right.”

“Not quite.” You watch him jog it backward with raised eyebrows. “Not yet.”

He grins devilishly before turning around and quickening his pace, the heavy bag gathering grass stains as it trudges along behind him.

There’s no denying the mild amusement on your features as you watch him, though it’s only once Rafe’s well out of earshot that someone addresses it.

“Ward’s kid, huh?” your grandfather says, raising his eyebrows appraisingly. Rafe’s poised and ready on the putting green, now, his strong forearms flexed, the sun’s shadow making them ripple. You swallow instinctively. “How do you two know each other?”

This gets your attention. You tear your gaze away just as he taps the ball, just enough force behind his mallet to make the ninth hole in two. “Hm?”

“Your acquaintance with the Cameron boy, my dear” your grandfather repeats, regarding you with steely-eyed disapproval. “How long has this been going on for?”

You grimace abashedly, looking equal parts helpless and defensive. “We aren’t… well, I wouldn’t say we’re acquainted, per se –”

“Now listen,” your grandfather interrupts sharply, his gruff voice austere. “That boy may come from a very reputable family, but there’s no denying that trouble seems to follow him everywhere he goes.”

“Grandpa,” you groan, burying your head in your heads. You do not want to be having this conversation with him right now.

Or ever, for that matter. It isn’t as though this fling with Rafe Cameron is capable of turning into something serious.

Right? You add, your quiet voice muffled weaker by sweaty palms, “I’m not – I mean… we aren’t –”

“And that’s not to say,” he continues grimly, more to eschew an argument than anything particularly paternal, “that I forbid you from seeing him. God knows he’s still far better than the pogues your mother would bring home.”

Your diffidence eases a smidgen, head lifting again and pretty smile shining through. Through the corner of your eye, you catch a smug-looking Rafe Cameron with his putter raised above his head, thick biceps stretching.

“You think so?” You ask absently, a little distracted now. Rafe relaxes his shoulders and jerks his thumb toward the Island Club, mouthing, through a satisfied smirk, “Come find me when you’re done, yeah?”

A terrifying emotion sears through you. You send him a playful glare before turning away, meeting your grandfather’s weary gaze with something akin to embarrassment.

“Sorry,” you say sheepishly, grimacing again. “You were saying? About Rafe?”

A pause. Something within his stern features softens. “You’ll promise me one thing?”

“Anything.”

“You’ll take everything he says with a grain of salt?”

“C’mon, grandpa,” you chide, elbowing him playfully. “You really think I’d fall for his little douchebag act?”

“My dear,” he returns sagely, raising his eyebrows. “You can’t blame me for worrying. It’s a tale as old as time. How else do you think I got your grandmother?”

—

Rafe’s already ordered you a Mai Tai when you find him.

He’s drinking whiskey neat, the deep colour of thick molasses, lounging back against a chair that overlooks the yawning green. When he spots you, he’s quick to lean forward and straighten. The front legs of his chair slant down and strike the ground again.

“What?” You fold your arms across your chest, pretending to look affronted. “I don’t come across as someone who also likes straight whiskey?”

“D’you want to swap?” Rafe offers with a grin, sliding his low ball across the table.

You raise your eyebrows dubiously, sidling into the seat opposite his. The drink in front of you is sunset tangerine, a heady mix of tropical citrus and sweet, orgeat syrup. “That easy, huh?”

Rafe presses his tongue against his cheek, regarding your features with mild amusement. “Anything for a name, Polaris.”

“And what if I say no?” You return, taking a long sip of your drink. Remnants of sticky Curacao making your full lips shine.

“I mean,” Rafe says, his voice lower now, more gravelly. His eyes drop to the column of your throat as you swallow, and his mind strays to something less innocent leaving it awry. “There’s nothing I can do about that.”

He leans forward and swipes his thumb over your bottom lip gently, just enough pressure to gather the glossy, Mai Tai film. When he brings it to his own mouth, his heavy gaze holding firm, it’s sweeter than he remembers it, more you than the orange liquer of his youth. “But I’ve realised,” he adds after pause, pulling away. “That a need-to-know basis doesn’t have to be so bad.”

Your eyes widen in surprise, hand lifting to your chin on instinct. The pads of your fingers press over your bottom lip, feeling the phantom of his touch, the soft nerve-endings he singed.

“Exactly,” you agree after a beat, swallowing thickly. “If anything, it’s better if you don’t know my name.”

Rafe cocks his head to one side, an imperceptible something flickering over his blue irises. “How so?”

You don’t miss a beat. “Makes things more interesting.”

Rafe picks up his wide-rimmed glass, taking a generous pull of whiskey. “And the other way around?” He asks, the auburn liquid burning as he swallows. “Am I less interesting as Rafe Cameron to you?”

“Not at all,” you answer honestly, shaking your head. “My name doesn’t carry the same weight that yours does.”

“Bad weight,” Rafe infers, a funny ache in his chest.

“Mm-hm.” A pause. There’s no way you’re thinking straight right now. “So bad that it’s good.”

Killing me slow, out the window

You’d decided against giving Rafe any means of contacting you.

Save knowing where you live and your affinity for moonlight trysts, you’ve given him little over nothing to work with since he’d bought you a Mai Tai.

Not that it matters. Somewhere between your first meeting and now, he’s made a habit of sneaking through your grandparent’s driftwood gate and waiting below your window for you.

Admittedly, there’d been a hankering in his chest since your Club rendezvous. Though you’d politely declined his offer to walk you home after a few rounds of liquor, the promise of more had permeated the sticky air as you’d looked over his features.

Harder when you’d pulled him closer. The kiss had been quick and fleeting, soft lips tinged with longing, and his rough hands had only just found purchased when you’d broken it.

“Later,” you’d said in cryptic yearning, breaking away from his figure and disappearing through the exit.

And of course, he’d taken you up this on this offer, finding his way to your grandparent’s front porch that night, rough heat in the stillness of suburbia.

Another kiss to seal your fate. His was doomed the second you’d slipped away.

Tonight, the air is thick with honeysuckle and the trill of cicadas.

You unlatch your window and push it open fully, the thick heat of June curling over you unrelentingly. You duck your head through the opening and peer into the back garden, a canopy of indigo dusk overlaying the perennials. No Rafe within the flowers. Your traitorous heart aches.

It’s as you’re preparing to acquiesce that a rustle of movement in your periphery catches your eye. It crawls along the dimly lit path until it’s right below you, a vague form with broad shoulders that you recognise, stronger forearms.

“Waiting for me, tonight?” He asks quietly, raising his eyebrows at you, roguish smirk on his face. “I’m touched.”

“God, shut up,” you bite back, smiling despite yourself. “What are we doing tonight?”

He shrugs cryptically. “You’ll see.”

It’s how you find yourself in a secret alcove on the edge of the beach, two towels splayed out with a bottle of French label connecting them.

You’re sitting opposite each other, cross-legged, the tips of your knees touching, jolts of electricity that hold you in place.

You reach for the bottle and take a careless swig, the bottom of your singlet riding up from the action. Rafe’s eyes drop to the taunting rectangle of exposed skin, silvery moonlight making it glow iridescent. He swallows thickly.

“Okay,” you say, handing it over to him. “Truth or dare?”

Rafe presses his tongue against his cheek mirthfully, still looking over at you as he tips back the bottle. “Truth.”

“How’d you find this place?”

A pause. Rafe looks over the weathered walls of the alcove, his eyes lingering over familiar ridges, the grooves his mother traced over when she’d first brought him here.

“I didn’t,” he says after a beat, the revelation searing through his chest like a knife. “My mom did.”

“Oh.” You regard him for a moment, your mischievous smile faltering a little. “Do you think about her often?”

Rafe hesitates. He takes another steely pull of the wine before thrusting it toward you, quick to avert his gaze. “That’s two questions, Polaris. It’s my turn.”

“Right,” you say, frowning slightly. You accept the bottle and take another long sip, your soft lips stick with saliva and warm liquor.

“Truth or dare?”

“Hm.” You pause, turning toward the poorly defined coastline in the distance, inky night descending over a slurry of dark waves. “Dare.”

“I dare you,” Rafe says deviously, swiping the bottle from your grasp, “to go for a swim.”

You tear your gaze away from the horizon, raising your eyebrows. “That’s it?”

“Naked.”

There’s only a moment where you falter, a split- second of uncertainty. Had you not already consumed half a bottle of expensive wine, you probably wouldn’t have had it in you to go through with something so brazen.

There’s a blur to your vision that has Rafe liquefying around the edges. You nod curtly and stand up, a coy smile dancing over your features.

“On one condition,” you say, voice smooth and saccharine sweet.

“Anything,” Rafe answers, and means it, too. He discards the near-empty bottle and pulls himself onto his feet, your gaze lifting up as his shadow folds over you.

“You count to five before following me.”

“Fuck,” Rafe groans, reaching forward and pinching your hip indulgently. “Fine. Alright. One —”

You break free from his grasp and tug off your thready singlet, throwing it into his chest before turning around and running forward. Rafe watches as articles of clothing fly onto the warm sand, watches the soft curves of your silhouette, the way you shrink as you grow bare.

By the time he’s counted to five, you’re already submerged in the water. Your exposed limbs glisten in the moonlight as you wave him over, and as he follows your fabric trail, Rafe feels a strange pull that makes him falter.

He’s a few feet away from you, and the pulse in his wrist isn’t capable of bounding faster.

“It’s warm, I promise,” you say, running your fingers through your wet hair.

“Fucking hell.” It’s an unrelenting rhythm, and his fingers shake as he fumbles with his own clothing. “You’re going to be the death of me, you know that?”

“In a good way?” You ask, watching his arm muscles ripple in tandem with the waves, almost balking at the ease with which he wades through the water.

He’s in your space before you can so much as blink, his rough hands skating along your bare back. “The best way,” he murmurs, pressing you against him indulgently.

“Guess that makes two of us, huh?” You mumble back distractedly, wrapping your arms around his neck. He nudges the slant of your jaw with his nose until your head falls back, sponging wet, hungry kisses along the soft column of your throat.

“Hm?” He hums, the sound reverberating through your skin.

“You’re the best kind of bad weight,” you breathe out, his tongue this close to rolling over your hard, sensitive nipple. “And I’m the best kind of death.”

There’s no coming back from making love in the middle of the ocean. In that moment, though, alcohol in your veins and Rafe everywhere, you realise, as the needy ache sears through you, that you couldn’t care less.

Control is overrated. For Rafe Cameron, you’d pick cruel over safe anyday.

—

And it’s new, the shape of your body

“Shit, Rafe,” you breathe out, awestruck, staring down at the vintage bottle of champagne that he’s holding. “No way you just happen to have 1990 Cristal lying around.”

A dim row of wall sconces bathe the scene in yellow light.

A dim row of wall sconces bathe the scene in yellow light.

The air feels stale as it bears down on you, thick and untouched, every bottle you disentomb exhaling a fresh cloud of must.

“What?” Rafe furrows his brow in mock thought, swiping over the chalky film of dust on the label. “This old thing?”

“Shut up,” you chide, swatting his chest playfully. “You have to know it’s worth like, $10,000, easy.”

Rafe’s blue eyes lift to yours, a glimmer of mirth painting them softer pastel. “Good enough to open, you reckon?”

You balk. “You’re kidding.”

There are a torturous, few inches between your figure and his, a little less when you consider the champagne bottle’s width. A faint, yeasty scent, some vetiver, a little bergamot, enough emanating body heat to rid the air of your alcohol-heavy lungs.

Rafe’s long retired the baseball-style shirt he was wearing when you’d first arrived, the mood lighting etching every line on his torso. His shorts hang low on his hips, belt free, revealing the devastating V that defines his lower abdomen. He passes the bottle between his hands absentmindedly, strong shoulders square and thick biceps tensing.

“C’mon, Polaris.” He raises his eyebrows faux-appraisingly, holding the neck away from your face. “Do I ever kid when it comes to expensive shit?”

He holds your gaze as he peels away the aureate foil, uncorking the screw and releasing wisps of white smoke. No brilliant spurts of foam, no deafening fireworks, and yet — you still feel that quick flurry of hope.

You reach for the bottle just as he pulls away, nimble fingers swiping still air instead of Cristal. He tsk-tsks softly before bringing it to your mouth, the cool rim bruising the pillow of your lips as he slants it forward to permit a pull.

It’s all effervescence and a hint of citrus, candied fruit and truffle within the melange. Rafe’s gaze skates along your neck as you swallow, his pupils dilating as he takes a gulp himself.

“More?” He murmurs absently, more an ulterior motive than anything particularly gallant.

“Mm-hm,” you answer, lips parting obligingly. He pinches your chin between his forefinger and thumb gently, tilting it up so he can tip more in. The wetness on the bottle rim leaves your soft lips shining.

Rafe stares down at them, all pupil now, with something akin to reverence. “Can I have a taste?” He asks quietly, setting the bottle on a table beside him.

Your breath hitches. The criss-crossing shelves of the wine cellar press into your back, a firm pressure, though the heat of his gaze feels far heavier. He cages you in by placing his arm on the wall adjacent your figure, bicep to ear. And he’s so close, his head ducking to yours, lips a hairsbreadth away and yet still so far.

You lean in first.

There’s a tentative press of your lips on his before he gathers his bearings, pushing into you fully. The weight of his torso holds you against the shelves, a sloven, almost discomposed air to his movements. Like he’s desperate, memorising your mouth through rough, teeth scraping kisses.

His lips drag along your jaw, the smooth expanse of your neck. And when he finds the sensitive spot beneath your earlobe, bruising it amaranthine, you have to bite down on your soft cheek to suppress the moan it elicits.

“Don’t do that,” he murmurs into your skin, like he’s worshipping you. “Wanna hear you, sweetheart.”

There’s a mess of warm limbs and discarded clothing as he paws at your layers, eager to feel you fully.

And though you’d never once imagined you’d make love in a wine cellar, the way Rafe Cameron rocks into you, slow, agonisingly deep, makes you feel as though you’ve been missing out on a whole avenue of sexual misdemeanours.

He’s in tune with your body in a way you didn’t think possible. Every thrust of his cock has your tender clit swelling, the stale air filled with the lewd sound of your wetness. And he’s a man starved as he fucks you, his needy tongue swirling over your nipple, rough hands groping every inch of soft skin.

“Fuck, you feel unreal,” he grunts out, a thin sheen of sweat making his chiseled torso shine.

“Mm,” is all you can manage in response, fingers gripping his broad shoulders, a needy ache at your core. “K—Keep going —”

“Yeah?” He encourages, his own orgasm close to apex. “You going to cum for me, angel?”

And when you do, hot pleasure shaking through you in waves, it isn’t the first time, nor the last, that Rafe’s made you finish since you’d arrived.

There’s something about being around him that tends to charge the air with hungry static.

A little later, when you’re lying in his bed, details hazy, you turn your head and look over his vaguely obscured features. A lone band of silver moonlight spills through his slightly ajar, bedroom window.

“Rafe Cameron,” you whisper, angling your body toward his.

He shifts in tandem, his vivid, blue eyes like glow-in-the-dark stars. “What’s on your mind, Polaris?”

There’s an ache in your chest that’s difficult to explain. It enfolds the heart within your ribcage and squeezes, a heavy, cloying pressure that’s fairly unrelenting.

If only you knew that you aren’t it’s only victim.

“I don’t know.” A pause. Rafe reaches out before he can help himself, tracing over the planes of your face with his forefinger. Along your cheekbones, the pert tip of your nose. The Cupid’s bow above your lips. There’s a soft on rough juxtaposition that he’s trying to commit to memory. “Summer’s ending in a month.”

“I know,” he murmurs softly, barely audible. He thumbs over pillow of your bruised bottom lip, faltering.

“I’m leaving in a month,” you say quietly.

“I know.”

Another pause. You reach up and clasp his outstretched wrist gently, squeezing the pulse within it that’s staggering. “How come I only feel like this when I’m meant to be sleeping?”

“The same reason you were out that night that we met,” he answers, coaxing your fingers free to intertwine with his. “Easier to think when the world isn’t listening.”

“I feel like,” you hesitate, exhaling carefully, “like this is going to end badly.”

Rafe moves a little closer, his hip brushing against your thigh. “Probably.”

“But hey,” he adds, bringing both of your hands down. He leans in and presses a kiss on your lips, harder, more pressure, his figure bearing down. “Let’s leave worrying about that for when it comes, okay?”

—

It’s cool, that’s what I tell ‘em

Polaris: my grandparents aren’t home tonight btw

“…and — eh! Hey now, country Club,” Barry rebukes, his metal crown glinting as he bares his teeth. “I ain’t got the time to say this shit again.”

Rafe peels his gaze away from his phone screen forcibly, feigning a cool sense of disinterest. “What?”

Barry pauses, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. “Who you texting?”

“Shit, relax, no one, alright?” Rafe answers in a hurry, locking his phone and sliding it into his back pocket. He raises his arms in placating surrender, trying to ignore the restless whir of his insides.

“Now I know that ain’t true,” Barry throws back, waving his weathered pocket knife at his face knowingly. “You ain’t been in this room for a while.”

Rafe swallows evenly, leaning back into Barry’s dirty couch and spreading his thighs against either armrest. “I’m listening.”

“No you ain’t,” Barry snorts back, shaking his head. “You been texting since you came. What…Mrs Country Club asking you where you went?”

The taunt makes Rafe’s face crumple, if only for a split-second, and the realisation that dawns on Barry’s features tells him he’s lost this battle.

“Well, shit,” he goads, wolf whistling lewdly. “A Mrs Country Club, huh. Didn’t even know that you had one of those.”

“I don’t,” Rafe answers, gritting his teeth.

“Why you getting your little panties in a twist then, eh?” Barry smirks smugly, regarding Rafe with mild amusement. “Where you two meet? Brunch, or some shit?”

“There’s — it’s not like that, okay?” Rafe responds wearily, running his fingers over his buzz cut. “We’re just fucking. No strings attached.”

“Shit, doesn’t look like no strings,” Barry raises his eyebrows, gesticulating with his knife. “You been off your game for a while now.”

Rafe balks, frowning bemusedly. Sure he’s had to cut a few business meetings short, cancel a trip or two to Barry’s because he didn’t want a date to stop.

But it isn’t as though he’s with you every second of every day, is it? Thinking about you within these parameters of time is different to your physical presence.

Right? He says, voice hoarse and unconvincing, “Whatever, bro. You’re full of shit.”

“And you, Rafe,” Barry returns, scoffing exasperatedly, “ain’t listening to me.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Rafe dismisses frustratedly, a muscle in his jaw ticking. “What were you saying? I’m fucking listening.”

Barry ignores him. He walks forward and squats just short of the couch, face to face now with his brown eyes narrowed. “She the reason you been avoiding these parts the last few weeks?” He accuses, cocking his head to one side.

“I’ve just been busy, alright?” Rafe answers gruffly, keenly avoiding the question.

“Huh.” Barry runs his tongue over his metal crown, his own jaw tight. “With Mrs Country Club.”

Rafe feels his phone vibrate with another text through his linen shorts. It’s as though, when the urge to check it surges through him, when the forefront of his mind works furiously to place his absence elsewhere, that he realises he needs to give in and stop fighting it.

You. Brazen as his taunts are, there’s some truth to what Barry’s saying.

Every spare moment Rafe’s had in the past few weeks, he’s wanted to spend in your presence. Sunset walks that end in moonlight trysts, endless hours of pillow talk, skinny-dipping at the beach. He’s tasted more champagne through your lips than he has a bottle, marked more of your soft skin with purple bruises than he thought possible. A criminal amount of touching. Don’t even get him started on the looking. Rafe thinks, the course of the cruel summer coming to fruition, that he’s done more memorising of you than school’s taught him. God, he’s in love with you, and the revelation is dreadful.

This wasn’t part of the plan. You’re leaving the Banks in a week or two.

“There,” Barry says after a beat, tapping the sharp edge of his pocket knife against Rafe’s forehead. “Shit’s clicking, ain’t it?”

“Yeah,” Rafe answers in a rush, straightening. “I need to get my priorities straight.”

“And what might they be?”

“Not this.” Nothing else has ever felt more obvious. “Not any of this. Listen, Barry, I’m done.”

–

I’m drunk in the back of the car

You aren’t quite sure what set you off.

The pair of you were a few drinks deep when you’d felt it, that deep, cloying ache that’d been plaguing you since you met him. It was a sudden blow to the system, this ticking time-bomb of an arrangement, and the Island Club clamour in your ears was only heightening your emotions.

It was the same timbre of obnoxious as on your first rendezvous, a reminder of the day he’d used a Mai Tai to covet you. Frightening to think that that was a mere two months ago, the whirlwind of a summer romance with him feeling far longer.

Moments from ending. You were forty-eight hours away from being fully packed up and leaving.

So when that stupid, Taylor Swift song blares through the car radio, the same one you were listening to when he’d startled your midnight walk, you forgive yourself for the thick, hot tears that well to the surface.

Rafe’s struggling with his own hankering heart as they surge forward. He’s been stealing long, wistful glances at you throughout the car ride home, selfishly driving the scenic route in an attempt to avoid what’s coming. The fact that your skin glows in silver moonlight—a neck that he’s marked with a bouquet of bruises, smooth legs that he’s felt encircling his torso—is but an added bonus to an otherwise excruciating end to summer.

He isn’t sure when exactly it happened, but somewhere within the haze, you begun taking precedence over his father. He stopped thinking about retribution, his dauntless greed ebbed, and the situation with the cross and the pogues meant far less. Almost nothing, as he registers the falling tear on your cheek. It sears him with a fresh swell of longing, car beginning to slow as he pulls up beside your grandparent’s beach house.

He unbuckles and leans forward, placing his hand on your thigh and squeezing gently.

“What are you doing?” You ask in a strained voice, shying away from his touch. You turn away lest he see you cry, scrubbing your cheek in a hurry.

“Polaris.” Rafe reaches up to cradle your jaw, feeling his chest tighten when you flinch. “You’re crying.”

“I’m drunk,” you mutter, looking away from him. A fresh steam of tears flow down your face, creating a trail of hot fire that makes you ache.

“Talk to me,” he tries again, sounding more desperate than he wants to. He moves his arm around your headrest, the other finding purchase on the centre console. An all-encompassing figure in your periphery, the way he’s always been, the way you’re doomed to remember him.

“About what?” You ask, voice breaking as it rises.

“What — what’s on your mind?” Is it the same as what’s on mine?

“What do you think, Rafe Cameron?” You let out an exasperated sigh, muffled weaker by the sound of a strangled sob. “I’m leaving in two days.”

A pause. You turn toward him bravely, the whites of your eyes tinged red with a spiderweb of tears. “You’re staying.”

Rafe swallows. The pads of his fingers brush over the bare skin of your shoulder. “I thought that’s what we agreed on.”

It comes out all wrong — Rafe didn’t mean it like that. He grimaces when he catches the way your face crumples, cruel buzzcut a little longer, almost swaying as he shakes his head. “That’s not — I mean — I’m not saying I’m happy with —”

“No… I, whatever, I get it,” you interrupt languidly, swallowing down another sob. “We… it was no-strings-attached for a reason.”

“I’m bad news,” he reminds you quietly, honest-to-God yearning.”

“And don’t even know my name,” you agree, equally as quiet, a touch more subdued.

Rafe feels his own eyes burn, the unshed tears in your making them vague and glossy. “Not for lack of trying,” he murmurs.

“Glad I held my ground, anyway,” you whisper back, biting down on your cheek roughly. “It’s better this way.”

Is it?

Rafe doesn’t think so. His gaze falls to the same lips he’s memorised with his kisses, sometimes soft, something hard, and he really doesn’t think so.

“If you say so,” he allows after a beat.

“I do.” A pause. “I’m fine.”

Rafe forces himself to draw his arm back to his side. “You’re sure?”

“Of course I am,” you answer with a nod, averting your gaze as you click open the passenger’s side door. “Listen. Thank you. For… for showing me around, for taking me out, for making this summer so fucking incredible.”

Too fucking incredible. There’s a sad voice in your head that’s screaming in protest, growing louder, more desperate, with every inch of added distance.

“Hey,” Rafe calls, clasping your wrist as you pull away. “I — wait. That’s it?”

You look down at the rough fingers as they encircle it, wide-eyed and fairly close to acquiescing again. “That’s it,” you echo, forcing yourself to meet his gaze.

“Well,” he retrieves his hand, running his palm over his buzzcut distractedly, “Now it’s my turn to talk

You exhale slowly, watching him. “About what?”

“Shit, Polaris, maybe the fact that I’m in love with you?” He says incredulously, torso over the center console now. He’s looking up at you with enough intensity to revive burning embers, dry the tears on your cheeks until your skin feels vulnerable.

You balk, frozen in place as your eyes widen. “What?”

“I love you,” he repeats, sighing defeatedly. “And I know that I’m meant to keep that shit to myself, it wasn’t part of the plan and —”

“Rafe Cameron,” you interrupt, your warm cheeks burning. “I love you too.”

A pause. The confession makes the hankering dissipate, so quick Rafe almost doesn’t notice. His lips pull up until he’s sending you that sweet, devilish grin.

“Huh.” He reaches for your wrist again, tugging hard. “Well ain’t that just the worst thing I’ve ever heard.”

—

[rafeprincess]

when you let him stay. - rafe cameron.

this is part of the 'Not Your Girlfriend' series! catch up on the other things: 1 | headcanon | 2 ♡

--

You wake up first.

Which is annoying, because he’s the one who snuck in at 2AM like a raccoon with a key. He should be the tired one. He should be snoring or sprawled like a starfish or drooling on your pillow.

But no.

Rafe Cameron is lying next to you like he was carved there—like someone painted a boy who never learned how to sleep alone, then dropped him in your bed with a note that said Handle with care. Prone to clinginess.

His arm is heavy across your waist. One leg tangled with yours. His face soft in a way you rarely see, all the sharp edges dulled by sleep.

You should’ve kicked him out hours ago.

That’s what you usually do. Not cruelly—just... with rules. With space. With boundaries you both pretend matter.

But last night was different. He didn’t try to leave right away. And you didn’t make him.

He asked—quietly, fingers brushing your hip, lips at your shoulder—“Can I stay? Just this once?”

And you’d nodded, your voice lost somewhere under the sheets, under the weight of how much you love him. How tired you are of pretending you don’t.

So now, here you are. Morning light creeping through your curtains. Your chest tight with something that feels suspiciously like peace. And Rafe’s still here.

He shifts against you in his sleep, face nudging into your neck like he’s dreaming about you. Like you’re the safest thing he knows.

You let yourself watch him for a moment.

Just a moment.

Because he's beautiful in the mornings. Not just hot, though he is that too. But beautiful in a way that makes your chest ache. In a way that makes you think about toothbrushes side by side and coffee mugs that say “his” and “hers” and things that feel dangerously close to a future.

You brush a strand of hair off his forehead, careful not to wake him.

He stirs anyway. Cracks one eye open.

And smiles. Sleepy. Unfiltered. Like you’re his favorite dream come true.

“Hey,” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep. “You stayed.”

You laugh under your breath. “This is my bed, Rafe.”

“Semantics,” he mutters, tightening his hold on you like he’s worried you might change your mind now that the sun’s up.

You don’t. You let him hold you. Let your fingers trace lazy circles into the warm skin of his back. Let yourself feel what it’s like to not run.

“I thought you’d sneak out before sunrise,” you say quietly. “Or make some dumb excuse. Something about needing to check on your car or intimidate someone at a gas station.”

He hums against your collarbone. “I was gonna. Had the whole fake emergency planned and everything.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Mhm. But then you sighed in your sleep. Real soft. Like you were dreaming of something nice. And I hoped it was me.”

You’re silent for a moment. Then—

“It was.”

His head lifts just slightly, eyes meeting yours.

“What?”

You shrug, suddenly shy. “It was you. In the dream.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just looks at you like you’re the last good thing in a world that never gave him many. And maybe you are.

“You never let me stay before,” he says softly.

“I know.”

“You were always gone before I woke up.”

“I know.”

He brushes his nose against yours. “So… does this mean I’m your boyfriend now?”

You snort. “Absolutely not.”

He groans, flopping back into the pillow dramatically. “You’re so mean to me.”

“You like it.”

“I love it,” he says instantly. Then quieter, “I love you.”

You inhale sharply. Not because it’s new. He’s said it before—usually like a dare, or a joke, or mid-argument while bleeding.

But this time it’s quiet. Sure. No punchline. No performance.

Just true.

And the wildest part?

You don’t panic.

You don’t deflect.

You don’t roll your eyes or throw a pillow at his head.

You just look at him. Soft and tired and yours.

“I love you too,” you say, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

Because right now, it is.

He blinks. “Wait, like for real? Full sentence and everything?”

“Mhm.”

He beams. Beams. Kisses you so hard he knocks you back into the pillows, laughing against your mouth like a kid who just found out Santa’s real and hot.

“This is the best morning of my life,” he whispers, kissing your cheek. “Top five for sure.”

“You’re such a sap.”

“You’re cuddling me.”

“You’re warm,” you defend weakly, snuggling closer. “Like a space heater with daddy issues.”

He cackles. “Okay, wow. That’s fair.”

You fall quiet again, the kind of silence that feels full instead of empty. His fingers trace idle shapes into your arm. Your foot hooks over his calf. It’s domestic. Disgustingly so.

He kisses the top of your head. “Can we just… stay like this? For a while?”

You nod against his chest. “Yeah. We can stay.”

No running.

No pretending.

Just love. Messy, chaotic, ridiculous love.

And maybe—just maybe—you’re not so scared of it anymore.

---

[rafeprincess]

hi sweet girl. PLEASE one day for me bring back cruel summer rafe. i think about him so often 😩💛

Omg my BAEEE I do too !!!

—

Wreck my plans

synopsis: the more than you say, the less Rafe knows. Wherever you stray, he follows

a/n: 🤭🤭🤭 did someone say Cruel Summer?!

The glass of the sliding door distorts your figure, rendering your bare skin a smooth portrait of smudges. Too much bare skin.

He can’t fault you for wearing a singlet and shorts in this weather, can’t fault the exposed waif of skin between them. The South Carolina humidity is punishing as ever, the setting sun still shedding waves of heat with ardour. He wants to anyway.

You stick out like a sore thumb at this party, all bright and new and touron-y, and he really really wants to anyway.

Because people talk.

Not the way that you’re talking with Kelce, throwing your head back to laugh at whatever silly joke he’s made. No — people in the Outer Banks are more snide, almost petulant.

Especially when you look like fresh bait and sound like the death of the Rafe Cameron.

He closes the distance between the pair of you, daunted by the thought of sharing you with them.

As he nears, the want to touch you grows exponentially. You laugh again, lean in a little, place your hand on Kelce’s strong shoulder for balance. Rafe’s brow furrows.

He realises then that there’s a difference between being protective and being possessive, this small, terribly inconsequential difference that isn’t as inconsequential as he once thought.

Not with you. He’s feeling the former for the first time and he doesn’t think he should.

No strings, he scolds internally. The cruel spaghetti straps of your singlet top—he was sliding them off you just this morning—beg to differ.

Through the sliding door now, he wraps his arm around your waist and pulls you against him. The hard ridges of abdomen exert a warm pressure on your back, and his rough fingers slip under your singlet to feel your skin.

He’s like an anchor. You glance up at him with raised eyebrows to find he’s already looking down at you. “Huh. Speak of the devil.”

He lifts his own in tandem. “I’m important enough to talk about now?”

“Apparently you’re the most important person at this party.” You pause, your pretty eyes glinting with mirth. “Or used to be at least. Record holder for most parties thrown in one year or something?”

Rafe makes a face before looking over at Kelce, disapproving. “Whatever Smith’s told you about our Academy days, he’s lying.”

“Hey, hey,” Kelce says, raising his arms in surrender. “Don’t shoot the messenger Cam. Just thought she oughta know exactly what she’s getting into.”

Rafe’s eyes drops to you again, and he gives your waist an absentminded squeeze. His splayed hand moves higher, hidden by the thin fabric of your singlet, until his thumb grazes the underwire of your bikini top. Your pulse stutters.

“Yeah?” He murmurs. “And what are you getting into Polaris?”

You hold his gaze, steady. “Nothing.” Everything.

“Nothing?” Kelce echoes, breaking the pair of you out of your reverie. “Fuck, maybe you should tell them that.”

He points the rim of his beer bottle towards the kitchen as he says it, alerting you to a group of girls nearby staring daggers.

Rafe looks over too, resisting the urge to grimace.

“Holy shit,” you murmur, sounding amused. “Tell me Cameron, exactly how many girls have you scorned?”

“Chill Shakespeare, I haven’t fucking ‘scorned’ anyone,” Rafe defends, just say Kelce says, “way too many.”

You let out a laugh, and it vibrates through Rafe’s ribcage. He feels momentarily debilitated. A laugh like that has to be illegal.

“Truth time,” you declare, pulling out of Rafe’s arms and turning around so you’re face to face. “You’ve been with all of them, haven’t you?”

Rafe’s hands ache. It’s hard to conjure up a witty reply when all his energy’s being used resisting the urge to pull you back in.

“Not all,” he replies. “Some.”

“Most,” Kelce pipes up.

“Not seriously, or anything,” he adds without meaning to. He isn’t sure why he’s defending his actions to you — this thing between the two of you is similarly unserious.

Right?

“Like us, then,” you say, raising your eyebrows.

“Worse,” he returns. “Those chics didn’t know we had a time limit.”

Or that he wanted to adhere to it, all things considered. Unlike with you. It’s kind of pathetic.

You let out a gasp, faux-scandalised. “Surprise surprise, the most eligible bachelor on this island is a fuck boy.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Kelce snorts. “He’s also rich as hell and they know it.”

And unavailable, Rafe wants to add, but he knows that this is unfair. Summer’s half way through, this no strings thing at its mid-point, and he knows that in another month or two he’ll have to learn to forget the sweet taste of your lips.

He doesn’t want to, bad. He’s never felt this ache for the other girls he’s been with and he hates how much it terrifies him.

When did this silly fling become more than a game to him?

“They’re kooks,” you say then, almost unsure. “Yeah?”

Rafe grins then, mostly because the word sounds sweeter coming out of your mouth. “You learn quick.” He pulls at the bill of his backwards cap. “You know, for a touron.”

“You say it like it’s a slur.”

“It may as well be,” he jibes. “Least you’re not a pogue though, huh?”

He swipes your beer bottle then, taking a pull of the amber liquid. Your fingers warm where they’ve grazed his, the poor pulse in your arm thrumming.

“And if I was?” You ask.

“Those girls would’ve already eaten you alive.”

You raise your eyebrows, mirthful. “Sounds intriguing.”

“Yeah?” Rafe returns, passing the beer back to you.

You push it back into his chest, shaking your head as you do so. “Finish it,” you say. “Think I’m gonna grab a refill.”

He knows what you’re doing. He uses his other hand to clasp your wrist in place, his rough palm pressing heat into your skin. Stay close, he wants to plead, they’re going to eat you alive before I do.

“Polaris,” he murmurs, an admonishment.

“Cameron,” you return, challenging him. You pull out of his grasp with ease, turning and sending Kelce a wave. “See you around, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Kelce agrees, amused. “Sure hope so, Polaris.”

You make a face just as Rafe warns, “say that shit again and I’ll give you a shiner.”

As you walk away, you think you hear Kelce say, “fuck you’re touchy about her, aren’t you Cameron?”

He sounds surprised by this revelation. You aren’t sure whether this is a good or bad thing. As you re-enter the living room and make your way to the kitchen, the heavy bass grows louder, drowning out their conversation.

Behind them, the horizon is ochre and rust, setting sun meets dusk. Deep orange light creates halos around their figures, making them harder to discern, you more painfully obvious.

Your skin is sliding door smudged again, achingly far away.

So you don’t hear Rafe’s response to his friend’s loaded question, don’t register the fact that their gaze remains on you.

“Whatever you’re insinuating,” Rafe mutters. “Drop it.”

“Chill, Rafe,” Kelce replies, raising his eyebrows. “I’m only fucking with you.”

“It’s nothing,” Rafe feels the need to add, overcompensating. “She’s only here for the summer.”

“Right.” Kelce pauses. “Sounds like a pretty good distraction.”

Rafe lets out a tired breath, taking another gulp of his—your—beer. “It is man… shit. Barry’s been driving me fucking crazy.”

“That dealer from the Cut?” Kelce asks, frowning bemusedly. “Bro. I thought you were done with that shit.”

“No—it’s not—I’m not dealing anymore, alright?” Rafe balks. “It’s… don’t worry about it, it’s not important. All you need to know is that I’m handling it.”

“Alright,” Kelce concedes, and then he pauses, wondering how far he can push it. “So… what? That’s where you’ve been all summer? ‘Handling’ this shit that you’ve got with Barry?”

“Uh.” Rafe’s eyes pulls to your figure again, watches you pull open the fridge to grab another Heineken from the bottom shelf. “Not quite.”

Kelce follows his gaze, glimpsing you in tandem. “Oh right. And here I thought you guys were just fucking.”

Rafe grimaces. It sounds so fucking blasé when he says it. Like it’s nothing, like you’re nothing, like it isn’t obvious that you’re the exact opposite.

He clenches his teeth without meaning to, clearly irritated. “We are.”

“Then why is it such a big deal when I say it?”

“I don’t fucking know, alright?” Because she’s everything. “I’m done talking about this.”

“They aren’t, though,” Kelce says then, nodding toward the group of girls in the kitchen. The prettiest of the lot, Rafe’s family friend Blake, is tapping you on the shoulder to start a conversation.

Just like you knew she would. You might be fresh bait, but she’s the one that’s predictable.

“Here,” she offers sweetly, just as the girl next to her offers you a bottle opener. “You’ll need this.”

You accept it graciously, giving her a smile. “Thank you. Had to get Kelce to open my last one on the side of the deck table.”

“Oh my god, hopefully that didn’t leave a mark!” She exclaims, slightly affronted. “Rose was telling my mom about how she just bought some new outdoor furniture from William Sonoma.”

You raise your eyebrows, slightly amused. “Oh. Um, I’m sure it didn’t.”

“Of course, you’ll know all about that, won’t you?” She adds, faux-nonchalant. “She’ll talk to anyone who will listen about her love for interior design.”

“I’m sorry. Rose?”

The pretty girl balks, but you know she’s pleased by your bemusement. “Um… Rafe’s stepmom? Sorry—I thought you and Rafe were…”

“…were?” You prompt. You want her to say it. You know that you’ll have to say no when she does, but the promise of something more taunts the Rafe-sized chamber in your ribcage.

“Never mind,” she dismisses, smiling that saccharine sweet smile again. “You’re not from here, are you?”

You shake your head. “I’m a ‘touron’ apparently.”

“Better that than a pogue,” she returns, and her friends murmur in agreement.

“Funny,” you say then, “Rafe said the same thing.”

“He did?” The pretty girl brightens a little, sparing a glance at Rafe’s figure in the distance. “I’m Blake, by the way. Me and him go way back.”

“We all do,” pipes up the girl to her left, equally gorgeous with an endearing Southern twang. “Hard not to when we all grew up in the Eight.”

It sounds an innocent statement at first, but you know what she’s insinuating — unlike you. You don’t belong here and you know it.

“Seems a pretty sweet place to grow up,” you say. “And you all went to the Academy together?”

“Same friend group and everything,” Blake confirms. “We get each other, you know? Better than outsiders would.” She pauses then, waiting for the words to register. “No offence or anything. We love having tourons over the summer.”

Over the summer. The time limit makes your limbs ache, Rafe’s jagged touch the antidote.

“Love being here,” you return, trying for a smile. Why did you come over here again? This silly game you’re playing isn’t so fun anymore.

“You do?” Asks a deep voice then, it’s rough timbre pressing over you in waves. “Damn. That’s new.”

Rafe throws his arm around your waist, giving its curve a firm squeeze. Blake deflates slightly.

“Rafe!” She exclaims, forcing a smile. Her gaze balks at your proximity before pulling back to his features. “Your girl is adorable. Where’d you find her?”

Your girl. The words make your heart stutter. You know she’s only saying it as a taunt, not as truth, but your poor heart struggles to heed the difference with Rafe so proximal.

“Hm,” Rafe returns, looking down at you. He makes a face, her blue eyes glinting with mirth. “She’s okay. Wouldn’t go as far as adorable.”

Blake raises her eyebrows. “Oh. So you guys are…?”

You meet her gaze. “Are?”

“D’you wanna go down to the beach?” Rafe asks then, ignoring Blake. “Sun’s about to set.”

The questions pulls you back to him, a moth to a flame. Your surroundings blur. “Yeah. Sounds adorable.”

Blake falters again, looking abashed now. She doesn’t bother defending herself as the pair of you turn and walk away from them.

Once safely in the hallway and heading for the verandah, you lean in close and murmur, “that wasn’t too mean, was it?”

“No way,” Rafe responds, grinning roguishly. He’s open about the fact that he’s marvelling in your closeness. “It was adorable.”

His hand slides up and under your singlet again, pressing heat into your ribcage. “New for you,” he adds. “Being adorable, that is.”

“Rude,” you bristle, teasing. “I’m always adorable.”

His hand moves higher, thumb ghosting over the space between your breasts. “Hm. Don’t know if that’s the first adjective I’d use to describe you.”

Your heart stutters again. Pathetic. You try your best to maintain your composure. “Oh yeah? And what would you use instead?”

“Dangerous.”

“Think those girls feel the same way.”

“Fuck what Blake and those other kooks think. They’re only obsessed with me cause I’m a Cameron.”

You breathe out of a laugh, glancing over your shoulder to ensure you’re out of earshot. “Careful. You wouldn’t want them hearing you denounce your own kind.”

“And why the fuck not?” Rafe asks, faux-incensed. “I’m the most important person at this party, apparently. Surely I can denounce whoever the fuck I want?”

He guides you through the front entrance and down the porch steps, orange dusk softening the stained oak of Tannyhill’s double doors.

“But you wouldn’t want to hurt their feelings would you?” You ask, raising your eyebrows playfully. “Especially because all of you go ‘way back’ or whatever.”

“Blake said that?” He return, making a face. He veers you to the left, a walkway to the beach emerging from the foliage. “Technically we do. Not that I had any choice in the matter.”

“Aw, poor little rich boy,” you tease. “Must be the hardest job ever, being the Eight’s most eligible bachelor.”

As you walk toward the beach, sand replaces the grass beneath your feet, soft and warm and yielding. Like you — putty in Rafe’s hands and he knows it.

“Harder being you,” he replies, his rough hand sliding down to give your ass an absentminded squeeze. “The mystery touron that’s somehow got all his attention.”

“Temporarily.” Forever.

“They don’t know that.”

“Mm.” You pause, glancing up at him then. “Especially not when they call me his girl and he doesn’t deny it.”

Rafe balks. You turn in his arms and wrap your own around his neck, allowing his calloused palms to find the exposed skin of your waist again. Firm pressure, grounding. “Who cares what they think?”

“Not me,” you reply quietly. “I care what you think, Cameron.”

“Like I said,” Rafe murmurs back, ducking down to sponge a kiss to your neck, “I think you’re fucking dangerous, Polaris.” Another kiss right below it, more teeth-scraping, more arduous. “I think you’re going to be the death of me, and I think I’m going to let you.”

You sigh, tugging off his cap to muss his dirty-blonde locks. “Sounds awful.”

“The worst,” Rafe agrees.

He straightens to meet your gaze, pupils slightly blown as they flit down to your soft lips. There’s a slight, agonising pause before captures them in a searing kiss, tasting of warm beer and bad intentions, a rough hand splayed over the curve of your ass as he does it.

When you pull away, the ghost of his lips making you feel abashed, you murmur, “this whole thing is self destructive, apparently.”

Rafe wants to kiss you again, bad. “How so?”

“You’re going to be the death of me too, Cameron.”

[rafeprincess]

05 ── PLAYING THE PART UNDER THE SICILIAN SUN ── RAFE CAMERON

── SYNOPSIS when your image-obsessed mother catches you and Rafe Cameron ─ your friends with benefits ─ in a compromising situation, you must lie and say you're dating. It spirals out of control when your mother invites him to your cousin's upcoming wedding in Italy, and spirals even further when he says yes. ── WARNINGS language, holy annngst (familial issues, mentions of a parent leaving). 18+ mdni. ── WORD COUNT 6.6k. ── NOTES edited from third person perspective to second, so let me know if there are any mistakes. inaccurate from canonical cameron family history idfk. ── SERIES MASTERLIST ── SONG OF THE CHAPTER sun bleached flies by ethel cain

You wake up bright and early on accident. 

It’s not your fault, as a strange dream jolts you from your slumber out of confusion, but when your eyes crack open and blink away the rising sunlight, the scene in front of you is disgustingly endearing. 

Rafe’s sleeping face is inches away from yours, your heads sharing the same thin pillow.

His lips are puffy and parted, breaths taken silently through his nose as his chest rises and falls in deep syncopation. The urge to laugh at his disheveled hair is high, as it sticks up in every kind of direction: over his eyes, straight up, sideways, making him look absolutely insane.

Knowing him, he’d probably be embarrassed at the sight, and would probably jab at your appearance in retaliation to take the spotlight off of him for a mere moment. An arm is lazily draped around your waist and one of his lanky legs is slotted between your thighs. 

Content with the sleeping arrangement, your heartbeat simmers from the craziness of your dream, falling back asleep within a few minutes knowing you're safely caged in his arms. 

When you wake again, Rafe is gone, and you try to ignore the dull ache that settles in your heart at the discovery.

There’s no Po or sunlight who wake you up this time and you surprisingly wish that there was, because the absence of it allows you to think about today’s agenda: your last day staying with Lorenza. 

Your heart drops in anxious anticipation, knowing tomorrow you'll be off to whatever overpriced resort your family rented out for the weekend surrounded by disingenuous people. It almost feels like enemy territory, the more you think about it, and a small part of you is relieved at Rafe’s presence to help you through it.

Whereas the other part of you is dreading it, fearful of exposing him to such dreary conditions. 

Last night, Rafe explained how his family and the community in his home town aren’t much different from yours, full of obnoxious, rich assholes who don’t care whether he lives or dies as long as they have enough funds for their biannual Mykonos trip, so he has a general idea of what he’s getting himself into.

Despite this, you can’t help but feel a twinge of guilt to subjecting him to it again, simply in a different font.

Although, it was admittedly nice to hear a little more about his life before college, realizing that you really don't know much about him besides the preconceptions of his university personality. 

The need to know more has you reeling.

You shouldn't want to learn more.

Eventually, you pull herself out of the twin bed, hating the way you want to linger between the sheets because they smell like him. You hate the thought, loathe it, despise the way it makes you feel.

Desperate. Clingy. Addicted.

Rafe’s been playing his part a little too well on this trip, solidifying your realization that you misjudged him.

In the days leading up to your departure, you were (rightfully) highly cynical of Rafe as a boyfriend, reiterating to yourself that he’s a player, he has no desire to be tied down to someone in college (as he told you when you created the arrangement), he doesn’t want to subject himself to the mental game of emotionally relying on someone else. The whole thing seemed like one big, fat joke to you, a disaster waiting to happen. 

You never expect him to lean into the role as much as he has. 

The playtime acting in front of Lorenza has been convincing, your nonna expressing genuine favor towards Rafe when she initially met him. She claimed his eagerness to help around the house is simply an added perk, because she took note of the way he looked at you when you weren't looking and how he talked about you in private to Lorenza was most endearing.

That simple observation had you reeling, because you didn't even realize Rafe was sneaking glances or talking about you behind your back in the first place. 

It only makes you spiral. 

Last night only augments your emotional confusion. 

Rafe had looked at you like you hung the stars yourself, treating you with such delicacy and, dare you say, admiration, that you felt like a fraud when you leaned into it, knowing the whole ordeal isn’t real and simply a part he’s been playing for the past few days. He simply wanted to treat you nice because it was your birthday.

Your confusion further grows when you eventually get out of bed to discover him in the garden. But his demeanor is different, and it makes you pause before blindly running outside into his arms.

Rafe’s on the phone, you realize, talking animatedly with a permanent etch in his brow. He looks angry.

No, he looks pissed.

Pacing back and forth in the garden, he alternates between nearly screaming into the phone and listening with a clenched jaw, his hand switching from rubbing out a migraine to gesturing wildly to emphasize his words. 

You've only experienced Rafe like this once before, and it was when you overheard him on the phone with his father.

Now, you really didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but your dorm rooms are right next to each other so you're bound to catch a few loud words on a phone call here or there. But this particular time, it was essentially a screaming match, Rafe loudly arguing over the phone – on speaker, by the way – with another person who happened to scream even louder back to him. 

You couldn’t believe the vulgarities you heard: Rafe’s father – who he doesn’t even call dad but rather his name, Ward – calling his son an embarrassment to the family for how poorly he’s been doing in some classes, having no shame in calling him a pussy when he heard Rafe sniffle, telling him to man the fuck up. Rafe would retaliate and say his share only to be shut down again by Ward time and time again. It was a losing battle. 

The behavior that followed that phone call was abysmal: Rafe was distant, cold, mean.

He rarely spoke, but when he did, it wasn’t anything nice, and that’s if he even attended events. Normally he just disappeared, was radio silent. On the rare occasion that he actually wanted to talk, he would privately message you and simply fuck his frustration out onto you: you who wouldn't dare instigate or pry about his life, and instead would wordlessly offer the only comfort you know how to provide.

Part of you wanted him to talk to you about it when that happened, but admitting that you overheard that phone call would be brutal blow to him. So you simply let him come, take what he needed, and not put up a fight. 

You never brought it up to Rafe because – duh – it isn't any of your business, but also you understand the sensitive subject that is parental relationships. 

So, you know better than to not approach him right now, begrudgingly turning a blind eye and retreating to the living room to sit with your nonna. 

You and Lorenza mainly hang out together for the better part of the morning, besides the short interruption where Rafe comes back into the house, aggravated from his emotional phone call, softly declaring he's going to go for a run, changing into the appropriate attire, and then leaving the cottage in a hurry.

The silence that follows his departure is filled with confusion, and you have to explain to Lorenza that Rafe and his father don’t really get along without exposing too much detail. The older woman simply shakes her head in sadness for the boy, and that is the end of that conversation.

Lorenza is making panini when Rafe returns, just around lunchtime as it starts to lightly rain, barely sparing you a glance before retreating to the bathroom to shower. You sit on the love seat couch in the living room, reading and annotating the already-annotated copy of Un Principe that he bought you yesterday, and you continue to sit there dumbfounded at his behavior.

You can’t help but feel a twinge of worry for him, because at the end of the day you are kind-of friends. You just want him to be alright. 

Pushing the thought aside, you and Lorenza eat together in the kitchen, laughing and talking about nonsense for the duration of the meal. Rafe doesn’t leave the bedroom, not even making a sound for what feels like an hour. Lorenza leaves out a sandwich for him to eat when he’s ready, and eventually leaves with Ticino to venture into town for tonight’s groceries despite the rain. 

As if he knows your nonna leaves, Rafe quietly emerges from the bedroom ten minutes later. 

You're lounging on the living room couch, nose deep in your book with the soothing pitter-patter of the rain against the window, not even noticing his presence until he rounds the sofa and sits down next to you.

The cushion dipping from his weight startles you, nearly dropping your pen and book in the process. You're almost ready to cuss him out but the words die in your throat when you notice his sullen expression and slightly bloodshot eyes which avoid your gaze. 

You bite your tongue.

You know that he probably doesn’t want to talk about it.

Rafe never wants to talk about anything remotely serious in his life because anytime you've gotten close, the topic’s brushed off without argument. But you figure if he really needs to, he’ll come to you when he’s ready.

So, you settle on something safe.

“Nonna made sandwiches. She left one for you in the kitchen if you’re hungry.”

Wet hair clings to his forehead like a second skin, and he smells faintly of the citrus shampoo from the shower. Rafe doesn’t meet your eye, and his fingers that rest on his thigh twitch in your direction unintentionally. He offers no words, simply shaking his head faintly, gaze fixated distantly on your lap, on the book that you're holding so tenderly. 

He blinks a few times, the worry line in his forehead prominent as he sits for a moment, as if deciding on what he wants to do. Whether he wants to speak, or simply sit, or get up and leave- you have no idea, and again bite your tongue to further prod or coddle. The last thing you want to do is overwhelm him with choices.

Let him come to you, you think firmly.

And he does.

Wordlessly, Rafe shifts his position, leaning his head down to rest on your chest, bringing his legs to lay fully on the couch. 

You try and mask your surprise, adjusting to accommodate him so he slots between your legs with his one arm snaking under your back and the other resting on your hip.

God, Rafe feels pathetic as he practically nuzzles himself into your body, especially when you gingerly brush the wet hair out of his eyes and smooth out the wrinkles in his graphic t-shirt by the collar.

The sound of your heartbeat calms him from the calamity he’s already endured this morning.

And yet, for the first time today, Rafe feels like he can breathe.

Rafe tried going on a run to clear his thoughts, but the solitude only seemed to isolate them, amplify them, and none of his ideas worked on how to control his anger, none of those stupid breathing exercises his one-time therapist taught him or the 5-4-3-2-1 senses method his sister introduced him to.

He nearly had a panic attack on what to do: he’s stuck in a foreign country with people who haven’t been exposed to his erratic temperament, nor does he want them to see the detriments of it, and he has no idea how to calm down, how to fix his rapid heartbeat and racing thoughts and overwhelming urge to punch something.

To his horror, the only remedy he can think of is you, and the sudden need for co-dependency really scares the shit out of him. 

So here Rafe is: laying on you like a child because he doesn’t know how to properly emote. 

What’s even more mortifying is that you allow it.

Rafe prefers it if you pushed him away, told him to deal with it on his own or to grow up and start acting like a man, then he wouldn’t have this overtly disgusting infatuation with you. He would get over it, move on, and go back to the way things were before this whole feelings crap started. 

But you don't. You embrace him without question. 

Rafe realizes he’s horrifically, utterly, tremendously down bad when you start quietly reading to him.

Of course, the book is in Italian so he doesn’t understand a single concept, but after every chapter you give a few sentence summary in English to keep him informed on the matter, taking one hand away from his back every now and then to jot down a note or circle a phrase or underline a sentence. Your hand returns to his back, scratching up and down and side to side lightly as your focus never wavers from the words on the page, never interrupting the book to pry in on his personal life or make sure he’s okay.

You simply invite him into your moment.

After four chapters, he’s feeling infinitely better. 

Rafe even manages to ask a few questions, grimacing at his hoarse voice, damaged from all of the shouting, but you don't acknowledge it and dive right into your explanations. You explain the origins of the book, the historical significance, and how it shaped politics after it was published.

And, goddamnit, if he doesn’t listen to every single word. 

You lay together like this for a little over an hour, limbs entangled with soft whispers and aged pages crinkling while the soft thumping of the rain continues outside.

After you finish a later chapter, you decide to close the book, saving your page with the pen and gently dropping it on the floor.

Wordlessly, you wrap your once-preoccupied arm around Rafe and simply hold him, patiently waiting to see if he’ll say anything. But he doesn’t. He only lays there in your arms, eyes trained on the window with a far-away expression. 

After what feels like forever, you decide to bite.

“Hey.”

“Hm?”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

You hate the way he stiffens, biting your lip in worry because, shit, you should’ve just kept your mouth shut and waited for him to come to you. 

“You don’t have to tell me,” you add quickly, not wanting to scare him away, “I just wanna make sure you’re alright.”

There’s a long silence, and you eventually come to the conclusion that he’s asleep, or pretending to, so he can avoid the question. But the spark of hope - his thumb gently skimming over the exposed skin of your waist from your tank top that bunched up - has you intently focused, oh-so patiently waiting if he’ll speak. 

And he does. “My dad is forcing me to come home for Christmas.”

If you don't already know some of the underlying preconceptions of his father, you probably would’ve been confused and asked what the big deal was. But you do understand, unfortunately, knowing that Rafe wants to spend the least amount of time possible at home, something you can definitely relate to. 

Before you can comfort him about it, he scoffs against your chest. 

“When I say it aloud, it doesn’t sound like a big deal.”

“Why is it a big deal?” You ask, not out of annoyance but genuine curiosity. 

Rafe seems to nuzzle into you a fraction more. “I hate Christmas.”

You want to shake him, ask him why, learn more, have him open up.

But you can’t. He needs to come to you, if he even wants to. You know he probably doesn't, because he's never been open with you on anything remotely personal, so why on earth would he start now? He has no obligation to tell you anything, truly, because that insinuates a trust deeper than friendship.

With a heavy heart, you remember that you're not together. You're not supposed to care about things like this . You're not supposed to want to know more.

You're friends. You shouldn’t expect him to suddenly spill his deepest secrets and familial insecurities just because you ask nicely. 

“Okay,” is all you say in return. 

Rafe's chest heaves with a particularly deep sigh, one of irritation.

He’s frustrated with himself, because why can’t he say the words? You've confided in him more times than he can count for the duration of this trip, he could at least have the common decency to do the same, or at least try to offer you that.

But he’s bad with words. Astronomically abhorrid.

Rafe wants to try. For you.

“When I was eight, my mom left.”

Thankfully he’s not looking at you, because your brows raise in surprise. 

“It was three days before Christmas Eve and she just…got up and left. Her and my dad were fighting nonstop, and I guess she couldn’t take it anymore. Left behind three kids.” Rafe frowns at the memory, then bitterly scoffs. “I sat on the front porch every day waiting for her to come back. Sometimes slept out there. But she left no note, no phone number, nothing for us to trace back to her.”

Your heart lurches at the thought of Rafe as a young boy, eagerly waiting for his mother who would never return, sleeping out in the cold and hoping every car that passed was her running back home. 

A lot of things suddenly make sense: Rafe’s lack of compassion towards intimacy, his skepticism of relationships, his overarching masculine demeanor.

He’s had no maternal love, no one to coddle him or teach him how to handle emotional situations. The closed off, distant approach to anything remotely related to sentiment is all he knows, all he was taught as a young boy.

“So my dad gets really fucking brutal,” he continues, pulling you from your thoughts. “More than usual. It’s always a really shitty time for me and my sisters. Hopefully next year I’ll have my own place so we can just…stay there instead. Without him.”

Then, he lets out a breath he isn’t aware he was holding. Rafe hates how hard his heart is pounding.

“That’s really it. I’m fine.”

You smooth out his hair gently, wondering if he can feel your matched hammering heartbeat. “Are you, though?”

No, he thinks immediately. There’s so many things I want to tell you but I don't know how.

“Yeah.”

It’s bullshit, you both know it, but you don't press further, instead offering solace in your arms as you coddle him. Part of him wants you to ask more, to force him to open up because maybe it’ll take some stress off his poor heart, juggling so many emotions at once, but he understands why you don't. He wouldn’t do it if he was in your shoes, anyway. 

But your voice surprises him.

You speak before you can stop yourself. “I know you and I are just…” Friends? Fuck buddies? Something else? “...us, but you can talk to me about these things. If you want.”

That makes Rafe frown. Why would you even care?

“You wouldn’t want to know.”

Because you shouldn't want to know the extensive details. It's brutal and dehumanizing. He can't count how many times his father has made him feel less than for making simple mistakes, how many backhanded jabs he's gotten - or literal backhands - at the expense jeopardizing his father's publicity. How he always feels like a failure when his father's around.

“Try me.”

Then, Rafe finally tilts his head up to look at you, seeing that you're already staring at him.

Your eyebrows are slightly pinched together and, normally, your eye contact puts him at ease, but frustration bubbles in his chest when he can’t discern your concerned expression from pity.

And he doesn’t fucking want anyone’s pity.

Not even yours.

Rafe doesn't want to be treated as some charity case that people need to feel bad for because his mom left, because his dad is a piece of shit. Whoopty-fucking-do. There's nothing worse than false concern, like you're looking at him as a glass box, like a shame.

Before you realize it, Rafe is suddenly pushing himself upright and avoiding your gaze as if it’s the plague. 

“Rafe?” You ask worriedly, sitting up and attempting to extend a hand out to him.

He shrugs you off, standing so you can’t reach him. “Just– Stop.”

The sudden tone shift has you reeling in confusion.

“Are you–?”

“Yes, I’m fucking fine,” Rafe snaps, ignoring the way you flinch. “Stop acting like you give a shit.”

Then he’s turning his heel and retreating back into the shared bedroom, you flinching again when he shuts the door particularly aggressively.

You can only sit frozen in your spot.

What the fuck was that?

Thankfully the rain stops, because it gives you something else to do besides being cooped up in the house. 

Lorenza returns eventually with the groceries and you help her unload them. Rafe, surprisingly, sits in the living room to make his presence known, but offers no words or anything as he sits with Ticino. The dog doesn’t complain about the attention, and Po eventually comes and attempts to steal it away. Rafe doesn’t mind, in fact he encourages it, because it gives him an excuse to be anti-social. 

You give Rafe space, an astronomical amount of it.

You half understand his outburst, yet are half pissed at his behavior earlier. You were only trying to help, he needs to understand that, there’s no reason to be a dick about it.

Thinking back to all the times you've reluctantly shared information because he asked about it comes into fruition. Of course, you never want to share any of your familial baggage to anyone, and talking about it only pisses you off further. But you always told him because he asked, or seemed like he cared.

And you never took it out on him like that.

Sure, you were a brat for the entirety of yesterday, but his words were different, they were venomous. 

Whatever.

You try to brush it off as you spend time outside with your nonna, tending to the garden and fixing some of the outdoor furniture and decor that may have gotten messed up from the rain. Simultaneously, you do your best to avoid Rafe’s gaze through the window, collectively deciding that you're ignoring him (as best as you can without raising suspicions from nonna) until he apologizes.

It’s childish, you know, but you figure it’s the only way he’ll get it through his head that that’s not how you talk to people. 

Besides, today is your last day at the cottage. You're not letting Rafe Cameron of all people ruin the time you have with your nonna. 

So, with that in mind, you have a beautiful day spent with Lorenza, helping prepare and cook dinner, sharing a few glasses of wine during the process, recounting funny stories and chatting as if there’s no tomorrow. 

Dinner is relatively normal, Rafe offering his two cents and chatting as he’s done the entire trip, but it doesn’t take an idiot to notice your clear apprehension with him.

You offer the translation between the two cordially, and mainly only talk at Lorenza. She tries to sneak some English words into her sentences to let him try and follow their conversation, and he’s grateful for that, given you don't aid him as much as normal. 

And Rafe?

Well, Rafe wants to kick himself.

He knows he fucked up - what else is new - but he hates the coldness from you.

The words are on the tip of his tongue every time he gets a fraction of a moment alone with you, but before he can embarrass himself and attempt to apologize, you're brushing him off and distracting yourself with something to do, deliberately avoiding him unless Lorenza’s in the room.

Rafe doesn’t know what’s worse: you acting like everything is fine in front of your nonna and giving him the false hope that you're not actually mad at him, or your abrasive demeanor towards him when it’s just the two of you that showcases your real feelings. 

After dinner, he politely thanks Lorenza for the meal and retires to the bedroom, not wanting to intrude any further.

He’s laying on the bed when you come in twenty minutes later, and there's a spark of dumb hope in his chest at the opportunity to finally get you alone. But you're lightning fast: changing into your pajamas and grabbing your bag before leaving the room without a word, which only makes him more frustrated. 

You and Lorenza sit outside after doing the dishes, the older woman surprisingly letting you help with them, as you chat animatedly into the night. You both smoke a cigarette as you overlook the ocean, talking for what seems like hours until Lorenza is ashing her third cigarette, announcing her departure.

You don't realize how high the moon is in the sky when Lorenza goes back inside, the time passing like seconds.

Now it's just you and the night.

You really don't want her to leave, the thought of being alone with your thoughts makes you slightly panic, but you really don't want to make Lorenza worry about you even more than she already has.

Lorenza is well aware of the treatment and behavior within your family, and hates that you're being forced to spend the weekend at the resort versus just the night of the wedding, like her. You've constantly reassured her that you'll be fine, but it doesn’t come across very genuine, because you're trying to convince yourself of that at the same time. You've never been that great a liar.

But you know that's only one of the reasons you won’t be able to sleep tonight, and the other being a certain dirty blond.

The thought of retreating back to the bedroom where Rafe is either asleep or waiting for you to return so he can fuck his frustration out on you isn’t what you want to deal with right now. Plus, you know that your body naturally gravitates towards him, and are afraid you'll give into it when you would really prefer an apology first.

But, knowing Rafe, that isn’t happening. 

So, you stay outside in the chilly breeze, toggling between journaling out your life’s problems in the small spiral notebook and reading Un Principe and continuing your annotations. 

It’s lonely, no doubt about it, but the journaling offers a mental escape from your own mind, being able to freely jot down the thoughts you can’t seem to vocalize, and the reading provides a distraction to the upcoming events.

Because if you think about the wedding for more than five minutes, you are, no doubt, going to spiral. 

But your mind continuously drifts back to Rafe, to your arrangement.

You never meant for it to get this frustratingly complicated, because everything was better when you were only fucking and treating it as so. You're barely friends, only brought together by your social circle, so why do you feel so compelled to be near him? To help him? To smooth out the worry line on his forehead when he furrows his eyebrows, or grab his hand when you're in a crowd to steady yourself, or be the only name spoken from his lips in moments of intimacy? 

You know you're going to get hurt if you allow yourself to descend down this rabbit hole.

Rafe Cameron does not do girlfriends.

He doesn’t see the same girl twice. He doesn’t know how to be a boyfriend, a real one, anyway. These feelings towards him, these implications to love and care for him, are only going to bite you in the ass.

You did that once, in high school. You loved and cared for Grant like he hung the goddamn stars in the sky, and then what happened? That whole ordeal ended up being a disaster, too, orchestrated by the talons of your mother's scheme. His feelings weren’t real, not in the way high-school-you would’ve liked.

Neither are Rafe’s, because he’s simply playing a part because he has to. Not because he wants to.

Guys don’t want you the way you yearn to be wanted.

They want you for a few hours after going out and drinking, or on Sunday’s, or for a cheeky photo to get them through their history lecture. So, sure, if that’s what they want you to be, then that’s what you'll be, and you'll never ask for more.

Because you don't know how to be more. 

“Hey.”

The voice startles you, pulling your disassociated gaze from your book and looking up to see Rafe, shifting his weight between feet with his hands stuffed in his pockets.

He looks unsure of his place, as if he’s cautiously waiting for you to tell him to fuck off and leave you alone. A bubble of anger nurses in your chest at the sight of him, remembering his previous venom, but you don't send him away just yet. 

You simply look at him, silently beckoning him to continue. 

Rafe scratches the back of his neck, nervous under your stare. “Uhm, it’s late.”

You nod slowly, as if that’s obvious.

“Are…are you coming to bed?”

Darting your gaze from him, the book, to the ocean, and back to him, you simply shrug, knowing your silence is aggravating him.

Rafe exhales through his nostrils, composing himself. Then, he nods and starts to turn around to go back inside but stops himself. The way his brows are pinched it’s obvious he wants to say more, but what that more is, he isn’t sure. 

After a moment of contemplation, he faces you again and finds your eyes. 

“Can I sit?”

That surprises you.

But you try to not let it show as you nonchalantly nod, nearly snorting at how quickly he takes the seat across from you, almost eagerly. Still, you don't offer any words, and simply go back to reading your book (or at least pretending to), and occasionally clicking and un-clicking the pen to circle a word or write a note.

In your peripheral, you feel Rafe watching you, picking at his nails when he rests his arms on the garden table. His mouth opens and closes, fighting himself on where to start and you nearly talk out of pity.

But no. No.

He needs to come to you. You learned that the hard way, and refuse to make that mistake again. 

“What part are you at?”

You nearly roll your eyes. If this is some form of prolonged apology foreplay, he’s sure doing a good job. 

“Chapter seventeen.”

As relieved as he is to hear your voice, Rafe takes a deep breath at your stubbornness, but recoils his temper and bites his tongue. You're certainly not making it easy for him to apologize, and he doesn’t blame you in the slightest, but he simply doesn’t know how. No one ever taught him.

“What’s it about?”

Is he serious?

Then you drop the book against the table and deadpan glare at him, raising a brow in anticipation to give him the green light to say what he actually wants to say.

Rafe stares right back at you, fidgeting with his hands and feeling his heart race. The words in his mind don’t translate to his mouth, gaping open and closed like an idiot. 

Speak! He yells at himself. For the love of Christ.

Groaning, Rafe throws his head in his hands, leaning his elbows on the table as he rubs at his eyes, his temples, eventually pushing his hair out of his eyes with his gaze focused on the book in front of him. 

“I’m sorry,” he says slowly, the words feeling foreign. 

“For what?”

Rafe bites back a frustrated sigh, wishing he could just let you see into his brain for a few moments to show you all that he desires to say, to do, to feel free of consequence.

But, obviously, he can’t do that.

So, instead, he looks up to meet your intense stare. “For snapping today. I shouldn’t have been mean to you when you were…just trying to help.”

You soak in his words, analyzing the way he stutters through the apology as if he’s never given a sincere one before. Despite it being from him, the King of Being a Prick, his tone feels genuine enough. 

“I’m not used to people giving a shit about me…” he trails off, looking back down at the book at the rawness of the confession.

Frowning, you urgently want to pick his chin up and have him look at you again. You grip the book to refrain from reaching out, reminding yourself that he needs to come to you.

Let him, you urge yourself.

And thankfully, he continues. “It made me feel weird. I mistook your kindness for pity, or whatever. So, I’m sorry.”

You really hate the way he won’t look at you, because if he did, he’d see the instant forgiveness written all over your face.

It’s not the fanciest of apologies, but it’s his version of one, the only way he knows how. And it feels sincere, calculated, genuine. The confession is altogether gut wrenching, thinking back to his emotional turmoil this morning and slowly putting the pieces of his life together little by little, gradually understanding why he says certain things and feels certain ways based on the shape of his upbringing. 

The pained expression on his face gives you the impression that he doesn’t want to talk about it anymore, especially how he anxiously fidgets with his fingers as if he’s waiting for the spotlight to shine on something else. 

You notice, biting your lip to suppress a smile, proud that he said his piece. Before you realize it, you're reaching a hand forward to encase his, stopping his incessant writhing to save his poor nail beds.

Rafe flinches, his actions stilling, but when you give a gentle squeeze, his shoulders seem to relax, as you wordlessly tell him that it’s okay.

The gesture comes and goes quickly, retreating your hand to trace over the spine of the book instead.

You swallow thickly, the tense moment breaking your walls down. 

“This chapter is the first to introduce the debate of if it’s better to be loved or feared,” you find yourself saying.

Rafe instantly looks up to meet your eye at the subject change, almost thanking you with a low exhale.

“Macchiavelli says a ruler must be one, but cannot be both. He writes this to Lorenzo di Giovane, who was a part of the Medici family. The Medici essentially ruled Florence through politics and religion and economics, inserting themselves in the papacy and government to be able to control both.”

You take a breath, checking to see if he’s listening.

He is, very intently. So you continue.

“So he offers pros and cons for both, however, he leans more towards the notion of fear used as a punishment, to be merciful but not careless. Like, Cesare Borgia, who was a cruel leader but was the one who brought peace to Romagna. Both provide the means for success, but implies that there’s a choice to be one or the other.”

There’s a moment of silence, and the longer it stretches, you feel a little silly for going off on the tangent.

God, is this really your idea of comforting someone?

You nearly shrink into yourself sheepishly, kicking yourself because that was not the time or place to circle back to one of his earlier questions, or go on a nerd-tangent at the expense of filling the silence. 

Before you can take it back, Rafe hums.

“What would you rather be?”

The question startles you, but the answer is immediate. “Loved.”

“Why?” Rafe asks so gently that you almost miss it. 

You pause for a moment, half confused on his curiosity and half endeared that he wants to know, or at least pretend like he wants to know.

But your answer is easy. “Because it’s genuine. That way I’d know that people trust me for me, not because they feel like they have to, but because they want to.”

Another silence elongates between you as Rafe soaks in your words, pinching his brows together in thought.

You frown when you notice his gaze isn’t really here, it’s somewhere else, distracted and despondent. Pushing down the overwhelming urge to grab his hand again, to pull him back to reality, you swallow thickly.

He's not mine, you remind yourself. I'm not his.

You're just...yourselves...separately.

“What about you?” 

Rafe wishes you don't ask, because he hates that he already knows his answer, and hates that it’s different from yours.

The thought process behind it is justifiable to him, because Rafe can’t even fathom being loved rather than feared. He’s spent his whole life using fear and panic as a tool to get what he wants, courtesy of the teachings from his father, learning that that’s how you obtain knowledge and advantages.

The concept is all he knows, so trying to imagine the other possibility feels like a far off dream. 

“Feared, I guess.”

You tilt your head to the size, inspecting him intently but not judging. 

He'd rather you to judge instead of whatever emotion is written on your face. Understanding, maybe? It would make it easier for him to brush the question aside, to have you fear him, then you could move on and go back to your limited sharing of emotional vulnerability. 

But no matter how harshly he can snap at you or fuck you a little rougher than usual, you're always there, seeing past his intimidating facade and instead seeing him. Just...Rafe...

“Why?”

Because it’s all I know, he thinks immediately.

“It’s efficient,” is all he offers.

Rafe knows the explanation is lame, but you must have some sort of idea of the real truth, one he refuses to speak aloud. You must know how people whisper about him on campus, how half the people are too scared to look him in the eye and the other half are eager to kiss his ass so they can stay on his good side, to be in good favor with him. 

“It’s lonely,” you argue quietly. 

Then Rafe finds it in himself to look at you, confused.

His heart lurches when he sees that you're gazing at him with a twinge of sadness in your eyes, a bit of concern, and a sliver of something else he can’t put his finger on. Rafe nearly squirms, uncomfortable with the attention and desperately wishing he just said the other choice to refrain from this interrogation, of sorts. He figures he’s a good liar, he could've done it. 

Shit, he’s been lying to you this whole time on how he really feels, so that must count for something. 

Rafe only shrugs, wanting to move on. “Good thing it’s a hypothetical.”

The lax tone makes you lean back in your chair, studying him intently, hating the way you frown at him attempting to brush it off, but letting him do so anyway. It’s obvious you want to know more on why he believes that, but submit with an understanding nod. 

“Right.”

Rafe wants to talk about something else. Now. “Why can’t you sleep?”

You allow the subject change, taking your eyes off of him and looking out to sea. “Why do you think?”

A snort escapes his lips. “I figured as much.” Then, softer, “Are you alright?”

“Yeah. Just...dreading it.”

“Do you want to try and sleep?”

You frown, still avoiding his gaze. You can feel his eyes burning into your profile.

“I don’t think I’ll be able to. I’d probably just end up hitting my head again, or some shit.”

That makes Rafe laugh, and it’s boyish and genuine that it makes your heart skip a beat. “You gotta start wearing a helmet to bed, sweet girl,” he almost whispers, carefully.

"Mhm," you find yourself murmuring, distant.

You end up going to bed shortly after, laying stiff as boards in your separate beds.

It’s obvious the other is awake, Rafe laying on his back and you laying on your side facing the wall. Silence envelopes the room, the only sounds audible are low breaths and occasional shifts of position against soft sheets. 

Rafe hates how his bed is cold.

He hates how you called his choice lonely without so much as a single thought, as if you can see right through him. He hates how you're right, how his entire life of pretending to be pleased with people keeping their distance from him only masks the overarching reality of just that: he’s lonely.

Pathetically, he’s used to being alone, for fending for himself or taking care of his sisters without anyone to take care of him, for seeming like the most popular guy on campus but being utterly isolated behind closed doors. It’s why he seeks temporary company in women, to exhaust himself so much that he doesn’t lay awake at night with his own thoughts after kicking them out, to pretend like the excuse is that he needs his alone time but the reason is that he doesn’t know how to be in someone’s company for an extended amount of time. 

In the darkness, Rafe says your name before he can convince himself not to. His voice is so detrimentally quiet, he isn't sure you even hear him.

But you do.

“Yeah?”

He swallows his pride. “Can you c’mere?”

You're up in an instant, padding over to his side of the room in record time where he greets you with outstretched arms.

Rafe brings you close to his body, enveloping you in his big arms as you nuzzle right into his neck, your cool hands slithering underneath his t-shirt and seeking warmth against his bare skin. He fights the overwhelming urge to kiss you, to try and initiate something to forget the emotional toil he suffered all day.

But he can't do that, not to you.

Instead he places a chaste kiss on your hairline to satisfy the impulse.

“I’m really anxious about this weekend,” you whisper, your breath tickling his neck.

He sighs into your hair, rubbing your back. “I know.”

“I need to–” You cut yourself off, trying to find the right words. “I’m apologizing in advance.”

“For what, baby?”

You nearly purr at the pet name. “For my family’s behavior. For my behavior, too. I’m probably not going to be very nice. I need you to know it’s not personal, it’s…” you trail off, the vocabulary escaping you. 

But Rafe understands. He'll always understand.

“I know.”

A part of him wishes he could apologize as easily as you just did.

"I know," he repeats, gentler.

The moment he snapped at you earlier replays in his head over and over again, the sight of your worried expression imprinted on his brain like a projector stuck on the same frame. It's a look he rarely sees from you, one of concern and genuine compassion that it throws him for a loophole.

Once he feels your steady breaths against his chest, Rafe allows himself to relax a fraction.

He's assuming you've forgiven him, or partially, or simply creating a truce because he knows that you'll need him for the next few days. Either way, he's surprised his shitty attempt at an apology got you - seemingly - okay with him again, even if it's all for your own benefit.

That's all this is, Rafe reminds himself. He's doing you a favor. You're simply being cordial and calculated.

The last thing that flashes across his mind before he lulls to sleep is the image of your face, of how pretty you looked in the moonlight.

© salem-s please do not copy or replicate work without permission. mdni.

notes bit of a filler. thanks for all the support, y'all are making me laugh. godspeed.

[rafeprincess]

05 ── PLAYING THE PART UNDER THE SICILIAN SUN ── RAFE CAMERON

── SYNOPSIS when your image-obsessed mother catches you and Rafe Cameron ─ your friends with benefits ─ in a compromising situation, you must lie and say you're dating. It spirals out of control when your mother invites him to your cousin's upcoming wedding in Italy, and spirals even further when he says yes. ── WARNINGS language, holy annngst (familial issues, mentions of a parent leaving). 18+ mdni. ── WORD COUNT 6.6k. ── NOTES edited from third person perspective to second, so let me know if there are any mistakes. inaccurate from canonical cameron family history idfk. ── SERIES MASTERLIST ── SONG OF THE CHAPTER sun bleached flies by ethel cain

You wake up bright and early on accident. 

It’s not your fault, as a strange dream jolts you from your slumber out of confusion, but when your eyes crack open and blink away the rising sunlight, the scene in front of you is disgustingly endearing. 

Rafe’s sleeping face is inches away from yours, your heads sharing the same thin pillow.

His lips are puffy and parted, breaths taken silently through his nose as his chest rises and falls in deep syncopation. The urge to laugh at his disheveled hair is high, as it sticks up in every kind of direction: over his eyes, straight up, sideways, making him look absolutely insane.

Knowing him, he’d probably be embarrassed at the sight, and would probably jab at your appearance in retaliation to take the spotlight off of him for a mere moment. An arm is lazily draped around your waist and one of his lanky legs is slotted between your thighs. 

Content with the sleeping arrangement, your heartbeat simmers from the craziness of your dream, falling back asleep within a few minutes knowing you're safely caged in his arms. 

When you wake again, Rafe is gone, and you try to ignore the dull ache that settles in your heart at the discovery.

There’s no Po or sunlight who wake you up this time and you surprisingly wish that there was, because the absence of it allows you to think about today’s agenda: your last day staying with Lorenza. 

Your heart drops in anxious anticipation, knowing tomorrow you'll be off to whatever overpriced resort your family rented out for the weekend surrounded by disingenuous people. It almost feels like enemy territory, the more you think about it, and a small part of you is relieved at Rafe’s presence to help you through it.

Whereas the other part of you is dreading it, fearful of exposing him to such dreary conditions. 

Last night, Rafe explained how his family and the community in his home town aren’t much different from yours, full of obnoxious, rich assholes who don’t care whether he lives or dies as long as they have enough funds for their biannual Mykonos trip, so he has a general idea of what he’s getting himself into.

Despite this, you can’t help but feel a twinge of guilt to subjecting him to it again, simply in a different font.

Although, it was admittedly nice to hear a little more about his life before college, realizing that you really don't know much about him besides the preconceptions of his university personality. 

The need to know more has you reeling.

You shouldn't want to learn more.

Eventually, you pull herself out of the twin bed, hating the way you want to linger between the sheets because they smell like him. You hate the thought, loathe it, despise the way it makes you feel.

Desperate. Clingy. Addicted.

Rafe’s been playing his part a little too well on this trip, solidifying your realization that you misjudged him.

In the days leading up to your departure, you were (rightfully) highly cynical of Rafe as a boyfriend, reiterating to yourself that he’s a player, he has no desire to be tied down to someone in college (as he told you when you created the arrangement), he doesn’t want to subject himself to the mental game of emotionally relying on someone else. The whole thing seemed like one big, fat joke to you, a disaster waiting to happen. 

You never expect him to lean into the role as much as he has. 

The playtime acting in front of Lorenza has been convincing, your nonna expressing genuine favor towards Rafe when she initially met him. She claimed his eagerness to help around the house is simply an added perk, because she took note of the way he looked at you when you weren't looking and how he talked about you in private to Lorenza was most endearing.

That simple observation had you reeling, because you didn't even realize Rafe was sneaking glances or talking about you behind your back in the first place. 

It only makes you spiral. 

Last night only augments your emotional confusion. 

Rafe had looked at you like you hung the stars yourself, treating you with such delicacy and, dare you say, admiration, that you felt like a fraud when you leaned into it, knowing the whole ordeal isn’t real and simply a part he’s been playing for the past few days. He simply wanted to treat you nice because it was your birthday.

Your confusion further grows when you eventually get out of bed to discover him in the garden. But his demeanor is different, and it makes you pause before blindly running outside into his arms.

Rafe’s on the phone, you realize, talking animatedly with a permanent etch in his brow. He looks angry.

No, he looks pissed.

Pacing back and forth in the garden, he alternates between nearly screaming into the phone and listening with a clenched jaw, his hand switching from rubbing out a migraine to gesturing wildly to emphasize his words. 

You've only experienced Rafe like this once before, and it was when you overheard him on the phone with his father.

Now, you really didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but your dorm rooms are right next to each other so you're bound to catch a few loud words on a phone call here or there. But this particular time, it was essentially a screaming match, Rafe loudly arguing over the phone – on speaker, by the way – with another person who happened to scream even louder back to him. 

You couldn’t believe the vulgarities you heard: Rafe’s father – who he doesn’t even call dad but rather his name, Ward – calling his son an embarrassment to the family for how poorly he’s been doing in some classes, having no shame in calling him a pussy when he heard Rafe sniffle, telling him to man the fuck up. Rafe would retaliate and say his share only to be shut down again by Ward time and time again. It was a losing battle. 

The behavior that followed that phone call was abysmal: Rafe was distant, cold, mean.

He rarely spoke, but when he did, it wasn’t anything nice, and that’s if he even attended events. Normally he just disappeared, was radio silent. On the rare occasion that he actually wanted to talk, he would privately message you and simply fuck his frustration out onto you: you who wouldn't dare instigate or pry about his life, and instead would wordlessly offer the only comfort you know how to provide.

Part of you wanted him to talk to you about it when that happened, but admitting that you overheard that phone call would be brutal blow to him. So you simply let him come, take what he needed, and not put up a fight. 

You never brought it up to Rafe because – duh – it isn't any of your business, but also you understand the sensitive subject that is parental relationships. 

So, you know better than to not approach him right now, begrudgingly turning a blind eye and retreating to the living room to sit with your nonna. 

You and Lorenza mainly hang out together for the better part of the morning, besides the short interruption where Rafe comes back into the house, aggravated from his emotional phone call, softly declaring he's going to go for a run, changing into the appropriate attire, and then leaving the cottage in a hurry.

The silence that follows his departure is filled with confusion, and you have to explain to Lorenza that Rafe and his father don’t really get along without exposing too much detail. The older woman simply shakes her head in sadness for the boy, and that is the end of that conversation.

Lorenza is making panini when Rafe returns, just around lunchtime as it starts to lightly rain, barely sparing you a glance before retreating to the bathroom to shower. You sit on the love seat couch in the living room, reading and annotating the already-annotated copy of Un Principe that he bought you yesterday, and you continue to sit there dumbfounded at his behavior.

You can’t help but feel a twinge of worry for him, because at the end of the day you are kind-of friends. You just want him to be alright. 

Pushing the thought aside, you and Lorenza eat together in the kitchen, laughing and talking about nonsense for the duration of the meal. Rafe doesn’t leave the bedroom, not even making a sound for what feels like an hour. Lorenza leaves out a sandwich for him to eat when he’s ready, and eventually leaves with Ticino to venture into town for tonight’s groceries despite the rain. 

As if he knows your nonna leaves, Rafe quietly emerges from the bedroom ten minutes later. 

You're lounging on the living room couch, nose deep in your book with the soothing pitter-patter of the rain against the window, not even noticing his presence until he rounds the sofa and sits down next to you.

The cushion dipping from his weight startles you, nearly dropping your pen and book in the process. You're almost ready to cuss him out but the words die in your throat when you notice his sullen expression and slightly bloodshot eyes which avoid your gaze. 

You bite your tongue.

You know that he probably doesn’t want to talk about it.

Rafe never wants to talk about anything remotely serious in his life because anytime you've gotten close, the topic’s brushed off without argument. But you figure if he really needs to, he’ll come to you when he’s ready.

So, you settle on something safe.

“Nonna made sandwiches. She left one for you in the kitchen if you’re hungry.”

Wet hair clings to his forehead like a second skin, and he smells faintly of the citrus shampoo from the shower. Rafe doesn’t meet your eye, and his fingers that rest on his thigh twitch in your direction unintentionally. He offers no words, simply shaking his head faintly, gaze fixated distantly on your lap, on the book that you're holding so tenderly. 

He blinks a few times, the worry line in his forehead prominent as he sits for a moment, as if deciding on what he wants to do. Whether he wants to speak, or simply sit, or get up and leave- you have no idea, and again bite your tongue to further prod or coddle. The last thing you want to do is overwhelm him with choices.

Let him come to you, you think firmly.

And he does.

Wordlessly, Rafe shifts his position, leaning his head down to rest on your chest, bringing his legs to lay fully on the couch. 

You try and mask your surprise, adjusting to accommodate him so he slots between your legs with his one arm snaking under your back and the other resting on your hip.

God, Rafe feels pathetic as he practically nuzzles himself into your body, especially when you gingerly brush the wet hair out of his eyes and smooth out the wrinkles in his graphic t-shirt by the collar.

The sound of your heartbeat calms him from the calamity he’s already endured this morning.

And yet, for the first time today, Rafe feels like he can breathe.

Rafe tried going on a run to clear his thoughts, but the solitude only seemed to isolate them, amplify them, and none of his ideas worked on how to control his anger, none of those stupid breathing exercises his one-time therapist taught him or the 5-4-3-2-1 senses method his sister introduced him to.

He nearly had a panic attack on what to do: he’s stuck in a foreign country with people who haven’t been exposed to his erratic temperament, nor does he want them to see the detriments of it, and he has no idea how to calm down, how to fix his rapid heartbeat and racing thoughts and overwhelming urge to punch something.

To his horror, the only remedy he can think of is you, and the sudden need for co-dependency really scares the shit out of him. 

So here Rafe is: laying on you like a child because he doesn’t know how to properly emote. 

What’s even more mortifying is that you allow it.

Rafe prefers it if you pushed him away, told him to deal with it on his own or to grow up and start acting like a man, then he wouldn’t have this overtly disgusting infatuation with you. He would get over it, move on, and go back to the way things were before this whole feelings crap started. 

But you don't. You embrace him without question. 

Rafe realizes he’s horrifically, utterly, tremendously down bad when you start quietly reading to him.

Of course, the book is in Italian so he doesn’t understand a single concept, but after every chapter you give a few sentence summary in English to keep him informed on the matter, taking one hand away from his back every now and then to jot down a note or circle a phrase or underline a sentence. Your hand returns to his back, scratching up and down and side to side lightly as your focus never wavers from the words on the page, never interrupting the book to pry in on his personal life or make sure he’s okay.

You simply invite him into your moment.

After four chapters, he’s feeling infinitely better. 

Rafe even manages to ask a few questions, grimacing at his hoarse voice, damaged from all of the shouting, but you don't acknowledge it and dive right into your explanations. You explain the origins of the book, the historical significance, and how it shaped politics after it was published.

And, goddamnit, if he doesn’t listen to every single word. 

You lay together like this for a little over an hour, limbs entangled with soft whispers and aged pages crinkling while the soft thumping of the rain continues outside.

After you finish a later chapter, you decide to close the book, saving your page with the pen and gently dropping it on the floor.

Wordlessly, you wrap your once-preoccupied arm around Rafe and simply hold him, patiently waiting to see if he’ll say anything. But he doesn’t. He only lays there in your arms, eyes trained on the window with a far-away expression. 

After what feels like forever, you decide to bite.

“Hey.”

“Hm?”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

You hate the way he stiffens, biting your lip in worry because, shit, you should’ve just kept your mouth shut and waited for him to come to you. 

“You don’t have to tell me,” you add quickly, not wanting to scare him away, “I just wanna make sure you’re alright.”

There’s a long silence, and you eventually come to the conclusion that he’s asleep, or pretending to, so he can avoid the question. But the spark of hope - his thumb gently skimming over the exposed skin of your waist from your tank top that bunched up - has you intently focused, oh-so patiently waiting if he’ll speak. 

And he does. “My dad is forcing me to come home for Christmas.”

If you don't already know some of the underlying preconceptions of his father, you probably would’ve been confused and asked what the big deal was. But you do understand, unfortunately, knowing that Rafe wants to spend the least amount of time possible at home, something you can definitely relate to. 

Before you can comfort him about it, he scoffs against your chest. 

“When I say it aloud, it doesn’t sound like a big deal.”

“Why is it a big deal?” You ask, not out of annoyance but genuine curiosity. 

Rafe seems to nuzzle into you a fraction more. “I hate Christmas.”

You want to shake him, ask him why, learn more, have him open up.

But you can’t. He needs to come to you, if he even wants to. You know he probably doesn't, because he's never been open with you on anything remotely personal, so why on earth would he start now? He has no obligation to tell you anything, truly, because that insinuates a trust deeper than friendship.

With a heavy heart, you remember that you're not together. You're not supposed to care about things like this . You're not supposed to want to know more.

You're friends. You shouldn’t expect him to suddenly spill his deepest secrets and familial insecurities just because you ask nicely. 

“Okay,” is all you say in return. 

Rafe's chest heaves with a particularly deep sigh, one of irritation.

He’s frustrated with himself, because why can’t he say the words? You've confided in him more times than he can count for the duration of this trip, he could at least have the common decency to do the same, or at least try to offer you that.

But he’s bad with words. Astronomically abhorrid.

Rafe wants to try. For you.

“When I was eight, my mom left.”

Thankfully he’s not looking at you, because your brows raise in surprise. 

“It was three days before Christmas Eve and she just…got up and left. Her and my dad were fighting nonstop, and I guess she couldn’t take it anymore. Left behind three kids.” Rafe frowns at the memory, then bitterly scoffs. “I sat on the front porch every day waiting for her to come back. Sometimes slept out there. But she left no note, no phone number, nothing for us to trace back to her.”

Your heart lurches at the thought of Rafe as a young boy, eagerly waiting for his mother who would never return, sleeping out in the cold and hoping every car that passed was her running back home. 

A lot of things suddenly make sense: Rafe’s lack of compassion towards intimacy, his skepticism of relationships, his overarching masculine demeanor.

He’s had no maternal love, no one to coddle him or teach him how to handle emotional situations. The closed off, distant approach to anything remotely related to sentiment is all he knows, all he was taught as a young boy.

“So my dad gets really fucking brutal,” he continues, pulling you from your thoughts. “More than usual. It’s always a really shitty time for me and my sisters. Hopefully next year I’ll have my own place so we can just…stay there instead. Without him.”

Then, he lets out a breath he isn’t aware he was holding. Rafe hates how hard his heart is pounding.

“That’s really it. I’m fine.”

You smooth out his hair gently, wondering if he can feel your matched hammering heartbeat. “Are you, though?”

No, he thinks immediately. There’s so many things I want to tell you but I don't know how.

“Yeah.”

It’s bullshit, you both know it, but you don't press further, instead offering solace in your arms as you coddle him. Part of him wants you to ask more, to force him to open up because maybe it’ll take some stress off his poor heart, juggling so many emotions at once, but he understands why you don't. He wouldn’t do it if he was in your shoes, anyway. 

But your voice surprises him.

You speak before you can stop yourself. “I know you and I are just…” Friends? Fuck buddies? Something else? “...us, but you can talk to me about these things. If you want.”

That makes Rafe frown. Why would you even care?

“You wouldn’t want to know.”

Because you shouldn't want to know the extensive details. It's brutal and dehumanizing. He can't count how many times his father has made him feel less than for making simple mistakes, how many backhanded jabs he's gotten - or literal backhands - at the expense jeopardizing his father's publicity. How he always feels like a failure when his father's around.

“Try me.”

Then, Rafe finally tilts his head up to look at you, seeing that you're already staring at him.

Your eyebrows are slightly pinched together and, normally, your eye contact puts him at ease, but frustration bubbles in his chest when he can’t discern your concerned expression from pity.

And he doesn’t fucking want anyone’s pity.

Not even yours.

Rafe doesn't want to be treated as some charity case that people need to feel bad for because his mom left, because his dad is a piece of shit. Whoopty-fucking-do. There's nothing worse than false concern, like you're looking at him as a glass box, like a shame.

Before you realize it, Rafe is suddenly pushing himself upright and avoiding your gaze as if it’s the plague. 

“Rafe?” You ask worriedly, sitting up and attempting to extend a hand out to him.

He shrugs you off, standing so you can’t reach him. “Just– Stop.”

The sudden tone shift has you reeling in confusion.

“Are you–?”

“Yes, I’m fucking fine,” Rafe snaps, ignoring the way you flinch. “Stop acting like you give a shit.”

Then he’s turning his heel and retreating back into the shared bedroom, you flinching again when he shuts the door particularly aggressively.

You can only sit frozen in your spot.

What the fuck was that?

Thankfully the rain stops, because it gives you something else to do besides being cooped up in the house. 

Lorenza returns eventually with the groceries and you help her unload them. Rafe, surprisingly, sits in the living room to make his presence known, but offers no words or anything as he sits with Ticino. The dog doesn’t complain about the attention, and Po eventually comes and attempts to steal it away. Rafe doesn’t mind, in fact he encourages it, because it gives him an excuse to be anti-social. 

You give Rafe space, an astronomical amount of it.

You half understand his outburst, yet are half pissed at his behavior earlier. You were only trying to help, he needs to understand that, there’s no reason to be a dick about it.

Thinking back to all the times you've reluctantly shared information because he asked about it comes into fruition. Of course, you never want to share any of your familial baggage to anyone, and talking about it only pisses you off further. But you always told him because he asked, or seemed like he cared.

And you never took it out on him like that.

Sure, you were a brat for the entirety of yesterday, but his words were different, they were venomous. 

Whatever.

You try to brush it off as you spend time outside with your nonna, tending to the garden and fixing some of the outdoor furniture and decor that may have gotten messed up from the rain. Simultaneously, you do your best to avoid Rafe’s gaze through the window, collectively deciding that you're ignoring him (as best as you can without raising suspicions from nonna) until he apologizes.

It’s childish, you know, but you figure it’s the only way he’ll get it through his head that that’s not how you talk to people. 

Besides, today is your last day at the cottage. You're not letting Rafe Cameron of all people ruin the time you have with your nonna. 

So, with that in mind, you have a beautiful day spent with Lorenza, helping prepare and cook dinner, sharing a few glasses of wine during the process, recounting funny stories and chatting as if there’s no tomorrow. 

Dinner is relatively normal, Rafe offering his two cents and chatting as he’s done the entire trip, but it doesn’t take an idiot to notice your clear apprehension with him.

You offer the translation between the two cordially, and mainly only talk at Lorenza. She tries to sneak some English words into her sentences to let him try and follow their conversation, and he’s grateful for that, given you don't aid him as much as normal. 

And Rafe?

Well, Rafe wants to kick himself.

He knows he fucked up - what else is new - but he hates the coldness from you.

The words are on the tip of his tongue every time he gets a fraction of a moment alone with you, but before he can embarrass himself and attempt to apologize, you're brushing him off and distracting yourself with something to do, deliberately avoiding him unless Lorenza’s in the room.

Rafe doesn’t know what’s worse: you acting like everything is fine in front of your nonna and giving him the false hope that you're not actually mad at him, or your abrasive demeanor towards him when it’s just the two of you that showcases your real feelings. 

After dinner, he politely thanks Lorenza for the meal and retires to the bedroom, not wanting to intrude any further.

He’s laying on the bed when you come in twenty minutes later, and there's a spark of dumb hope in his chest at the opportunity to finally get you alone. But you're lightning fast: changing into your pajamas and grabbing your bag before leaving the room without a word, which only makes him more frustrated. 

You and Lorenza sit outside after doing the dishes, the older woman surprisingly letting you help with them, as you chat animatedly into the night. You both smoke a cigarette as you overlook the ocean, talking for what seems like hours until Lorenza is ashing her third cigarette, announcing her departure.

You don't realize how high the moon is in the sky when Lorenza goes back inside, the time passing like seconds.

Now it's just you and the night.

You really don't want her to leave, the thought of being alone with your thoughts makes you slightly panic, but you really don't want to make Lorenza worry about you even more than she already has.

Lorenza is well aware of the treatment and behavior within your family, and hates that you're being forced to spend the weekend at the resort versus just the night of the wedding, like her. You've constantly reassured her that you'll be fine, but it doesn’t come across very genuine, because you're trying to convince yourself of that at the same time. You've never been that great a liar.

But you know that's only one of the reasons you won’t be able to sleep tonight, and the other being a certain dirty blond.

The thought of retreating back to the bedroom where Rafe is either asleep or waiting for you to return so he can fuck his frustration out on you isn’t what you want to deal with right now. Plus, you know that your body naturally gravitates towards him, and are afraid you'll give into it when you would really prefer an apology first.

But, knowing Rafe, that isn’t happening. 

So, you stay outside in the chilly breeze, toggling between journaling out your life’s problems in the small spiral notebook and reading Un Principe and continuing your annotations. 

It’s lonely, no doubt about it, but the journaling offers a mental escape from your own mind, being able to freely jot down the thoughts you can’t seem to vocalize, and the reading provides a distraction to the upcoming events.

Because if you think about the wedding for more than five minutes, you are, no doubt, going to spiral. 

But your mind continuously drifts back to Rafe, to your arrangement.

You never meant for it to get this frustratingly complicated, because everything was better when you were only fucking and treating it as so. You're barely friends, only brought together by your social circle, so why do you feel so compelled to be near him? To help him? To smooth out the worry line on his forehead when he furrows his eyebrows, or grab his hand when you're in a crowd to steady yourself, or be the only name spoken from his lips in moments of intimacy? 

You know you're going to get hurt if you allow yourself to descend down this rabbit hole.

Rafe Cameron does not do girlfriends.

He doesn’t see the same girl twice. He doesn’t know how to be a boyfriend, a real one, anyway. These feelings towards him, these implications to love and care for him, are only going to bite you in the ass.

You did that once, in high school. You loved and cared for Grant like he hung the goddamn stars in the sky, and then what happened? That whole ordeal ended up being a disaster, too, orchestrated by the talons of your mother's scheme. His feelings weren’t real, not in the way high-school-you would’ve liked.

Neither are Rafe’s, because he’s simply playing a part because he has to. Not because he wants to.

Guys don’t want you the way you yearn to be wanted.

They want you for a few hours after going out and drinking, or on Sunday’s, or for a cheeky photo to get them through their history lecture. So, sure, if that’s what they want you to be, then that’s what you'll be, and you'll never ask for more.

Because you don't know how to be more. 

“Hey.”

The voice startles you, pulling your disassociated gaze from your book and looking up to see Rafe, shifting his weight between feet with his hands stuffed in his pockets.

He looks unsure of his place, as if he’s cautiously waiting for you to tell him to fuck off and leave you alone. A bubble of anger nurses in your chest at the sight of him, remembering his previous venom, but you don't send him away just yet. 

You simply look at him, silently beckoning him to continue. 

Rafe scratches the back of his neck, nervous under your stare. “Uhm, it’s late.”

You nod slowly, as if that’s obvious.

“Are…are you coming to bed?”

Darting your gaze from him, the book, to the ocean, and back to him, you simply shrug, knowing your silence is aggravating him.

Rafe exhales through his nostrils, composing himself. Then, he nods and starts to turn around to go back inside but stops himself. The way his brows are pinched it’s obvious he wants to say more, but what that more is, he isn’t sure. 

After a moment of contemplation, he faces you again and finds your eyes. 

“Can I sit?”

That surprises you.

But you try to not let it show as you nonchalantly nod, nearly snorting at how quickly he takes the seat across from you, almost eagerly. Still, you don't offer any words, and simply go back to reading your book (or at least pretending to), and occasionally clicking and un-clicking the pen to circle a word or write a note.

In your peripheral, you feel Rafe watching you, picking at his nails when he rests his arms on the garden table. His mouth opens and closes, fighting himself on where to start and you nearly talk out of pity.

But no. No.

He needs to come to you. You learned that the hard way, and refuse to make that mistake again. 

“What part are you at?”

You nearly roll your eyes. If this is some form of prolonged apology foreplay, he’s sure doing a good job. 

“Chapter seventeen.”

As relieved as he is to hear your voice, Rafe takes a deep breath at your stubbornness, but recoils his temper and bites his tongue. You're certainly not making it easy for him to apologize, and he doesn’t blame you in the slightest, but he simply doesn’t know how. No one ever taught him.

“What’s it about?”

Is he serious?

Then you drop the book against the table and deadpan glare at him, raising a brow in anticipation to give him the green light to say what he actually wants to say.

Rafe stares right back at you, fidgeting with his hands and feeling his heart race. The words in his mind don’t translate to his mouth, gaping open and closed like an idiot. 

Speak! He yells at himself. For the love of Christ.

Groaning, Rafe throws his head in his hands, leaning his elbows on the table as he rubs at his eyes, his temples, eventually pushing his hair out of his eyes with his gaze focused on the book in front of him. 

“I’m sorry,” he says slowly, the words feeling foreign. 

“For what?”

Rafe bites back a frustrated sigh, wishing he could just let you see into his brain for a few moments to show you all that he desires to say, to do, to feel free of consequence.

But, obviously, he can’t do that.

So, instead, he looks up to meet your intense stare. “For snapping today. I shouldn’t have been mean to you when you were…just trying to help.”

You soak in his words, analyzing the way he stutters through the apology as if he’s never given a sincere one before. Despite it being from him, the King of Being a Prick, his tone feels genuine enough. 

“I’m not used to people giving a shit about me…” he trails off, looking back down at the book at the rawness of the confession.

Frowning, you urgently want to pick his chin up and have him look at you again. You grip the book to refrain from reaching out, reminding yourself that he needs to come to you.

Let him, you urge yourself.

And thankfully, he continues. “It made me feel weird. I mistook your kindness for pity, or whatever. So, I’m sorry.”

You really hate the way he won’t look at you, because if he did, he’d see the instant forgiveness written all over your face.

It’s not the fanciest of apologies, but it’s his version of one, the only way he knows how. And it feels sincere, calculated, genuine. The confession is altogether gut wrenching, thinking back to his emotional turmoil this morning and slowly putting the pieces of his life together little by little, gradually understanding why he says certain things and feels certain ways based on the shape of his upbringing. 

The pained expression on his face gives you the impression that he doesn’t want to talk about it anymore, especially how he anxiously fidgets with his fingers as if he’s waiting for the spotlight to shine on something else. 

You notice, biting your lip to suppress a smile, proud that he said his piece. Before you realize it, you're reaching a hand forward to encase his, stopping his incessant writhing to save his poor nail beds.

Rafe flinches, his actions stilling, but when you give a gentle squeeze, his shoulders seem to relax, as you wordlessly tell him that it’s okay.

The gesture comes and goes quickly, retreating your hand to trace over the spine of the book instead.

You swallow thickly, the tense moment breaking your walls down. 

“This chapter is the first to introduce the debate of if it’s better to be loved or feared,” you find yourself saying.

Rafe instantly looks up to meet your eye at the subject change, almost thanking you with a low exhale.

“Macchiavelli says a ruler must be one, but cannot be both. He writes this to Lorenzo di Giovane, who was a part of the Medici family. The Medici essentially ruled Florence through politics and religion and economics, inserting themselves in the papacy and government to be able to control both.”

You take a breath, checking to see if he’s listening.

He is, very intently. So you continue.

“So he offers pros and cons for both, however, he leans more towards the notion of fear used as a punishment, to be merciful but not careless. Like, Cesare Borgia, who was a cruel leader but was the one who brought peace to Romagna. Both provide the means for success, but implies that there’s a choice to be one or the other.”

There’s a moment of silence, and the longer it stretches, you feel a little silly for going off on the tangent.

God, is this really your idea of comforting someone?

You nearly shrink into yourself sheepishly, kicking yourself because that was not the time or place to circle back to one of his earlier questions, or go on a nerd-tangent at the expense of filling the silence. 

Before you can take it back, Rafe hums.

“What would you rather be?”

The question startles you, but the answer is immediate. “Loved.”

“Why?” Rafe asks so gently that you almost miss it. 

You pause for a moment, half confused on his curiosity and half endeared that he wants to know, or at least pretend like he wants to know.

But your answer is easy. “Because it’s genuine. That way I’d know that people trust me for me, not because they feel like they have to, but because they want to.”

Another silence elongates between you as Rafe soaks in your words, pinching his brows together in thought.

You frown when you notice his gaze isn’t really here, it’s somewhere else, distracted and despondent. Pushing down the overwhelming urge to grab his hand again, to pull him back to reality, you swallow thickly.

He's not mine, you remind yourself. I'm not his.

You're just...yourselves...separately.

“What about you?” 

Rafe wishes you don't ask, because he hates that he already knows his answer, and hates that it’s different from yours.

The thought process behind it is justifiable to him, because Rafe can’t even fathom being loved rather than feared. He’s spent his whole life using fear and panic as a tool to get what he wants, courtesy of the teachings from his father, learning that that’s how you obtain knowledge and advantages.

The concept is all he knows, so trying to imagine the other possibility feels like a far off dream. 

“Feared, I guess.”

You tilt your head to the size, inspecting him intently but not judging. 

He'd rather you to judge instead of whatever emotion is written on your face. Understanding, maybe? It would make it easier for him to brush the question aside, to have you fear him, then you could move on and go back to your limited sharing of emotional vulnerability. 

But no matter how harshly he can snap at you or fuck you a little rougher than usual, you're always there, seeing past his intimidating facade and instead seeing him. Just...Rafe...

“Why?”

Because it’s all I know, he thinks immediately.

“It’s efficient,” is all he offers.

Rafe knows the explanation is lame, but you must have some sort of idea of the real truth, one he refuses to speak aloud. You must know how people whisper about him on campus, how half the people are too scared to look him in the eye and the other half are eager to kiss his ass so they can stay on his good side, to be in good favor with him. 

“It’s lonely,” you argue quietly. 

Then Rafe finds it in himself to look at you, confused.

His heart lurches when he sees that you're gazing at him with a twinge of sadness in your eyes, a bit of concern, and a sliver of something else he can’t put his finger on. Rafe nearly squirms, uncomfortable with the attention and desperately wishing he just said the other choice to refrain from this interrogation, of sorts. He figures he’s a good liar, he could've done it. 

Shit, he’s been lying to you this whole time on how he really feels, so that must count for something. 

Rafe only shrugs, wanting to move on. “Good thing it’s a hypothetical.”

The lax tone makes you lean back in your chair, studying him intently, hating the way you frown at him attempting to brush it off, but letting him do so anyway. It’s obvious you want to know more on why he believes that, but submit with an understanding nod. 

“Right.”

Rafe wants to talk about something else. Now. “Why can’t you sleep?”

You allow the subject change, taking your eyes off of him and looking out to sea. “Why do you think?”

A snort escapes his lips. “I figured as much.” Then, softer, “Are you alright?”

“Yeah. Just...dreading it.”

“Do you want to try and sleep?”

You frown, still avoiding his gaze. You can feel his eyes burning into your profile.

“I don’t think I’ll be able to. I’d probably just end up hitting my head again, or some shit.”

That makes Rafe laugh, and it’s boyish and genuine that it makes your heart skip a beat. “You gotta start wearing a helmet to bed, sweet girl,” he almost whispers, carefully.

"Mhm," you find yourself murmuring, distant.

You end up going to bed shortly after, laying stiff as boards in your separate beds.

It’s obvious the other is awake, Rafe laying on his back and you laying on your side facing the wall. Silence envelopes the room, the only sounds audible are low breaths and occasional shifts of position against soft sheets. 

Rafe hates how his bed is cold.

He hates how you called his choice lonely without so much as a single thought, as if you can see right through him. He hates how you're right, how his entire life of pretending to be pleased with people keeping their distance from him only masks the overarching reality of just that: he’s lonely.

Pathetically, he’s used to being alone, for fending for himself or taking care of his sisters without anyone to take care of him, for seeming like the most popular guy on campus but being utterly isolated behind closed doors. It’s why he seeks temporary company in women, to exhaust himself so much that he doesn’t lay awake at night with his own thoughts after kicking them out, to pretend like the excuse is that he needs his alone time but the reason is that he doesn’t know how to be in someone’s company for an extended amount of time. 

In the darkness, Rafe says your name before he can convince himself not to. His voice is so detrimentally quiet, he isn't sure you even hear him.

But you do.

“Yeah?”

He swallows his pride. “Can you c’mere?”

You're up in an instant, padding over to his side of the room in record time where he greets you with outstretched arms.

Rafe brings you close to his body, enveloping you in his big arms as you nuzzle right into his neck, your cool hands slithering underneath his t-shirt and seeking warmth against his bare skin. He fights the overwhelming urge to kiss you, to try and initiate something to forget the emotional toil he suffered all day.

But he can't do that, not to you.

Instead he places a chaste kiss on your hairline to satisfy the impulse.

“I’m really anxious about this weekend,” you whisper, your breath tickling his neck.

He sighs into your hair, rubbing your back. “I know.”

“I need to–” You cut yourself off, trying to find the right words. “I’m apologizing in advance.”

“For what, baby?”

You nearly purr at the pet name. “For my family’s behavior. For my behavior, too. I’m probably not going to be very nice. I need you to know it’s not personal, it’s…” you trail off, the vocabulary escaping you. 

But Rafe understands. He'll always understand.

“I know.”

A part of him wishes he could apologize as easily as you just did.

"I know," he repeats, gentler.

The moment he snapped at you earlier replays in his head over and over again, the sight of your worried expression imprinted on his brain like a projector stuck on the same frame. It's a look he rarely sees from you, one of concern and genuine compassion that it throws him for a loophole.

Once he feels your steady breaths against his chest, Rafe allows himself to relax a fraction.

He's assuming you've forgiven him, or partially, or simply creating a truce because he knows that you'll need him for the next few days. Either way, he's surprised his shitty attempt at an apology got you - seemingly - okay with him again, even if it's all for your own benefit.

That's all this is, Rafe reminds himself. He's doing you a favor. You're simply being cordial and calculated.

The last thing that flashes across his mind before he lulls to sleep is the image of your face, of how pretty you looked in the moonlight.

© salem-s please do not copy or replicate work without permission. mdni.

notes bit of a filler. thanks for all the support, y'all are making me laugh. godspeed.

[rafeprincess]

the power play (part three)

pairing hockeyplayer! rafe cameron x tutor! reader

rating mature 18+

summary rafe is your complete opposite. the only thing you have in common with the hockey player you tutor is that he’s also recently had his heart broken. in a last-ditch effort to make the people who hurt you regret it, you agree to pretend to date.

< prev

Rafe is waiting for you in front of your building, this time to take you to a frat party.

“Hi,” you say cheerfully, settling into his passenger seat, “for the third day in a row.”

Apparently, Emma always goes to these parties, and since Beck is friends with a lot of the frat’s members, you’re almost certain he’ll go, too.

You’re also meeting Lyla there. She’s been open-minded about Rafe. You hope he doesn’t make her regret it.

“You’re going to have to be nice tonight,” you say, then shut the door with a hard thud.

“Why?”

“Because my best friend will be there and I want her to like you.”

Rafe stares ahead, his mood plummeting. He doesn’t want to deal with this.

He didn’t care what Emma’s friends thought about him, until she started bringing up how much they don’t like him. You’re not even his real girlfriend, and the thought of being subject to that sort of judgement again makes his blood run hot.

He drives out onto the road. You wait for him to speak, but he doesn’t.

“Don’t tell me you’re already mad about something,” you say with a quiet laugh. “What’s up?”

You haven’t even been in his car for half a minute and you’re already trying to open up his wounds again, clueless to the fact that you’re reminding him of the things he wants to forget.

“What am I supposed to say to her?” Rafe murmurs.

“Just be polite,” you reply. “And act like you like me.”

He tensley rakes a hand through his hair. Something’s off with him. He’s never had to ask you how to navigate this.

“Are you nervous?” you ask.

“Nah.”

“What are you then?”

“I’m fine,” he says tersely.

You roll your eyes. You thought you’d gotten past feeling uneasy about pulling this off, but right now, you have no idea if this is going to work when you and Rafe are so out of sync.

You already aren’t in the mood to go to a party. He’s not doing anything to change that.

“I guess I should take back what I said about us being friends,” you tease.

He doesn’t say anything. You gaze up at the starry night sky through the window, letting out a sigh.

“I’m okay to cancel if you don’t feel like doing this,” you offer. “I’m in the middle of a great book that I’d like to get back to anyway.”

Rafe doesn’t know what to do with the things you say sometimes. It’d be easier if you snipped back or iced him out like everyone else does, because then, he wouldn’t feel shitty like he does now.

It’s annoying how much you unknowingly push these touchy, complicated topics. Even though you’re giving him an out, it’s hard to ignore how rotten he feels when he shuts down your innocent chit-chat.

So, he relents.

“I don’t want to – to have to think about impressing someone,” he admits with a stammer you haven’t heard before.

You look at him again, somewhat stunned. You almost make a joke about how this whole ruse, which he thought up, sort of hinges on impressing people. But the tension is too thick.

“You don’t have to impress her,” you reply, your eyes drifting over the outlines of his profile. “I just want her to believe you like me because she might mention it to her brother. But it’s not like… a test. If it were, I’d make you study. That’s kind of my whole thing.”

You find relief when he cracks a small smile, his eyes still on the road. You smile back, wishing he thought of you as someone he could trust, and wondering why he’s stressed about his fake girlfriend’s best friend's opinion, when he doesn’t seem like the type to worry about what anybody thinks of him.

“I’m surprised you care what she thinks,” you say, your tone lighthearted.

Rafe chews on his lip.

“I know this isn’t…” He motions between you, aware of how ridiculous it is to be tense about this when you’re not even really dating. He exhales, giving in. “Emma’s friends didn’t like me. She always brought it up.”

His words hit you, sadness twisting your heart. His ex did badmouth him minutes after she met you; you wouldn’t be surprised if she complained about him to her friends, handing them reasons to dislike him, using it against him.

That’s what’s bothering him. This is a bad reminder.

“All you have to do is what you did last night,” you tell him. “You don’t even have to talk much. I honestly think Lyla expects to see me with a guy who lets me do all the talking.”

You continue to stare at him. He’s stiff. On edge. It’s another crack in the facade, another peek into the things he hides.

“Why would she… always bring it up?” you ask quietly.

Rafe turns the car onto a narrow street, the steering wheel sliding underneath his hands.

“We said shit just to hurt each other all the time,” he mutters.

You gaze forward, your chest tight. At this point, you’re sure that what they had was toxic. His ex said he had red flags, but it sounds like she was the same way. You still don’t know why he liked her so much.

He’s obviously worked up. You shouldn’t push. You decide to put yourself in the spotlight to even the score.

“I never told you how Beck rejected me,” you say. “He hugged me, then said I’m a better friend than his sister.”

“Shit,” he winces.

“Yeah,” you chuckle. “You know when you can’t fall asleep and you think about all of your most embarrassing moments? That’s one of mine.”

Rafe breathes a quiet laugh. He grips the wheel when he reaches a stop sign, frustrated that he’s so curt with you, and even more frustrated that he cares. You’re slowly claiming a soft spot he didn’t know he had, whether he likes it or not.

“I��m… still pissed off,” he explains, his syllables sharp. “At her. Not you.”

It’s something that you didn’t expect about Rafe when you first met – that he can tell when he’s being too harsh and then tensely backpedals. You have a feeling he’s not really mad. He’s hurt. But he’d rather hide behind anger.

“I would be, too,” you say.

He offers an appreciative nod, avoiding eye contact.

════════

Lyla greets you with a big hug once you find her in the crowded frat house.

“I haven’t seen you in forever,” she says, then looks up at Rafe. “You stole my best friend.”

“Can you blame me?” Rafe replies, putting his arm around your shoulders. You smile up at him, the uneasiness you’d felt dissolving. He can put on a good show when he wants to.

You quickly catch up with Lyla while Rafe quietly stands next to you. When there’s a gap in conversation, you turn to him and motion for him to come closer. He leans down.

“You can go hang out with your friends now,” you whisper. “Or should we stay together? What do couples do?”

Your words echo in his head. He didn’t think about if you’ve actually been part of a real couple before. He gazes at you, wondering why you never said anything about it.

“They should see us together first,” he finally says.

“Good point,” you say. “Let’s do a lap.”

Lyla finds a friend in the crowd and you take the opportunity to get a drink with Rafe. You walk to the kitchen, nudging past people together, your fingers interlaced with his.

Behind the worn laminate kitchen island, a lively game of beer pong is taking place. Emma is standing by the far end of the table, playing next to a guy who’s standing close to her.

You look up to see if Rafe notices. He does. His jaw tenses as he stares at her.

When you step up to the stack of empty solo cups, you catch Beck on the other side of the living room, leaning against a wall and chatting with a couple of his friends. You hate that your stomach still goes numb at his smile.

“They’re both here,” you tell Rafe.

He turns to face you, your hands still joined. You know what he looks like when he’s concentrating. You’ve seen it through your tutoring sessions, the way his eyes narrow and his dimples cave in as he flattens his lips together.

“You have your thinking face on,” you laugh.

“On the counter,” he says.

“Excuse me?” you nearly shout, eyes widened.

He nudges your hips with firm hands. The edge of the counter is hard against your lower back. He steps forward to push the clutter behind you aside.

Rafe’s brows lift in expectation.

“Sit on the counter,” he explains, “so they can’t miss us.”

You let him take the lead and feel for the counter with your palms. With Rafe’s grasp on your hips and your own force, you settle on the hard countertop. He guides your knees apart and shifts to stand between your thighs.

Your throat goes dry.

He’s smooth, experienced, clearly having done stuff like this before. The thought of it, of him, makes your skin burn and you force yourself not to picture it.

You’ve been close to Rafe before – you sat on his lap just last night – but this is the most suggestive position you’ve been in together, and it’s sending your thoughts into an uncontrollable frenzy.

Just a second ago, you were standing a few feet away from him, and now he’s between your legs, his frame big and dominating, his palms hot on your thighs.

“Hands on me,” he instructs.

You stiffly rest your forearms on his shoulders, the crisp smell of his cologne dancing over you. Your eyes dart to Beck, who hasn’t noticed you, and you tell yourself to do with Rafe what you always imagined doing with him.

You cradle the back of his neck, gently lacing his soft hair between your fingers. The conversations and music fade away as you and Rafe settle in a moment that looks private, but is really just for show.

Your mind slows down as you remind yourself that this isn’t real and there’s no reason to be shy.

Rafe is eye-level to you now. It’s still bothering him – why wouldn’t a girl who never stops talking tell him that she hasn’t been in a relationship?

“You haven’t dated before?” he asks.

“What?”

“Why are you asking me what couples do?”

“Oh.” You laugh and shrug, as if it’s apparent. “When you’re in love with someone for, like four years, you don’t really pay attention to other guys.”

“You didn’t tell me,” Rafe murmurs.

“Is it important?”

“A lot of things you say aren’t, but you still say them.”

You laugh, lips parting in shock.

“Jerk,” you mutter under your breath.

“You’re name-calling now?” he says, amused at the way that calling him that, even as a joke, seemed like it made you a little uncomfortable.

“Sure am,” you retort. “I’m kidding, though.”

He scoffs, amused again. Of course you had to clarify that you didn’t mean it.

“That’s why you’ve been so freaked out about this?” he realizes, cluing in that all your nerves have been because this, all of this, is entirely new to you.

“Paired with the fact that this is a ridiculous thing to be doing,” you say. “I thought it was obvious. So much for being easy to read, huh?”

Rafe’s brows furrow. It makes no sense. You two couldn’t be more different, but he can imagine what other guys would see in you now that he’s used to your unrestrained cheerfulness. You have a rare sincerity to you. It’s absurd how many years you wasted on Beck.

“What the hell do you see in him?” he asks, an unexpected sense of protectiveness pricking at him.

You look up to the ceiling in thought. Your fingers continue to lace through his hair, and he ignores the goosebumps that are blossoming on his skin.

When you look back down again, you notice Beck’s gaze on you from across the room.

“This is a first. I’m telling my pretend boyfriend why I like a guy that’s looking right at me,” you say. “I had fun with him. He’s hardworking and he’s nice to everybody and I respect that in a person. And when I talked to him, he cared about what I was saying. He remembered little things about me. He’s kind.”

“He led you on, though,” he remembers.

“Maybe. I do wonder if he knew I liked him and kept me around because he enjoyed the flattery or the help with school,” you say. “But I don’t know. He could’ve hoped I’d get over it and wanted to spare me the embarrassment. Or maybe I read into things and imagined he was flirting with me when he never was. I could’ve built all this stuff up in my head.”

Rafe takes in all the words you just threw at him, bringing out a touch of amusement from you.

“I fell for him because he made me feel special,” you conclude. “Isn’t that a big part of loving someone? You like the person you are when you’re with them?”

He looks at you silently, reminding you of when you met him and all he would offer you is a blank stare. Then, his face drops in melancholy.

While he’s usually drowning in his overwhelming thoughts, with his ex, life was simple. He could forget about the shit he didn’t want to think about because she never pushed.

Before they started fighting so much, he could do his best impression of who he always wanted to be. A man who’s steady. Who’s strong.

“Yeah,” Rafe says.

“How’d you feel with her?” you ask. “When things were good, I mean.”

You hope he meets your eyes again. He does.

“Everything was easy,” he says. “It’s like I wasn’t as…”

“As?”

“Fucked up,” he admits.

Your shoulders drop. For the first time, you see a piece of why he was with Emma. She made him feel uncomplicated.

You wonder what Rafe has been through to make him think of himself that way, but you’re treading carefully, avoiding any risk of embarrassing him. No matter how rude he can be, you’re almost certain it comes from a place of sensitivity, and of wishing it didn’t.

“Isn’t it kind of funny?” you say, trying to lighten the mood. “He made me feel special and you make me feel annoying. She made things easy for you and I literally nag you to do your homework. And we’re supposedly dating.”

Rafe’s lips curl into a smile. You mirror it.

Just past his shoulder, you spot Emma’s gaze on you. She’s still playing beer pong, laughing with the guy she’s standing next to, but her eyes land on you and Rafe every few seconds.

“She keeps looking over,” you say. You think of their shared history, of how many memories they must have made together. Maybe Emma just needs to see him with someone else long enough to realize she wants him back. “What will you do if she wants to get back together?”

Rafe squints. He kept trying to make things work after she broke up with him because he just wanted the peace he’d once had with her back.

But when someone fucks him over, he’s done. The way she’s been dragging his name to anyone who’ll listen, to you the very day she met you, leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. She may have broken his heart, but she doesn’t own it anymore.

“I’m done with her,” he tells you. “What if Beck asks you out?”

You’re not sure how to answer him, because you’d written off Beck being interested in you as a possibility. You hate that your heart skips thinking about it.

You shouldn’t want a man who could only want you once he thinks he can’t have you. But it’s easier said than done. The years of infatuation have a hold on you.

“I don’t know,” you confess. “But no matter what happens, we should have an easy-out clause. No hard feelings when one of us is done with this. Cool?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Cool.”

“Beck’s looking, too,” you say. “I think they’re buying it. Can I…?”

You bring your hands forward to gently rest on Rafe’s jaw, thumbs stroking over his cheekbones.

“You don’t have to ask,” he says with a subtly irritated shake of his head.

His hands are splayed over your thighs and your knees are pressed against his hips. It might be a good thing to get some practice with a guy you’re not really with. Affection won’t be as intimidating if you’ve already done it in a controlled setting.

Rafe waits for you to say something, to do something. Maybe you’ll break your ‘no kissing’ rule, even though now he’s pretty sure it’d be your first kiss.

“You know what?” you say gently.

He takes in the way your eyes travel over his face, and for a split second, it’s like you can see just how much he hides below the surface, like you’re going to keep digging until you find out what it is.

He nods once, silently beckoning you to continue.

“The next book on the syllabus is one of my favorites,” you say.

He smirks, relieved you’re joking instead of prying.

“This really is the type of shit you’d talk about with your boyfriend,” he realizes. He thought you were just nervously rambling the other night because you had nothing else to talk about, but he was wrong.

You purse your lips in thought, memories trickling in.

“Yeah,” you say, sadness clouding your features. “It’s one of the reasons I thought Beck liked me back. He liked to listen to me ramble about whatever I was reading. And he was interested. Or he acted like it. I really… I wish I could get over him.”

Rafe’s face falls again, confused over why a guy who did shit like that for years, who stared at you the way he did last night, pushed you away.

“I know,” is all he can offer, because he really does understand the desperation of wanting to feel whole again after somebody breaks you.

“Sorry to interrupt,” you hear.

You glance up to see Lyla, her eyes darting to where Rafe is standing between your legs. You almost want to pull away, explain that it’s not what it looks like, nearly forgetting that you’re supposed to be fooling her, too.

“Hey,” you say.

“You want to do a shot with me?” she asks.

“Sure.”

You grip Rafe’s shoulders and shift forward. His hands tighten on your hips and you gently drop to the ground, pressed against his body.

“I’ll find you later?” you ask him.

He leans down low again, his temple brushing against yours.

“Take it easy, lightweight,” he replies.

You look up at him with a big grin.

“What?” he mutters.

“You’re worrying about me,” you whisper. “We are friends.”

“Get out of here,” he sighs.

You laugh and squeeze his hand before you step aside.

════════

You meant to keep count of your drinks. You really did. But every drink was like a temporary antidote against the heartbreak that’s been haunting you, and before you knew it, you were drunker than you’ve ever been before.

The night slips in and out of focus. You’re laughing with Lyla, then you’re playing beer pong, then you’re looking for Rafe.

You find him in a pocket of the crowd standing with a few other hockey players, your mind and body dizzy and hot. You cover his hand with yours, gently tugging him closer.

“I came here to ask you something,” you mumble into his ear when he leans down, his cologne hitting you again. “And… I don’t remember what it was.”

He shakes his head disapprovingly. You were stone cold sober earlier in the kitchen, and now you’re plastered.

“I told you to take it easy,” he says.

“I thought I was. I’m usually very responsible.” You shift to meet his eyes. “You smell great, by the way.”

“Okay?” he replies stiffly.

“Are you always this bad at accepting compliments?” you ask.

He is, and he hates how quickly you figure this kind of stuff out about him.

“What do you want?”

You squint, looking out at the crowd as you attempt to put your fragmented thoughts together. You spot Lyla.

“Oh! Could you give me and Lyla a ride home?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “I’m done here anyway.”

Just a few minutes ago, Rafe watched Emma leave the house with the same guy she was playing beer pong with. It screwed a hole into his chest and he’s been wanting to get the fuck out of here since.

════════

You crack open the window as Rafe drives away from the frat house. Lyla’s in the backseat, tapping on her phone.

He glares at the road. Who was that guy Emma left with? And how the hell does he stop giving a shit? Is he doomed to spend the rest of his life wishing he didn’t care about things as much as he does?

Thinking of her with him doesn’t bring up jealousy. It’s anger. Disappointment. Because he’s losing this game.

“Did you have a good time tonight?” you ask Rafe, the cool spring breeze pressing against your face.

He glances at you. Even though you hardly ever see eye-to-eye, you genuinely want to be kind to him, consoling him on the way to the party, paying him compliments when drunkenness took away your filter.

Despite how irritating it can be when you pry, you don’t do it out of malice. And you even cracked him up a few times tonight.

He decides to answer you honestly, to be nice like you told him to be, ignoring the discomfort.

“When I was with you, yeah,” he replies.

“Aww,” Lyla coos from behind you.

You smile, discreetly giving him a thumbs up for his performance. He means it, but he’ll let you believe he said it just because your friend’s listening.

════════

Lyla directs Rafe to the front doors of her dorm, and when she tries to say goodbye to you, she laughs once she realizes you dozed off.

“Thanks for the ride. I still don’t really get this,” she says to Rafe, pointing between you two, “but I can tell it works.”

He knows why it looks like that. It’s because, as much as Rafe didn’t expect it, you’re right. You two genuinely became friends at some point over the last three weeks.

The sound of Lyla shutting her door snaps you awake. You quickly gauge your surroundings, realizing you’re on the opposite end of campus by Lyla’s building. The athletes’ dorm is practically a ten second drive away and the route to your building will be a long detour for Rafe.

“Isn’t your dorm like, right next door?” you murmur.

“Yeah.”

“I’ll just sleep over,” you say in an exhausted daze. “So you don’t have to drive all the way to the other side of campus and back.”

It’s nearing two in the morning. Rafe just wants to be in his bed. So, he goes along with your idea.

════════

Your eyelids flutter open. You stare ahead to see a broad, bare back sitting at a desk. Then, you recognize the unkept dark hair you ran your fingers through last night, as well as your tabbed copy of Lost Horizon sitting on the dresser.

You’re in Rafe’s dorm room. In his bed. Your face buried in his pillow.

Last night flashes through your mind. You’d thoughtlessly suggested a sleepover. Rafe helped you out of the car and let you lean on him in the elevator and complained that you weren’t making enough space for him in his bed.

“I am so sorry,” you murmur.

Rafe turns around, taking out an earbud with an eyebrow raised.

“Finally awake?” he says.

Your chest stings and your stomach turns as you slowly sit up. You put your hand on your forehead, tangled up in his duvet, last night’s clothes tight and uncomfortable as you think back to how much you drank.

“I should’ve listened to you,” you murmur. “That was not taking it easy. I was stupid.”

“Thought that was a bad word.”

“It is,” you say with a pointed finger. “Thank you. It is.”

You finally look at him again. He’s in sweats, gray boxers peeking out the band, his muscular body curled over the chair. It’s unusual to see him like this; in his downtime, sitting at his desk, using his laptop, shirtless.

You’d felt his body against yours, felt the firmness of his muscles, but seeing him like this in broad daylight raises your pulse.

Rafe notices your gaze linger on his chest before you meet his eyes again. If he really is flustering you, it’s a good dose of payback, considering how he felt when you sat on his lap and played with his hair.

“What the hell did I drink last night?” you mumble.

“You tell me.”

He gazes at you as you try to remember. Even though it was snug sleeping next to you in his tiny single bed, it was nice to not spend a night on his own. He already knew he was lonely, but feeling you next to him, hearing your breath as he dozed off, showed him just how much.

“Shots? Beer? Something really sweet?”

“You mixed,” he realizes. “Bad move.”

“I feel like death,” you groan. “I’m going home now.”

You shuffle forward, your legs hanging over the edge of his bed. You slide off, briefly losing your balance before your feet touch the carpet.

You catch yourself, gripping his shoulder. He cups your wrist as you wobble. You pull your hand back and readjust your clothes, a wrinkled mess now, then pick your bag up off the floor, which you’re glad you thought to bring in your stupor.

“I’m sorry again. Thanks for… dealing with me,” you say quickly, smoothing back your hair. Rafe only smirks, entertained by how embarrassed you are. “I’m walking home because I might throw up and I don’t think we’re at the point where I can do that in front of you yet.”

“You already did.”

Your lips part in shock and he laughs.

“You’re kidding,” you realize. “I didn’t expect you to be a morning person.”

“I’m not.” He looks over at his laptop for the time. “It’s half past noon.”

You sigh in shame and make your way to the door.

“Hold on,” he says. You turn and almost miss the ball of fabric he throws towards you. When you hold it up and realize it’s one of his extra jerseys, you laugh.

“Wear it to the next game,” Rafe tells you.

“Good idea,” you say, imagining the way Emma, and hopefully Beck, will fume at the sight of you with Cameron across your back. “See you.”

You rush down the hallway, thrown out of your thoughts when you hear a loud click. Beck is unlocking his door a few feet ahead of you.

You internally groan. You feel awful and you’re sure you look it, too.

His eyes search your face, as if he doesn’t recognize you. On top of the embarrassment and anxiety you’re already feeling, the sight of him bombards you with the familiar pain of rejection.

“Hey,” you say with an awkward laugh. You need to act casual. You figure if you can pretend to like Rafe, you can pretend to not like Beck. “How’s it going?”

He looks past you, no doubt cluing in that you’re leaving Rafe’s dorm in last night’s clothes. You know what he’s going to think – you spent the night doing more than just sleeping. Suddenly, you’re glad you ran into him.

“Good,” he says absentmindedly. “You?”

“Good,” you reply, continuing to walk past him. Beck looks down, seemingly thrown off.

“I have to say…” He lets out a humorless chuckle. You stop and turn to look at him. “It’s kind of crazy that you’re hanging out with him.”

“Crazy?”

“He’s not really your type.”

Your heart hammers in your chest.

“What is my type?” you challenge.

Beck’s forehead crinkles in what you’d have to guess is disappointment. You swallow nervously. He could say so many things that would break your heart even more. And you hate that he has that much power over you.

“I just think he’s… intense,” he replies.

“I like intense,” you say.

Beck seems out of words. And as much as you want to stay, to ask what he’s thinking, you’re done waiting on bated breath for him, hoping he feels how you do when you share a private moment.

If you act like you’re not in love with him, your heart will eventually catch up. It has to.

“Nice to see you,” you say, carrying on towards the elevator. And walking away from him instead of the other way around for once gives you a newfound feeling of victory that you realize you really needed.

(to be continued)

>>> new parts drop every friday at 8:30 pm eastern

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[rafeprincess]

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

── SYNOPSIS when your image-obsessed mother catches you and Rafe Cameron ─ your friends with benefits ─ in a compromising situation, you must lie and say you're dating. It spirals out of control when your mother invites him to your cousin's upcoming wedding in Italy, and spirals even further when he says yes. ── WARNINGS language, fingering, p-in-v sex. angst (familial issues, mentions of abuse). but also hella fluff??? 18+ mdni. ── WORD COUNT 13.7k. don't. ── NOTES edited from third person perspective to second, so let me know if there are any mistakes. my italian skills may be slightly inaccurate, translations provided. reader's birthday is around thankgiving for plot sake. ── SERIES MASTERLIST ── SONG OF THE CHAPTER 24 hours by sky ferreira

The thought of tomorrow sets a pit in your stomach. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Weirder than he usually is, anyway.

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

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

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

Fuck it, you think.

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

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

Now or never, you think bitterly.

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

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

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

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

Thud.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What are you doing?”

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

Say something, idiot.

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

Now you really stumble over your words.

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

“Hmm?”

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

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

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

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

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

Incredibly stupid.

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

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

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

You hate that it’s your birthday. 

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

But he notices. 

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

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

“What’s wrong, baby?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Is he nervous?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You wake up in a sour mood.

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

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

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

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

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

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

No, you panic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is he handsome?”

“No.”

“Then no.”

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

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

“No, it’s not.”

“How would you know?”

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

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

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

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

“I don’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In another life, you suppose.

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

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

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

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

A warning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And, boy, does he stare.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You didn’t try the other one on.”

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

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

“Cameron–”

“Go.”

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

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

Rafe squeezes in warning. “Now.”

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

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

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

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

Though your heart is heavy.

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

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

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

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

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

“Here it is. Happy?”

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

You take his silence as dislike.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bu–”

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

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

Why does Rafe care?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rafe hums in appreciation. “Turn.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rafe smiles at you and it’s nothing nice.

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

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

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

Jesus, the words make you bite back a smile.

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

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

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

And, of course, you obey.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Rafe simply stares at you.

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

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

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

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

You splutter in protest. “Bu–”

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

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

Of course, that makes him stop.

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

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

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

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

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

“Fine.”

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

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

“Stay,” he commands harshly.

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

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

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

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

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

“Turn around,” Rafe grumbles.

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

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Rafe, please—“

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

“Shut. Up.”

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

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

God, your eyes roll back into your skull.

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

You can only babble something incoherent back to him.

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

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

"N-Never—"

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

"Eyes. Up."

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

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

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

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

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

Suddenly, it’s all too much.

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

“Give me one more.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where? Where should I–?”

The response is immediate and careless.

“Inside.”

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

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

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

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

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

And it makes your heart ache.

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

At least you hope it’s admiration. 

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

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

That makes you snort.

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

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

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

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

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

He hasn’t forgotten about it since. 

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

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

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

What the fuck was that?

It was almost perfect. Almost.

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

Pull yourself together, you harshly think.

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

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

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

So nonchalant, you think.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The fuuuuuck.

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

“Mhm,” Rafe hums. “Good choice.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You okay?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Boy, is he wrong about that. 

Dinner runs swimmingly. 

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

It’s wonderful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hi, pretty,” he says softly. 

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

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

“Good.”

“Good?”

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

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

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

“Wake up.”

Your eyes flutter shut again. “Why?”

“‘Cause we’re going out.”

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

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

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

“Why?”

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

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

God, you're going to kill your nonna.

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

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

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

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

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

“Nonna has a Vespa?”

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

A...what?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like his.

"Ready, baby?"

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

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

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

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

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

Not really, anyway.

But regardless, Rafe ignores the thought.

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

The ride is, admittedly, stupidly fun.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shut up and take my hand.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

When the waiter disappears, the silence stretches between you.

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

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

The act makes you reel. Is he nervous?

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

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

He can’t look you in the eye.

It makes you grin.

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

“Technically, we are tourists,” you tease.

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

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

“Shut up.”

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

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

Despite his playful tone, the accusation has you frowning.

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

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

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

Fuck it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You raise a brow. “Which part?”

“Any of it.”

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

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

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

Fuck it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So he does.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rafe is grinning at you taking this conversation so seriously.

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

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

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

He nearly laughs. "Whatever you say."

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

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

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

Even if it was all pretend, anyway. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hey, don't fall asleep yet."

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

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

And he's handing it to you.

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

“What’s this?”

“It’s for you.”

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

Rafe simply shrugs, not entertaining the thought. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

You're hugging him before you can process it.

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

Rafe decides that he really likes hugging you.

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

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

Are you crying?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What about a talking car?”

“Sure.”

“A magic crystal that turns me invisible?”

“Mhm-hmm.”

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

“‘F course.”

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

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

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

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

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

notes please leave comments. i yearn for feedback.

[rafeprincess]

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

── SYNOPSIS when your image-obsessed mother catches you and Rafe Cameron ─ your friends with benefits ─ in a compromising situation, you must lie and say you're dating. It spirals out of control when your mother invites him to your cousin's upcoming wedding in Italy, and spirals even further when he says yes. ── WARNINGS language, fingering, nudity, p-in-v sex, mentions of body insecurity, unhealthy eating habits, and parental induced insecurity. 18+ mdni. ── WORD COUNT 7.7k. no comment. ── NOTES edited from third person perspective to second, so let me know if there are any mistakes. ── SERIES MASTERLIST ── SONG OF THE CHAPTER sunshine by steve lacy, fousheé

When you wake, Rafe isn’t in bed. 

You have a brief moment of panic, but your mind eases when Po sits a foot away from your face, looking at you curiously with a low purr and slow blink. Sleepily, you bring your hand up to pet him, to which he nuzzles right in as if he's been waiting for your attention for hours.

This is a nice wake up call, you figure. 

Taking in your surroundings, you notice Rafe’s bed is neatly made, which is odd in itself since he usually just throws a blanket hazardously over his sheets, and his suitcase is laying open on the floor. A laugh rises to your throat when you notice a Po-sized indent on his clothes in the bag.

The culprit simply continues purring, relishing in the attention. The bed is warm and the cat’s making it even cozier, and the urge to stay right here is sky high.

But you're craving a coffee and the sun beaming through the curtains reminds you of the beautiful day ahead. So you scoop Po up under your arm and swing your legs over the bed, wincing at the cold tile against your bare feet. The door’s been left ajar, but regardless you slip through easily. 

You stalk through the quiet cottage, smiling when you see Lorenza sitting in the living room with a coffee as she stares out the window to the yard, sun beaming through the tall windows and accenting the blue walls a few shades lighter than normal.

“Buongiorno,” you say sleepily, yawning. “Dormi bene?”

Lorenza nods without taking her gaze away from the window, a knowing smile etched on her lips that's targeted at whatever she's observing in the yard. You stand behind her, and curiously look up to follow her gaze. 

The sight is overwhelmingly endearing when you see Rafe outside with Ticino playing fetch.

Judging by the glee on his face, it's like he’s enjoying it more than the dog himself.

The shetland-sheepdog has the craziest energy levels you've ever seen in a dog, and it’s proving that right now as Rafe continuously throws the ball, further and further each time. Ticino retrieves it and sprints back with more and more energy every throw, tail wagging passionately fierce.

Rafe says a command to the dog, to which Ticino drops the ball and obediently waits for him to throw it, and the cycle continues.

The grin on Rafe’s face is comparable to a kid on Christmas. 

“Ho insegnato la parole ‘lascia’ a lui,” Lorenza murmurs teasingly. “Ha giocato per un'ora." (I taught the word ‘drop’ to him. He's been playing for an hour.)

You hum, not trusting your voice.

Instead, you turn and head to the kitchen to brew yourself a fresh pot of coffee. Distractedly, you don't even have the thought process to take any milk with it as you tiptoe back into the living room, selfishly wanting to catch another moment of Rafe’s little act.

You're no better than the next person, because frankly you'd be an idiot not to watch.

Like a rightful creep.

You sit on the seat adjacent to Lorenza, both of you simply ogling at this scene in the yard. Po meows quietly as he jumps in your lap, wanting to continue his head scratches from earlier. You abide by his terms, alternating between sipping your coffee, petting the cat, and trying to disregard the rapid thump of your heartbeat at the sight of Rafe's biceps.

How dare he.

It doesn’t help that ten minutes later, Rafe enters the house all sweaty and glistening that you have to focus really hard on your coffee or on gazing solely into his eyes to refrain from looking further down...

If your gaze drops any lower, he’ll definitely make fun of you.

And that's proving correct when he smirks at you deliberately not looking at him below the chin, and it only pisses you off further. To push his luck even more, he intentionally sparks up conversation with Lorenza, to which she forces you to translate, trapping you in the room for longer than you'd like.

When Rafe crosses his arms and purposefully bulges his biceps, you nearly scoff.

Lorenza packs a few sandwiches and homemade arancini for the beach while you both get dressed. To avoid climbing him like a tree (or showing that you'd like to), you linger in the living room and nurse your coffee as you wait for Rafe to change, not wanting to seem entirely desperate as your thoughts tell you to jump him like there’s no tomorrow.

Even though he can probably already tell.

He unabashedly takes his time, strolling out of the bedroom ten minutes later in a simple t-shirt and his bathing suit with a backpack slung over his shoulder. Sunglasses perch on the bridge of his nose as he narrows his gaze, ducking his head low and meeting yours with his piercing blue eyes. You rush past him with a traditional eye-roll and shut the bedroom door, changing into your suit and gathering your items for the day. 

You two trek on the dirt path quietly. You sling a tote bag over your shoulder that holds a towel and a book while Rafe carries the backpack with his towel and lunch. The silence is comfortable as you take in the sight before you, relishing in the summer-like breeze as you desperately try to ignore the tingle on your skin every time Rafe’s arm brushes against yours on accident.

Or at least you hope it’s an accident. 

You stride a little ahead of him, ignoring his piercing gaze on the back of your head as you try to relax. This is a beautiful walk, your favorite kind of walk, and you want to relish in the sights as much as you can as you descend closer and closer to your most prized spot. 

After about twenty minutes of silent strolling (or more so silent on your part, with the occasional random question from him that either has you scolding him or ignoring him altogether), the two of you reach the bottom of the hill and enter town. A few people walk past you towards the more public part of the rocky beach, but you diverge from the crowds and slip through a man-made path between two trees, Rafe following your every step.

You can’t help but grin when you see your favorite spot approaching in the distance, and sigh in relief when you notice no one has discovered it.

Yet. 

The nostalgia hits you at once, and you find yourself talking before you can stop it once you breach through the trees and emerge into the open cove.

“I discovered this spot my freshman year of high school. I used to come here almost everyday in the summer.”

Stopping on the rocky beach, you slip off your sneakers, socks, and tote bag and walk to the edge of the water, the gentle laps kissing your feet. As if it cures you of any negative weight, you sigh at the feeling. Like you're home.

Rafe follows your motion silently, soon standing right next to you and feeling the crystal blue water as well. You feels his gaze on you, patiently waiting for you to keep talking.

Despite the nagging feeling of not wanting to reveal too much, you can’t seem to stop yourself.

“I loved it because my mom could never find me,” you continue softly, looking out onto the horizon. “Paulette never really cared for this place, this town, these people. She always came on the yearly trip with me and my dad to say she's been to Italy, but never as a courtesy to Lorenza, who practically raised my dad when she lived in the States. So we fought a lot on what Paulette wanted us to do, and vice versa."

You look down at your feet, pushing around some small rocks with your toes. His stare burns in your peripheral.

"She always wanted to get out of here and go to the touristy spots, mainly so she could post the trip on Facebook, or whatever. It was always Milan this, or Rome that."

You snort humorlessly at the memories of Paulette frowning in disgust at the more rural areas.

It only makes you scoff gently. "But me? I wanted to stay with Lorenza. Practice my Italian. Learn what it’s like to be a local. Hear stories from my dad's childhood. One day, mom nearly dragged me out of the house by my ears to get on a flight and I just...found myself running."

The memory burns in your mind, smiling at your rebel.

"I didn’t even have my phone. I don’t know what led me to slip between those trees, but it led me here. To my spot.”

Rafe has the overwhelming urge to grab your hand.

“So far, no one else has discovered it,” you smile, priding yourself on that small tidbit. “I expect you won’t tell anyone?”

“And if I do?”

You narrow your eyes at him. “I might have to drown you.”

Rafe barks out a laugh, not expecting that answer.

Before he can retort, you're stepping back out of the water, shimmying your shorts down your legs and lifting your shirt off your back. Shamelessly, his gaze zeroes on your chest, lightly littered with his marks from last night that just peak out from under your bikini top.

Without hesitating, you walk back towards the water and gradually sink deeper and deeper until you're waist level, the temperature greeting you like an old friend.

The water is crystal clear, and you look down to see some small minnows swimming about around your legs. 

You look up to Rafe, who stands unmoved from his spot watching you with a slight tilt of his head.

(As well as a smile so earnest it makes your heart flutter, but you choose to ignore it.)

“You gonna keep standing there looking stupid or are you gonna get in?” You continue to go deeper in the water, moving up to your neck as you cautiously step on a rock.

Rafe rolls his eyes, throwing his shirt up over his head and descending into the water.

“Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed,” he grumbles, but his suppressed smile gives away his indifference. “Which reminds me, I have a bone to pick with you.”

“Oh?”

Rafe is suddenly right in front of you, crouching so you're at the same eye level. You nearly slip on a rock taking a step back at the sudden intrusion, especially when his eyes soften and arms barely -- just barely -- outstretch as if to grab you.

“You left last night.” 

Is he serious?

You shoot him an incredulous glare, unsure if he’s acting upset to uproot his doting boyfriend facade or if he’s actually torn up about it.

The latter can't be true.

Nonetheless, you furrow your brows. “Uh, I was naked. And judging by the way your bed was made this morning, my nonna was in the room checking in on us. Could you imagine if I didn’t get up and change, and she walked in? She’d probably have a heart attack.”

Rafe knows it’s stupid to even bring it up, but he hated the way his chest felt funny when he woke up this morning alone, noticing your sleeping figure across the room instead of with him. 

“Besides,” you continue, “the light was still on.”

Rafe doesn’t take that as an excuse, and cocks his head to the side with a deadpanned look. 

Whatever. You decide to indulge in his pity party. “Stop getting mopey. I planned on getting back in when I changed, but someone decided to take up the entire bed in the ten seconds it took for me to change.” 

“Excuses,” he murmurs, unconvinced. 

“You were sprawled out everywhere. I had no room.”

Rafe cringes. “I don’t sprawl.”

You raise a brow. 

He secedes. “Maybe I sprawl. Sometimes. Only on Tuesdays. You could’ve just, I don’t know, slept on top of me.”

“Slept on top of you?”

Rafe hates how ridiculous it sounds. But yes. He would’ve preferred that instead of sleeping alone.

(But he’s not ready to admit that, not outright, anyway.) 

Instead of responding he sighs deeply, as if this whole conversation that he started is an inconvenience. He moves forward lightning fast, placing his hands on your shoulders and dunking you so quickly you can barely register what’s happening. It’s only for a split second before he lets you resurface. 

You splutter and sucks in a huge breath, throwing your hands out to splash that stupid grin off of his face. “The fuck, Cameron?!”

“Oh, c’mon, you were gonna go under anyway.”

The rest of the morning is spent having lazy conversation in the water, alternating positions from floating on your backs, to you on Rafe’s back as he swam through the deeper sections where you can’t touch the bottom, to Rafe on your back as you (unsuccessfully) try to carry him through the water.

He dunks you a few more times, irritably, and you really do try your best to dunk him back but it never works, as the guy is built like a tree.

A strong, muscular tree.

You show off your perfect handstand as Rafe tries to emulate the motion too, but despite being able to balance on his hands underwater, his feet unnaturally would not stay straight, so you had to deduct points for the informality, much to his dismay. 

"You're judging based on a professional scale," Rafe albeit complains when you give him a whopping 5/10 score. "I'm very much at a novice level, and considering that, I think I deserve a higher score."

Your rating did not change.

Lunch rolls around and you eat together, the current debate of the hour being if a tsunami came at this very moment, how they would be able to survive.

You nearly want to shove the arancini down his throat when Rafe says that he’d simply dive through the wave.

"Gimme a break," you say, half annoyed yet half amused. "You know that's not physically possible."

Rafe shrugs with a half lipped smirk. "Well, I'm built different, baby."

Rafe goes back into the water after lunch as you stay on the rocky shore, finally being able to lay in the sun, get some shut eye, and hopefully have some peace and quiet to soak in the feel of the warmth, the sound of the small waves lapping the shore. You adjust your bikini quite skimpily so you have the most optimal tan space - the reason you're telling yourself for practically having your tits out - and soaking in the rays.

The peace and quiet only lasts about thirty minutes before Rafe is standing over you, sopping wet and blocking the sun, complaining that he’s bored. 

It takes some serious convincing from you that laying on your towel and resting your eyes is also fun. 

You make small talk as you lounge in the sun for a little while longer, which is ultimately Rafe just talking your ear off about whatever bullshit he can muster up, and you're unsure if he's doing it to piss you off or if he desperately needs answers (i.e. "How do you come to terms with the never-ending universe even though your consciousness has a time limit?" to which you answered, "Do you ever shut up?").

The delusional and partly existential questions continue until you feel yourself getting hot. To cool off, you stand to go in the water and Rafe’s right behind you like a lost puppy, glad to know that his aquatic entertainment has come back to play.

Despite his childish whines, Rafe reluctantly lets you swim around on your own for a bit, not without lamenting his boredom, before he forces you to get on his back again, coming up with the lame excuse that he wants to see how deep he can touch, but is too scared to do it alone. 

Surprisingly, you agree to his stupid reasoning (not without a few sarcastic retorts and a creeping blush), and let Rafe drag you around the small private cove, wading through the water as if you have all the time in the world to do so. He doesn’t even care that you're relentlessly dragging him right next to his ear, because he likes the way you're clinging to him, skin to skin. 

"What if a shark swam up to you right now? And if I couldn't swim?" You tease when he carries you so deep that it's up to his neck and your collarbone.

He grunts amusingly. "You'd drop you as bait."

At one point, you stay in the water while Rafe swims to shore to check his phone. In the backpack, his fingers brush against the old camera Lorenza gave him this morning, the topic of photography coming up at dinner the night before on his long list of interests.

He completely forgets about it until now.

An idea crosses his mind, and Rafe turns around to check on you, heart lurching as he sees you standing on one of the bigger rocks that breach the surface, teetering balance precariously. Without hesitation, he turns the camera on and snaps a photo of you.

He doesn't have time to inspect the product as Rafe quickly puts the camera away before you turn back around, yelling to see if he’s coming back in or not. 

Three p.m. rolls around where you decide it’s time to leave, much to Rafe’s dismay.

He feels like a little kid all over again because he wants to stay for a little longer, relishing in your private company, but you simply don't give in. Albeit, it is fairly childish on his part. When his pleading goes nowhere and he refuses to step out of the water, you simply shrug and start walking towards the trees.

Rafe has never put shoes on quicker. 

The walk back is trudging, but the two of you are content enough to do it with limited bickering.

When Rafe finds himself lingering behind you a little, he carefully slides the backpack off his shoulder enough to grab the camera again and snap another photo of you with the picturesque landscape in the back, unbeknownst to you. 

Though his eyes only linger on you in the photo. 

Once the cottage is in sight, Rafe casually slips his hand into yours, ignoring the way you quizzically look up at him at the gesture. Before you can protest, you hear Ticino's bark in the distance, the shetland-sheepdog looking at you from the window. Lorenza is quick to open the door, leaning against the frame as she did yesterday in her introduction and taking note of their intertwined hands. 

“Devo andare al mercato,” Lorenza tells you when they approach the door. “Tornarò presto.” (I have to go to the market, I’ll be back soon.)

When Lorenza leaves, Rafe occupies Ticino briefly as you take a quick shower, washing the salt and exhaustion off your body.

The sun was beaming bright today, undoubtedly tiring you out. With bloodshot eyes and sopping wet hair, you collapse in your small twin bed with nothing but a t-shirt and sleep shorts, wanting nothing more than a few minutes of shut-eye. 

After Rafe’s done entertaining the dog, he barrels into the room after his quick shower to try and initiate something he’s been thinking about all day - especially after seeing you in the skimpiest bikini to grace the earth and especially since you have the house to themselves with a short time frame - but his gaze softens when he sees you peacefully passed out, curled in on yourself in the twin bed as your arm hangs off the side.

God, he swallows the lump in his throat.

Rafe looms over you for a moment, frowning. He nudges his knee with yours to see if you're awake, to scout for any sort of movement or reaction. You're seemingly not as you don't even budge. He figures his arousal can wait. 

He doesn’t even think twice about throwing on boxers and shorts and climbing in beside you. 

Rafe cautiously lowers himself behind your sleeping figure, brushing your damp hair off the pillow so he doesn’t lay on it, and wasting no time nuzzling in and inhaling the scent of your shampoo, the same citrus smell that radiates from his hair.

Familiar, he thinks as he slides an arm around your waist, gently pulling you flush against his chest as he hums in contentment at the contact.

For Christ's sake, he’s practically been holding you all day but Rafe can’t seem to get enough. It’s intoxicating. 

It must be something in the Italian water, or whatever, he figures. 

A low groan escapes his throat when you shift your hips against his, and regardless of if you do it on purpose or subconsciously, he finds himself stilling, holding his breath to see if you do it again.

After a moment, Rafe thinks you've fallen back asleep and he exhales deeply, but as soon as the affirmation comes on, you do it again.

Rafe grips your waist in warning. “Sweet girl.”

“Your bed is over there, by the way.”

“Stop playing.”

You hum sleepily, a shiver running down your spine as his fingers edge the waistband of your shorts. “Playing? I’m only trying to sleep, baby.”

Rafe scoffs at your faux tone, as if it’s the most offensive thing he’s ever heard. His fingers are ice cold against your hot skin, warmth pooling in your belly as they travel lower and lower.

“You really expect me to not fuck you stupid after seeing you parade around all day in that slutty little bikini?” he murmurs gravelly against the shell of your ear. "Drivin' me fucking crazy."

There’s a small swell of pride swirling in your chest when you realize you've been making him all hot and bothered all day. But it fades as quickly as it came as he firmly presses himself along your backside, nearly gasping when you feel his hard-on against your ass, the product of your practically nude flaunt all day.

You squirm when his fingers ghost over your cunt, growing impatient at the buildup and elongated foreplay. It’s as if he can sense your frustration, retracting his hand every time you try to wiggle your hips closer and speed the process up. 

You groan in irritation at his teasing.

“Rafe.”

“Hmm?”

Your words die in your throat.

You wouldn’t be caught dead saying please.

If there’s one thing you hate, it’s begging for dick. Especially Rafe’s, because it always goes straight to his damn head and he gets even more insufferable than he already is. And he really doesn't need any more fuel to boost his ego as it's already the height of Everest.

There was one time you said it during a moment of drunk desperation and he’s been elongating foreplay to get you to say it again, and again, and again ever since.

But you refuse. 

(That particular night was one of your best lays together, maybe because you were both drunk enough to admit how badly you needed each other, but still.)

The hesitation drives Rafe up the wall. He wants to hear your words.

“What, princess? What do you need?” Rafe mumbles low with a tone that’s anything but sweet, almost mocking you. 

You huff, pushing his hand out of your pants and turning around as efficiently as the twin bed will allow. Pressing forward, you swallow the cocky laugh that emits gravely in his throat as you kiss him. A large hand immediately presses against the small of your back under your shirt, pulling you taut against his bare chest. 

The moment goes as quickly as it comes, because soon enough Rafe’s shifting your bodies so your back is flat against the mattress and he’s hovering over you, kissing you bruisingly.

One of his hands slides underneath your t-shirt and immediately kneads the swell of your breast, his cool ring ghosting over your nipple. The sensation is so startling that you moan into his mouth, and, fuck, you want to take it back immediately when you see the smug smirk on his lips.

Rafe pulls back and peers down at you writhing figure in mockery, as if he's looking at a masterpiece. 

“What happened, baby? Forget how to speak?”

You roll your eyes so hard as you turn your head away from him, but his hand leaves your breast and comes up to grip your chin, stubbornly pulling your gaze back to him. 

He hums mockingly, and you hate the way you nearly pout. “Don’t get all shy on me now. Tell me what you need.”

You speak before you can think.

“Need you inside,” you murmur, growing tired of playing cat and mouse. 

“Magic word?”

You groan in irritation. “Really?”

He imitates a buzzer. "Wrong."

"Rafe."

He repeats your name back, tone teasing. 

God. You hate how wet you are, how turned on you are, and hate even further how you're a mess and he’s barely even touched you.

Huffing again, you try to take back any ounce of control (before you'll eventually submit). You narrow your gaze to the best of your ability, trying to act indifferent at the fact that he’s getting you stupid horny just from a little bit of kissing and fondling. Pathetic. 

“You said you were gonna fuck me,” you weakly retaliate, crossing your arms. 

But Rafe doesn’t let up control, instead he leans down so his lips are brushing yours, the ghost touch making you twitch. “I said I was gonna fuck you stupid. But I haven’t even fucked you yet and you’re already blabbering.”

“Rafe–”

“Beg for it.” 

“No.”

“No?”

Rafe pulls away, feigning hurt as he tries (and fails) to form a frown. You nearly whine at the loss of contact, frustration snowballing as he sits up on his knees and peers down at you in anticipation. He cocks his head to the side and takes in your flushed cheeks and how your hands almost – almost – grab at him in desperation, and you retract them quickly so he doesn’t notice but, oh, he does. 

“We can go all day, sweet girl,” he drones out, checking his wrist as if he’s looking at the time.

He’s not even wearing a watch. Prick.

Sitting up, you cross your arms again with a pout that makes Rafe want to screw all the foreplay and take you on this twin bed. You're inches apart, chests heaving at the intensity as you stare at each other, waiting to see who’s going to crack first.

It’s a standoff, and neither budge in aggravated stubbornness.

Well, stubbornness on your part and pure amusement on his.

But all of that goes out the window when your gaze flickers down to his shorts, the obvious tent making your heart flutter with desire.

Because despite all of the arguing, he wants you just as much as you want him.

“Fine,” you grumble, cheeks unprecedentedly burning. “Please.”

Rafe grins. “Please what?”

You shoot him a glare that could kill.

He doesn't falter, and your struggle only eggs him on further. Rafe raises a brow and still achingly refuses to touch you, anticipating a response, and you decide to swallow your pride, knowing this is going to be the only way you'll get what you want.

“Please fuck me.”

It takes less than a second for Rafe to press forward, kissing you fervently as he guides you to lay down on your back. When your head hits the pillow, his large hand comes up to cradle your jaw and, for a moment, you hate how intimate it is, especially when it’s soft in comparison to how he normally handles you and how his eyes gleam with pride.

The emotion behind it makes you sick. 

He hums as a thumb brushes over your bottom lip. “See, baby? You just had to ask nicely.”

“Shut up.”

Rafe snorts with a stupid smile, leaning back to pull your shorts down. You lift your hips to accommodate, and the way his breath hitches as he stares at your bare cunt dreamily has your tummy pooling with desire. 

It's as if he sees it for the first time every time.

“So pretty. Such a pretty cunt, princess.”

You zoom your focus out, pulled from the moment with a harsh swallow. 

You're only fucking. Just that. He likes you for your pussy. You like him for his dick.

With the way he was holding you earlier, you need to remind yourself of your arrangement. He’s here to pretend to be something he’s not. Having sex in between the lines of the main mission of the trip is simply a bonus, an activity. Nothing more. Reading into it more than that is going to complicate things, and you don't do complicated. 

You can't do complicated.

“You’re taking an awfully long time after I was so nice,” you murmur irritably and it earns a belly laugh from him. 

Rafe digs in his pocket for his wallet and pulls out a condom, proceeding to carelessly throw the expensive leather somewhere in the room as he slides off his shorts and boxers. He comes down from his laugh when he slides the condom over his cock, shaking his head in disbelief as he hovers over you and places the most chaste kiss on your lips as an apology.

You hate the tenderness, but it doesn’t seem to faze him as he kisses you again while simultaneously lining himself up with your entrance.

“You were so nice,” he says against your lips. You both moan into each other’s mouths when he slowly pushes himself in. “Asked so nicely for me.”

He bottoms out painfully slowly, holding himself there basically at the tip of your cervix torturously as he exhales deep through his nose. You nearly buck your hips up at his stillness in frustration.

“Missed this so fucking bad.”

You try to ignore how it’s only been days since you've had sex. “Rafe, please move.”

Rafe hums in adoration at your pretty, breathless words. “Being such a sweet girl for me. Sayin' please.”

Your nails dig into the grooves of his back as he pulls out just as slowly as he entered before pushing himself back in, settling at an agonizing pace that has you rutting your hips into his with impatience.

He growls, fingers tightening on your neck in warning. “Stop.”

You do it again in retaliation. Rafe says your name as a second strike. 

“Hmm?” you hum, feigning mock nativity that you know is going to piss him off. The heel of your left foot slowly eases up his spine until you're hooking your leg over his shoulder, allowing him deeper access. “Faster. Going so slow, Rafey.”

His eyes roll back at the nickname, hating the way it sends a shiver down his spine.

God, he hates it with a burning passion, since girls have said it to him to hold some sort of possession over him in bed or at parties to stake their claim. You overheard one of Rafe’s booty calls whine it once, just once, and now you'll dangle it over his head every now and then to get what you want, or when you simply want to piss him off more than usual.

Now, Rafe can claim all he wants that it drives him up the wall, but the first time you said it mockingly to him during sex, he immediately came.

The word triggers something in his gut, switching his pace from sweet and achingly gentle to animalistic, fucking you rough and deep against this godforsaken mattress, the lewd noises only spurring your arousal.

And, god, it pisses him off the way you're fucking beaming at the change up because you, ultimately, got what you wanted simply by uttering one word. That godforsaken nickname.

Your tits bounce from the force of his thrust, his tip hitting spots unknown as you moan shamelessly into his mouth. 

Rafe nearly scoffs against your lips, moving to ghost over your ear as your cheeks press against each other. You arch your back as much as you can at the sensation, chest to chest, and the movement causes Rafe to bring his hand down from your neck to your clit.

Your nails dig further into the planes of his back muscles because of it. The guttural moan from you makes Rafe chuckle darkly, the noise being nothing nice. 

“Is this what you needed, baby?” he mocks. He feels you nod against his cheek. It only spurs him on further, addicted to you. “A bit of attention?”

“Been thinking about you all day,” you challenge shakily, smirking at the way his pace falters momentarily, then resuming the original rhythm. “Wanted you to fuck me on that beach.”

Rafe presses his thumb firmly against your clit to shut you up, and your hips rut in synchronization to his thrusts, causing him to hilt into you deeper, harder, rougher. “Fuck- princess, you know you could’ve asked nicely.”

“Don’t like being nice,” you pout, breaths becoming shallower the more he rubs circles on your clit. 

“Only for me, right?”

Your eyes nearly roll back at the possession, hating the way it makes your heart flutter. As much as you want to retaliate and deflect the ownership (because you'd rather fucking die, truthfully, then give him that satisfaction), you hum in a tone that can be argued is in agreement. 

At least Rafe seems to think so as he accepts it with a low moan that only turns you on.

It kickstarts the warmth gradually building in your core, a wrangled whine escaping your lips before you can bite it back. One of your hands immediately find his hair, tugging it harshly as your pants become shallower, shorter, breathier.

You don't even need to give a warning that you're close, Rafe already knowing your body like an open book as he continues his movements, his own thrusts getting sloppier as he chases his own high. The sounds of slapping and moaning and the mattress creaking underneath you echo off the walls.

In seconds, your grip tightens as you writhe underneath him, coming with an embarrassingly passionate whine as your back arches into him. 

You whisper something in the shell of his ear that he can’t even comprehend, eyes rolling back at the feeling of your warm cunt, your hot breath, your rough grip on his hair.

Every feeling, every sensation in this god-given moment has his brain saying your name over, and over, and over again until he’s murmuring it like a prayer, like it’s the only mantra he’ll ever need to say again. 

You breathily moan again, and Rafe realizes you're saying his name, too.

“Oh, fuck–”

The sound is so fucking pretty that it has his rhythm stuttering as he comes with you with a strangled moan, releasing into the condom in hot spurts and riding out his devastatingly early high.

Rafe refuses to look down at your connected bodies, knowing the sight is only going to make him do something embarrassing again – as in moaning like a pornstar – and instead squeezes his eyes shut and buries his face in the crevice of your warm neck to attempt to hide from whatever the fuck just happened. 

Your chests heave against one another and his movements gradually slow until he stops, still fully buried inside you.

Spent, Rafe lowers his elbow and collapses on your chest, soliciting a low moan from you when his thumb leaves your clit as his hand settles on your hipbone. That same thumb traces lazy circles on the bone, Rafe doing it without thinking as he exhales deeply against your vocal chord, brows furrowed as he suddenly has a revelation.

Not a good one. 

You smooth out his hair, which ultimately is just you stroking his head gently. He nearly sighs at the sensation, subconsciously nuzzling a fraction deeper into your embrace in contentment to push down his thoughts. 

Because he can't look up at you. Not after what he just discovered.

But you stop as soon as you start, as if you realized what you were doing, and instead place the hand cordially on his shoulder to backpedal from any moments of accidental intimacy. He replicates your intention with a weird tug in his chest, his thumb stilling and simply resting on your hip.

Despite it, he says nothing.

Very on the contrary to his usual behavior, especially after sex.

He loves to talk. He never shuts up. He cleans you up, dresses you if you want to be dressed, cracks a joke or two about your fucked out state and calls you something stupidly and aggravatingly endearing that turns your mind to mush. Even last night– he held you and had the energy to annoyingly quip despite being on the brink of sleep.

But now Rafe offers nothing but uncharacteristic quiet.

You don't like it, not because it’s silent, but because it’s different. 

After a few moments, you let out a long breath. You're sure that he can feel your erratic heartbeat as you can feel his eyelashes fluttering shut against your skin, an ounce of anxiety rising like bile in your throat. 

Why is he so quiet?

“Are you–”

Before you have the opportunity to make the matter worse by opening your mouth, the sound of the front door startles you both as you simultaneously sit up in panic. 

Lorenza doesn’t catch you, too busy unloading the groceries and addressing Ticino when she arrives back. 

As you get dressed and leave to help her, Rafe stays in the room. After peeling the condom off, wrapping it in tissue paper, and throwing it in the trashcan behind your bed, he pulls his boxers and shorts back on and flops back down on the sheets that smell of you, remaining unmoved as his thoughts race.

The realization hit him – shamefully – mid-orgasm.

It further rendered him unable to trust his words in the post-sex haze in fear of saying something that’ll, undoubtedly, scare you away. 

A haze is what Rafe hopes it is, just a fleeting thought that crossed his mind in such a vulnerable moment.

Sometimes sex – mind blowing sex – makes people feed into their delusions in the moment, but later coming to their senses when their head is screwed on straight. Then they laugh about those silly little thoughts in the long run, looking back and making fun of how ridiculous they were.

Rafe waits for the moment his thoughts will return back to normal, but this epiphany only drums in his mind harder and harder until he feels a migraine splitting his head in two. 

Rafe likes you. Bad. 

He slaps a hand on his forehead and groans. 

Fuck. This isn’t good. There are so many things wrong with this blossoming feeling bubbling in his chest, and he tries and tries to push it down but it keeps springing back up stronger than before, and it only augments his panic as he lays here in this twin bed staring at the ceiling. 

Rafe doesn’t do crushes. 

He hates vulnerability, hates the level of trust he’s required to put in another person, hates the expectations that come with being romantically involved with someone. It’s much easier to do things casually, to not let feelings get in the way because feelings cause complications, feelings create dangerous situations, feelings don’t take prisoners.

The whole idea of trusting another person in such an emotionally intimate way makes his chest feel heavy. 

It is so detrimentally unfamiliar that it scares Rafe.

The idea of not having any control in any scenario already terrifies him, because if he can’t dictate a situation then he’s at the mercy of another person. He was always taught to be in charge, to be the commanding person in the room, to be feared so that he’ll be listened to. Not having control means submitting. Rafe doesn’t do that.

Especially not emotionally. 

The only person he'll let take control of things is his father. Ward's the one who instilled the lesson that control is created, sought upon, and needed in every situation. Rafe was only a kid when he knew what was expected of him whenever his father wasn’t present – which was often – and it simply grew when the only person allowed to tell Rafe what to feel and what not to feel was his father.

Crying was for pussies and being sad was something you pushed down deep and replaced with anger. Trusting other people was dangerous, because they could use your most vulnerable moments to their advantage. It lowers inhibitions, fogs logistics, and makes people do stupid things against the betterment of propriety.

Rafe knows what he has to do.

He has to distance himself from you.

The decision is ridiculous, Rafe already knows. He’s trapped in a foreign country with you for nearly a week, and it’s not like he can avoid you in the meantime or act like he still hates your existence.

He’s supposed to be your boyfriend, playing a part that entails being loving and doting and disgustingly devoted. He has to be able to properly emote his affection for you, to show your family how much he supposedly loves you without outright saying it out loud.

Rafe’s always been bad with his words, his actions doing most of the talking for him throughout his life. 

Right now, that's coming to bite him in the ass.

Rafe spends the rest of the evening uncharacteristically quiet, smiling politely and nodding to anecdotes Lorenza tells during dinner. He adds his own, not as animatedly as he was the previous night since he doesn’t want any alarm bells to go off for her, but also trying to distance himself emotionally to attempt his plan of shoving away this stupid crush.

He barely even looks at you for the entirety of dinner, and doesn’t loiter in the kitchen while you and Lorenza cook. 

Well, Rafe's plan lasts about four hours, which is four hours longer than he expected.

After dinner, Lorenza sends you out of the room to do something that he doesn’t comprehend. When you're gone, Lorenza turns to Rafe who unsuccessfully attempts to help her clean. She takes the plate out of his hand and puts it down, instead grabbing his hands and leading him to the doorway of the kitchen where her calendar is. 

She points to today’s date. “Oggi.” She then taps yesterday’s date. “Ieri.” Lorenza then taps the next day. There’s a red circle around the number. “Domani.”

Rafe nods, assuming the word means tomorrow. “Domani…” he trails off, not sure where she’s going with this language lesson. 

Lorenza looks at Rafe and calculates her words, saying your name quietly. “Domani è il compleanno di lei.”

“Compleanno?” He feels like an idiot as he repeats it back to her, ignoring the way his heart skips a beat when she says your name. 

“Compleanno è…” Lorenza drones out, thinking about the word very hard. Then it comes to her as she snaps her fingers, as if it’s an epiphany. “Birthday.”

Rafe freezes, blinking stupidly down at her. 

Wh-

It’s your birthday tomorrow?

Panic rises in his chest as he fumbles for words, but instead of interrogating him on his lack of knowledge for his supposed-girlfriend’s birthday, Lorenza huffs and shakes her head irritably.

“Questa ragazza non lo dice mai a nessuno,” she hisses quietly, mainly to herself, it seems. (This girl doesn't tell anyone)

Then, she turns to Rafe and takes a deep breath, her next words very slow and calculated.

“Domani, she say she do not want party. Solo cena e vino. The birthday she does not like.” (Only dinner and wine.)

That makes Rafe frown. Deeply. He hates that you don't like your birthday, he hates even more that he wants to know why, and hates even further that he wants to shower you with gifts. 

The latter makes him reel because, fuck, man, he's supposed to be distancing himself.

“She does not know I tell you this,” she adds, pointing a knowing finger to him as if to say you better not tell her I told you. 

Rafe nods wordlessly, still frowning.

Why wouldn’t you tell him that it’s your birthday?

He thinks back to birthdays at home. They were always the talk of the season, as the Cameron siblings always had to throw the craziest ragers to grace their side of the island. They were always coined the term event of the year every year.

Rafe’s birthday has always been nothing short of a giant celebration, half relishing in everyone kissing his ass all day and half loathing all of the attention. He never really cared about the gifts since he always had every material object he could think of (that he never really cared for), but he always appreciated when people brought him alcohol and weed and things that could make him feel good. He always got a lot of birthday sex, too, which was always a plus. 

Shaking away the memories, Rafe goes to ask a question but steps away from the calendar when he hears you come back into the house, barreling into the kitchen with an empty box while fisting a silky lilac dress.

However, you're not looking at him, instead looking at Lorenza with an exasperated expression. 

“Paulette ha sbagliato taglia!” (She got the size wrong!)

Rafe’s ears perk up at the mention of your mother’s name, brows furrowing as his gaze darts between your expression, the dress, and the way you hand it over to Lorenza who inspects the tag intently. The two of you talk at such a rapid pace that he feels like he’s intruding even though he doesn’t understand a lick of it. All he can gather is that you're upset about the dress, or upset with your mother. Maybe both.

Either way, you're clearly not happy.

Quietly retreating back to the bedroom, he leaves the women in the kitchen as he’s no contribution to the conversation. He sits down, this time on his own bed, leaning up against the wall as he sighs deeply, attempting to rub the growing migraine out of his temples. The effort to look online to see if anything can be delivered to the house for your birthday falls short, and Rafe groans when he comes to the conclusion that it’ll be impossible to get you a gift before tomorrow night. 

One that you deserve, anyway.

He finds himself deep in thought when you enter the bedroom, throwing the dress carelessly on the table in the corner of the room and flopping down onto your bed, sighing. Sitting up from his slouching position, Rafe pinches his brows in concern when he sees you pressing the heels of your palms against your eyes. 

Pushing away the urge to go over and coddle you, he resorts to his default state. 

“You good?” he settles on, his voice forcefully even.

You huff. “She drives me fucking crazy. I can’t take it.”

Rafe connects the dots. “I’m assuming…your mom?”

“She forces me to sit at some pretentious restaurant for two hours going over measurements and alterations for the dress for the wedding,” you suddenly rant, sitting up and turning to him to dial him into the dilemma.

The eye contact has him shifting uncomfortably.

“I tell her three different times what my measurements are, and she even pulls out the damn tape measure at the table and makes me confirm my actual size in front of a hundred people. She writes the numbers down and says she’ll call the tailor to make the alterations, and – lo and behold – the measurements are wrong.”

He’s confused about why you're worked up over a dress, never hearing you be picky about clothes before. “Can you call the tailor and have them–?”

“No,” you interrupt harshly, then recoil at your tone and replace it with something softer, more calculated. “It’s not– this isn’t about the tailor.” 

“Then…what is it about?”

You hesitate and he hates it.

He despises how you don't tell him anything about yourself. He’s been chasing anecdotes ever since you told him about the beach spot, silently wishing you'll talk forever and forever about yourself because you never do.

Rafe feels like he’s blind when it comes to knowing you. Sure, he knows when you're seconds away from coming and what makes you moan and what makes you squirm, but god forbid he tries to know your birthday. Why does it take so much for you to open up to him?

It’s simple. Because you could never trust him. Could never see yourself with a guy like him.

That thought makes Rafe feel weird. “Hey. Answer me.”

You sigh so gutturally it makes Rafe frown at the sound. “She does this." You gesture back to the discarded dress. "She purposefully buys me clothes that are smaller in hopes that I’ll slim down enough to fit into them."

The look on his face, the confusion and hurt, is making you nauseous.

So, you dart your gaze to the bedsheets to aimlessly pull at the seams, because the thought of his eyes staring you down makes you nervous, especially about this topic. "I mean, my junior prom dress was conveniently a size down a week before so she had an excuse to give me an almond diet.��

"What?" he asks quietly, and it sounds so innocent that it makes you reel.

Did you...say that out loud?

You suddenly look surprised that you even said that. Immediately, you shake away any shroud of hope that you'll be continuing that story. “That’s not– that’s not the point. The point is that I should’ve expected this. I should’ve just taken care of the dress myself.”

He sucks in a breath.

The confession breaks Rafe’s heart. 

It feels awfully similar to how little control he has with his father, how he tries and tries to be patient and do everything right but it only backfires and makes things worse. It only gives his father an excuse to cuss Rafe out or embarrass him publicly in front of his peers. He hates how you have had to go through a similar emotional turmoil with your mother, and the whole situation makes his heart feel like lead. 

You take his silence as indifference. 

Before Rafe can say anything, you wave it off nonchalantly.

“Whatever. It doesn’t– it’s fine. I’ll have to go into town tomorrow to look for a replacement. Nonna said there’s a couple of places.” You abruptly stand and grab your toiletry bag, needing to leave the room and his silence to refrain from crashing out. “I can walk you to the same beach tomorrow so you have something to do.”

You move to leave but your words make him panic. 

“Uh, wait.” Rafe sits up with an outstretched arm in your direction, heart thumping when you turn to meet his eyes. “I’ll, uh, come with you tomorrow.”

You quirk a brow in disbelief. “You want to come shopping? Willingly?”

Rafe nods quickly. 

“Really?”

He finds himself rolling his eyes, his plan on distancing himself long out of the window. “I’m not sure I like your prejudicial tone. Who says all guys hate shopping?”

“Every single man I have ever met hates shopping,” you retort, placing a hand on your hip and popping it out with attitude. He nearly grins at the gesture. “You’re really telling me you enjoy it?”

No, he really doesn’t.

But he’s accustomed to it with two younger sisters. The amount of shopping sprees he’s been dragged to is astronomical, and while he usually complained the whole time and verbally wished he was anywhere else, he secretly found the endeavors fun.

At least, it got him out of the house and away from his father for a few guaranteed hours. However, the thought of watching you play dress up excites him, and the perfect opportunity to shower you in birthday gifts falls right into his lap. 

“Yep. I love it,” Rafe settles on saying. 

You roll your eyes. “Try saying it more convincingly next time.”

Before Rafe can retort, you're leaving with a pointed look as if to call him out on his BS. His laugh reverberates through the room, sliding out of his sitting position so that he’s laying on his back, drumming his fingers on his tummy as he suppresses a grin as his thoughts pool with excitement for the upcoming day. 

Rafe figures he needs to make the most of this boyfriend role, since it’ll be the only time he’ll ever get to treat you the way you deserve, all without raising suspicions of his true feelings.

So, it's settled. He’ll shower you with gifts in front of Lorenza to set your relationship in stone, and play the hell out of the part when the wedding rolls around. 

Rafe figures having the privilege of being your boyfriend for a week is better than not having the opportunity at all.

© salem-s please do not copy or replicate work without permission. mdni.

notes reminder that this will be an emotional slow burn even though it might not feel like it. hope you enjoyed!

[rafeprincess]

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

── SYNOPSIS when your image-obsessed mother catches you and Rafe Cameron ─ your friends with benefits ─ in a compromising situation, you must lie and say you're dating. It spirals out of control when your mother invites him to your cousin's upcoming wedding in Italy, and spirals even further when he says yes. ── WARNINGS language, fingering, oral sex (fem receiving). 18+ mdni. ── WORD COUNT 7.5k. need to learn how to reel it in. ── NOTES edited from third person perspective to second, so let me know if there are any mistakes. my italian skills may be slightly inaccurate, translations provided. ── SERIES MASTERLIST ── SONG OF THE CHAPTER julia by sza

Of fucking course Rafe manages to get a first class seat on the flight.

You want to slap that stupid smirk off his face for the umpteenth time when he boards before you, especially when he sends you a farewell wink and over-exaggerated kiss.

Rafe's parting words echo in your head over and over again like a tortuous mantra: “Can’t wait to date you, baby.”

You tap your foot impatiently as you wait for your boarding class to get called, cursing at yourself for your bruising pride when refusing your family’s money when buying the ticket. You absolutely hate using their money, their trust funds, their anything since you barely talk to them, much less feel entitled to their money.

There’s also the thought of wanting as little contact as possible, so the idea of your parents, more so your mother, having some sort of leverage over you makes you a little nauseous. 

Whatever. Basic economy will do. Regardless of the seat, you will get from point A to point B. 

Although that nonchalant philosophy nearly goes out the window as you pass his seat as you board towards the back, Rafe's stupid smirk making your blood boil. The bastard is already strapped in with that stupid night mask settled over his forehead. 

Priiiiiick, you think as you sit in the middle seat between a priest and a middle aged man. 

The flight itself isn’t bad. You don't manage to sleep much due to the overwhelming anxiety of your impulsive decision, and constantly teeter back and forth on the topic of if bringing Rafe along was a mistake. 

The pros are that he’ll help give your mother a topic to brag about to your family and friends since she claims everything else in your life is boring and not meaningful enough to boast about.

Plus, you might even get a little action if you're lucky.

The con is that it’s Rafe Cameron: the notoriously known prick prince of your campus. The guy who gets under your nerves with every opportunity that presents itself, the guy who will fuck anything with a vagina and flirt with a brick wall if it meant getting his dick wet, the guy who can put on a charming facade and woo you to where the horizon meets the sea without feeling a shred of likings towards you. 

No, you need to realize. No real liking.

He likes your pussy and your mouth when it doesn’t speak. He doesn’t do relationships. He doesn’t have girlfriends. He rarely fucks the same person twice, you being an exception due to your arrangement, and even then it’s a stretch.

It gnaws at your heart, knowing the next week is going to play with you mentally and emotionally in two different directions.

Truthfully, the only reason you continue sleeping with him is that you knows for certain he’s never going to want to take that next step with you.

Rafe’s made it perfectly clear it’s purely casual, and you agreed wholeheartedly (at first). Despite the toll it takes, you know better. You know that it’ll never be more than sex because of his track record, because relationships are a dying breed when it comes to the two of you, because the thought of being someone’s first choice makes you sick to your stomach. 

You groan when the plane lands with a jerk, lulling you from a sleep that you just fell into. 

It doesn’t take long for you to meet Rafe as he waits by the gate, looking more refreshed than ever. You conclude you probably look like you've been hit by a truck, the only thing keeping you awake and motivated is that you're seeing your nonna soon. 

Rafe has way too much energy while you stand in customs, talking your ear off about whatever nonsense movies he watched on the way here, relishing on how relaxed and well-rested he feels after all that time. The words go in one ear and out the other, as you can solely focus on standing on your own two feet right now.

God, you've never wanted to hit someone more in your life than you do right now, especially because he has the audacity to look good with his long hair falling over his bright eyes. 

It isn’t until they get in the taxi that you feel somewhat relaxed. 

Sure, it’s the smallest sports car you've ever seen in your life, your thigh and shoulder are smushed against Rafe’s in the backseat. It’s comical how he looks cartoonish the way his long legs are folded and how his head nearly hits the roof of the car, but you don't have the energy to laugh or even tease him on his grumpy facial expression.

“Via di quarantaquattro Giambologna, per favore,” you mumble to the driver as you close your eyes, feeling the car move a few seconds later.

You miss the incredulous look that Rafe gives you when you speak Italian so effortlessly, his dick twitching immediately – to his utter dismay. But he barely has the chance to comment on it before you're shutting your eyes and down for the count.

While you sleep, Rafe pulls his head out of the gutter to admire the Sicilian scenery as you drive through the countryside. It’s beautiful: the vast mountains, colorful houses, acres of farmland. It seems nice. Quiet. Quaint. The coast is to his right, the country on his left. He toggles looking at both, a small smile making its way to his lips without it meaning to. Rafe meant it when he said that he always wanted to visit Italy. 

The driver tries making small talk with him a few times, but Rafe sheepishly nods, not understanding the language in the slightest. He wishes you were awake to translate for him, but decided against waking you up due to how tired you looked after the flight, probably getting no sleep in whatever economy seat you were sitting in.

There’s a slight twinge of guilt in his chest when he thinks of you trying to get comfortable in the small seat, sitting thigh to thigh with strangers, neck straining and tossing and turning in frustration. 

Rafe then curses at himself. He should’ve given his seat to you. Why didn’t he switch?

Shit. He’s already doing horrible as a boyfriend. 

But his worries slowly start to fizzle out when you unconsciously rest your head on his shoulder, drooling ever so slightly onto his t-shirt and nuzzling into his side. 

He can’t help but laugh at the irony of shooting him death glares all day and practically cursing his bloodline with every pointed look you threw at him, but ultimately ending up seeking refuge in him. There’s a small swell of pride in his chest, the notion of you needing him. Even if you don't realize it. 

The opportunity is too good to pass up. Rafe takes a selfie with you, setting the incriminating photo as your contact picture, trying to ignore the stupid grin that etches on his face when he looks at it over and over again.

He tries to snap his mind out of it, taking pictures of the scenery, but his focus always reverts back to you, making sure you're still sleeping when he moves too quickly or if there’s a bump in the road that has him hitting his head on the roof of the car. 

The car slows at a countryside villa with a low stone perimeter fence, just on the edge of a cliff leading to the ocean. Rafe doesn’t have time to stop and admire as he notices the Euro meter displaying the charge of the ride, and he straightens his posture at his first task as a boyfriend: paying for all things under the sun for you. 

He carefully digs his wallet out of his pocket, stacked with Euros that he got in exchange at the airport before you could catch him and interrogate. He pays the driver the set amount, making sure he pockets it before shrugging his shoulder to coax you from your beauty sleep, his palm gently resting on your cheek.

You snap awake, blinking the bleariness out of your eyes as you take in your surroundings: the driver already out of the car and unloading bags from the drunk, your nonna’s cottage in sight.

And Rafe Cameron staring down at you.

“Hi, baby,” he says gently. “Sleep well?”

You hum and nod wordlessly. You stretch and frown at the wet spot on his sleeve. 

Rafe follows your gaze and raises a brow. “You drool when you sleep.”

“I do not,” you grumble, fishing around for your purse, ignoring his stupid grin and stupid laugh and stupid hair that falls right over his eyes. “That was there before we got in the car.”

“Hmm,” he hums unconvincingly. “Must’ve missed that.”

Sleepily, you grab your bag, sticking your hand in to grab your wallet but when you pull it out, Rafe opens the door with one hand and covers yours with the other one and squeezes once, twice, and the motion makes you dizzy all over again. 

“I already got it. Let’s go.”

Your mind spins. “Wh–?”

Rafe tugs on your arm to coax you out of the car, and he sighs in relief being able to stretch his legs. “I paid already.”

“What? Why?”

He shrugs as he watches you get out of the car slowly, like a baby deer trying to find its footing. “Boyfriend tax.”

You roll your eyes and shove him with little to no strength at all to where he doesn’t even budge, ignoring the way your heart lurches at the thought of him casually putting himself in the role he appointed himself to. The driver sets the remainder of the bags on the side of the taxi, and you offer a soft grazie to him before he drives away, kicking up some dirt from the path that has you waving your hand in front of your face. 

Rafe takes a long look at the house, nodding in approval. “This is real nice. Cozy.”

A snort escapes your lips. “What were you expecting? A barnyard?”

You're no stranger to the fact that Rafe comes from money. Heaps of it, even. He’s the type of rich that isn’t voiced, but rather shown through his demeanor, like how he wears a ratty old graphic t-shirt and jeans to class along with his hundred thousand dollar watch, or how he casually replaced your computer after you told him once that the sound stopped working, or how he always seems to smell nice even after he comes home from parties.

Maybe Rafe’s never stayed in a place like this, somewhere cozy, as he describes it, instead of a giant mansion with a yacht waiting in the water. Something tells you that his life before college was far from quaint or homey based on the content expression on his face as he takes in the scenery around him.  

“An old building, I guess.” Rafe looks down at you. “Like in The Godfather when Michael flees to Sicily.”

And there it is. You roll your eyes. Of course he’d find a way to bring that movie up. 

“You’re never beating the performative film-bro allegations, Cameron.”

You grab your bags and start hauling them towards the house, ignoring his spluttering attempts to defend himself. He follows suit, wishing he could take the bags from you and carry his own at the same time. 

As you trek on the cobblestone path, Rafe takes in his surroundings: the quaint cottage with a fenced in garden, two metal garden chairs planted next to a matching circle table, a tabby-cat lazily perched on the stone fence, a shallow rectangular pool that can’t be longer than fifteen feet filled with natural leaves and stones.

He sighs. He could die here peacefully in a place like this, somewhere remote yet warm and inviting. 

A dog barking breaks him from his thoughts as a shetland-sheepdog barrels out of the house and runs up to you and greets you like an old friend. You crouch down and swallow up the attention, scratching the shaggy brown fur. 

“Ticino!” you coo. “Che bellino!”

The dog, Ticino, eventually makes his way to Rafe, sniffing him cautiously and inspecting the stranger. Once he decides that Rafe isn’t a threat, he allows Rafe to pet him all over. His hands run over the smooth coat, scratching his back, head, ears, and eventually belly when Ticino collapses on his side, throwing a leg in the air as Rafe rubs his tummy with utter enthusiasm. 

He nearly sighs in relief at the set-up, as he’s always wanted a dog or generally any animal ever since he was a kid. His father never allowed amenities such as pets, claiming they tainted their family home’s appearance, and would ultimately end up with him paying the staff more to clean up after it (despite Rafe’s constant promises that he’d take care of it).

Rafe figures he can settle, only if it means having one for a few days.

“Ah, lui ha incontrato il tuo ragazzo, sí?” (He met your boyfriend, yeah?)

The unfamilar voice causes Rafe to pick his head up, meeting the gaze of your nonna standing in the dark blue doorway, a crayon-sun yellow apron loosely tied around her waist as a pair of reading glasses flatten the unruly grey curls on top of her head. Her arms are folded, studying the scene in front of her.

The only factor that reassures Rafe’s nerves is the tiny smile seeping onto her lips, more so as she looks at you approaching her. 

“Penso che Ticino avrà un nuovo amico,” you sheepishly respond, giving your nonna a warm hug, an embrace that feels genuine. (I think Ticino will have a new friend)

Something in Rafe’s chest tightens, a phantom ache in his heart.

He doesn’t remember the last time he hugged someone in his family like that – or anyone, for that matter – as the Camerons aren’t big on public displays of affection (at least towards Rafe, that is). He watches from the outside peering in.

Despite the unfamiliar feeling bubbling in his stomach, Rafe swallows the lump in his throat and manages to stand and offer a friendly smile. Ticino gets back up on his feet and looks up to Rafe, anticipating more pets. 

The older woman releases from the much needed hug and you step aside as Rafe approaches the door cautiously. 

“Uh, nonna, questo è Rafe.” You turn to Rafe. “Rafe, this is my nonna, Lorenza.”

Rafe offers the same polite handshake extension he offered Paulette back in the tiny dorm room. But your nonna takes one look at his hand, rolling her eyes in you-like bravado and pulls him in for a hug, one with the same ferocity as she had for her faux grandchild.

He chuckles nervously at the tight – but seemingly genuine – squeeze, reciprocating the quick hug with a wink towards you, who watches the whole thing with an uneasy smile as if your nonna is going to see through the whole facade. 

Then Lorenza releases him, hands gripping his biceps as she inspects him head to toe. “Lui è troppo magro. Ha bisgno mangiare,” she mutters, flickering her gaze to you as you snort unattractively at the words. 

“Basta.”

You wave her off as Rafe chuckles nervously again, fully aware you're talking about him in a language he doesn’t understand. 

He suddenly feels stupid. Like, really stupid. 

Because he should’ve studied some common phrases or words that wouldn’t make him feel like such an idiot. Rafe didn’t factor in the whole wait, your grandmother-like-figure doesn’t speak English situation when thinking about the itinerary of the trip.

After all, the wedding is the main event of the mini vacation. This is just the calm before the storm, the prelude.

Rafe nearly slaps himself at the idiocy of his lack of planning, worried that his inadequate knowledge will score him less points with the grandmother, the person whose opinion matters most to you.

Oh, god. He’s already fucking up. 

Lorenza steps inside the house, beckoning you to follow. “Vieni. Ho fatto un'insalata." (Come. I made a salad)

She disappears in the house and Ticino follows her, leaving the two of you in the warm breeze as you grab your bag, a small smile creeping up on your lips as Rafe is sure his is dripping in anxiety. 

“Uh, what did she…what did she say about me?”

You stand in the doorway, looking him up and down. He isn't sure if you purposefully wait a few moments to respond to prolong his nerves. Given the shit-eating smirk on your face, he assumes this is your own sweet little way of messing with him.

“She said you’re too skinny. You realize she’s gonna try and fatten you up before we leave, right?”

Phew. He can work with that. 

Even though he has no idea what she’s saying without your translation, Rafe decides he really likes Lorenza. Obsessed, even.

Obsessed in the way he wants a miniature version of her to keep in his pocket as constant amusement in this grim world. She’s bright, witty, and effortlessly way cooler than what he expects. Her all-yellow kitchen is her safe space, and he laughs out loud when she tells him – or rather when she tells you who proceeds to tell him – that she loves her kitchen, only partially for the cooking, but mainly for the cleaning and maintenance of it all.

Something about the domesticity of it makes his chest warm, especially with the way you're chuckling along with him.

It’s nice to see you unguarded, and Rafe can’t help but shoot teasing glances every time you show an ounce of niceness towards him. 

You weren't wrong about Lorenza making him do all sorts of chores around the house. He’s already lifted heavy pots and moved them to different cabinets, reached a spot on the top shelf that she couldn’t quite get with her paintbrush, rearranged some furniture and plucked two tomatoes from her garden outside (and he doesn’t even complain about the worm he saw slithering in the dirt).

His chest pathetically swarms with pride when he completes another task for Lorenza, happy to be of service, and also privy to the way you watch him and translate his next assignment. 

By the time he feels like he can sit down, the sun is already setting. 

You help Lorenza with the cooking, jabbing at him in both English and Italian that he should be nowhere near a kitchen setting after he nearly set their friends’ house on fire (neglectfully forgetting to add water to instant noodles), as he sits at the kitchen table and watches you. 

There’s a moment where you struggle to open a jar and Rafe instantly shoots up from his seat, placing his hand on the small of your back as if to coax you into giving it to him.

The touch lingered longer than he meant it to, opening the jar with ease and handing it back to you with a focused furrowed brow. You nearly teased him with how quickly he jumped out of his seat, but your words died in your throat when your nonna shoots you a knowing smile, a genuine one. 

That shut you right up. 

Rafe shamefully watches you, how you chop the fruit, pound down the chicken, speak so eloquently that he tries to listen to every syllable. You maneuver around the kitchen with ease, you and Lorenza talking a mile a minute as Ticino sits right next to his chair, laying his head in Rafe’s lap as Rafe strokes his forehead absentmindedly.

He doesn’t even break his stare when the cat, Po, jumps on his lap too, sitting upright as if to claim his stake with the new guest. The aroma of dinner has his stomach rumbling and by the way it’s looking, it’s ready soon.

Rafe helps set the table and tries to make it look pretty the only way he knows how, trying to recall how the chefs at his house make the dinner table look presentable. He does nowhere near the same level of pretty, but Lorenza thanks him gratefully nonetheless. She swats his hand away as he tries to get up and serve himself, but she points at the chair, insisting he sits down, as she fills his plate up with the primo piatti, pasta with homemade pesto sauce.

You sit to his left, filling up the wine glasses with a light white as he fights the urge to push a stray piece of hair behind your ear. 

Once Lorenza sits down, she sighs in mock exhaustion and grins. “Buon appetito, ragazzi.” She begins to dive in and so do you, so he takes that as the hint to start eating.

Sitting here at the small wooden table with barked laughter and a warm feeling in his chest, Rafe tries to remember the last time he sat down with his family and had dinner that didn’t result in a screaming match.

He keeps tensing, waiting for something to happen. But it never comes.

Despite there only being three people, it’s the most lively and comfortable he’s ever felt at a meal. It doesn’t even feel like an interrogation when Lorenza spews question after question, to which you translate, and Rafe answers and asks his own questions, and so on. 

She asks about his life: what he’s studying, where he’s from, what movies he likes (Lorenza’s a big film lover like him which warranted a giant tangent that he almost feels bad for, making you roll your eyes), and eventually starts asking about your relationship, or at least that what he assumes she asks about given sharp hitch of your breath and your nonna's darting gaze between the two of you.

Rafe doesn’t understand, but the way you shift in your seat and brush off the question with a light chuckle all but confirms his suspicions. Lorenza side-eyes you, dropping the topic. 

You know you'll have to tell your nonna about your relationship at one point or another, but you figure you'll brush it off for now in order to get the story straight for later. 

After two giant plates of pasta, three pieces of chicken, and a salad, Rafe is spent. He hasn’t been this graciously fed in what feels like forever, yearning to lay down for a little while to catch his breath.

He politely tries to help Lorenza clean, but again she waves him off and he’s selfishly a little grateful for that. She also waves you off, gesturing to your unpacked bags loitering in the doorway and nodding towards the bedrooms at the end of the hall. 

Before you walk away, Rafe gently grabs your forearm.

“Um, how do I say thank you?” he sheepishly asks. “You know, for dinner.”

Your lips curl into a pretty smile, a genuine one. It’s quickly replaced with a teasing one and he hates how the tips of his ears turn pink. “What? Didn’t take your Duolingo lessons?”

Rafe bites his lip, looking away from you bashfully. “Shut up. What is it?”

Recognizing the soft gaze in his eyes, your heart skips a beat.

How dare he look so pretty right now?

Then, you tell him. “Grazie per il cibo.”

“Grazie per il cibo,” he repeats slowly, feeling a bit stupid at his over-Americanized pronunciation but turning around to face Lorenza nonetheless. He clears his throat, causing her to pause her dish-washing. “Uh, grazie per il cibo.”

Lorenza beams. “Bravo, Rafe. Adesso, vai, vai,” she waves them out of the kitchen.

You grab his forearm. “C’mon. I’ll show you the room.”

You two exit the kitchen and grab your bags, waiting until Lorenza’s out of earshot even though she won’t understand anyway, ducking low to ghost over the shell of your ear.

“One bed, I hope.”

He’s met with a swift backhand slap against his chest but it only riles him up further, the thought of sharing a bed with you makes him nearly jump in excitement, the cherry on top of the whole trip. 

You two enter the room and you flick on the lights, stifling a chuckle as you turn around to gauge Rafe’s reaction, whose cheeky smirk falls into confusion. 

Two twin beds. 

On opposite sides of the room. 

You full on belly laugh at the stupid pout on his face, moving your bags into the room and claiming the bed on the left side as he remains unmoved from his spot in the doorway. His gaze alternates between the two beds, dumbfounded at the ridiculous amount of space between you.

He grumbles something incoherent as he trudges over to the other twin bed that is so small it’ll probably have his ankles poking over the edge when he sleeps. 

“This is worse than separate rooms,” Rafe practically whines.

You roll your eyes, lounging on the twin. “You’re such a baby. Not everyone has the luxury of a king mattress with Egyptian cotton.”

Rafe frowns, his grumpy facade simmering into confusion and slight irritation.

Is that what you think he’s bitching and moaning about? 

He pushes the thought down.

“Baby, I don’t care if I sleep on the floor or strung upside down like a bat. I hate that there’s this,” he gestures between the two beds, “much space between us. How am I supposed to be able to sleep knowing you’re right there?”

“Uh, I don’t know, maybe start by having an ounce of self control for your fake girlfriend?”

He rolls his eyes. “Now is not the time for jokes. I’m in mourning.”

You sit up, faux concern. “Of what? My vagina?”

Rafe shakes his head with a scoff of disbelief as you bark out a laugh. He hates the way he almost stomps his foot like a toddler. 

“Whatever,” he mumbles, running a hand through his hair. “I’m gonna shower. Do I have to do that separately, too?”

“Yes, you do.” You stand, crossing the room to end up right in front of him. The centimeters between your bodies is palpable, and these rare moments where he's undoubtedly flustered only fuels your playfulness. “Sometimes, boyfriends need to suck it up.”

Oh, he hates the way the tips of his ears turn pink.

That word, the b-word, sends a foreign chill down his spine as he squirms away from you, grabbing the pajamas at the top of his bag and moving towards the door.

It’s okay when he uses the word, but when you use it… 

Rafe pauses in the doorway, looking back to see the smug look on your face that has him automatically rolling his eyes, irritation blooming. He grumbles something incoherent and heads off to the bathroom, ignoring the way your laughter echoes in the hallway and can even be heard after he shuts the door.

When he exits the much needed shower, you aren't in the bedroom. 

Rafe dries his hair messily with the towel as he throws it on his bed, leaving the bedroom in his thin pajama pants and a plain white t-shirt to search around the cottage. He enters the living room and sees no one, then peeks into the kitchen and sees no one. But he pauses, hearing muffled laughter beyond the kitchen.

Moving quietly, he gently pats Po's head, who sits on the kitchen table as he looks towards the yard. Rafe follows the cat’s gaze, settling on you and Lorenza sitting at the garden table, each nursing a half-smoked cigarette. The moonlight behind you casts a pearly hue on the ocean as your faces are lit up by the dim kitchen light.

You laugh at something Lorenza says, and he swallows the bile of emotion in his throat at the sound. 

He almost leaves to go back into the bedroom, to give you some time to catch up, but there’s nothing subtle about his six foot something stature as Lorenza notices him standing in the kitchen and waves him over with an exaggerated hand, cigarette ash spewing on the cobblestone.

You follow your nonna’s gaze and settle on him, fresh out of the shower in a white tee that snugs his biceps a little too well. 

Jesus. You physically have to look away as Rafe approaches. But as he gets closer, you frown when Lorenza stands, ashing her cigarette in the tray as the light slowly dies.

“Vado a letto,” Lorenza announces, flicking her gaze between the two of you with a knowing smirk. You open your mouth to protest but your nonna gestures for Rafe to sit down and take her seat. “Ecco. Buona notte, ragazzi.” (I’m going to bed. | Here, goodnight guys.)

You watch your nonna saunter into the house, Ticino following close on her tail as Po joins them as they all head to the master bedroom. 

There’s a calm quiet between you as Rafe plucks the cigarette out between your fingers and brings it to his lips for a long drag.

You find the strength to face him, and much to your dismay he’s already looking at you as he blows the smoke out, gaze intently focused on you with a sort of…

Softness? 

Suddenly, you squirm, the whole situation feeling weirdly intimate as you hastily grab the cigarette back from him. 

“Leech,” you mutter, taking a drag. 

Rafe snorts, putting his elbows on the table and leaning closer to you. “So? What’s Lorenza’s verdict?”

“Hmm?”

“Does she approve?” he teases, but there’s a small part of him that’s bleeding anxiety at the thought of not being liked. Rafe tries not to let it show and if you can see right through his facade, he can’t tell. “Do I need to pick the couch up with one arm to prove it?”

You take a long, painful drag, each second feeling like steel in his chest. “She didn’t say she doesn’t like you.”

“That’s a horrible way to phrase it. This is detrimentally important.”

“Jesus, relax.” Another drag. Rafe steals the cigarette from you, and you let him. “What’s the big deal?”

“Baby, I’m supposed to be your loving, doting boyfriend. I’m losing my mind here.”

You roll your eyes at the pet name. “She likes you, alright?” God, you want to smack the giant grin that spreads across his face. “Stop grinning.”

“I’m not grinning,” Rafe mumbles, still grinning. 

You hum low in your throat, forcing yourself to look away from his piercing blue eyes and charming smile that creates a fuzzy feeling in your chest.

Instead, you settle your gaze on the horizon, looking to where the moonlight meets the sea and honing your focus to try and hear the distant waves crashing.

Taking another long drag, you ignore the feeling of his intense stare burning in your peripheral.

“I told nonna that we’re going to the beach tomorrow,” you say after a few minutes of silence. “Supposed to be nice and sunny.”

“Oh? Didn’t think to ask me?”

“I want to lay in the sun. You’re free to stay here and do laundry with nonna, though.”

Rafe snorts. “On second thought, the beach sounds great.”

One of his arms dips under the table to absentmindedly run the pad of this thumb over your kneecap. You nearly jolt from the contact.

Despite it, you hums to appear indifferent, offering him the roach of the cigarette that no one wants. He rolls his eyes but takes it anyway.

“It’s only a twenty minute walk. Figured we could go in the morning, bring some lunch, then come back in the afternoon. What do you think?” 

Finally gathering the courage, you turn your head to look at him, a soft expression on his face as if he’s soaking in the moment before you find something to jab about to him. His hand still rests on your knee and you have every urge to nudge it off, because you don't like how you have the urge to brush his damp locks away from his pretty eyes. 

No, you reel. Not pretty. Just normal eyes. Nothing more. 

“Sounds good, pretty.” His voice is saccharine. 

You tear your gaze away from his face to his hands, watching Rafe put out the cigarette in the ash tray with a lingering smile that has undertones of honey.

Suddenly, despite the fresh air, you're suffocating.

Nope.

This is too intimate right now. It’s all too much: his eyes, his voice, his hand still seeking refuge on your knee. 

Standing abruptly, his hand leaves your body as he looks up at you in adorned confusion. You really don't like this mushy-gushy voodoo in the air right now, because his gaze is far from teasing, from his normal playful, and instead emulating that of candor.

This whole thing is pretend, fake, faux for show. The person that you're putting the show on for isn’t even here, so there’s no reason to milk the part. All you both do is fuck and argue. Why aren’t you doing either? Why are you pretending to act like you can do anything outside of that?

“I’m gonna shower,” you say almost awkwardly, the sudden movement startling both of you. “Just, uh, lock the door behind you.”

“Wh–?”

You spin on your heel and leave him sitting at the table before he can retort, entering the kitchen and refusing to look back. 

You purposefully take an elongated shower, trying to rub off the grime from the plane and airport and the sweat from milling about in the AC-less cottage.

Additionally, you try to shake the foreign feeling in your chest, trying to decide if it’s from the jet lag or from a certain dirty blond playing his part a little too well. 

Before you know it, you're contemplating the latter so intensely that you don't know how long you've been standing under the water for.

And of course when you turn the water off you realize you didn’t bring any pajamas into the bathroom, just a measly towel that barely covers your ass.

You just pray that Rafe immediately fell asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow, or better yet, he’s still outside scratching his head about you leaving so abruptly. 

Poking your head into the hallway, you notice all the lights are all off and you nearly groan.

So, he’s definitely in the bedroom and definitely awake due to the lamp light radiating underneath the door. 

It’s fine. Totally fine.

Rafe’s seen you naked more times than you can count. It’s no big deal.

You open the bedroom door quietly, taking in the surroundings cautiously. Rafe lays on his back on the twin bed, ankles propped off the edge. One arm rests under his head as the other holds his phone against his shirtless tummy, lazily scrolling through social media without giving you as much as a courtesy glance.

Normally, you'd laugh at his large frame on the small bed, but that’ll bring attention to yourself.

Maybe later, you note. When I have clothes on.

You slip in the room and nearly sigh in relief when he doesn’t bother looking your way. He’s probably salty at your premature departure, because you know if Rafe hates one thing, it’s not getting what he wants. He’s a primadonna when it comes to holding grudges, and normally it drives you up the wall but now it’s a blessing in disguise. Maybe he won’t even look up at all. 

But the worst comes into fruition when you slightly lean over to unzip your suitcase on the bed, fingers brushing your pajamas when you hears a harsh breath hitch.

“Jesus, baby,” Rafe groans.

Fuck.

You spin around as if you were caught stealing, clutching your flimsy pajamas with one hand and desperately trying to keep the towel up with the other.

You take in the sight in front of you: Rafe’s arm is draped over his eyes as he sighs so gutturally deep that he almost sounds irritated, as if it's your fault he decides to look up your towel. His phone is long forgotten, thrown about somewhere on the bed as he pinches his eyes shut. 

Rafe takes his arm off his eyes and looks at you sinfully, scanning the water droplets on your chest and bare legs. He lazily lets his arm hang off the bed as he mentally undresses you with no shame at all.

You shift your weight between feet, feeling hot under his gaze. 

He likes to do this: watch and prolong the inevitable and get you all hot and bothered and ready for him. It's shameful how well he knows your body, how it reacts to him. He's calculating, precise, and uses his ever-growing knowledge to his advantage. Every. Damn. Time.

It feels like muscle memory when he silently nods towards his bed and your feet instantly pad over the tile towards his side, throwing your pajamas on the floor absentmindedly.

Rafe wastes no time bringing his arm to trickle up your thigh, skirting under the towel and catching a glimpse of your heat. He groans, pulling you onto him by the back of your thigh as you fall onto him, moving to straddle him.

Your hands flatten on his broad chest to stop yourself from collapsing fully onto him, as he wastes no time fisting the towel and ripping it off your body, letting it hit the floor with a damp thud.

Shamelessly, Rafe’s gaze travels to your bare chest, tummy, waist, lower and lower until he sighs gutturally again when you moves your hips against his to tease. 

His eyes roll back as his hands grip the curve of your ass, guiding your movements over his thin boxers. Rafe huffs as he moves to sit up, your chests bumping as he pulls you into a bruising kiss as one hand tangles in your hair.

“Fuckin’ tease,” he mumbles against your lips. In retaliation, you push your hips down further and his grip on your hair tightens. “Barely covering anything.”

“You’re the one who can’t control himself,” you retort, biting back a whine when he rubs over your clit. 

Oh, but he notices and hums in baritone. “Never can around you, baby. You drive me fucking crazy.”

Rafe can’t take this position anymore because he knows at this pace he might — no, will — get embarrassingly closer to release.

Pathetic, he thinks to himself as he pulls away and slides you off his lap, pinning you down as gracefully as a twin bed will allow and slotting himself between your legs. He ducks down and harshly sucks on that oh-so-sweet spot under your jaw, eliciting a saccharine sigh from you. At the same time, his broad hand skims over your tummy as he presses the heel of his hand against your clit. 

You moan, then slaps a hand over your mouth as Rafe chuckles huskily against your burning skin. God, you hate the way that the noise only edges you on further, the vibration against your throat sending a warm feeling to your core. Your other hand finds the nape of his neck, pulling at his hair harshly when you feel a finger enter you effortlessly. 

Rafe hums low. “So tight for me, baby. Feel so fucking nice.”

The sudden realization of where you are, what you're doing, and everything in between hits you with a ragged breath. 

“Shit,” you whisper breathlessly, mind reeling. “Rafe, we can’t.”

“Can’t?”

“Shouldn’t,” you retort, biting back another moan as he enters another finger, thumb pressed firmly on your clit. 

Rafe feels the way you're squirming as he peppers wet kisses down your torso, roughly sucking your breast in the way he knows you like.

The strangled moan you let out goes straight to his dick, painfully straining his boxers. He licks a greedy stripe over your bud, then moves to the other nipple, giving an equal amount of attention as he practically bruises the swell with how hard he’s sucking. A pang of possession fires in his chest, hoping his marks will litter your soft skin with the bikini you'll wear tomorrow.

You whine when his fingers leave your cunt, bringing his hand up to you mouth. You know the drill, taking his fingers in his mouth and sucking sultry. Meeting his gaze, his pupils are blown dark in arousal as he watches you with pouty parted lips. 

“Good girl,” he murmurs low before retracting his hand, moving lower and lower over your body before his lips ghost over the softness of your inner thighs. 

Rafe’s eyes nearly roll back at your glistening cunt ready for him as he places chaste kisses closer and closer to your heat.

Then, he scoffs, “Separate beds,” to himself before connecting with your sweet pussy, lapping up and plunging his tongue deep into his favorite meal. 

Your back arches, biting down on your knuckle to refrain from letting a shameless moan out, fingers tangled in Rafe’s hair and wiggling your hips to chase your high. But his forearm comes up and pins you down, rending you unable to buck up and ride his face. Which is torture, essentially, because his nose keeps hitting your clit and his tongue flattens and licks and sucks.

If there's one thing you've learned about Rafe through your time sleeping with him, is that he has no problem wasting away an afternoon between your thighs.

You've never understood it completely, but you never complained about it.

Why would you?

Despite how selfish he may look on the outside, it detrimentally contradicts how he really is in bed. There'd be times where you'd get a text in the middle of a lecture from him, simply the female head emoji with a question mark, and that'd be enough for you to understood what he wanted from you.

One afternoon, Rafe went down on you for hours. Literal hours. You remember seeing the sun, then seeing it set, and suddenly it was night. The only excuse he offered was that he had a bad day, and needed a distraction. Apparently, whereas other people used drugs or alcohol, he found solace between your thighs.

God, he’s your favorite eater by far. 

Especially now, even though it's embarrassingly frustrating to settle at the pace he's picked: unhurried. It's almost possessive the amount of time Rafe's spent going down on you, ruining every other experience you've ever had with another guy (not that you'd ever tell him that).

It always turns your mind to mush. You consider the cause: his mouth, and the effect: dumbification.

Rafe adds two fingers, looking up for a moment to see your head thrown back as you bite back moans, teeth pressing hard on your knuckle, and, fuck, if that doesn’t drive him insane. He pathetically ruts his hips against the bed in rhythm with his movements, feeling pent up from all the traveling and stolen glances and batted eyelashes he's been enduring all day.

His hot mouth is everywhere it needs to be. When he found your clit the first time you'd slept together, Rafe never missed it again. In fact, he could pin point it every time after that first try. A part of you would be flattered at how well he's mapped your body out by now, but most of the time it simply drives you crazy.

Like now.

You writhe particularly harshly and it makes Rafe groan into your cunt, knowing you're close by understanding your body language: shallow breaths, furrowed brows, incessant bucking of your hips that he has to physically flatten against the mattress. 

He prides himself on being able to tell.

“Rafe,” you moan breathlessly.

He’s never heard a prettier sound: his name falling from your lips.

“I know baby,” he mumbles against you. (He is too.) “Come for me.”

The vibration of his voice, his fingers, the scandalous situation in general has you reeling over the edge towards your high, biting down so harshly on your hand as you come embarrassingly fast.

And Rafe’s right there lapping it all up, groaning into your cunt as he, too, releases in his boxers. You ride and wriggle against his face as he no longer tries to hold you down, the heel of your foot meeting his spine as you pull him closer subconsciously. 

After a moment, your pants start to settle as you catch your breath, letting out a small whine of overstimulation when he continues lapping up every last drop lazily. And he takes his damn time, too, making sure nothing is wasted. Unashamed, one of his favorite places is between your thighs, so excuse him for wanting to prolong the moment.

Anything to get a rise out of you.

His warm breath fans on your core as Rafe places one last kiss against your cunt, adjusting out of his uncomfortable position on the twin bed and climbing up your body, nearly collapsing on top of you with little space you have. 

Your hand stays locked in his hair, smoothing down the parts you gripped harshly earlier, partly out of guilt but also out of endearment. His face nuzzles in the crook of your neck as he sighs in contentment, getting comfortable for the night as his brain slowly starts shutting off, feeling content and pleased and everything synonymous to that.

Despite your exhaustion, a small bubble of excitement rumbles in your tummy, eager to reciprocate. You move to get him off but he throws an arm and leg over your body, caging you in.

“No.”

You frown. “What about you?”

Rafe just hums tiredly against your jaw, shutting his eyes and holding you down to further render you immobile.

You try to wiggle out of his trap. “Rafe.”

“‘m fine,” he murmurs. 

The realization hits you. A teasing grin rises to your lips. 

“You–”

“Go to sleep.”

You bite your lip. “Awe, baby. I’m flattered.”

“Sweet girl,” he drones out in warning. 

“Want me to clean you up?”

“Shut up.”

You bring your fingers to his abs, tickling him. He doesn’t budge, and instead huffs in irritation. Regardless, you open your mouth to dig further, but he senses it and nudges you with his nose.

“Go to sleep,” he repeats.

With a quiet laugh, you relax against the pillow. You sigh with a subtle chuckle embedded into it, but the moment of solace comes and goes when you realize how incredibly naked you are.

Yikes. You picture your nonna walking into this scene right now with a gasp, and probably followed by an hour long interrogation and a lecture on the importance of safe sex, which is a conversation you're not ever ready to have with someone you consider family. 

The thought of it makes you shudder uncomfortably.

Attempting to move from underneath his hold again, Rafe refuses to let you get up and murmurs something incoherent. The sound is so fucking precious that you nearly stay, but the disaster of your mother walking in on you two settles fresh in your mind.

“I need to put my pajamas on,” you whisper to him, almost cooing. 

Rafe huffs and shakes his head like a toddler. 

“Dude, my nonna could walk in.”

“Let her.”

“No.”

“Stop talking. I’m trying to sleep.”

You try again to no avail. “They’re right there on the floor. You can reach them with your long ass arms.”

He hums. “I’m asleep.”

“Stop being a baby.”

“Sleeping.”

You groan. It’s like talking to a brick wall, sometimes. 

You eventually succeed in slithering out from underneath him, the boy falling asleep almost immediately when you started scratching his back gently.

As much as he loves to flaunt his tough boy act, he sure folds quickly when it comes to cuddling, or scratching, or massaging, and you usually like to use it to your advantage to get what you want. He melts in your touch, and usually with a low mmrrph, he’s down for the count. 

You quietly get out of bed, nearly bursting out laughing when you see his one foot hanging off the bed, the other hiked up across the sheets, snoozing contentedly. The urge to push the hair out of his eyes comes into fruition, and you do it light enough to be sure not to wake him.

A soft smile unintentionally comes when you study his figure. He looks younger when he sleeps, a stroke of innocence coating his features in a way you never see. A mild wave of disgust rises in your throat at the mushy-gushy thoughts, but you can’t help but swoon at his small furrowed brow and parted lips and how his chest heaves in and out deeply. 

It’s uncommon to see him at peace, because Rafe is usually bitching and moaning about something, or being obnoxiously arrogant, or sulking in his own brooding. 

You let out a breath you're unaware you're holding, snapping yourself out of the moment and picking up your pajamas off the floor and slipping them on. God forbid he woke up and saw you staring down at him like a righteous freak.

He'd never let you hear the end of it.

Tiptoeing back to his side, you frown as you notice he's completely taken up the bed, arrogantly spreading all over the twin mattress in Rafe Cameron fashion.

You wonder if he still thinks you're there, even in his sleep. Or maybe the added room is a relief, even to his unconscious self.

You shake the thought away. Girl, stand up.

The final decision is that there's definitely no room for you anymore, that you probably won’t be able to slip back in without waking him up. Or worse, not waking him up and being left to adjust and awkwardly settle back into your original position.

So you settle on your own cold bed with a pout, turning off the lamp and settling into the cold sheets.

Despite the loneliness, sleep finds you almost immediately.

© salem-s please do not copy or replicate work without permission. mdni.

note bit of a filler, just fyi lorenza isn't blood related (more of a family friend). also, a few people have asked me about a taglist and i actually have no idea how to do any of that??? if anyone could enlighten me that would be greatly appreciated!

[rafeprincess]

hey if you don’t like a fanfic, you do not need to read it and you especially do not need to comment mean things. all you achieve is ruining a writer’s day. people write fanfic for fun and for free and if you don’t like something, just click off instead of making a stranger who’s just trying to be creative feel shitty, thanks!!

[rafeprincess]

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

── SYNOPSIS when your image-obsessed mother catches you and Rafe Cameron ─ your friends with benefits ─ in a compromising situation, you must lie and say you're dating. It spirals out of control when your mother invites him to your cousin's upcoming wedding in Italy, and spirals even further when he says yes. ── WARNINGS suggestive themes, nudity, swearing, graphic imagery. ── WORD COUNT 5.9k. Yikes. ── NOTES edited from third person perspective to second, so let me know if there are any mistakes. ── SERIES MASTERLIST ── SONG OF THE CHAPTER forget it by blood orange

“I’m gonna hop in the shower, so here.” 

You gather each item of clothing he sporadically scattered across the room earlier, bunching it in your arms and hissing as his belt loop harshly knocks against your elbow. You plop the pile on his belly as Rafe lounges lazily, one arm resting under his head and the other skimming over his bare torso.

The act neglects to faze him as he simply watches you, the thin grey sheets bunch up dangerously low around his hips as the clothes sit – with no intention of going back on his body anytime soon – idly in his lap. 

If anything, his eyes do all the talking: come back to bed. Now.

Pushing the wordless message to the back of your mind, you notice that he makes no effort to move, instead his eyes scanning up and down your nude body. 

You scoff at his sloth. “No, by all means, take your time.”

He hums teasingly at the attempt to act tough. “You don’t want me to join you, baby?”

Rafe’s nimble fingers reach out to grab you by the waist, his sweet talk stirring something scandalous in your tummy. But you swerve his touch, knowing you'll undoubtedly give in if he gets his hands on you, and you have too much to do today to even contemplate going back to bed with him right now. 

“Nuh-uh, Cameron,” you warn seriously, waving a finger at him, trying not to grin at his ridiculous pout. He looks too comfortable on your bed, like he was made to lay there. “I need to have an everything shower.”

“And I should care because..?”

You roll your eyes, as if it’s obvious. “My everything shower time is me time. It’s forty five minutes of work. I’m sweating. I’m cleaning. I’m shaving. You don’t need to see all of that. I don’t want you to see all of that,” you say sternly.

Instead of seceding, Rafe scoffs in utter disbelief. It’s almost mean.

He sits up in bed, clothes bunching on his lap.

“So, let me get this straight. You’ll let me see your gaping asshole, but you won’t let me see you shave?”

You and Rafe have this mutual agreement where you sleep together when it’s convenient, or when someone’s bored, or after a night of drinking and smoking and one wants to lay around and have a little fun. It’s simple, no strings attached or added complications, because neither you nor Rafe have the emotional or physical capacities to even consider being in a romantic relationship in this day and age.

At least that’s what you repeat in your head over and over again, reiterating the mantra more than you do your own class notes.

But that's besides the point. 

Towards the end of freshmen year, your separate friend groups collided after a risky run in with campus police. The experience undoubtedly brought you all closer to the point where, by the end of the year, everyone was already planning shenanigans to get up to at the start of sophomore year, and it just snowballed from there. 

Your friendship with Rafe, however, started rocky. The two of you liked to quip and jab at each other – often at the expense of the other. It was more teasing on Rafe’s side and defense on yours, because a favorite past time of yours is putting cocky men in their place when they try to act up around you. And if Rafe is good at one thing, it’s being overly confident in every situation he manages to squeeze himself into. 

Months of tennis-match-bickering back and forth led to one night where Rafe accidentally found you walking back to your dorm in a state of hysteria after you got love-bombed by your three-peat situationship – a nice boy named Jeremy who simply wanted to take the next step – muttering to yourself incredulously. After making sure you literally weren't in a state of psychosis, Rafe had shrugged off his jean jacket (which wasn't very warm) to give to you and walked with you.

You had lamented on why people couldn’t just take casual sex literally, how it’s impossible to find someone who understands the meaning of casual. In his oh-so-well-mannered nature, Rafe was eager to agree on this case and point, how relationships never work in college anyway, that it’s impossible to have fun these days without the other person ruining it by expecting more.

One thing led to another and you both created the agreement: casual sex. Friends who constantly bicker who also happen to have sex. Two people who hook up when it’s convenient with no emotional repercussions whatsoever. The idea seemed much easier since you and him are neighbors in the dorm, his room being ten feet to the right where you share a concrete wall. 

While it solves the walk of shame problem, it augments the issue of when Rafe brings other partners over and the noise gets a little extreme. You often wonder if he can hear whenever you bring someone else, and a small part of you hopes so, because the girls he brings home are genuinely so fucking annoying. 

(Because it doesn’t really help when Rafe’s the best lay of your sexual career. Not that you'll ever have the gall to admit that to him.)

You bark out an unattractive laugh at his crudeness, and ignore the flip of your heartbeat when Rafe grins cockily at the noise. Taking a towel out from the drawer, you wrap it around your body and spin around to face him, still unmoving with no sense of urgency or implication that he’s leaving anytime soon. 

“You’re loitering. Go back to your room.”

Rafe tilts his head to the side, almost inviting the confrontation. “You know I can eventually fuck a yes out of you, right?”

Duh, you think. You're well aware of the effect his body has on yours even if your mind keeps telling you no, it’s nothing more than sex and it never will be.

However, he takes your silence as contemplation, a lazy smirk etching his lips.

“Sweet girl,” Rafe drones out, his saccharine tone taking a slight warning as if to say make up your mind. 

But no, you're not falling for that stupidly endearing pet name that regretfully makes your mind turn to mush. “Nice try. Get dressed.”

“Can you help me? I forgot how.”

You roll your eyes, opening your mouth to respond but three harsh knocks at the door interrupt your thoughts. And thank god, because you aren't sure how to respond to his incessant flirting without eventually giving in, since his relentless attempts at a round two, three, four are usually successful.

Despite the interruption, you stand confused, eyes darting to the mini clock on the nightstand showing the time.

“Fuck’s sake. Maggie’s early, we aren’t supposed to leave until ten.” You dart your gaze from the time to the man in bed, watching you with a mischievous gleam in his eye. “Jesus. Will you get dressed?” 

Rafe doesn’t move, instead he stretches his arms up and you have to tear your gaze away. “Will you tell Mags to give us, uhhh, like, ten minutes?”

“You’re insufferable,” you huff, clutching the towel tighter as you move towards the door to look in the peephole. “I’ll have you know that I–”

You freeze when you look in the peephole, hand hovering over the doorknob. Heart dropping to your feet, you suck in a harsh breath as if the wind is knocked out of your chest, already feeling its beat thumping against your rib cage a mile a minute. 

It’s not Maggie behind the door. 

It’s your mother. 

Your mother who you've been ghosting for the past month. 

Shiiiiiiiiiiiit. 

“Know what, baby?” Rafe eggs on lazily, unbeknownst to the shit show that just began. 

His voice thrusts you back to reality, stumbling back a few steps as you suck in another harsh breath, mind racing at the premature anxiety induced encounter that’s about to happen.

Your mind reels: your overly pretentious and spectacle-driven mother is behind that piece of wood. Rafe is still naked on the bed. Your mother’s been hounding you about several issues for weeks now that you've pushed to the back of your to-do list. You doesn’t have any clothes on and–

Oh, god, neither does Rafe.

You spin around as three more knocks make you jump out of your skin, locking eyes with him as you gesture to his clothes urgently. 

“You need to leave.”

The complete 180 in behavior makes Rafe furrow his brows. “Wh–?”

You run over to him, grabbing his shirt and forcefully shoving it over his head and messing up his already tousled hair. “I’m not fucking around. Get dressed. Now,” you hiss stern-fully, ignoring his confused gaze because it just increasingly pisses you off more. 

“Maggie will live if she sees a sliver of skin,” he begins to defend, grabbing at your waist like a toddler and frowning when you swat him off. 

“Yeah, well, it’s not Maggie at the door, it’s my fucking mom. So. Get. Dressed. Now.” 

Rafe has the audacity to laugh in your face. 

It only makes your stomach bubble in anxiety as you huff and throw the sheet off of his legs, messily pushing his legs through the holes of his boxers and jeans to urgently usher him to do what you're asking of him. Again, he makes absolutely no effort to move, instead watching you with an amused look.

“Why are you panicking?” he asks nonchalantly as if the whole situation isn’t an anxiety attack waiting to happen. “I’m great with parents.”

“No,” you immediately warn. 

“I’m, like, the parent-whisperer.”

You continue to try (and fail) at dressing him. “Not while you’re my fuck buddy. She cannot know about this.” Your head whips back and forth between the door and the boy lazily lounging, chest heaving.

It’s infuriating how relaxed he is. Rafe reaches up and pushes some hair out of your face as three more knocks break the sound barrier. “Well, baby, I’m already here.”

“Fuck,” you mutter, pressing the heels of your palm to your forehead. “Fuck. I’m not screwing around, Rafe. Get dressed.” Then, pathetically, you add, “Please.”

Three more knocks, more like pounds, snap you out of your millisecond pity party. Stepping away from Rafe, you exhale shakily and push back the same strand of hair he attempted to brush away. Your brows furrow in thought, eyes trained on the ground as you calculate your plan of attack as a silence falls between you both.

Rafe manages to stand, pulling his jeans up the rest of the way and buckling his belt. The whole time he’s obeying your command he’s frowning, unable to discern if he’s frowning at the fact that you're so worked up over a parent (or how you used his real name) or how he’s actually listening to you.

“Okay,” you say sternly after a moment, mind made up as you slowly walk towards the door with your eyes trained on him. “You’re gay.”

“What?”

“It’s the only explanation that won’t get me viscerally berated. That, or you pretend to be my boyfriend.”

“You’d rather me be gay than be your boyfriend?”

You laugh humorlessly and it makes him frown deeper. The way you don't elaborate – nor stop laughing – makes his irritation bubble out of thin air, hands clenching at his fists at the fact that you think it’s so funny for the latter to be true, as if he could never provide that for you, as if the concept is a fantasy. 

But the laugh dissipates as quickly as it came, your hand ghosting over the doorknob as you point to him with a shaky finger. “Don’t play.”

Then, you open the door a crack to reveal your mother. 

Paulette is the living, breathing epitome of a trophy-wife-turned-emotionless-mother. Whatever concept a PTO mom has, it’s Paulette in a nutshell.

She drips heavily in subtle designer that, undoubtedly, looks flawless and effortless, but unfathomably performative as it simply flashes people on how much money she likes to flaunt. She donates to various charities but not without announcing the act with the specific amount coat-tailed to the sob story. She likes to doll you up into her perfect mold model child, while viscerally berating you behind the curtain and nitpicking all of the things you do wrong. She likes to make fun of your style and independence and blame it on the lack of male attention in your life.

Long story short? The two of you don’t get along. 

Paulette curtly says your name in greeting and it’s hardly friendly. “I’ve been standing here for ages.”

You put your body in the small crack of the door frame, doing your best to shield your mother from seeing Rafe.

“Hi. This couldn’t have been a phone call?” you ask hurriedly, sheepishly, cheeks already flaming at the periculousness of the situation.

Paulette narrows her gaze like a hawk. “Apparently not. You haven’t answered a single one of my calls.” Then, she sighs as if being here is an inconvenience. “I’m done standing here, angel. It reeks of skunk. Let me in. We need to talk.”

“But–”

“Enough,” she snaps, not giving you the chance to think before she puts a perfectly manicured hand on the door, pushing it open with such force that it causes you to stumble. “I do everything for you and you can’t even–”

Paulette pauses when she steps into the dorm room, taking in the sight of Rafe, who stands tall and lean at the edge of the bed, thankfully fully dressed. 

The silence engulfs the room as the door clicks shut, you clutch your towel with a pained expression etched on your face at the scandalous scene unfolding. Paulette’s stern gaze shifts from Rafe, to the unmade bed, to your basically naked body, and back to Rafe. 

You shift uncomfortably after a beat. “Uh, mom, this is–”

“Rafe,” he suddenly introduces himself, flashing Paulette a charming smile that has you frowning in confusion. Since when does he have that kind of smile on the back burner? You nearly roll your eyes when he takes a step forward, politely offering Paulette his hand to shake. “Rafe Cameron.”

“Rafe,” Paulette repeats slowly, as if phonetically sounding it out, "Cameron."

You cough awkwardly at his outstretched hand. “He’s my f–”

“I’m her boyfriend.”

Your blood runs cold as you whip your head around to stare at him. The audacity of him–

But Paulette takes his hand and shakes it firmly, making a small hum of contemplation that has you holding your breath in anticipation, in anxiety. Silence engulfs them once more. 

Retracting her polished hand, Paulette studies Rafe with a curious look.

“Boyfriend?” she hums cautiously. You nearly puke. Rafe nods. Your mother says your name again accusatorially. “You didn’t tell me about this.”

Rafe doesn’t falter. Instead, he beams and dials the charm to an eleven. “I asked her a few weeks ago, so it’s pretty new. And private. We haven’t even told some of our friends yet.”

You reel. How is he this calm? How is he making this up on the spot as if it’s been rehearsed? Why does he look so damn happy? Why is your heart in your throat? Can he stop smiling like that? Because it’s making you think that he–

“Weeks?” Paulette shoots you a look. “Is that so?”

You shrink under your mother’s gaze, not trusting words so you simply nod instead.

Paulette huffs at the response, putting her hands on her hips as she glares at you with an incredulous look. “You could’ve saved me the time and patience, if you just told me.” Paulette rubs out a growing migraine. 

Your irritation suddenly spikes. The condescending tone in your mother’s voice, the way Rafe’s fake smile slowly starts to fade as he further discovers the dynamic between mother and daughter, the way you're is still standing in your too-short towel– it’s all too much. 

“Okay, as much as I love the reunion, what exactly are you doing here?”

Paulette looks at you as if you have two heads. Exasperated, she throws her hands up in a really? gesture, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world for you to be able to read your mother’s mind. You reciprocate the motion sarcastically.

“The wedding?”

You furrow your brows. “Wh– Jessa’s? What about it?”

Paulette then proceeds to ignore you, turning her full attention to Rafe, who’s been watching the entire conversation like a tennis match. “Has she told you about the wedding?”

Rafe’s gaze darts to you, cautiously shaking his head at your widening eyes. “Uh, no.”

You know where this is going, and panic surges to your throat. 

You quickly jump to step in between your mother and Rafe. 

“He’s not coming!” 

The panicked tone startles all three of you, as you blink a few times and then clear your throat. You take a step back to gather yourself at the sudden outburst, but nearly jump as you bump against Rafe’s chest. There’s no escape with him right behind you and your mother right in front of you. 

You've never felt more trapped. And underdressed.

Paulette raises her brow in offense at the tone of voice, at her daughter’s manic behavior, almost egging you on to continue embarrassing yourself. 

Although you take a deep breath and remember the situation, finding your cool and taking a long, deep breath. That cool almost goes out the window when Rafe takes a particularly deep breath that makes his chest gently graze your back.

“Uh, well, we haven’t talked about it yet," you defend shakily, the tone so unlike your normal demeanor. "But it’s over Thanksgiving, I assume he has plans with his family.”

Then Rafe does the one thing you don't want him to do. 

He fucking shrugs and opens his mouth. “I don’t have plans.”

(Actually, he does. But those plans entail trekking the long drive home, enduring a week of arguing with his dad and step-mom about ridiculous shit, drinking with his home-town friends, and spending Thanksgiving with his family where they all either pretend to like each other for one night or fight so violently that the kitchen is covered in thrown food. It’s a plan he’s been dreading, honestly.)

Paulette huffs as you feverishly blink, thinking of all the ways you can kill Rafe before you let this whole ordeal happen. Strangulation, maybe.

Your mother hums your name. “See? This all could’ve been avoided if you asked him and answered the phone.”

“Mom,” you say without thinking, voice threatening to shake with anger, “did you really come all this way to interrogate me about a date?”

Poison could be easiest, you think. It is a woman’s weapon, after all. No one would suspect if he all of a sudden had food poisoning, maybe from the dining hall or from all the food service he greedily orders. Remember when Arya–

“Interrogate is a strong word, angel,” Paulette pffts, almost mockingly. “You were the only one at Mariano’s wedding last summer without a date. Do you know how many excuses I had to make for you?”

You can’t help but scoff. Needle between the toes. “I doubt people really cared about the nuances of my love life.”

A slight ping of pain pokes your heart, knowing deep down that your mother has to hand out excuses for your lack of respect for tradition, never having a good enough suitor to bring home to the family and kickstart a life with, which is an aspect of the women’s lives that seem to matter most to these people. 

It makes you want to puke. 

“But now I do,” her mother retorts, gesturing to Rafe. “This time, it’ll be far less embarrassing for us.”

Stab wounds. A hundred of them. 

All you can do is sigh. 

Pushing him off a cliff. Cutting his dick off and leaving him to bleed out in this room. Strapping him to the roof of a car and driving it off a mountain. 

As you daydream, Paulette sighs in content and claps her hands. “That settles that. Now, angel, I booked a reservation at the Hilton before Ronaldo drives me back. We need to go over your dress fitting alterations before I go since you’ve neglected to tell me your measurements. They have a good vinaigrette dressing we should try.”

“Sounds delicious,” you deadpan, but her mother either doesn’t pick up on the sarcasm or flat out ignores it. The thought of sitting alone at lunch with your mother settles a kettlebell in your gut. “Let me get dressed quick.”

“Oh, angel. You’re doing your hair and makeup too, right?” Paulette asks, the thought of you walking out in a nice outfit without doing anything to fix up your appearance being downright appalling. 

You reel, this type of behavior being nothing new. Instead of snapping, you simply nod and bite her tongue. Silence is better than whatever fight a backhanded comment will cause.

Paulette exhales in relief. “I’ll wait in the car for you, it’s the Mercedes out front.” She turns towards the door then stops, offering Rafe a curt nod. “It’s nice to meet you, Rafe. I’ll see you in Italy.” Then she remembers something. “I hope you have a passport.”

Then with that, she’s out the door, leaving you and Rafe to stand in silence. 

Beat. 

You feel him behind you, inches away. You don't even know if you can turn around and look at him without grabbing the nearest sharpest object and shoving it in his throat or twisting and pulling his balls off like an apple off a tree.

There’s a reason you told him to avoid the whole boyfriend alias, and this being the reason. 

You mother has always been keen on appearances, embracing the rather traditional gender roles in society. The women in your family thrive on the concept of a strong man to provide for his partner, for his family, and you have yet to express favor of that drastically sexist and outdated notion. The thought of pursuing a career, a life outside of relationships, is seen as selfish. 

To bring someone home to meet the family means being someone who is sought after, yearned for, loved. It’s an embarrassment to be older than twenty and not introduce a partner, for whatever stupid reason, because most of the women in your family marry young, having taken advantage of their youth and sinking their talons into men who either inherit generational wealth or did the bulk of the schooling to be in the well-off positions they’re in today. Last summer, you showed up to a wedding dateless, and – according to your mother – there’s never been a more embarrassing feat for the familial image. 

Once in high school, Paulette paid off a boy in your grade to go out with you for a few months so you'd have a date to her upcoming charity gala. It was your first ever boyfriend, if you can even call him that, so safe to say you have a hard time trusting people – specifically men – when it comes to dating. 

Real dating.

Which is something you know Rafe cannot provide. 

It doesn’t help that Rafe is a conventionally attractive man – who you have repeatedly pushed down your feelings for – who realistically is a perfect candidate in Paulette’s eyes. He’ll only fuel your mother’s instinct to flaunt her daughter’s ability to reign in someone like him: charming, rich, handsome. 

Boy, Paulette will have a field day introducing someone like him to the rest of the family. It makes you want to kill him with a gun. 

Breaking you from her violent thoughts, Rafe chuckles nervously behind you. “I feel like you’re mad.”

Understatement of the century there.

You scoff. “Mad? You think I’m mad?”

“Well, yeah–”

You spin around, facing him with a twitch in your eye and a quivering lip. “I’m not mad, Rafe. I’m fucking furious. I’m seconds away from throttling you right now.”

“Whoa,” he says in surprise, throwing his hands up in surrender with wide eyes, “I just did you a favor. I got her off your back.”

Rolling your eyes so hard it kickstarts a migraine, you can’t help but laugh darkly.

“Off my back,” you scoff in disbelief. Then you shake your head and walk over to the dresser, shimmying out of the towel and slipping on underwear. “Off my– You opened the biggest, grossest, evilest can of worms you could even imagine.” You clip on a bra and move towards throwing on a casual dress. 

All Rafe can do is watch and attempt to defend himself, teetering between irritation and wanting to joke about the whole ordeal. “Okay, well, you didn’t really give me much of a script to go along with.”

You shimmy on the dress, looking at him incredulously. “Yes, I did!”

“I wasn’t about to play gay!”

You throw your head back, groaning. Slipping on a pair of heels he’s never seen before, your face burns incredibly hot, and it feels like your skin is on fire as his eyes don’t leave your figure.

“You had one job, Cameron. One!”

“No, it’s not–” Rafe huffs in exasperation, throwing his head back in frustration as well. The words don’t seem to come for a moment, but then he looks back at you, softer, more hesitant. “You don’t…You don’t think I can do it?”

“Do…what?”

“Be one? A boyfriend?”

Oh, the laugh you let out is audacious, as if the entire concept is the biggest comedic joke on planet earth. Apparently, the thought of it is hysterical because it makes you double over, damn near clutching your pearls as you howl. 

The sound pisses him off, and he can’t help but scoff at the utter display of mockery. “What the fuck is so funny?”

Is he kidding?

“Rafe,” you spat incrediously as you come down from your laughter, “zoom out for a second. There’s no way you’re going to convince anybody, and it’s not like I’m gonna be any better.”

There’s a pause between the two of you, and you can practically see the smoke coming out of his ears as he clenches his jaw, looking at you as if you've just offended his entire bloodline. No matter how hard he pouts or if he really snaps his jaw, he has to know that’s the gospel truth, otherwise he’d be an idiot.

Although the sight makes you confused, but you blame your sudden dizziness on the previous interaction with your mother because there’s no way he’s getting upset about this right now. He has to know this is hilarious, right?

It’s only the truth: Rafe Cameron has repeatedly told you that he doesn’t do relationships, only holding short-term girlfriends back home when it was all the rage, that he can’t picture himself being tied to one girl forever. The thought was completely unheard of for him. 

Maybe after college, is what he told you one day as you both lounged lazily, I’ll really start thinking about it. He had said that right before kissing you. 

Rafe unclenches his jaw and narrows his gaze at you in calculation, either soaking in your words or coming up with his next rebuttal. Whatever it is, he thinks about it very carefully so that it leaves you waiting in anticipation. 

“I could convince people,” he says cautiously, more to himself. “Totally. I could.” Rafe unclenches his fists, then whispers, “You really think I’d be that bad at it?”

The slight hesitation in his voice halts your movements, and you put your hands on your hips. “Give me a break. That’s not what this is about.”

Rafe’s shoulders sag. “Then what?” The sudden disposition makes you want to scream.

Why does he care so much?

“You’re… You’re just not coming.”

“Wh–” Rafe starts, reeling in confusion. 

You shush him with a pointed finger. “No. You’re not. You’re gonna have the flu, or something. Maybe an incurable disease. I haven’t decided yet.” You sit down at your desk and hurriedly curl your eyelashes. “Whatever it is, it’ll be so badly…bad that you won’t be able to go, or even lift a finger.”

Rafe can’t help the twitch of his lip curling up into a smirk. “Is that a threat, baby?”

“Don’t baby me, right now. I’m not your baby.”

“Sorry, baby.”

“Seriously, Cameron. I’m about to twist and pull your balls off.”

Fully grinning, Rafe finds himself moving from his vantage point, sauntering over to the desk and resting his hands on your shoulders as he leans down close to her ear. You ignore the thump of your heartbeat, figuring it’s the aftermath of such an anxiety inducing conversation with its best kickstarter: your mother. 

“Like an apple,” you emphasize with a gesture of plucking an apple off a tree in an attempt to regulate your dizziness from his close proximity, “just twist and pull them right off.”

Rafe rubs gentle circles in your muscle tensions, clearly finding the whole thing amusing. Prick. “You done?”

The relaxed tone makes you roll your eyes. “On second thought? You’d probably be into that. Freak.”

“You know me so well, hm, baby?”

“Nice try.” The honey in his voice almost makes you falter. Almost. “You’re still not coming.”

His thumbs massage the knots as he shrugs nonchalantly. “I dunno. It seems like it’ll be fun.”

You pause putting on mascara, looking at him through the mini mirror in disbelief. “Fun?” He shrugs again which makes you raise a brow. That's not the word you'd use, frankly. “You haven’t met my family.”

“I can totally woo them over. We already have so much chemistry.”

“The only time we’re not arguing is when we’re fucking.”

“I’ve never been to Italy,” he sighs dreamily, straying away from the point. “Been to Spain, Greece, France. But never Italy. I’ve always wanted to go.”

“No.”

“The food, the girls, the history.”

“No.”

“You’re really depriving me of my dream?”

“Yes,” you hiss, finishing your touches to your requested makeup. “Besides, I doubt you’ll be able to find a flight for next week.”

Rafe furrows his brows in confusion. “Jesus. The celebration’s a week long?”

You sigh irritatedly, moving to brush through your hair. He frowns at how aggressively you rip through the snarls. “No. The wedding’s two days after Thanksgiving.”

“Why are you going so early?”

A flicker of panic rises in your throat as you pause, moving to say something but stopping yourself. The last thing you want is Rafe Cameron weaseling himself into your life. It feels intrusive and oddly personal, and it suddenly dawns on you that you don't even know his middle name. Or if he even has one.

The thought of knowing more about him makes you nervous. But the thought of him knowing more about you makes your stomach churn queasily.

So you simply settle on a nonchalant shrug. “I just am.”

The tone makes him frown. “So, what? You’re just gonna dick around Italy for a week beforehand? Alone?”

“No.” You hate that he’s staring at you with those bright blue eyes, waiting for more, and you hate providing more. 

Rafe notices your apprehension, squeezing your shoulders. “Hey,” he says firmly, slightly irritated that he has to beg but refusing to say please. “Answer me.”

“You’re pushy when you don’t get what you want.”

“Sweet girl,” he warns, thumbs massaging circles.

You sigh, knowing he won’t let up until you give him what he wants. Fucking brat, you think. “I’m staying with my nonna,” you admit softly. “Well, she’s not technically my grandmother but she practically raised my dad, so, she basically acts like his mother. She lives in the countryside.”

Rafe pauses his movements, studying your face in the small mirror where you refuse to meet his eye, that one snippet of her personal life taking out a chunk of her dignity. Your gaze is hard, purposefully focused on doing your hair.

He finds himself frowning at the notion that you found it difficult to tell him such a simple thing. More often than not, wants to shake you like a tree to make the fruit fall, to make you tell him more snippets of your life, information he’s been yearning to know but too afraid to ask about. 

Well, for fucks sake, you've been sleeping together for three months. God forbid he wants to know a little about you. 

“That’s…nice,” he whispers cautiously. 

You notice his sullen expression in the mirror, finishing up your hair so you can spin around in the chair and face him. His hands go to rest on the top of the chair as his piercing blues meet your eyes. He looks so fucking pretty right now that you grip the chair to refrain from forgetting the past ten minutes and dragging him back in bed. 

Instead, you furrow your brows to try and mask you appreciation for his annoyingly pretty face, studying his expression, trying to look deeper in his eyes to search for anything other than honesty but coming up short. 

You both stare at each other for a few moments, trying to gauge the other before you tap out, blinking out of whatever daze you were trapped in.

“Why don’t you have any Thanksgiving plans?”

Rafe shrugs. “I do.”

“Then why–?” 

“If you had to choose between hanging out in Italy or having a week-long screaming match with your entire family, what’d you pick?”

That shuts you up. 

Fuck. You look up at him with determined curiosity, trying to read between the lines of if he’s doing all of this simply to escape the horrors of his own family, or if he feels compelled to because your mother was standing five feet in front of him, or if he truly loves getting off on torturing you. Whatever the real reasoning is, the anger slowly starts fizzling out of your fiery chest and instead is replaced with calculation. 

There is some potential for his presence. He could provide a shield for Paulette’s usual torture. Then, again, he could also fuel it.

“If I let you come,” you start slowly, which makes him stand straighter, “you’ll have to convince them and you need to behave. Especially in front of my nonna.”

Rafe nods, pathetically obedient. 

You raise a brow. “I mean it.” 

He manages a small smirk. “Did I mention I’m great with grandparents, too?”

You rolls your eyes so hard it hurts. You sit up straight and put a hand over his to make sure he understands what he’s getting himself into. “Excluding her, my family is fucking horrible, Cameron. Like, White Lotus pretentious. They’re rich and obnoxious, can’t mind their fucking business, painfully sexist, and can be everything under the sun that is synonymous to that. I need you to know what you’re getting yourself into. This isn’t a fucking playdate.” 

And I’m probably going to be miserable the whole time I’m with them, you want to add, but refrain. 

But Rafe only snorts at the irony. He’s been putting up with people like that his entire life.

“And my nonna is gonna put you to work,” you add with raised brows. “She’s going to make you carry shit around, tend to her garden, do a bunch of stuff to prove to her that you’re good for me. She doesn’t play around with me.”

“Baby,” he says, running his tongue over his bottom lip, “I’m about to be the best boyfriend you’ve ever had.”

You snort, turning back to the mirror to last minute check over your features, hoping the results will suffice your mother's high expectations. “Yeah, that’s not gonna be hard,” you mutter, not seeing the way he frowns. 

Standing, you smooth over your dress and grab your purse and jacket with a deep breath. Truly, you need to calm yourself down before you crashes out in front of him. 

You don't want to admit it, but having him parade around the wedding pretending to be your boyfriend will probably make your life a little easier.

It’ll most likely stop making you feel like a constant disappointment to your mother for a good week, probably the only week of your life where you'll feel an ounce of your mother’s approval. It’s pathetic, you already know, to seek out affection through a lie, and the thought of telling this reasoning to Rafe will not only embarrass you further, but will give him fuel to make fun of you.

It's despicable that you probably can't earn your mother’s love and respect on your own – without a man – but frankly you're sick and tired of feeling like a constant outcast. Perhaps this will finally get your mother to start being proud of your other feats now that the boyfriend question is out of the picture, like for starters, your academic career.

Whilst you wallow in your scheming pity party, Rafe follows you to the door like a puppy, a newfound sense of determination glossed over his features. 

“No, you just wait, sweet girl,” he murmurs to no one in particular. “I’m going to be the best fucking boyfriend anyone’s ever seen, show all those other assholes up. I’m gonna hold doors open for you and shit.”

(There’s a tiny part of him that, also, wants to make this experience for you as easy as it can be, because after seeing the tumultuous tension between you and your mother based off of one brief encounter, Rafe can already tell that you were originally going to have a hard time at the wedding all alone. If he can offer even an ounce of consolation or support for you, he’ll take it.) 

“Sure, Cameron. Now be a good boyfriend and walk me to the car.”

Rafe fights a smile, excited to start proving himself.

© salem-s please do not copy or replicate work without permission. mdni.

note this is my first time ever posting on tumblr and i still don't really understand the site (i.e. requests and communities and things like that). hope you enjoyed!

[rafeprincess]

HIS PRETTY GIRL . . .

tracing his jaw, you delicately run your fingers along the sharp lines of his face, careful not to wake him. his skin is warm beneath your touch, a little rough from the faint stubble that has started to grow in. your fingertips ghost over his cheekbone, mapping out every inch like you’re trying to memorize him, like you need to commit him to memory in case one day he’s not there.

he looks so peaceful when his mouth is shut, snoring lightly, lips parted just enough to let out the softest sounds. his eyes are closed, long lashes fanned across his cheeks, and his dark, messy bangs have fallen over his forehead. you fight the urge to brush them back, knowing the movement might stir him. instead, you lean in, pressing the faintest, barely-there kiss to his lips before letting your head hit the pillow beside him.

but the moment you do, his eyes flutter open, deep and lazy with sleep, lips curling into a smug, half-asleep smirk.

“am i experiencing my sleeping beauty moment?” his voice is husky, laced with amusement.

yeah, see—he’s much better when his mouth is shut.

you try to keep a straight face, to act unfazed, but the way his gaze flickers over you so intently, the way his smirk grows when he catches the way your cheeks are heating up—it’s impossible to hide.

“shut up,” you mumble, rolling onto your side, away from him.

but he doesn’t let you.

his fingers find your jaw, tilting your face back toward him as he leans in, so close his breath fans against your lips, warm and teasing. his hands cradle your face with a gentleness that makes your heart stutter, like you’re the most delicate, precious thing he’s ever held.

“how bout my pretty girl make me?” his voice drops lower, a quiet challenge wrapped in adoration.

you scoff, trying to regain some kind of control over the situation, anything to keep yourself from completely melting into him. “you snore in your sleep,” you point out instead, pretending like he’s not currently making your heartbeat do backflips.

his brows knit together. “first of all, i do not. second of all, you’re such a creep, were you seriously watching me sleep?”

busted.

your mouth opens, searching for a way to defend yourself, but the only thing you come up with is: “well, it’s not like you don’t, you creep.”

he just grins, shaking his head like he knows exactly what you’re doing. “yeah, but you’re in love with this so-called creep.”

your face heats up. “ugh, i am not—”

before you can even finish, he presses his index finger against your lips, silencing you instantly.

his voice is barely above a whisper when he speaks again. “can i please get a kiss before i go insane?”

“well technically, you’re already insane, so really—”

but you do not get to finish that sentence either.

because suddenly, his lips are on yours.

his kiss is slow at first, like he’s savoring the way you taste, the way you feel against him, like he’s been waiting for this exact moment. then it deepens, his fingers threading into your hair, his other hand gripping your waist, pulling you closer, closer, closer, like he needs you to breathe.

you kiss him back just as desperately, fingers curling into his shirt before sliding up into his hair, tugging lightly. he lets out a quiet grunt against your lips, a sound that sends a shiver down your spine.

you smile into the kiss, and so does he.

it gets to the point where you have to physically push against his chest just to pull back for air.

your foreheads rest together as you both catch your breath, the room still thick with warmth and something unspoken.

his lips are glistening when he pouts. “why’d you pull back?”

“you big baby, i needed air.”

he hums, not convinced, and before you can react, he’s pulling you into him, arms wrapping securely around your waist. you barely have time to settle before he buries his face into the crook of your neck, pressing soft, lazy kisses along your skin.

you exhale, letting yourself melt against him, letting yourself forget anything else but the way it feels to be right here.

he murmurs a quiet, “my pretty girl,” before pressing a soft kiss to your temple, and this time, neither of you fight sleep.

and god, it feels good being in his arms.

[rafeprincess]

summer love - rafe cameron.

----

The summer in Outer Banks always felt the same—humid air, salty breeze, and the ever-present hum of a party somewhere nearby. It wasn’t home, not really. Just a temporary escape, a break from college, and a chance to spend time with your dad. But for the past few years, summer had also meant Rafe Cameron.

It wasn’t a relationship, not officially. There were no labels, no promises—just an unspoken understanding that whenever you were in town, you were his, and he was yours. A summer romance, fleeting yet intense, burning hot under the Southern sun. Maybe the secret to keeping it alive was never talking about what happened once you left.

Tonight was no different.

You only agreed to come to this party because you knew he’d be here. Your friend, Erin, had dragged you along, insisting you needed to get out more and have fun, but your idea of fun wasn’t standing around in someone’s overpriced backyard, listening to drunk laughter and watching entitled Kooks pretend they ruled the world.

Still, you had a purpose tonight.

And there he was.

Rafe Cameron, standing in the middle of a group of girls who all looked the same—long blonde hair, perfect tans, designer swimsuits masquerading as party outfits. He was talking, grinning, and whatever he said must have been hilarious because they all laughed in sync, flipping their hair like it was rehearsed.

Your stomach tightened.

You shouldn’t care. He wasn’t your boyfriend. But that didn’t mean it didn’t sting.

So, you walked past him deliberately, your dark waves falling over your shoulders, your dress hugging your body in all the right places. You weren’t like them, and you knew he saw it, too. The air shifted the moment you entered his peripheral vision.

You didn’t stop. You didn’t look.

But then, you heard him.

"Sorry, my girlfriend just got here."

And before you could even process those words, footsteps followed—hurried, desperate.

Rafe’s hand found your wrist, tugging you back, spinning you into his chest. The familiar scent of his cologne and cigarette smoke hit you instantly, mingling with the ocean breeze. His arms wrapped around you tightly, in a way that felt entirely different from the cold, cocky Rafe Cameron the rest of the world knew.

“Jesus,” he muttered against your hair. “You could’ve at least said hi.”

His voice was lower, softer—like he only spoke this way for you.

You melted for half a second before pulling back, raising an eyebrow. “Your girlfriend?”

A smirk played at his lips. “You’re here, aren’t you?”

You rolled your eyes, but his grip around your waist only tightened, pulling you closer.

“You didn’t text,” you accused.

“Didn’t know if you wanted me to,” he admitted, his fingers brushing against your jaw, tilting your face up to meet his. “But I was hoping.”

Your breath caught in your throat as his forehead pressed against yours, and suddenly, the party faded—the noise, the flashing lights, the lingering eyes. None of it mattered. It never did when Rafe was looking at you like this, like he’d been waiting for this moment since the second you left last summer.

“I missed you,” he admitted, voice rough, honest.

You let out a breath. “You’re such a liar.”

Rafe chuckled, shaking his head. “You always say that, but here you are. Back in my arms, just like always.”

And he was right.

You hated how easy it was, how natural it felt to fit against him like this, his hands on your hips, his lips ghosting over yours like he was memorizing them all over again.

His voice dropped lower. “Been thinking about you all year, baby.”

“Yeah?” you teased, pretending not to be affected, even though your heart was racing.

His lips finally met yours, and just like that, it was as if no time had passed. The kiss was slow at first, careful, like he was savoring every second. But then it deepened, his fingers tangling in your hair, his body pressing against yours as if he could pull you into him entirely.

You could feel his desperation—the hunger behind his touch, the silent way he was telling you he wasn’t ready to let go yet.

----

[rafeprincess]

nads .... can we pls get make up sex w rafe :'(((( him all but cooing in ur ear as he fucks u within an inch of ur life like he's really being sooo sweet about it :'(((((((( 💔💔💔💔 Yeah i'm thinking thoughts ....

the way i’m obsessed with desperate makeup sex with ex-boyfriend rafe... combined this ask by @abrellareads 💘 college au. fratboy!rafe. explicit smut. 18+!

it happened so fast.

rafe was across the crowded room, in the throws of yet another party, wearing that charming smile that made you fall in love, holding the same power over you that you wish you never gave him.

it’s been a month since. after a ruthless cycle of different versions of the same fights, you went over to his place and told him you couldn’t be with him anymore.

earlier tonight, you were watching him from the other side of the party, thinking about how long a month feels and how your ex-boyfriend still owns every piece of your heart.

a fight broke out. if you weren’t already watching him, you wouldn’t have to guess he was involved. whenever there’s commotion, he’s often in the middle of it. attracting chaos.

you left. you were unable to take any of it anymore. you’d broken up with him to rid yourself of the stress that came with loving him, but even as a supposed part of your history, he pulled you into his storm.

you made it home. you got ready for bed. something came over you before you turned out the lights. you’ve missed him so much it hurts.

your fingers went from the lightswitch to your phone and you found his name and texted him asking if he was home.

rafe replied quickly. he figured a simple yes would’ve been good enough. but because he’s hurting for you, because he’s painfully desperate, he added come over to the end.

and you’re here. you’re at his doorstep, as tense as you were the night you broke up with him.

the house he lives in is hardly ever quiet, but when he swings open the door, you’re certain he’s the only one home. the rest of his frat brothers must still be at the party you left, while he’s by himself with a red, swelling splotch on his cheekbone where he’d been hit in that ridiculous fight back on the other end of greek row.

“hey,” he says stiffly.

“hey.” you motion to your cheek. “that hurt?”

“i’m fine.”

it’s a lie. he hasn’t been fine since you told him you couldn’t do this anymore. you pushed him into a hole and he’s been too hopeless to even try to crawl out.

“is that why you came here?” rafe murmurs. he hates himself for asking. he just wants to feel you against him and questioning you at his front door won’t get him there.

it’s a defense mechanism. he’s trying to act careless when he’s anything but.

he steps back, a silent way to beckon you in. warm relief floods him when you close the distance to come inside.

“partly,” you reply. wordlessly, you follow him upstairs, each step creaking the way you remember. you’ve been here so many times, rushing to rafe’s bedroom, lips on his the second the door shut.

this time, when the door closes, the soft thud is a harsh reminder of the last time you were here. you were sure it would really be the final conversation. you were done with him.

“why, then?” he rasps, standing across from you in the middle of his small, cluttered bedroom.

muscle memory. instinct. an involuntary reflex. you can’t help but step forward, finding your fingers in his hair, pulling him towards you.

“one last time,” you say in a strained whine you weren’t expecting. “we never said goodbye.”

rafe’s body tightens. you did say goodbye. you said you’re better off out of each other’s lives and you didn’t start crying about what that really meant until he did. nothing he said was enough to convince you to stay.

he looks at your lips, at the pleading look in your eyes. fuck, how good it’d feel to tell you no. to tell you to get out of his house.

but it’s feel so much better being buried deep inside you again, listening to you breathlessly groan his name, hearing your bodies meet over and over.

clothes are tugged off hurriedly and clumsily and every bit of his skin that you get to feel again is an electric shock that zips through you. your heart races as he buries his face into the crook of your neck to leave hot, open-mouthed kisses.

your knees weaken as he grips your ass once your pants are on the floor, and like he used to, he reads your body, senses your loss of strength, and guides you to his bed.

everything smells like him. his detergent, his cologne, his musk all envelop you in the soft duvet beneah you. you’d been in this bed so many times, clung onto the sheets, tiredly laughed with him when the bed frame would hit the wall with your rushed movements.

rafe hovers over you, still kissing your neck. he hasn’t felt your lips against his yet and when he shifts to finally taste your tongue, he grunts in pleasure.

you run your hands down the curve of his firm, bare back. you stop at the band of his boxers and surrender to him, spreading your legs so he can settle between them.

“fuck,” you breathe when you feel his hard length, only two layers between you now. he’s already at that point and the aching at your core pulses with the same desperation.

“what’d you expect?” he whispers against your mouth. his words make the air thicker and the room spin.

rafe can pretend he doesn’t care, but his body can’t. it burns for you, and you only. no other girl comes close. no other girl makes him act the way you do, makes him gaze at her while she’s not paying attention and leads him to wonder what he did to deserve to be alive at the same time as her.

you. only you.

“take this off,” he rasps, fingers looping beneath your bra strap. you move to unhook it, but he does it for you, taking over like always. like before.

he doesn’t wait for the next part. he pulls your panties down, groaning a quiet oh my god when he sees you. your breath’s caught as you watch him sit up to tug his boxers off, springing out, every inch of him as perfect as you remember.

his throat tightens with something that feels like the threat of tears when you pull him down to you. it’s overwhelming to feel loved again by someone who once looked like she was bothered by his very existence.

but you said this is goodbye. one last time.

rafe’s never been one to think of what’s next. impulsiveness runs through his veins. consequences are an afterthought.

but he can’t do it. he can’t feel you wrapped around him to know you’ll just leave him cold yet again, leave him to lick his wounds and continue living as if he isn’t shattered.

blue eyes meet yours, his hard desire for you nudging against your entrance. his hands are on the bed, framing your pretty face, hovering over you as he pants.

“this isn’t goodbye,” he says. “you’re my girl. say it.”

you gaze up at him, the weight on your chest almost debilitating. you’re afraid you don’t have it in you. loving him is hard. it hurts. he’s a beautiful disaster of a man and choosing him to be in your life is a game of roulette.

“i’ll be better,” he whispers, his heart breaking even more from the way you’re silently staring at him.

you’d heard it so many times. i’ll change. i’ll get my shit together. i’ll be the man you need me to be. and it claws at your heart, wondering if you should’ve been telling him you’d be the woman he needed you to be, too.

“so will i,” you finally whisper. you’ll try again. because living without him is agony.

his face twists with sadness, with longing, with relief, and he leans to kiss you as he guides himself in, exhaling pure elation.

you quietly groan from the sweet pressure. he feels you stiffen. he pulls back, regretful, but your hands splay over his lower back to push him back inside.

you wrap your legs around his hips and he gives you every inch, head swimming from how hot and tight and wet you are.

“fuck, i missed you,” rafe breathes.

“me, too.” the knot finally loosens. the stress of pretending like you’re okay, like ending things was the right choice is gone now.

you kiss his lips as his thrusts start to get harder, and you know he’s the right choice. he always was.

“i’m sorry,” you say, voice strained again.

“stop,” he whispers. his forehead presses against yours as he rocks in and out of you, stretching and filling you perfectly. “all i care about is that you came back, alright?”

“yeah,” you say shakily. “i love you.”

your heat, your softness, your everything make him reach his peak faster than he ever has, whispering i love you against your mouth and begging you to say you love him again as he tightens and trembles and shifts to touch you exactly the way you need to be touched to meet your climax.

your head is on his chest moments later, shallow breaths overlapping in the humid air. every thud of his heart felt against your cheek.

you watch as he plays with your fingers on his stomach, chest still rising and falling quickly. his arm is around you as you lay tucked into him, back home where you belong.

rafe’s brows furrow as his fingers trace yours, tense you’ll take it all back and leave him to lie in this bed alone again, doomed to know he can only have you in his dreams.

“can i sleep here?” you ask meekly, and his lips pull into a grin. he breathes a chuckle, hopeful again, out of the hole you’d pushed him in, feeling sunlight on his skin.

“you better,” he says.

[rafeprincess]

BROKEN RIBBONS & PERFECT FISTS — rafe cameron, 02

pairing . . . boxer!rafe cameron x ballerina!reader in which . . . a clean slate is what you needed, to get away from a past you're not proud of and start over, focusing on what you were most passionate about, ballet. outer banks seemed like the best option, a breath of fresh air, new people. what you didn’t expect was that someone just as broken as you would stand in your way, staking your heart on a single name— rafe cameron. ch warning .ᐟ . . . none

masterlist .ᐟ 𝜗𝜚 navigation .ᐟ

BROKEN RIBBONS & PERFECT FISTS. — 01 . 02 . 03

YOU WERE SURE OF ONE THING, AND THAT THING WAS that Sarah Cameron was real. The knot of nerves in your stomach dissolved the moment you entered the Outer Banks airport, a blonde girl with a smile from ear to ear following you with her eyes, a guy next to her with short hair and small curls. She called your name as if it was something that had to happen, and as you turned your head, you smiled, there she was.

You walk towards her, holding on to your carry-on, dodging people who crossed your path. Sarah wraps you in a hug as if she had known you forever, holding on to you.

"I can't believe I finally meet you" she says in your ear, making you let out a small giggle.

"Same here" you murmur.

She is the one who broke the hug, fixing strands of your hair that were up and pointing everywhere. A clearing of a throat caught Sarah's attention, who turns around and laughs.

"Right. Y/n, this is John B, my boyfriend. John B, this is Y/n" the blonde says.

You reach out to shake John B's hand, but it was in vain, as he also hugged you as if you were an acquaintance. People here like to hug.

"Welcome to OBX, Y/n."

kissylec says . . . ch2 here for you guys 🤞 a little short but i still have to get used to this, love u

taglist . . . @cokewithcameron @rafeysbabydoll @imtalkinnonsense @drewstarkeyslover @slut-4-gojo @tequilawithissues @beebuv @lili-swagalicious @mysticbby2009 @justdamnpeachy @luvrclub @malibuhearts @bee-43 @yktayy9669 @babyclines @m4tthewmurd0ck @femmeinomenon @kissesandmartinis @faephoria @marinrscomplex

© KISSYLEC. 2025 — please do not plagiarize, repost, translate or claim any of my work as your own.

[rafeprincess]

GIRL VERSUS CAT | Rafe Cameron

LOOKBOOK | MAIN MASTERLIST (Blurb)

Pairing – Rafe x Mermaid!Female Reader

Summary — When you come back to Tannyhill and find a cat.

Word Count — 0.8K

Content — fluff, protective!Rafe, Wheezie has a little attitude, and you are clingy (literally).

Coming back to Tannyhill should be smooth. Gone for a couple of days, it shouldn’t have changed much, especially given that your absence was almost obsolete in the grand scheme of things.

You hadn’t expected the cat.

An additional member of the family, Wheezie decided she wanted to adopt a cat a couple of days prior. It was going relatively well—well-trained, ultimately welcoming, and somewhat needy at times, but that’s normal. In fact, it adores every single member of the household.

Except you.

Upon entry, following behind Rafe, the cat immediately tracks you. Its ears raise at the sound of your footsteps, the smell of your scent, as if it knows—it knows what you truly are—and instantly meows. A few steps in, it jumps off the cushioned seat and races towards you with charged vigor.

Your eyes widen at the fast-approaching predator, and without a second thought, leap onto Rafe's back, climbing him like a tree.

“What is that? What is that?” You ask breathlessly, fear trembling in your voice as your legs wrap around Rafe’s torso, raising you off the ground. It came in a blink of an eye as the devious creature arrived at the foot of Rafe’s feet, blinking up at you while hissing viciously.

Rafe finds amusement in this situation. He hadn’t expected this reaction from Wheezie’s cat—which has been so docile and sedentary—but he remembers, to be fair, you are his favorite meal.

“It’s a cat,” Rafe explains with a low voice. “You haven’t seen one before?”

It hisses again, so loud, it makes you jump, letting out a little yelp as you climb higher on Rafe’s taunt body, shaking your head to his question.

“It’s not going to hurt you,”

“It’s trying to eat me,” you whimper in his ears, locking your arms around his chest to keep your body off the ground. But truly, gravity is a persistent enemy, and you’re slipping, slipping further and further down until the cat sees you in view and leaps upwards, trying to claw its way toward you.

Another shriek escapes you, and you climb further. Rafe realizes that while you—surprisingly—managed the ability of a natural climber, his hand slips under one of your thighs, anchoring you to him.

“Get it away, get it away, get it away,” you beg Rafe, soft and frantic voice swimming in his ear as labored breaths fan against the crook of his neck. Wheezie’s cat continues to claw towards you—subtly scratching at Rafe’s calves—but not enough to reach.

You still don’t trust it.

“Say please,” Rafe teases, stretching out the moment longer than necessary, enjoying the way you’re dependent on him.

“Please,” you beg, your bottom lip juts out in a natural pout, in a way that Rafe can no longer deny you.

With a sigh, Rafe turns to his little sister who's watching the scene unfold with mild suspicion.

“Can you take your cat somewhere else?” Rafe asks, his tone gentler in comparison to the way he speaks to Sarah.

“We were here first,” Wheezie frowns.

You let out another squeal; the cat had managed to jump and swing its paw, nearly missing your toes. You squeeze your arms tighter around Rafe’s neck, to the point of choking him.

Rafe grits his teeth, subduing the instinctual panic, before glaring at his younger sister. “Wheezie,” he warns.

The youngest Cameron sighs, slipping off the cushioned couch, and approaches the pair before scooping the cat in her arms, subduing her pet with gentle pats and head rubs. It doesn’t, however, subdue its hisses, and now almost to your level, it meets your eyes with a hostile glare.

You shrink, hiding yourself behind Rafe’s broad shoulders.

“They say pets are the best judge in character,” Wheezie comments, her hands stroking her pet who’s in a stare-off with you. She bumps her elbow against Rafe’s arm, lowering her voice a few octaves. “She might have a secret.”

Once she's out of earshot, Rafe mutters. “Yeah, she’s half fuckin’ fish."

Now, with the threat of the demon gone, you should release and find the ground. But you remain, clambered around his body, skin meeting skin, arms around his neck, and chin brushing the broad of his shoulders.

“Thank you,” you whisper gently, breathing leveling out, as he feels the gratitude submerge beneath his skin.

Rafe turns his head slightly, enough to meet your appreciative gaze. But he can’t help but notice the sparkle in your eyes; the way you look at him, as if he’s your protector, savior, and purpose all wrapped up in one.

His heart thumps a little louder.

“Yeah, don’t worry about it,” he murmurs. “You plannin’ on staying like this?”

Smiling demurely, you ask, “Can I?”

Rafe rolls his eyes, feigning annoyance, but truthfully, he’ll do nearly anything you ask of him with that smile. With a motion of his arm, he grabs your waist and pulls you into a bridal carry. A lithe laugh escapes you at the swift change in position, but once secured in his arms, Rafe cast one last look at your carefree expression and resumes the walk back to his bedroom.

IMPORTANT INFO ABOUT TAGLIST AND UPDATES: if you want to be notified about all my fics and updates, follow @zyafics-library and turn on notifications! however, if you want to be added to this specific taglist, let me know (but to remain tagged, you must interact with the posts).

TAGLIST FOR MERMAID!READER: @nemesyaaa / @promiscuousg1rl / @fullofsunshineandloneliness / @erwinsvow / @perfectprettypisces / @immalosersblog / @carolinevoight / @drewswife / @skye-44 / @ggraycelynn / @tinythebunni / @rain-likes-purple / @drewstarkeyspecs / @lolasangelz / @chalahyung01 / @waywardalpacaoctopus / @jjasmiineee / @chelzaa / @tinythebunni / @rain-likes-purple / @walkingwithoutreason / @mega-kittyglitter-1 / @m1-na / @mattyskies / @thatawkwardlittlefangirl /@storminacloud / @ilyrafe / @7ds4ever / @jadastarkey /@hannaa20002000 / @gumdropgirl / @lilithblackkk @sunshinedaisy21 / @perfectmenarefictional / @wuluhwuhmaster / @missamericanablog / @esposamultifandom / @voidangxls @blushmimi

[rafeprincess]

BEST KEPT SECRET | Rafe Cameron

MASTERLIST (SMAU)

Pairing — Rafe x FWB!Female Reader

Summary — After the death of his father, Rafe spiraled down a self-destructive path. His only anchor was you—the girl he hooked up with and bore his heart and soul to—kept as his little secret. And you were fine with the arrangement. Until Rafe decides to get his act together, and whatever that means, it doesn't include you.

Content — suggestive

Dedication — to @kissylec and her love you goodbye series, while it didn't inspire this smau, I am reading it, and I want to give proper credit where it's due.

Zya's Notes — trying something out, might delete it if I hate it tomorrow morning.

IMPORTANT INFO ABOUT TAGLIST AND UPDATES: if you want to be notified about all my fics and updates, follow @zyafics-library and turn on notifications! however, if you want to be added to this specific taglist, let me know (but to remain tagged, you must interact with the posts).