salem-s

[salem-s]

SUNRISES, PENALTIES, AND LOSING SLEEP OVER YOU ── RAFE CAMERON ONE SHOT

── SYNOPSIS when Rafe can't sleep, he ends up at the soccer field to get some practice in. however, he can't seem to stop his sunrise practices when he discovers the pretty girl who reads on the bleachers is there every morning. ── WARNINGS language, so much fluff??? ── WORD COUNT 5.6k. ── NOTES consists of jock!rafe and nerd-ish!reader, college au, mainly rafe pov. ── SONG OF THE CHAPTER everything is embarrassing by sky ferreira

Rafe contradicts himself this time -- he actually doesn't mind being up before the sun if that means some more practice...and some peace and quiet.

Surprisingly, he's quite the night owl, fighting the plague that puts him to sleep by distracting himself with literally anything he can get his hands on, even if that meant school work that's been pushed off for the last minute. He can go all night at a bar and he's the only one out of his friends to be able to actually pull all nighters on their designated movie night.  

While this has severely skewed his sleeping schedule, Rafe prefers to get things done while the rest of the world around him is asleep, you know, for some alone time.

Sure, Rafe's a pretty social guy: he enjoys time with friends and his teammates and classmates, and he definitely jumps at the chance to spend time with them whenever he can. It's a pretty rare occurrence where he isn't with someone or talking to someone, because he's a light converser and easy to fall in stride with. He's the stranger that people often fall in love with and never see again, perhaps it's the handsomely boyish smile or his ability to talk to a brick wall. 

And yet, there's moments like right now where some alone time is needed. 

Once again, Rafe's been up for nearly a day now, the sun just peaking over the horizon behind him, signaling the start of a lot of people's days (and the end of his, since it's Saturday and he'll need to recharge before going out tonight). The sleep simply...doesn't come to him.

Not easily, anyway.

After nights out with his friends (or when they go to bed), Rafe normally tinkers with things in his room, building trinkets from scratch or blueprinting random designs because he's bored, which he doesn't normally admit to people. His ability to draw was something his father always told him to push down deep, to ignore and focus on the money-driven careers of the world: business, science, all that crap.

Well, his father isn't here. And even if he was, Rafe wouldn't really care, anyway.

Sleep doesn't come very naturally to him during the night, which is highly unusual considering he has no insomnia or trouble sleeping. He just doesn't get tired. Usually the sunrise shining through his window signals him to try and sleep. 

He doesn't recall the last time he's really looked at a sunrise, this time being exceptional with colors portraying burning passion and dragon fruit, and the dirty-blond hums to himself, halting his movements to stop and enjoy it for a second.

The soccer ball planted on the ground by his foot is still as Rafe's balance. He holds himself together to take a deep breath in and observe the world around him.

Sure, he's never up this early but, goddamn, it really is pretty.

Hues of pink, orange, purple emerge in sight, getting lighter by the second and changing into something more tranquil. He's at ease. There's something more content and comforting about sunrises than sunsets, and while he cannot put his finger on the exact reason, he deems this a fact. 

Rafe mentally notes to do some sunrise workouts more often. 

At his university, he's on the club soccer team, which isn't the big leagues but it keeps him and shape and the competition isn't nearly as stressful, which he likes. Rafe enjoys the sport to have fun, and while he does care about winning and beating these other lame schools, at the end of the day it's just putting a ball through a net and spending time with his teammates, so he never holds a grudge if his team loses.

He's spent so many years fighting for love, fighting for affection, fighting for meaningless trophies to impress his father that in the end he just...realized it is what it is. Once Rafe learned the implication of life will happen anyway regardless of how certain things go, his outlook on competition changed.

Anger subsided into contention, rage simmered into acceptance, and fear contorted to nonchalance.

Rafe learned a long time ago that, no matter how athletic he may play or how many As he may earn, nothing will ever satisfy his father's insatiability for perfection.

That lifted a considerably heavy weight off his shoulders, once he started living to please himself rather than everybody else.

Of course, he still plays with heart and the frustration of the game naturally spurs during heated moments. But the implications of self pressure are no longer there, and Rafe has found incredible solace with his teammates.

They usually go out after games to celebrate, win or loss, anyway.

Rafe can't really argue with that.

The reason Rafe's alone now is because 1. all of his friends are sleeping and 2. he didn't get drunk enough to pass out.

He had a couple shots early in the night, but curse his heavy weight intake for making it hard to get drunk. So now he's here at the practice field at the ungodly hours of the morning - because he's bored and doesn't want to sleep just yet, and he doesn't have to worry about any classes, just about his plans tonight. 

Besides, his skills could always use some tidying up. 

Rafe goes back to his workout routine after his admiration for the sky, the sun rising behind him mindlessly while he dribbles the ball up and down the field to practice his precision, working on mind trick tricks in terms of scoring (Rafe is a forward, no way could he play defense).

Sweat glistens his forehead as the coolness of the night gradually dissipates, and he doesn't know how long he's been on this field, maybe a few hours? Days? At this point, someone could've told him he's been here for a year and he'd probably take their word for it.

But Rafe, after shooting the ball and missing, notices someone sitting on the bleachers with a book.

You.

A very pretty girl, who now has the book in your lap and is instead watching him.

Rafe just shrugs and gives a welcoming wave with a smile that you definitely can't see, but instead of waving back, you instead close the book with such gentleness and sit up to speak.

"Isn't the ball supposed to go in the net?"

Rafe recoils.

What?

He bites back a laugh because at this ungodly hour, everything is funny no matter what. He decides to ignore the hot raspiness of your voice and pushes it to the back of his mind, because he'll want to think about that later.

Despite his internal turmoil, Rafe plants his hands on his hips and cocks his head to the side. "I don't suppose you could do better?"

You chuckle sweetly, even Rafe can hear that from the distance and thinks it's faint music to his ears. "No, I can't. Have fun playing kickball, though."

Rafe simply stands there, blinking with a dumbfounded expression and a hint of a grin, taking a moment to soak in the faint image of you, a beautiful stranger, who goes back to reading your book. Shamelessly, he continues staring at you, as he can can make out how your silhouette is swallowed by a crimson hoodie looking comfortable enough to make Rafe yawn.

Fuck, now he's tired.

It doesn't take long for Rafe to pack up his things after doing some last work-downs and begin walking off the field (and of course the exit gate is right by the bleachers). The sun is now risen, just barely, and he can already feel the heat coming to bite him in the ass. He's never been a fan of the heat, especially at the start of the school year where it's basically sweltering summer.

Besides, he's been yawning for the past few minutes and his movements are more sluggish than they were before, so he takes this as a hint to finally get some rest.

You look up from your book and notice the alarmingly attractive soccer player leaving. Going against your normal tendency to hide and avoid talking to people you don't know, you can't help but feel inclined to smile when the stranger perks up and makes eye contact with you. The wild thumping of your heart only augments when you notice how pretty his eyes are, a bright blue despite the exhaustion behind them.

Rafe sends you a boyish smile and a nod, almost as if he's known you forever and bidding you a familiar farewell.

Once he gets closer, he notices your coffee sitting idly beside you, ice melting as the sun starts beating down on it. He also notices how pretty you really are, much prettier up close.

"Do you always read at the ass crack of dawn or what?" Rafe decides to pipe up, making his tone lighthearted so you don't think any different.

You huff out a laugh. "I've been here every morning since the semester started, and I'm just seeing you for the first time, why?"

Despite the certainty of your tone, Rafe doesn't ignore the sheepish look that immediately creeps on your face, trying to act cordial but he can tell by the way you're wringing your fingers together, you're somewhat skeptical of him. He decides to spare you and not to comment on the nerves, because he also feels heat in his face (he's gonna blame the workout, not the hot stranger talking to him). 

"Late night, couldn't sleep, and I was bored so I thought I'd shoot around until I got tired."

"Wait a minute," you say, your tone suddenly serious and your expression indulgent, "you haven't slept yet?"

Rafe shrugs nonchalantly, not taking into consideration that other people have normal sleeping schedules, finally meeting someone who does.

"Nah, this is normal for me. I'm surprised you're up...willingly...that's honestly terrifying and I'm scared of you," he jokes and spins the soccer ball on the tip of his ring finger. 

You widen your eyes and let out a low whistle, the look of shock coating your features. "Not sure if I should be fearing you instead. I can't tell if you're a god or just fucking stupid."

This makes Rafe bark out a laugh, one that he doesn't expect to come out, but the fact that this beautiful, fragile, and relaxed stranger just dropped the f-bomb nonchalantly is somehow fucking hilarious to Rafe...or perhaps it's the lack of sleep that makes his perception of things much more different and jagged.

Either way, he doesn't care, because the smile on your face is something Rafe's mind is never, ever going to forget. 

"Probably the latter, unfortunately," Rafe admits in that cheery self-deprecating tone that everyone takes normally. "Well, sunny, I'll leave you to it."

Then he pauses for a second, biting his tongue to refrain from saying something too forward.

"I'll hopefully see you around?"

Your blush intensifies (at the nickname or his confidence, you don't know), and neither speak on it. "Yeah, that'd be nice. See ya, kickball."

Before Rafe can defend his sport, you open your book back up and pick up where you left off, lounging back and crossing your legs to get more comfortable as Rafe splutters and huffs out a response that you seemingly ignore.

Your small smirk of victory makes Rafe want to either punch it off or kiss it off. Please don't ask him which one he prefers. 

Rafe's been at the soccer field almost every morning now for the past week. 

He figures that he'll sleep during the day on the weekends and in between his classes during the week, setting a multitude of alarms and not getting the amount of sleep he wishes to. His sister, Sarah, hassles him because she wants to meet this stranger who's been taking up all of Rafe's free time, finally happy that her brother is 'seeing someone' who isn't a complete jerk.

His best friend, Kelce, begs Rafe to introduce them or at least tell them a name, and have even tried to sneak out of his apartment with Rafe to spy on them (to which Rafe immediately shut down). But Rafe likes the idea of keeping you all to himself, just for a little bit.

Sure, his sleep schedule is even more messed up, but seeing the beautiful stranger every morning is such a goddamned bonus.

Oh, and it's no longer stranger. He learns your name the third time you see him.

Rafe learns that you're majoring in graphic design but that you have a serious love towards history and art, and immediately shy-ed away when he asked you to draw something, anything, on the spot.

And Rafe thinks it's so attractive that you're calm, collected, and easily embarrassed. You're shy, no matter how much you try to hide it. But you've been getting more and more comfortable with him every morning and he counts that as a huge step in his book. The books you read every morning are nonfiction pieces for your classes, and bring a sketch book a couple times a week as a substitute when you don't feel like indulging in history at the ass crack of dawn. 

He's been practicing soccer every morning now and his teammates comment on his change in precision and dribbling, and all Rafe can do is shrug and bitch about how he's the best on the team and can't help his natural talent (which his friends are used to hearing, and immediately humble him).

Well, little do they know you're the entire reason for that, and Rafe teeters between telling you that or keeping that to himself. 

The only downside to all of this is that Rafe's sleep schedule is...no longer. 

He stays up during the night, partying, sketching, whatever, and then makes his way to the field around five-am to practice and wait for you to get there (to make it look like he's already been practicing), and sometimes he doesn't even practice but instead waits on the bleachers for you if he has a game that day, not wanting to push it.

But then Rafe stays with you well into the morning, time that he usually spends sleeping is spent talking and chatting ears off.

Pathetically, he doesn't want to miss a day with you, yet he's really fucking tired.

Maybe you'll understand? Or you won't, and Rafe will have to go back into a panic to figure out if you're actually into him or not. 

Rafe genuinely thinks he's dumb, because you'll graze his hand against his or subtly compliment him, and he doesn't know how to respond, and will just carry on normally because he doesn't want to assume anything is going on.

Because if there's nothing happening between you, then Rafe doesn't want to be embarrassed for thinking that way.

Rafe needs verbal confirmation if you're into him, because these subtle ways of being touchy and flirty are very confusing to a dumb person.

A.K.A., him.

The realization that you're horrifically down bad for Rafe Cameron hits you at approximately 3:22am on a random Sunday, a week after you meet.

You'd gone to bed around eleven, trying to get some early shut eye before your Renaissance history exam tomorrow. The prep had you cozied up in the library all day, forcing yourself to reiterate the material to no end until you were seeing your handwriting in your head when you shut your eyes.

That's usually your tale-telling sign to know when to wrap it up.

But the effort to get plenty of rest proves fruitless in its attempt due to the giant fucking spider you see a foot away from your face.

Panic rises in your chest.

After all, you often wake up naturally during the night at least once to turn over or stretch your legs and sometimes think you see something, like the hoodie on the back of your chair that looks like a person or the piece of string on your floor that emulates a snake. In the moment, you try to convince yourself that it's one of those pranks your brain likes to play on you.

When it moves, however, that's when you scream.

You fliiiiiing off the bed, landing harshly on the tile with a thud, probably dragging half of your bedspread with you as you fumble for the lamp switch on your dresser.

The light makes it worse, because it proves your suspicions as you stare at the biggest spider you've ever seen on the wall, inches from your pillow.

Of course, you panic.

Heart racing, you freeze in your spot as you can't seem to take your eyes off of it, scared that it'll disappear into your sheets or behind your bed if you move or look away for a fraction of a moment. It's a standoff, you realize, and it doesn't look like it's going anywhere.

And there's no way you're getting near it.

Your fingers shake as you reach for your phone on the dresser, not once taking your eyes off the creature. Once it's in your hand, you pause and suck in a breath.

What the fuck is your phone gonna do?

Think, you repeat in your head. Breathe. Call Laney.

Your thumb ghosts over your best friend's contact, but your heart sinks when you catch a glimpse of the time.

Christ, it's the middle of the night. No one is awake at this hour.

You groan, eyes flickering between your phone and the spider that stays still on your wall, probably thinking of its plan to kill you, or whatever arachnids normally plot.

Trembling in place, you run through your options.

A. You could attempt to throw something at it, but that would only work if you had a guaranteed throwing accuracy, which you do not have. This will probably result in you missing entirely, and the spider vanishing in your sheets to never be seen again. Nope.

B. You could attempt to call Laney or your RA for some roadside assistance, but you know that Laney of all people, who once shrieked and ran from a wasp (it was really a fly), would really be of no help. And your RA often slept through a lot of concerning events, as in multiple fire alarms, a cat fight right outside his door, and, once, a literal firecracker. Nope.

C. You could grab your lighter and attempt to light it on fire. Given the circumstances, you're also guessing that's a fat nope.

D. There's a-

Your endless spiraling comes to a halt when you get a text, a fucking text, none other than from Rafe Cameron. At three in the morning.

Rafe: hey! someone make a greg and rowley edit to fake plastic trees. got me fucked up lowkey. heres the link. lets debrief about it later.

A moment passes and you blink hastily at the message, wondering if your eyes are playing tricks on you or if he, truly, is awake right now casually looking at god knows what. You re-read it once, twice, double checking the time stamp he sent it, mere minutes ago, and your chest pains in embarrassment at what you're about to do.

Your gaze darts from the text to the spider and back to the text.

God, your options are thin.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you're pressing on his contact, hitting the call button.

It rings once. "Please don't tell me I woke you up from that stupid text."

"No, um." You bite your lip as you eye the spider. "Uh, are you busy right now?"

"Besides talking to you? Nothing, pretty. Isn't it past your bedtime?"

You hate how your cheeks burn at his nonchalance, but are thankful he can't see you right now, even though he might at some point in the nearby future.

"What's wrong?" Rafe's tone morphs from teasing into what sounds like concern.

"It's stupid," you whisper, swallowing your pride. "But, uh, there's a giant spider in my room, I'm not kidding the size of my palm. I'm just, like, kinda freaking out?"

There's shuffling on the other end, a grunt, then a thud.

"Ow," Rafe grumbles and it sounds far away, as if you aren't meant to have heard it. "What dorm are you in?"

Your heart flips. "Shaffer. But Rafe, you really don't-"

"Room number?"

"509. But-"

"Nah," he interrupts nonchalantly, as if he won't entertain the thought of not helping you. "I'll be there in five. Talk to me, what'd you do today?"

Rafe arrives in three minutes.

Creeping to the door without taking your eyes off the spider, you open it to reveal Rafe Cameron, clad in sweatpants and a ridiculous graphic t-shirt (that looks like it's inside out), hair disheveled and sticking in every direction, holding his phone to his ear where you're still connected on the call. His green sneakers are untied. His smile is bright.

You try not to stare. You really try. Especially since you're supposed to be keeping an eye on the problem to begin with, but it's hard to resist when he looks so disgustingly endearing.

Eager, even, to help you out.

"Good to know it hasn't eaten you yet," Rafe jests, hanging up the call and putting his phone in his pocket.

You swallow the lump in your throat and step aside to let him in. "You really didn't have to-"

He places a cool palm over your mouth, startling you into shutting up.

Blinking stupidly up at him, all your senses are inhibited when you realize how close he is, how you can smell his cologne and see how bright his blue eyes really are.

"None of that." Rafe grins at your wide eyes. "Now, where is it?"

It's almost annoying how fearless he is.

While you're huddled in the opposite corner of the room, hugging yourself through your thin pajamas, Rafe simply scans the scene in front of him: the array of sheets and blankets hazardously scattered on your floor, the spider on the wall, your hand-sized penguin plushie that Laney got you as a joke. He can't help but cheekily smile to himself, getting a glimpse of you through the items you have, the photos you have hanging up, delaying the arachnid trapping for a moment to be selfish.

You catch him staring at a photo on your wall under your miscellaneous posters, and clear your throat.

Rafe snaps his head back to you, as if forgetting why he's here. "Right, sorry, pretty."

You reel as you watch him. Looking around for items he can use for the entrapment, Rafe settles on a discarded empty coffee cup from your trash can, kneeling forward on your bed and holding the cup underneath the spider.

The thump of your heart only gets louder as you see him nudge it with his own bare hand into the cup.

Once the spider is in it, he simply puts his palm over the top, covering it with not so much a second thought.

Rafe stands normally, tilting his head with puzzlement when he turns around to face you, wide eyed and, frankly, a little horrified.

"What?"

"Wh- You-" You splutter. "You touched it."

All he does it shrug, as if it literally means nothing. "No biggie. You have any ops on this floor? I can set him down so he crawls into their room instead."

After you escort him (from a distance) to relocate the spider outside, Rafe only deems it polite to walk you back to your room. On the way back in, he catches a glimpse of himself in the window and winces at his appearance, so the whole walk back he's been subtly trying to flatten down his unruly hair. You stifle a laugh each time he brings his hand up to mess with it more, undoubtedly making it worse.

By the time you get back to your door, it's worse than before. But he's never looked better, in your opinion.

"Um, thank you," you say sheepishly, toying with the strings of your pajama pants. "I know it's late. Or early. Whatever you wanna call it."

Rafe's smile couldn't be bigger. "I was up anyway."

You frown. "I don't think that's very good for you. You know, not sleeping."

Your tone reeks of concern, frankly a little embarrassing to express such distress for his well-being despite knowing him for only a week now.

But he barely seems fazed by it, instead shrugging. "Maybe. But then I wouldn't have answered your call, hm?"

The amused gleam in Rafe's eyes make your head fuzzy.

"I guess," you mumble. "I'll get you a coffee for your...troubles."

Rafe laughs boyishly, leaning against your doorframe as if he has all the time in the world to talk to you. "No need, pretty. I'm a certified arachnid relocator. I'm putting this shit on my resume. You honestly did me a favor," he rambles. "Needed a new job to put on there, anyway."

You can't help but roll your eyes, not really understanding how he has the energy to quip with you right now.

"Right, put it under your specialty in kickball," you tease, fighting a smile when you see his brows raise. "Will you please try and get some rest?"

"Depends," he hums, tilting his head to the side in contemplation. "Will you be at the field tomorrow?"

Ignoring the way your heart leaps, you shake your head. "Can't. All the more reason to catch up on sleep, no?"

"Are you asking me to?"

"Begging, really."

Rafe then nods, but not without trying - and failing - to suppress a stupidly large grin. "Alright, fine. For you? Anything?"

When you finally convince him to go back to his room (only the building next door), you can't help but lie awake in your spider-free bedroom, staring at the dark ceiling as your mind replays the last thirty minutes over and over.

Yeah. You're already in deep.

Rafe's been meeting you for a few weeks now, ever since the spider incident, almost every morning to talk and hang out.

A couple days a week you'll get coffee before classes to keep Rafe stable, and he discovers that you two always have something to talk about, and if there's silence it's always comfortable and natural. You often watch the sunrise in silence when it first awakens, and then carry on your normal routines when the beauty is over. 

It's so stupidly endearing to him that you let him share your moment with him.

Safe to say he's horrendously down bad...despite his overwhelming fatigue.

This morning has been exceptional rough for Rafe, because around three in the morning while he had been bored tinkering with things in his room, he suddenly remembered a paper that needs to be written before his noon class.

Of course, it's the middle of the night. He knows you're definitely asleep and there's no way he'd wake you up for something like this.

Naturally, Rafe spirals into a messy panic, standing in the middle of his room for a few moments debating on writing the paper here in his dorm or just taking all his things to the bleachers and doing it there while waiting for you. He does have a couple hours to spare, but Rafe doesn't think when he grabs his backpack, laptop, and book and runs out of his dorm.

The darkness of the night has never bothered him, not while the moon shines above him and illuminates his path. It's one of the reasons he loves nightfall so much, is because of the beauty of the moon and the light that it reflects on the earth. He wishes he could see the craters more clearly so he can soak in all of her beauty, but tonight he's in too much of a rush and panic to really think about the deep ideas of the moon.

When Rafe gets to the bleachers, he immediately opens his laptop and starts writing, whipping his book out so that he can reference quotes and cite pages while he lazily goes off his shitty outline he wrote a few nights ago about the premise of his paper. The words he hastily types come out as lethargic unpleasantries, and he really, really tries to focus to make it good, but his head keeps lulling forward and his fingers shake from fatigue.

He doesn't even care. He's a STEM student anyway, so literature isn't really at the top of his list of things to care about.

But god forbid he misses a morning with you.

So he lounges back on the bleachers, ferociously typing away everything he can and scraps together every piece of knowledge he has about the book.

And that's exactly how you find Rafe a few hours later: head tipped back with his legs stretched out, laptop discarded beside him with a black screen, light snores emitting from his mouth and his hair disheveled in every sort of direction.

And you think you're gonna melt at the sight. 

Rafe is startled awake by a loud squawking by his ear, and yelps quietly while he shoos away the crow on the fence and tries to remember where he is and what he was doing. He sees the sun...the soccer field...holy shit, where are-?

You, sitting next to him with his laptop in your lap, waiting patiently for him to wake up. You try (and fail) to suppress a grin as you notice how disheveled he is right now, who's trying to piece together what he had been doing before he passed out.

"Good morning," you greet warmly. "Sleep well?"

"What time is it?" Rafe immediately asks, mind fuzzy from the short amount of sleep. "I have class at-"

"Noon," you interrupt calmly, trying to ignore how stupidly attractive his morning voice sounds, "I was planning on waking you up in an hour or so in order for you to have enough time to get there, but your professor emailed you and the rest of your class to tell you that class was cancelled for a family emergency. So I wasn't going to wake you at all, but that crow had other plans for you. Sorry."

Rafe sits up and rubs his eyes, cracking his back and stretching from the uncomfortable position, still foggy as he looks at your pretty and yawns. "I need to...I need to finish a paper. It's about-"

"Frankenstein?" you interrupt again, looking very prideful. "Don't worry, I've read the book before so I finished it for you. I also re-wrote everything you wrote because...well...it wasn't making sense. I mean, no offense or anything. I kinda submitted it already since it was still due at noon, so..."

Letting out a breath of relief, Rafe slouches and utterly destroys his posture as he regains his ability to think coherently.

His mind catches up to the situation. You found him asleep, finished his essay for him, and waited for him to wake up so you wouldn't disturb him?

Yup. Yeah, it's official, he's smitten with you.

"I don't know how to thank you," murmurs Rafe, unknowing of what to even say, scratching the back of his neck as he peers over at you.

You simply shrug, handing the laptop and book back to Rafe (of course while grazing your fingertips together, hopefully intentionally).

"Think of it as..." You rack your brain for words. "...Me returning the favor. You know, for the spider."

His mind is mush.

All he can think about is you not thinking twice to help him out, despite his idiocy and consistently scrappy appearance. Somehow, somehow, he hasn't driven you away yet. Just when he thinks he's fucked something up, you come back.

"That was- I wanted to do that for you."

Once again, you shrug. "And I wanted to do this for you."

Rafe blinks stupidly at you, unable to form a coherent thought. What ends up coming out of his mouth is, "You wrote a paper."

"Yeah."

"For me."

"Well, I couldn't submit the garbage you came up with. No offense, or anything, but I think you confused Frankenstein with Frankenweenie."

"That's a common mistake."

You manage to crack a smile. "Is it?"

Rafe decides it's one of the prettiest things he's ever seen. "Mhm."

But, of course, he has to ruin the moment by yawning so horrendously audacious that he nearly groans in self inflicted embarrassment.

"Sorry," he winces when he comes down from it, rubbing the side of his face in exhaustion. "That's my body's involuntary response to when a pretty girl writes my papers for me."

You roll your eyes to push away your shyness, to ignore the heat flushing your cheeks.

"You really should get some rest."

Rafe yawns again. ""M not tired."

Despite the dark circles under his eyes, Rafe looks perfectly content on these bleachers, leaning back onto the row above and lounging brazenly. His head is lulled in your direction, looking up at you with those pretty blues and a half lipped smirk that seems to be permanently etched on his face whenever he's with you.

You wring the ends of your shirt, nervously biting your lip under his intense gaze.

And you're speaking before he can call you pretty again.

"Well, how about this. After you get some sleep, we can...we can get dinner? We can even do take out, or I can try and chef something up in the communal kitchen, or something..."

His mouth drops open.

You trail off, unsure of what to make of his flabbergasted expression. Is he...Is this not what you thought it was?

But Rafe is over the moon, unable to get that stupid shocked look off his face as he realizes holy shit he thinks you're asking him out? and he can't find the energy to move, he's frozen, relaying the thought over and over in his head that you, of all people, are into him.

Are you? Or is this some sort of friend-quality time thing that's going over Rafe's head because, contrary to popular belief, he's very smart when it comes to blueprints and designs and sometimes mathematics, but also very dumb when it comes to pretty girls.

Is this a direct invitation on a date or not? His tired brain doesn't know how to think strai-

"I'll take that as a no...?"

Rafe blinks his way out of his thoughts at the sound of your voice again, and he finally finds the words and mumbles out a curse word as he notices the confused guise on your pretty face.

He immediately widens his eyes.

"No, no, no-"

Your brows raise.

Rafe recoils. "Yes! Well, I mean yes, yes, I'll get dinner with you. Sorry, I just...Yes, I'd love to." 

You find it in yourself to laugh, and subtly let out a breath you've been holding for all that time Rafe had been yelling at himself in his head, debating the context of the invitation.

Blinking blearily, Rafe shakes his head, trying to figure out if he's still sleeping and he's dreaming, or if this is actually happening to him. But with the intensity of his rapid heartbeat and the way you look so vividly real and present, he deems that this is in fact not a dream, and this is happily real life.

"Good, because I don't know what I'd do if you said no," you joke, twiddling your thumbs out of nerves and letting out a low chuckle. "Probably never talk to you again."

Rafe waves you off with a proud look on his face, a wide grin, saying your name with such a saccharine tone that it makes your brain go fuzzy.

"Oh please, like I'd even think of blowing off my very own essay-writer. I may be stupid, but I am not an idiot."

This makes you laugh with that stupidly adorable smile that you can't seem to fight off that well, and Rafe takes in how beautiful you are, with your perfect grin and bright eyes that remind him of the the lightness in his chest when he finds something funny, or how your sweet voice smoothes over the ridges and hills of his heart and fills in the gaps affectionately.

(Which is painful for Rafe to endure because he loves it so much).

"You are pretty stupid," you admit quietly, timidly. "You're stupid for losing sleep over me."

Rafe closes his agape mouth at the fact that he's been caught. "Well it's worth it." Then softer, "You're worth it."

You roll your eyes and stand up, Rafe watching you do so. "You shouldn't have to accommodate your entire schedule for me. Honestly, you should go home now and sleep," you suggest earnestly, because all you want is for him to be at his best.

"Only if you'll come with."

Your heart skips a beat and you find yourself rolling your eyes once again, but this time feeling heat creep up on your neck no matter how hard you try to fight it.

It's always something about the way Rafe flirts with you so effortlessly, and how you can tell he means it. 

"Fine," you agree gently, saying it as if it was a bad thing (although your suppressed grin gives that away), "c'mon, you stupid idiot."

So, Rafe gets his things together and leaves the signature bleachers with you, this time finding the gall to slip his hand into yours, gingerly squeezing.

All this time, he wondered what it'd be like to hold your hand, and safe to say it's even better than his preconceived expectations.

© salem-s please do not copy or replicate work unless given permission.

notes some fluff for these hard times. hope you enjoyed!

[salem-s]

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.

[salem-s]

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 | NEXT PART ── 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, 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.

[salem-s]

ADMIT YOU HATE THE WAY YOU WANT ME (18+) ── RAFE CAMERON ONE SHOT

── SYNOPSIS you and rafe have been academic rivals for years, fighting tooth and nail for the top spot in your shared major. you just never realized that his hatred stems from how badly he wants you. ever the opportunist, you jump at the chance to use that information to your advantage. ── WARNINGS language, fingering, handjob, p-in-v sex (unprotected, do not follow in their footsteps). 18+ mdni. ── WORD COUNT 7.5k. ── NOTES edited from past tense to present, so let me know if there are any mistakes. consists of down-bad!rafe. ── SONG OF THE CHAPTER come as you are by nirvana

It's no secret you and Rafe Cameron undoubtedly hate each other. 

You and Rafe have been fighting for the top academic spot in your major ever since sophomore year of college, the tight-knit concentration coincidentally leaving endless leg room for competition. So now, as seniors, your rivalry has been prolonged for years and years upon end.

You were raised as being the best or being nothing. He spent his whole life fighting for his father's attention from his siblings.

Given this, the two of you are too disastrously headstrong to be civil.

All these years consisting of constant bickering and bitching and bragging, shoving each other's tests scores in the other's face and comparing open-ended questions, and ultimately always finding a way to argue about literally anything under the sun without fail left you red-faced and more irritated than ever.

You call it arguing. He calls it debating.

You aren't necessarily certain on when the quarrels started, because you had actually been decent friends freshman before this mishap happened. You both were good- really good- then one day he just...was mean and uninviting and just...not the Rafe Cameron you knew.

Perhaps it started when your classes got more competitive, or when you - briefly - started dating that one kid from Sig Chi, or how you deliberately swerve his incessant pickup attempts.

So, you fight back.

Of course, it stings to hear him constantly bringing you down, but the only way to mask that hurt is to pretend you don't care, to pretend to give a shit about academics, to try and double the blow right back at him.

Though you do enjoy seeing him all riled up, how the tips of ears turn red and how he stares you down with those bright blue eyes that only see red. You'd almost believe he hates your guts.

But you never comment on the way Rafe stares at your bare legs whenever you wear shorts, or let his eyes wander shamelessly low when you wear a low cut shirt, or how his touch will sometimes linger a little too long on your hot skin.

Knuckles occasionally brush knuckles, arm against arm when you sometimes find yourself walking alongside him, knees bumping when he forces his way next to you in lecture and shamefully manspreads.

Spring time is always fun in the way it allows you to just get away with showing some skin, wearing short skirts that leave no room for imagination as you purposely bend down to grab an intentionally discarded item, fully knowing his sneaky eyes evidentially wander to you. Even crossing your legs in front of him make him shift in his seat, even if he never realizes that he does so for you.

You, of all people.

One day you came to class with the faintest notice of a hickey on the spot just below your ear, and saw Rafe gripping the bar underneath his desk so hard his knuckles turned white. 

You slowly - yet gradually - learned the effect you have on big, bad Rafe Cameron, and fully use it to your advantage with every opportunity that presents itself.

You thought of it as a game, a little fun in between your studies to momentarily distract him while you sweep the rug out from underneath him to land on top. To be an enigma he can't touch, to be far enough out of reach for him to yearn but never have, to give him a sliver of hope every time just to yank his chances away.

Well, you didn't know just how much control you have over Rafe until you catch him red handed.

The first time is exhilarating.

For you, not him, because he is so, so embarrassed, an emotion he never really understood until it came to you. And that's probably why you feed off of it so badly, his blatant desire fueling your ego like a drug that you simply can't get enough of.

When it happened, you were in the library of all places, and your friend Elena left the table to go grab her paper from the printer while Rafe sat across from you, hurriedly writing his own notes before your upcoming exam while spewing out all the information he knew (simply to show off, of course). 

Coincidentally, you had been wearing a low cut shirt that day.

And without realizing it, while he was rambling to you about the configurations of one of the exam topics (nerd), you leaned forward and put your elbows on the desk, innocently perching your chin on your hands and watched his eyes involuntarily travel down, down, down, choking over his words and stuttering for a fraction of a moment before you immediately tilted your head, cheshire-cat grinning at his uneasiness.

"Rafe Cameron," you tsked sensually, prolonging every syllable in his name.

Rafe immediately looked away, his cheeks burning. For once, he had no response. You'd caught him, plain as day.

Frankly, it pissed him off.

Meanwhile, the sight had you squeezing your legs together.

"Play nice," you warned low, but not without a knowing grin. 

And thank god he was sitting down with the table to protect his cover, because he definitely sported a semi just at that. 

Ever since then, you've been trying to get him to look at you like that again as if you were competing in an Olympic sport. 

You unabashedly obsess over it, relishing in his lingering stares knowing he can't have you, prolonging eye contact a fraction longer to make him shift in his seat, perfectly curating your social media posts and stories to show slivers of skin. You know Rafe's paying attention, especially since you saw him unlock his phone last week just to open up to your Instagram profile.

This is just you getting your payback: through visual torture.

How can you not? You're practically sitting on a gold mine.

You deem it stupid to not take advantage of when one of the smartest people you know can't form a single coherent thought at the sight of some skin. 

Ever since that day in the library, Rafe is, unfortunately, able to confirm that he's undoubtedly attracted to you.

And, god, it's infuriating.

Rafe is all bark no bite, becoming a puddle of a mess at the single glance of your cleavage or bare legs, only yours, and no one else. He tries to drown you out by bringing girls back to his dorm, hooking up at house parties, drinking himself into oblivion. But nothing works, as his mind wanders to you almost every second of the day, slipping through his fingers like fog.

Every time you see him, you are able to sense the effect you have. It doesn't take a genius in order to. 

Your bickering and bantering continues like normal, but not without that glint in your eye like you know his deep, dark secret, like you know what he's thinking. The emotional intrusion always has him gulp as soon as you're out of sight, so you never see how horrifically down bad he is for you.

Today, you wear an outfit that makes Rafe spin around and go back to his room to "cool down." 

He sees you leaving your dorm wearing it: a tight black skirt over sheer tights, a white tank top hiding underneath a sleek jacket, black heels and a black thick headband. It isn't extravagant by any means, but it still has him a fucking mess in the middle of campus.

Rafe skips your study group that morning, and oh, you notice.

And the day only gets worse.

The time for your shared class rolls around, and he lingers outside the building waiting for the previous lecture to be let out. Though his solace only lasts for so long, as his heart leaps to his throat when he hears your all familiar heels clicking against the cobblestone, getting closer and louder and-

When Rafe looks up to find you, the trajectory of his yearning takes a complete 180 when he immediately notices something is wrong.

Based on the slight panic etched all over your pretty features and they way you're walking too fast paced to be considered normal, it seems as if you're running from something. 

"Where's the fire, princess?" he calls out to you sardonically, unable to help himself. 

But Rafe instantly knows he fucks up when you snap your head up, meeting his gaze. The panic is replaced with a flicker of relief, but the sight comes and goes as he sees a new gleam in your eye - one that only means trouble - and you don't hesitate to immediately beeline towards him with narrowed, knowing eyes.

His heart skips a beat at your stride.

Rafe also fails to notice Josh Anders on your tail.

"Go along with it," you hiss at him so seriously that he barely registers it.

And Rafe isn't able to express his confusion for long when you suddenly grab his shirt and pull him forward, your hand finding the nape of his neck to bring his lips down to yours, connecting them.

Fuuuuuuuuck.

He doesn't question it. Nope.

Rafe Cameron is rarely surprised. But this, your sudden act, has him utterly stunned. The years long mystery of wondering how you taste gets proved in this very moment.

The urge to pick you up and take your against the cold stone of this academic building is overwhelmingly high, but your words echo in his head so he does just that: he goes along with it, indulging in kissing you back and pulling your body taut against his, feeling your breasts press against his abdomen, and holy fuck if this doesn't feel absolutely fantastic.

Frankly, he's shocked that his knees don't give out or accidentally moan.

Suddenly he's self conscious. Did he without realizing?

Before Rafe can spiral further, you pull away and smile up at him like you've loved him for the entirety of your life, and it makes his heart pound.

"Hi, baby. Ready for class?"

Rafe peers down at you, mouth agape and lips puffy. His cheeks are, no doubt, burning and hot, and he feels it traveling down to his neck. A thousand words come to mind, but his voice betrays him.

"What are you-?"

"So that's the reason you kept saying no?" comes from behind them, where Josh Anders stands with a flabbergasted expression. "You're fucking him? Really?"

Then Rafe puts the pieces together.

Oh. This is a decoy.

Well, he's never been an actor but he figures he can start now. 

For you? Anything.

You spin to face Josh, a nimble hand toying with the edges of Rafe's shirt, and he isn't sure if you're doing that on purpose or subconsciously.

Either way, he doesn't mind.

"Yes, I'm fucking him, Josh." You lean into Rafe. The proximity makes him reel internally. "And even if I wasn't, why would I ever give you the time of day?" you snap with so much brute that Rafe knows all too well. 

He's been on the receiving end of that spice way too many times. There's a small part of him that almost feels...jealous? Jealous that it's not directed at him. Whatever the fuck that means.

Despite it, the way this tool is looking you up and down has Rafe putting an arm around your waist, pulling you closer, almost possessively, until you're taut against him to the point where your perfume invades his personal space. He decides to indulge in the moment a little longer, blatantly gripping your hip and messing with the ends of your shirt.

Rafe nearly scoffs at the audacity of this kid. How could he think he'd ever have a chance with you?

It makes his nostrils flare.

What the fuck is wrong with him?

"Oh please," Josh huffs, "you'd been coming onto me for months. How was I supposed to know?"

"If coming onto you means saying good morning, then I might as well have fucked half of campus by now."

"Yeah, probably." Then he mutters, "Fucking slut," that only Rafe seems to hear.

Rafe stills.

And he just can't help it.

"Call her that again and I'll knock your fucking teeth in," he seethes with so much calmness (on the outside) that even you can't contain your surprise. 

Yet Josh has the nerve to bark out a laugh. "You? C'mon, Cameron, you really wish you could."

"I wouldn't tease him," you suddenly speak up. "Remember what happened to Evan Geed?"

That shuts Josh up immediately.

Evan Geed was a piece of shit in an irrelevant fraternity who put his hand up Elena's skirt at a party a few months ago, and Rafe really had no problem stepping in and making sure he wouldn't be able to use his hands properly again for a long time.

Safe to say, you definitely thought about Rafe later that night.

"Whatever," the guy huffs, trying to act tough, "fuck you both."

Then the jackass stomps away, leaving the two of you cozied up real nice in the outdoor breeze. Despite the absence, you don't pull from Rafe just yet, keeping your fingers on the hem of his shirt, toying with it dangerously.

You're trying to remember all the hazy details of having him this close before you walk away, wanting to soak in the moment.

The moment comes and goes, though, as you begin to come to your senses. A fraction of realization coats your features, and Rafe can't help but laugh. Your apparent frustration is all the more reason for him to push you up against this building and repeat what happened just minutes earlier.

Instead, he smugly grins down at you. It feels good to be in control for once.

"What the hell was that?"

Now you push off of him, rolling your eyes and standing at a reasonable distance, crossing your arms with a scowl. "You were my way out, Cameron. Don't get your panties in a twist."

Oh, princess, Rafe thinks mockingly, yours already are. 

But instead opts for: "And of all people, you chose me?"

Oh, how he loves riling you up as you scoff once more, shifting your balance on the other foot and slightly popping your hip out. "Cam-"

"I'm so touched, so honored to have been your first choice," Rafe grins, leaning down to your eye level just to get that much more personal. He eats up your flushed cheeks, just barely, burning hot. "So, we going out or what, baby?"

Oh, you're embarrassed. 

Rafe's never been happier.

You point a finger at him, swallowing the lump in your throat and feigning irritation. "You call me that again and I'll kill you, yeah?" you threaten, but his grin only gets bigger.

The cocky smirk makes you squirm.

"With a gun. Or poison. Or with a knife." Then you shake your head and gag. "You know what, you're probably into that, so never mind."

"You wanna find out?"

Another eye roll. But your cheeks only get hotter. "Over my dead body, Cameron."

You begin walking into your academic building towards your shared class, not waiting to see if he follows you or not and hoping he gets the hint and leaves you alone. But given the hurried footsteps heard behind you, the assumption is clear: he's not letting this go, possibly ever.

Much to your dismay.

"Now what?" Rafe quips, eventually falling into step alongside you. "Do we tell Elena about our relationship?" You nearly shove him when he purposefully bumps your shoulder. "Tell the whole student body?"

"Josh probably told half the population by now," you grumble. "God, I wish I picked literally anyone else. Now people are going to think I actually like you."

He knows it isn't true, but it does sting. Just a tad. 

Despite it, Rafe doesn't falter. "What's wrong with that, princess? Maybe you could get laid for once, get rid of all that pent up rage in your pretty body." 

Rafe has no idea where this newfound confidence with you is coming from, but goddamn it, if he doesn't enjoy getting you riled up, call him a dirty liar. This easily becomes his favorite tactic to get you tongue-tied, making up for all those times you left him dumbfounded at your low shirts and short skirts, all the times he's been sleeping around wishing it was you underneath him, writhing against him, moaning his name.

Now that he knows how you taste, there's no way he's letting you get away this easy.

You narrow your eyes at him, scoffing once more. "What? Like you'd be able to please me?"

Rafe doesn't miss a beat. "Yes."

God, that sparks an embarrassingly sharp jolt to your core.

However, you'd rather die than let on your attraction to him, so you pretend the comment doesn't turn your mind to mush and hum teasingly instead.

"Easy there, Cameron, don't get ahead of yourself," you warn as a joke, not losing pace in your step. "You're the one who folds at the sight of bare legs."

But Rafe notices your lack of dislike for the term 'princess' and the way you nearly gulp when he says it, and everything is suddenly falling into place.

"We can have fun with this, you know," he prompts temptingly, continuing his instigating. "Get those assholes off your back, and I could finally give half of Alpha Phi the hint that I'm not interested in them, like at all. It wouldn't be the craziest thing we've done."

And for a moment, you consider it, your steps gradually slowing down. The thought of being able to tease him all over campus instead of within the confinements of class and the library do sound very enticing, and it also gives the excuse of being around him more, perhaps a chance to learn about him outside of your lecture-fueled knowledge of him.

You fully stop and Rafe mirrors your actions until you stand toe to toe in the middle of the hallway, just paces away from the entrance to the small lecture hall.

Suddenly, he's much taller than you remember as you look up at him and he looks down at you. 

The close proximity spurs you on further.

"I suppose," you drone on in contemplation, tapping your chin as if in deep thought, looking him sultrily in the eye. How badly he yearns to kiss you again. "But then again, it's you."

Rafe chuckles lowly. "I could say the same about you, princess."

Your breath hitches slightly - just slightly - at the disgustingly endearing nickname, and you really hope he doesn't notice.

But he does. His dick twitches at the sight. 

"You don't know the first thing about having a girlfriend. How are you ever going to learn so fast?" you say sarcastically, almost pouting up at him, prolonging the inevitable.

"I'm not sure if you're aware, but I'm currently top of our major."

"Second best."

"You sure about that?" He's so close to kissing you. 

You nod. "Mhm. Definitely."

Rafe's gonna do it, he really is going to do it, he is millimeters away from your lips and he's leaning in, and, shit, you're leaning in, too-

Until the lecture door bursts open, and there stands your best friend Elena, looking at you as if she's seen a ghost, flabbergasted at the scandalous scene in front of her. Rafe straightens up with a smirk, your bodies getting further and further apart.

Your heart skips a beat as he looks down at you expectantly. You realize you've been holding, no, grasping his shirt like your life depends on it, and quickly drop your hands at the revelation and ignore the stupid grin on his face. 

"Are you gonna come inside or let everyone keep watching you through the windows?" hisses Elena, ushering you inside.

You blink, looking past her to see the suppressed grins of your classmates through the window, some whispering to each other and others watching in amusement. All these years, they've bore witness to all your qualms, quips, and jests at the other's expense. You're sure some of them have bets about if you've fucked already.

Shit, your cheeks burn at the intrusion.

Despite it, you show your indifference by rolling your eyes in you-like-bravado, entering the room without so much a spare glance towards Rafe, who stays in his place to shamelessly watch your ass as you walk away.

When you pass Elena, she mutters, "Horny motherfuckers."

And the games begin.

You last two more days of lingering touches before locking a random janitor's closet behind you both.

Rafe navigates swiftly in the dim light, and his hand finds the nape of your neck and guides your body towards him, leaning down and attaching your lips for the second time this week.

This time he doesn't hold back a sigh when you kiss him back, because that fleeting moment two days ago has been the only thing he can think about every time he closes his eyes. The noise is, surely, embarrassing, but he can't even find the energy to care because you're here, with him, messily gasping into his mouth at the ferocity.

Perhaps it sounds more like a moan because you instantly grin against his lips.

"Easy, Cameron," you warn slowly, sensually, "someone could hear you."

"Shut up," Rafe mutters against your lips, connecting them again and not holding back when he slots his tongue inside your mouth when your lips barely part, simultaneously pulling your lower back into him. 

Jesus, he's incredibly hard already. 

And it gets even worse when you feel it, removing your fingers from his belt loop to slowly, slowly, slowly work your hand down his hip bone to cup him through his jeans, to which he immediately sighs into your mouth, gripping your hip harder when you squeeze. 

"Not so tough now, are you?" you tease. 

Rafe wants to tell you to shut up again, but the words die in his throat as he felt you undo his belt buckle and unzip his jeans, putting your hand down his pants before he can even blink.

And the skin to skin contact with his cock and your cold fingers send a chill down his spine, and he undoubtedly moans because holy shit, he's been dreaming about you touching him like this for years, to which you immediately kiss him again to shut him up. 

His first mistake is looking to where your hand meets his cock, watching your dainty fingers disappear into his pants and pull him out. Rafe hisses at the cold air, eyes glued to the sight of your small hand taking his length like a moth drawn to a flame. Your thumb presses over his leaking tip, spreading his pre-cum down to make your work a little easier.

"Shit, you feel so fucking nice," Rafe breathlessly hums. "Doing such a good job, baby."

"Been thinking about this for so long," you whisper, the confession ghosting the shell of his ear before you can stop it.

Here you both are: needy and flush in a dingy custodial closet, fondling each other like you have every right.

So long, he thinks pathetically. You've wanted him for-

Rafe's disbelief comes in a form of a scoff, mainly to himself, because you could've been doing this sooner?

You jerk him off painfully slow, and he just knows that you're getting off to the sound of his muffled moans and shifty hips, based on how you (sub)consciously rub your thighs together and sigh into his mouth. You squeeze him particularly hard with one stroke that has you cheshire-cat smiling against his lips.

Oh, you don't know what you're in for after you're done with him. 

"Such a damn tease," Rafe murmurs lustfully, eyes closed and head thrown back in bliss. "You're drivin' me crazy."

You lower your head to nip at his neck, licking and sucking and tugging his hair with every ounce of passion you're able to give to him. It isn't until you sigh contently against the vocal chord on his neck until, suddenly, it feels like too much.

The overstimulation hits him immediately. 

Fuck, is he gonna finish already? 

Rafe falters and blubbers something incoherent, trying to tell you to slow down so he can, you know, not finish this early.

But you're a minx, and either you don't understand him or simply don't care, because your hand squeezes him a tad tighter and you jerk him off a little faster, more deliberate and calculated and undoubtedly grinning against his flushed neck at his rapid breath and tightened grip on her waist.

"Pri-" Rafe barely gets the nickname out, but instead groans when you pull his hair to get him to shut up.

"I want you to," you say, and you sound so damn sure of yourself that it makes his eyes roll back.

"You want me to, huh?"

God, he thinks of everything under the sun that'll prevent him from finishing right now in your hand. Exams, the color beige, loafers-

You don't make it easy, challenging him. "Mhm. Even if I ask really, really nicely?"

Mahogany, fedoras, hackey-sacks.

Realistically, Rafe can push you away any time he wants, knowing his strength outweighs yours a hundred to none. But he can't. Because your hand feels too damn nice and he's unbearably hard to the point where it hurts, aching for release regardless if it's all over his pants and boxers.

The image of your hand covered in his cum nearly sends him over the edge, biting his lip so hard that he's sure to draw blood.

"C'mon, Rafey," you purr into his ear. "You gonna give me what I want?"

Paperwork, a 9-to-5, a soda can.

Then, you pull your head back from his neck to look him in the eye and absolutely relish in his fucked-out state as you lean up to kiss him again, once, twice, because since you've gotten a taste it's like you never want to separate again.

"You're being a brat," Rafe manages to grumble, feigning irritation.

But you simply grin as you lean back again, the full blown pupils of his blue eyes revealing his arousal, his struggle. "Mhm, but you love it."

You waste no time kissing him again, a sloppy clash of teeth and tongue with stolen breaths and heated whimpers.

It isn't until your other hand, once settled in his hair, moves down the nape of his neck to firmly wrap around his vocal chord.

And, dear god, you lightly choke him.

The act sends Rafe over the edge.

"Fuck, fuck!" he splutters, rutting his hips into your touch and ultimately coating his underwear like a loser as you continue to ride out his high, jerking and grasping and praising him in his ear.

Rafe sees white for a moment, gripping your waist forcefully tight to the point where bruises will definitely litter your soft skin, hoping his mark on you will never go away. The spots in his vision slowly fade back to normal, chest heaving at the ferocity of his orgasm. Christ, his knees nearly give out from the blow as he takes in the toxicity of your scent: notes of shea butter and vanilla.

If this is how he finishes from your hand alone, he can't image what it'll be like to finish on you, with you, inside you-

"Aw, pretty Rafe Cameron," you sweetly praise, lulling him from the moment, "cumming in his pants at school."

"Shut up," Rafe grumbles, dropping his head on your shoulder so he can catch his breath. "You caught me off guard."

You still hold him in your hand, just barely brushing over his sensitive tip with your thumb. "Did I? Think you can give me another?"

It makes him twitch. The sight of you looking so pretty in front of him, eyes dazed in pleasure from getting him off as you peer up and him innocently, pulling your lip between your teeth and he has half a mind to lean down and bit it himself. That'd get you to shut up, for sure. Or his cock stuffed in your mouth-

The kicker is when you bring your hand to your mouth, diligently sucking on your fingers coated with him, lapping up every last drop.

Rafe watches you for every second of it.

"Could," he murmurs to himself. "But who's gonna take care of you, hm?"

Then Rafe's wandering hands initiate the next step, one dangerously sliding close to your breast under your shirt and the other ghosting over your lower hip, the one he clutched so tightly.

It isn't until his thumb swipes over your nipple just how bad you've been waiting for him, an involuntary moan escaping your pretty lips.

That makes him smirk. "Not so tough now, huh, princess?"

"You're being- mrrph-"

You nearly make the noise again when Rafe kisses you again and walks you forward, feeling like putty in his hands after taking care of him and (patiently) waiting your turn.

The back of your legs hit the table behind you, and he effortlessly picks you up and sits you down on the table, nudging your legs apart with his thigh as he pushes your all-too-short skirt up over your ass. You suddenly think back to all the times you've watched his hands drum on the desk, write notes down, flex at his sides, and nearly shudder in excitement knowing they're going to be all over you.

His hand trails up, up, up your thigh and his thumb toys with your clothed cunt, and your mind starts to get fuzzy with his fondling. You're almost anticipating a teasing remark from him, but when you look up in his eyes to try and gauge when it's coming, you notice he's already staring at you, eyelids low and sultry.

The sight makes you suck in a breath, and your hand comes up to squeeze his biceps tight. 

"What do you need, baby?" Rafe asks quietly, smugly as his other hand slips under your shirt again to knead your breast, his cool ring rolling over your nipple.

The sensation makes you sigh. 

"Do something, anything," you admit quickly, very out of character for you.

It only makes him grin harder. 

"Anything, mhm?" Rafe hums nonchalantly, meeting your gaze.

It's as if a flip's been switched. Every ounce of control you thought you have is out the window as you sit here, mind to mush as his hands grope you brazenly.

Your cheeks burn at the revelation. "Shut up."

The response is immediate. "Never."

Rafe removes his hand from your shirt to reach down, nimble fingers ghosting over your tights clad thighs and smoothing out the sleek material, almost in admiration. But instead of pulling them down like any other normal hook up, he rips the tights right by where your panties are soaked.

"Wh- Rafe! You- ngh-"

Your gasp falls onto deaf ears as he wastes no time brushing his knuckles over the wet patch on your underwear, arching your back involuntarily at the gentle act and seemingly groaning in frustration at his incessant teasing. He's handling you as if he's in awe, awe of your body, the scandal, the will and way of getting you in this closet.

This motherfucker-

The contact makes you whimper in his mouth and, fuck, all your senses dull when you see him painfully hard again, but he pushes your panties to the side, nearly moaning himself when he slowly drags his fingers along your cool slit, gathering up the mess you've made as if he's admiring the Mona Lisa herself.

"All this for me, baby?" The pride of making you this wet goes straight to Rafe's head. "Just from jerking me off?"

Yes, you think, and from every time I see you.

"Y-You're being awfully withholding," you attempt to retaliate, but your voice wavers and he barely acknowledges your fight.

In response, Rafe puts one, two fingers in, curling up and pushing himself all the way in to where his knuckles ghost your cunt.

"I'm being plenty nice." His words are so quiet that you're sure he meant to say it to himself.

You nearly curse when Rafe holds himself there in that position, unsure if it's out of teasing or genuine appraisal, you can't tell, and nonetheless writhe against his hand impatiently, nails embedding into the smooth skin of his biceps at the anticipation.

"Rafe," you whine, "please move-"

But he doesn't seem to care about your irritation as he slowly pumps his fingers in and out, almost fully leaving before entering again to curl into that sweet spot that has you writhing, burying himself until his knuckle meets your body.

Over, and over, and over.

"So tight," Rafe murmurs cockily, no doubt taking in the sight of your flushed cheeks and heaving chest. "Looking so pretty for me right now."

Your retort dies in your throat as his thumb navigates where it makes you squirm the most, and he wastes no time testing the waters that give him an excuse to learn about your body, to find the places that make you curl in on yourself and make those pretty sighs.

Rafe misses once or twice, but once he finds the spot that has you letting out a pornographic moan, he doesn't miss again.

The sound you let out is incriminating to the point where he has to lean in, pressing his lips against yours sloppily to swallow the noise. But it barely gets covered since he can't stop grinning, teeth clashing as you attempt to tell him off. Of course, the words don't come, especially when he lowers his head to attach his lips to your neck, sucking that oh-so sweet spot that has you arching into his body.

Rafe laughs against your hot skin at your body's reaction. "Dirty girl. You like this, hm?"

Whatever this is, the answer is obvious. You nod dumbly.

"Fucking my hand in a closet? Moaning so fucking loud that the whole building's gonna hear."

Your chest brushes against his, bodies impossibly taut and you never realized how fucking nice it feels to be this close to him.

The thought comes and goes as Rafe rubs your clit as his fingers work their wonder, while his other hand kneads and pinches and undoubtedly overstimulates you, just as you did to him. 

"Rafe," you pant.

"Mhm?"

"I'm- I'm gonna-"

"I know, baby." Rafe places a kiss on your neck before sucking another sore spot. He tries to ignore how the sound of you uttering his name has him achingly hard again. "You sound so pretty right now, give it to me."

Soon he has you rutting your hips against his fingers, moaning his name like it's the only word you were ever taught. The combination of his lips, his fingers, his hand shamelessly fondling your chest, it's all too much.

You sigh as your fingers find their way back to his tousled hair, pulling the strands as your orgasm builds up. Rafe has to kiss you to quiet down your moan when you come undone all over his fingers, rutting at him like a madwoman bitch in heat, and he loves every second of it because he's never heard a prettier sound in his life.

"Good girl," Rafe murmurs, and you can't deny the sharp jolt of pleasure between your legs at the sound.

"Fuck," you sigh against his lips, chest heaving, catching your breath from the intensity.

"Do you have a condom?" he asks immediately, and you tilt your head at him. "I know. Shut up."

"I'm on the pill," you murmur, still hazy from your orgasm, pushing the messy hair off his forehead. "It's fine."

"Are you sure?"

You nod as if you aren't sure of anything else but this. "Yes, Rafe. Just fuck me like you said you would, yeah?"

Rafe doesn't need to hear that twice.

He reaches down to pull himself out of his cum soaked underwear, dripping with pre-cum and you dreamily sigh at the sight.

The sound makes Rafe chuckle, pressing a concerningly endearing kiss on your lips that you achingly ignore. "Haven't even fucked you yet and you're already cock-drunk, hm?"

You scoff. "I am not-"

Of course, the words die in your throat when Rafe wastes no time lining himself up, pushing himself in slowly, slowly, slowly to let you adjust to his size, both moaning at the unbridled feeling of each other.

"Fucking- ngh- perfect."

And your eyes roll back as you take every inch of him, his cock being, undoubtedly, the biggest you've had.

Not that you'll ever tell him that.

But it seems like he can tell with how delicately he pushes into you, so deliberately slow that you feel dizzy at the sensation of being so full. Rafe takes in your sharp breath, how your brows furrow as you take all of him so well, inch by inch, until his pubic bone brushes yours and your bodies are impossibly taut.

"Doing so well, baby," he praises, sounding like the breath is knocked out of him. "You okay?"

You try and push his concern down a long, dark hole. "Y-Yes, feel so full."

So full-

He nearly scoffs at your words that - almost - make him stutter forward.

But he doesn't, and instead Rafe stays buried in you for a moment, composing himself before he can have another mishap, fingertips definitely bruising your hip as he holds himself there, fully embedded inside your warmth.

The stillness is unbearable.

You wiggle your hips against him impatiently and huff. "Rafe, if you don't start moving-"

But then he does, and holy shit, nothing feels better than this: your wetness coating him, your hot breath fanning against his own, and your little talons clawing at Rafe, Rafe, Rafe, as you keep pleading in his ear.

He's never heard a more angelic sound, especially when you practically scream it as he eventually reaches a hand down to toy at your clit for the second time.

Your moan sets him off, and you have to wrap your legs around his waist to hold him there tight based on the pace he's fucking you at. It's nothing gentle and soft like your recent affairs, but instead rough, deep, and unapologetically everything you want.

"Oh my god," Rafe groans. "Look at you. Taking me so goddamn well."

All you can do is pathetically whine in response.

Rafe continues fucking into you unabashedly, ramming his hips and practically pulling out every time just to thrust back into your cunt. The slaps of his body against yours echoes throughout the closet, shaking the miscellaneous items off the desk and clattering to the floor carelessly. Neither of you seem to pay attention, solely focused on the company of one another, the feeling of how perfect he feels inside you.

His words continue like a waterfall, never-ending and overwhelming and said so gutturally that it makes your head spin.

"Never letting you go, never gonna- fuck."

The animalistic pace he sets has your eyes rolling back, his cock plunging in and out of you with no mercy at all.

"You sound so fucking pretty," he albeit praises. "Even better than I imagined."

Your mind turns to mush when he moans your name.

The sound is like a mantra, something that feels so achingly familiar off his tongue. He's lost count of how many times he's moaned your name in the confinements of his room, how many times he's thought it in his dreams where he's fucking you just like this, even the one time he said it in bed with someone else by mistake.

"It's like you're made for me."

You're not sure which way is up right now, especially when his thumb continues rubbing circles on your already-stimulated clit, getting a ruse out of you as you quickly come close to your high once again.

"Oh, god," you splutter, "Rafe, fuck, don't stop, I'm-I-"

And then you come undone for the second time, coating him with such a pleasant warmth that it immediately has his hips stuttering, an unexpected release coming. A pornographic moan leaves his lips as he ruts into you like there's no tomorrow.

You both ride out your highs as he releases into you with such surprise that it catches him off guard, spilling an ungodly amount that outmatches his first orgasm by a landslide, and all you can think about is how fucking nice it is to feel him inside you, an unknown warmth that you've been missing out on that spills down your thighs messily.

Rafe's heaving chest brushes yours when he comes down. He tips his head back in bliss as you lean up to suck and lick his neck to help him finish, eliciting a low moan from him at the added stimulation. Eventually, his pace slows and your assisted kisses cease, and you're left in the embrace of one another, connected in a way you never thought possible.

With that, you sit for a minute with him still inside you, buried in you as if he's made to stay there, both aftermaths making a mess all over your thighs and spilling out of you, and Rafe forces himself to look away so he doesn't get hard again. 

Instead, he settles for his words.

"Such a good girl," Rafe murmurs into your neck, attempting to catch his breath. "So good for me."

You breathily laugh. "You moan like a pornstar," you muse and feel him laugh against your neck. "It was pretty hot."

"Aw, don't you get soft on me now," he warns.

You snort as your nails trail up and down his back, soaking in the position and allowing your eyes to shut for a fraction of a moment to relish in the way this feels, the way he feels, pressed close to you and completely unguarded.

There's a small twinge of fear prickling your mind that, when you separate and slip out of the haze of multiple orgasms, you're both gonna go back to the way things were before. As in: fleeting glances and nonstop bickering to the point where everyone else around you two knows the drill by now, lingering glances from across the room, back to casual tension.

Are things going to change? Is he thinking the same? Does he even want to do this again, or was this whole conquest just to get another notch off his mighty belt count?

Because you're familiar with his shtick, his one-and-dump sex method that girls all over campus seem to talk about, boast about their one night and one night only with the infamous Rafe Cameron that had their legs shaking and minds blurred. The stories haunt you, seem to follow you around, and that's why the chase has been so damn exhilarating, to give him the impression that he couldn't have you, that you were unattainable no matter how many times he gave you bedroom eyes.

Up until now.

Because you gave in.

Of course, you really shouldn't care, because if it really is a single experience, then you consider yourself spared from all the hardship and heartbreak that comes as the warning label that is Rafe Cameron. You're no stranger to one night stands, or one-middle-of-the-afternoon-stands in this case, and know the drill when it comes to concluding them.

You're about to shove him off when you feel Rafe move.

Your heart flutters when his hands slide from your waist to your back, splaying his fingers wide and keeping you there against him, chests taut and heartbeats synched. A contented sigh escapes his lips, hummed in baritone against your neck as he settles in, seemingly having all the time in the world.

The image has you reeling. Is Rafe Cameron... hugging you right now?

"I can practically hear you thinking."

You hate how Rafe can read you without even seeing your face, and you hate even more how stupidly mush it makes you feel. But you need to save your dignity, for future-you's sake. If you're going to be another notch on his belt, then fine, but you really need to know before you begin to spiral.

"What's goin' on in that pretty head of yours, hm?" His hoarse voice distracts you for a moment.

You suck in a breath. "Is this..."

You feel a light kiss right under your ear. "Is this a what, baby?"

How do you even broach the topic?

Hey, are we going to keep doing this? If not, should I just graphically imagine how you'd fuck me in every position to keep my mind at bay? If you're done with this, how about I introduce you to one of my friends? That way I could still be close to you.

God, you reek of desperation.

And you hate it.

"Was this just a..." you try and find the right words, "one time thing?"

One thing you don't expect from Rafe is a laugh.

A big, ol' audacious cackle that has you stilling in embarrassment.

You reel.

Was this whole scheme a ruse to distract you? To throw you off your game? Was he purposefully feeding into your teasing and delusions and bullshit to pull you right here into this very moment? To laugh in your face and strip you of your dignity so you'd crumble with the vulnerability?

You hate the way your heart lurches to your throat. "It's not funny."

The slight quiver in your voice has him quieting immediately, but not without a lingering snort as he pulls his face away from your neck to meet your narrowed gaze. It only hurts further when his hands rub up and down your back endearingly, and you tense at the touch with the anticipation of his rejection.

You try and act tough but it's hard, oh-so hard, when Rafe is looking down at you with his stupidly pretty blue eyes and soft grin that only augments your humiliation.

"It's a little funny," Rafe teases, then boyishly laughs again when he sees your angry frown. "What? You really think I'm letting you go after this?"

Wait, what?

"Huh?"

You can't help but blink stupidly back at him.

Because, what?

Rafe says your name incredulously. "You're kidding, right?"

Suddenly, you feel stupid.

And you really, really hate feeling stupid.

Especially at the hands of Rafe Cameron, someone who you've been competing against - for what feels like forever - on a scale of ingenuity. It irritates you to no end to have your mind resort to putty in front of him, because you know how much he craves having the upper hand. On those rare occasions when he has you grasping for straws, like now, his smirk gets a little cockier and his tone drops a little deeper, savoring the way you're utterly speechless.

All you can do is blink, mouth agape like a dumbass. "Wh- I- No?"

Rafe looks at you as if you've said two plus two is five.

"You know I'm obsessed with you."

No, you don't. You figured that was just frustration for being something he couldn't have.

The notion of being unattainable to him for sure was the only motivation to seek you out, since he's been given everything else in life with ease: money, smarts, looks. All the desirable qualities, all the things people yearn to have simply fell into his lap ever since he was born. To work for something, to truly work for something, is unheard of, in his world.

Except when it comes to you.

"I-" You attempt to respond but your mind pulls you in a million different directions. "You're not obsessed."

You can't be, you want to add.

But it doesn't faze him or make him falter, instead it eggs him on. Rafe cocks his head to the side, tilting in a way that invites confrontation as if he's eager to ramble on.

"Oh? I'm not?"

You nearly gulp. "No."

The way he's looking at you makes you want to shrink into a hole.

His thumbs rubbing circles on your back distracts you. "Go on, then. Tell me how I feel."

You splutter. "You can't be serious."

"I can," Rafe retorts. "And I am. Because you wanna know what I think?"

"No."

He goes on anyway. "I think you know exactly how I feel about you." Rafe leans in to press a chaste kiss on one of your cheeks. "I think you liked teasing me just as I like teasing you." He moves to the other. "And I think you want me just as bad as I want you."

The final kicker is a kiss on your lips that's so sweet it makes you feel dizzy.

You can't help but chase him slightly when he pulls away, and that makes his smile even wider.

"Admit it, princess," Rafe challenges against your mouth, the contact making you tingle. "Admit you hate the way you want me."

After all this time, all this discussion, you realize he's still inside of you.

The realization makes your breath hitch and your heart flutter, because you hate the feeling of not being in control, of not winning or coming out on top. He knows this. Rafe knows your incapability to secede, and is insisting you do so, anyway, regardless of rhyme or reason.

But, fuck, he is right, much to your dismay.

It's hard to deny how badly you've wanted him from the start, hard to pretend that it's hatred that's been fueling your fire all these years, hard to accept how puzzle piece perfect your body molds into his despite every ounce of your soul telling you no. It's hard to call it what it is, because the truth scares the shit out of you, the same truth you've been pushing down after every interaction with him. Because your need to be on top always outweighed your need for him.

Until now, as you sit here all flushed in front of him. All your cards are laying out on the table, and you fold your hand at his mercy.

"I..." You start, your brain short circuiting as Rafe stares at you with his pretty blues. "You may be right."

"May be?"

The spotlight is making you squirm. "Maybe."

His fingers butterfly splay over your back, pulling you tighter against him. And curse your body, because you involuntarily arch into him, molding into Rafe's body as if sliding a puzzle piece in its rightful place. Your legs gently shake, either from overstimulation or nerves, you can't tell.

You secede.

Immediately. "Definitely."

The grin he adorns is without malice or mockery, but instead genuine joy.

Rafe's kissing you before you can process it, and he's pulling back before you can even react so he can gloat. The amused gleam in his eyes tell you all you need to know about his demeanor. He won.

"See? Told you so," he teases, but his tone is far from kidding.

You're blushing and you hate it.

"Yeah, whatever. You're ridiculous."

"Sure," he answers, immediate. "But you're into it, apparently."

"Is this how you're going to be from now on?" You scoff playfully. "More annoying than usual?"

"Probably," Rafe confirms, leaning into your touch with a low hum as you caress his cheek gently. "Definitely."

All you do is shake your head.

"So?" You broach the topic, knowing it's coming at some point. "What now?"

Rafe boyishly laughs, and you decide you love the sound.

His fingers drum against your spine. "Well, I should probably pull out first-"

"Ew, Cameron-"

"-We can head back to the dorm, change out of these clothes, have a couple more rounds-"

"Oh my god-"

"-Maybe you can sit on my face. No, not maybe. I want you to sit on my face-"

"Rafe-"

"-Then I can take you out to dinner. Share a bottle of wine or an appetizer, or some shit like that."

Your heart skips a beat at the thought of it: a date with Rafe Cameron, certified campus prick, sitting across from you at a candle-lit, white table clothed restaurant.

If you told your-past self where you were right now, there's no doubt she'd laugh in your face.

The idea of a date...with him, of all people... It makes your head spin.

"Dinner? Is that so?"

Rafe hums in agreement. "You can wear a pretty dress. Then I can take it off you later. Or fuck you in it. Totally your call."

The insinuation has you slapping his chest and rolling your eyes, attempting to ignore the way warmth pools in your belly at the image he's planted in your head. Rafe chuckles again, clearly amused in his whole spiel.

"Sounds like you've thought about this," you tease, tracing his jawline with your finger.

The delicacy makes him lean further into your touch, longing for more. "Only every day since sophomore year, but who's counting."

"You, apparently."

Rafe hums, "Yeah." Then, softer. "Me, apparently."

His blue eyes bore into yours, eventually flickering down to your puffy, parted lips. The line of sight meets his end as he leans in, and Rafe Cameron kisses you in the softest way he knows how.

And, goddamn it, if you don't kiss him back the same.

You both stay there, his large hand cradling your jaw, as you lazily make out in the cool confinements of the custodian's closet that reeks of bleach and sex and tones of his cologne. Rafe holds you close, secure in the way that assures you he isn't letting go anytime soon, not while you've finally come to your senses and let your guard down.

As you sit here, practically in his arms and slotted against his mouth, years of pent of tension suddenly slide off your shoulders, cluttering to the ground in a heap of gratefulness.

You decide this is your favorite place to be: wrapped up in his embrace and thinking about nothing else but him.

Although it isn't until his cock twitches inside you that has his breath hitching, as Rafe pulls back a fraction to address it.

"So, my dorm or yours, pretty?"

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

notes holy carried away??? i initially wrote this as peter parker so excuse the peter parker-esque qualities that rafe may have. anyway, hope you enjoyed.

[salem-s]

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 | NEXT PART ── 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!

[salem-s]

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 | NEXT PART ── 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 dodici Ardoino, 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!

[salem-s]

STONEPIT FINALS AND SPRING CHAOS (18+) ── RAFE CAMERON ONE SHOT

── SYNOPSIS rafe's been your best friend since forever, and you thought he'd be ecstatic to see you after a three week trip; however, you overhear him telling his friends that it's been nice without you clinging to him every five minutes. so that's what you give him: space. every attempt to get you back falls short, and rafe's confusion only augments when he sees you running with a different crowd. ── WARNINGS suggestive themes, language, half smut (??? everything's over the clothes, lowkey switch!rafe), swearing, angst and miscommunication but with a happy ending. 18+ mdni. ── WORD COUNT 16.9k... That's genuinely not okay... ── NOTES edited from third person perspective to second, so let me know if there are any mistakes. ── SONGS OF THE CHAPTER guilty pleasure by chappell roan | transparentsoul by willow | misery business by paramore. we're gonna pretend these are original songs by their band, alright?

“It’s been nice to have some peace and quiet without her constantly attached to my hip.”

You've been replaying his words in your head all night.

Sure, you invited herself over with the intent to surprise him after being gone for three weeks. Coming home a day earlier than expected was a set in stone plan all along, and thought nothing of walking into one of his renowned parties like you always have.

The familiar crowd greeted you like an old friend, throwing around heys and you’re back already? and all the other surprise lingo. You truly did your best to smile and nod to all of them, however these people weren't really your friends, instead mere acquaintances in an adjacent social circle.

The one person you really wanted to see was, undoubtedly, out back smoking a joint or nursing a beer away from the crowd with his two close friends, so you knew exactly where to find Rafe Cameron whenever his six foot something height wasn’t peaking above the crowd.

So on you walked: through the yard, in through the kitchen, and out towards the back porch. 

Along the way, you bumped into his younger sister, Wheezie, who greeted you with a genuine hug and sigh of relief that, finally, she’d be able to tolerate any social gatherings held at her house, as long as you were there.

You mostly (always) sought out refuge in Wheezie's room when you didn’t feel like entertaining these rich kid assholes, or whenever you were getting bored with whatever conversations you'd been dragged into just for the sole purpose of keeping him company.

Wheezie, too, knew exactly where Rafe was and even grabbed your hand to lead you to him. 

"It’s been nice to have some peace and quiet without her constantly attached to my hip. The clinginess has really been pissin’ me off. It's like she can’t do her own thing."

And of course, Wheezie heard it, too, gripping your hand tighter out of pity - or compassion - you couldn’t tell.

Before Wheezie could do anything, you slipped her hand away and took a step back. The young girl looked mortified at her brother’s words, her mouth gaping open and closed like a fish to attempt to defend his words or spin them to make them mean something different.

But you both knew her fruitless attempts wouldn't mean anything.

They were jarring, the words he spoke.

And, frankly, they really pissed you off.

You only stuck around his hip at these things because he always told you to beforehand, something about not wanting you to wander off into trouble (which you had a tendency to do), or because you always grounded him when he was overstimulated.

Rafe was the one who held you close at night, whispering sweet nothings in your ear when he’d snuck in through the window after particularly rough fights with his father. He was the one who needed to hold you, to tether himself to someone, to something, just to make it through the night.

So why the fuck was he talking about your clinginess as he's the one who couldn't go one night without you? 

You scoffed when you heard it because, pfft, he must’ve been talking about someone else, surely. There’s no way he said that to his friends, and had the audacity to join in with their laughter.

Oh, it pissed you off.

Because if he really wanted space, sure, you could do that. No problem.

If there's one thing you prided yourself over, it was your dignity and stubbornness. You could give him space. You'll give him all the damn space and go find your own thing. 

Which is what you did later that night. 

Rafe had advised against it when the proposition was broached to you a couple weeks ago: a music gig.

Here's the sitch: you had a voice people would stop and listen to – not that you particularly liked boasting about it. It just came to you naturally, and you liked producing in the quaint privacy of your bedroom, mashing songs and creating unheard harmonies on audio software for fun.

You didn’t participate in the school plays or drama programs because, no, those were too on the nose and not the kind of music you'd like to sing (in front of people, anyway). Plus, all of the theater kids in the area are even more annoying than the preconception of the stereotype. Your voice was mainly barricaded inside the shower tiles or sitting pretty in the passenger seat of Rafe's car, or occasionally when you found yourself alone at the beach or on a walk in the dark. 

After a particularly grueling and obnoxiously abhorrent gala earlier in the summer, you found herself separated from the party and wallowing with a stolen drink in the back alley of the country club. Rafe was off entertaining whatever girl he had his eyes on for the night and Wheezie wasn’t feeling well so she didn’t attend.

You were bored, tipsy, and feeling pathetically lonely. So, naturally, you started singing softly to yourself in the quiet solitude of the alley, thinking you were alone.

What you didn’t know was that the staff – a group of Pogues who needed a quick cash grab in the catering gig – were having their smoke break, and conveniently needed a new lead after their old one transferred schools to the mainland. They were friends with Sarah, Rafe's other sister, who you haven't been close to since you were kids.

You were weary of their proposition, the group not normally being the kind of people you'd hangout with due to them being intimidating, almost too cool, to where you thought you wouldn’t fit in.

Oh, but you did. You did well. 

Rafe's overly protective words echoed in your head as you instantly beelined for the door despite Wheezie's pleas, leaving his home and immediately driving to the Cut.

You were told where they practice, a quaint house on the far side of the island where they could riff and rehearse without a noise complaint. You found herself standing in the garage with the mock stage, with a rising sense of pride and retribution.

You told them, fuck it, you were in, that you'd do anything to take the spot that was so graciously offered to you all that time ago, to contribute to their band and to the competitions held in the rough part of the island. 

And in you were. 

Meanwhile, Rafe had never felt so fucking lost in his life. 

Not when he got into earth-shattering arguments with his dad about his spending habits, his overflowing temper, or anything he did under the sun (because anything he did seemed to piss his dad off).

Not when he’d spent those months of endless fighting in a hole of self pity, drowning himself in partying and occasional lines to numb the phantom ache in his heart.

Not when he’d lose girlfriend after girlfriend because he was incapable of doing what was expected of a boyfriend, not what was expected of Rafe himself. 

He was constantly told growing up that feelings were weak, and wearing them on your sleeve was even worse. Being sad was just an excuse to get a pass, to draw attention to get people to feel bad for you. Being sad meant being weak. Being emotional meant being weak. Caring too hard about things meant being weak. 

Normally, Rafe was able to move past these episodes because he always had you to seek solace in. But he lost you.

And he had no clue fucking why. 

He wouldn’t admit it to anyone breathing that he’d been counting down the days until you arrived back from your trip, not even his closest friends that he clung to in your absence.

Because Rafe had a reputation to uphold, and revealing such strong feelings for his best friend would definitely damage his stone cold apparatus. People would see his walls broken down for you and they would assume they were entitled to the same treatment. 

No. Rafe liked being unapproachable. Feared, even.

He liked that you clung to him at parties, at the stupid gala events their families would organize to flaunt their money in expensive garb and even more expensive donations that they announce with a bullhorn and neon sign. He liked that you clung to him because he asked you to.

He always asked you to.

And you always complied. 

Deep down, Rafe knew that you'd rather go off and stir up some trouble instead, or not attend all together and get into even deeper shit somewhere else, but that meant that you'd be away from him, not under his protective eye, and that always stirred up something ugly in him.

Rafe had to come rescue you one too many times, most times you didn’t even need to ask.

He was just there, waiting for you to be done with whatever you wanted to do, then he’d drive you home and (almost always) stay over.

You would tease him relentlessly, you and your smart mouth riling him up to tremendous heights. But he relished in it. He craved it. Because he’d rather you drag him every time you opened her mouth instead of what you were doing now, which was ignoring him. 

And the radio silence was killing him. 

Rafe was ecstatic the day you got home, waiting in your driveway to bring you to school like always. But after waiting for what felt like ages, he found himself on the doorstep yelling at you to hurry up.

Instead of being met with your pretty, Rafe had to hear it from your fucking mother that you had already left, that you got a ride from someone else. 

That was just strike one. 

Arriving at school with a rise in his temper, Rafe was already having a bad morning.

He was irritated. All week he’d been texting with you about how you both were gonna get coffee and catch up in the car before parting ways for classes. It didn’t help that he was nursing a minor hangover, and he felt even more like an idiot bringing in your coffee that he’d gotten for you anyway. 

Strike two was when Rafe saw you in the hallway, and the weight in his chest immediately lifted at the sight of you, glowing with a new gleam in your eye that had him yearning to know more about what you were up to.

The prior anger fizzled away the closer you got. You were walking straight to him as Rafe grinned and stuck out the coffee for you.

But as you got closer, Rafe's smile slowly faded as he noticed you were looking beyond him, brushing past him with that beautiful smile – the smile meant for someone else.

He spun around to see who you were ignoring him for, and scoffed when you were greeted with open arms to his sister and her friend group of wannabe rock Pogues that pissed Rafe off at any chance they could. 

Rafe was confused and irritated, and he didn’t want to be holding your coffee anymore, frankly. You fit in with them in a sick way that had him aching. 

Without thinking, he said your name quizzically with a slight edge to his tone.

A warning, almost. 

You had turned around, surprised to see him. He wasn’t sure if you were feigning naivety or just pretending you didn’t see him to piss him off. “Oh, hey.”

He felt stupid, all of a sudden, with all the eyes of your new friend group on him, Sarah even tilting her head at him quizzically.

Rafe held out the coffee. “Here. You ghosted this morning.”

“Sorry,” you smiled, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. He hated the way it looked. You took the coffee. “Thanks.” Then you flicked your gaze over your shoulder, at them, and turned back offering him a curt nod. “I’ll catch up later.”

You spun on your heel and joined the group, walking away down the hall sparking an animated conversation as if he was just a bump in the road. 

And that’s how it started. 

You slowly fizzled Rafe out of your life.

You slowly stopped responding to his messages, stopped showing up to his parties, stopped everything in your life that involved him and, god, it broke his fucking heart.

Every time he stopped over, your parents would say that you were out with friends and he would scoff, not that they would care where you really were. Sometimes they’d say you were upstairs studying, and when they would let Rafe in to go see you, he’d be met with an empty bedroom and slightly ajar window.

Pathetically, he’d stay in your room because he was usually too embarrassed to go back downstairs and show his face to your parents. Sometimes he slept there in the spot he always slept in on nights where he just couldn’t fucking bear to go home. Sometimes he’d just climb out through the window and leave. 

Whenever he’d see you in school alone, Rafe would jump at the chance to talk to you.

You would entertain him for a walk to class or a quick chat in the library, nothing short of politeness. But Rafe didn’t want polite. He wanted you, and you wouldn’t fucking come back to him.

Instead, you would just give him the same tight lipped smile you gave all the other rich kid assholes that you hated, and then go about your day. 

God. Rafe needed you.

He needed a friend, a real friend. Someone he could trust unequivocally, without hesitation. Rafe needed to hold you, and that realization made him want to throttle something.

To be so dependent on you felt weak. It felt horrible, really, to have it suddenly stripped from him with no warning. But the longer he went without you, the more he realized he needed you to hold him. That epiphany had him pissed off more than ever.

Naturally, Rafe resorted to anger because if he didn’t, he would just wallow in sadness and that scared the shit out of him. 

But an opportunity blossoms – a real chance – to get you talking to him again, even if it’s just for one night. 

The annual fall donation gala is tonight, and Rafe knows that you won’t be able to get out of this one due to your mother’s incessant inclination to attend as a family, to uphold your image, whatever the hell that means.

Each season the wealthy families on the secluded part of the island gather in their overpriced suits and gowns, flaunt their money, spew some fake bullshit on how much they love charity and specifically how much money they were going to spend towards renovating the rougher parts of the island and the public institutions, all while they down their drinks and snort lines in the bathroom and plaster on fake smiles of grandiose.

Your family and the Camerons go together every season, being neighbors and all, pairing you off with Rafe while Wheezie and his other sister, Sarah, would stick with each other.

Sarah, being just a year younger than him, mostly always brought a random boy as a date. Wheezie often soloed, but would steal you for a better portion of the night. Rafe normally allowed it, but tonight he refuses to let his sister have the time of day.

No matter how much shit Wheezie gives him, he has to have you all night despite her premature protests, which will probably be a lot given the circumstances from the past few weeks. 

That's another thing as of late: Wheezie's been uncharacteristically cold to him, making him do ridiculous shit for her to get back on her good side, like taking her out to eat or reviewing her essay or watching a stupid show with her that he never would agree to watch in the first place.

Sure, he’ll set himself back a few pegs with Wheezie, but he has to get you back tonight. 

But of fucking course you just have to look that beautiful, so it takes Rafe a while to even say anything to you besides a pathetic hello. 

As tradition, you and Rafe lock arms as you enter the gala. He notices that you don't hold him as tight. 

You notice that he’s clenching his jaw so tight it might break, probably pissed that he has to be here in the first place. 

You loathe the idea of coming to this pathetic excuse of class performance, but public appearances are the only thing your parents are interested in.

They’ve been lenient about how much you leave to hang out with “Sarah” when in reality you're high tailing it to the rough side of the island getting up to all kinds of trouble (also with Sarah, but that's besides the point). However, they started to get suspicious of where you run off to every weekend, and god forbid they find out you sneak out basically every single night.

Things with the band are going great, too good to jeopardize.

So you figure if going to this gala will satisfy your parents’ consciousness and keep their noses out of your business, then you'll be able to deliver with elegant poise and limited back talk.

It doesn’t help that you and your band have a gig later tonight. The gig. The Stonepit finals. It also doesn’t help that you're stuck here.

But you have a plan.

Since you're here, your bandmates take on the event's catering gig so you'll all leave together an hour before the gala is supposed to end.

It’s slightly embarrassing to be walking arm-in-arm with Rafe under their knowing stares, especially since they have a vague idea of what really went down between you and the Kook prince.

They’re familiar with the island royal because of Sarah anyway, and despite not entirely liking him due to Rafe's douchebag tendencies, they’re sympathetic to you for choosing to step away from someone you once called your best friend.

Your friends, your new friends, care for you and know the hurt that came with ending things with Rafe, even if you never explicitly cried or showed any ounce of emotion when it came to him. They can just tell. And it reflects in the music, much to your dismay. 

And sitting next to him all night doesn’t help.

You're polite, saying your please and thank yous. Rafe is quiet, especially with his dad sitting on the other side of him.

One thing you both unintentionally agree on, though, is the synchronized stifled laughter on the faux-emotional speeches the PTO housewives make about the charity of their choice. Rafe and you know of the falsehoods that run through this community, that it’s all a stunt for public decency, and you always bet each year how many times they shed crocodile tears before dinner’s served. 

The last ripple of applause begins to die down after the last housewife steps down from the microphone, her lip curled up from a previous sob reforming back to a nonchalant tight lip as soon as she’s out of the spotlight. You push food around your plate with your fork, stifling a cold laugh that will undoubtedly earn a scolding from your mother. 

“I counted seven,” you say softly, indulging. 

It surprises Rafe. Immensely. His brows raise at the jab and he looks over to see if you were talking to yourself or actually to him, to see you staring at him in anticipation for his response.

Rafe's heart does a weird thump. “One of the better years, for sure.”

You laugh quietly and Rafe nearly sighs at the sound. 

Noticing a few older couples heading to the dance floor, Rafe bites the bullet, clearing his throat to get your attention as he holds his hand out. 

“Dance?”

You dart your gaze between his hand, his eyes, and the dance floor, uncertain. This makes Rafe's heart thump even wilder, and he’s certain you can hear it through his all-too-expensive suit jacket. He notices your apprehension, and he pushes down the hurt that springs to his throat. 

Despite it, he chuckles nervously. “It doesn’t have to…mean anything. Just to get away from this.”

Rafe gestures towards their table, their parents having a little too much to drink and starting to ramble on about shit they don’t care about. Sarah’s off with her boyfriend, John B., who should be working but doesn't look the slightest bit concerned about slacking off, while Wheezie talks to one of her friends off to the side, rueing the day in pre-teen style.

As much as you want to say no and stay cordial to your dignity, you're starting to get a headache from your mother’s high-pitched laughter and dad’s intolerable business talk, so, reluctantly, you accept and takes his hand.

It takes everything in Rafe to not visibly sigh in relief as he leads you to the dance floor. Your friend, JJ, smirks behind the seafood buffet table, watching them. You throw him an eye roll that Rafe doesn’t see, to which JJ just shrugs and winks. 

Slinking your hands around his neck, your heart skips a beat at the close proximity. Rafe's hands settle on your waist.

It draws in a sense of comfort, of familiarity that he’s been yearning for all this time without you. He takes a deep breath, embarrassingly deep, because for the first time in what feels like forever, he feels like he can finally breathe again despite the intoxication of your perfume and the stench of cigarettes wafting from the balcony. 

Rafe takes the time to study you up close.

You cut your hair in a more edgy way, drastically different from your previous untouched hair that he was used to twirling between his fingers under Egyptian cotton sheets. It’s different, but he likes it. You looks comfortable, like yourself. He also notices the excessive added jewelry that you've been wearing lately.

Although Rafe frowns after his inspection, noticing it’s none of the jewelry that he’s given you over the years. Your makeup is clean, effortless. 

Beautiful, he thinks. 

Fuck. 

He doesn’t realize you say something until you pinch his neck. 

“Hm?”

“I asked if you were okay. You were brooding,” you tease quietly.

It feels like old times again. “I don’t…brood,” he attempts to defend. 

You snort. “Sure.”

And that’s that. 

Rafe doesn’t really know what to add from that, nor where to start on what he really wants to talk about with you.

It takes everything in him to not scream in frustration. He’s not good with his words, he doesn’t know how to vocalize the sensitivity that he feels in fear of being perceived as weak. He’s only good at physically projecting his anger, his irritation, his emotions that make him feel strong or, more so, his actions that make people fear him and submit to what he wants.

It’s easier that way, to not have to use words to convey what he wants done and what he needs people to do. 

But not with you, never with you. 

“I…” he starts lowly, trying to calculate his thoughts but they’re just a whirlwind in his mind right now. “How have you been?”

Rafe cringes at himself. 

You frown, moving forward with caution at his uneasiness. The classical band plays something slow and melodic and so fucking romantic that it makes you want to throw up. “Good. Really good, actually. Been busy.”

“With?” Rafe attempts.

“With…stuff.”

He swallows. Of course you won’t tell him, why would you?

“How about you?” you ask timidly, noticing his sunken expression. “Are you okay?”

Rafe hesitates.

No, he’s been at his lowest. He’s been losing his mind without you at his side to anchor him to his real self. He’s been lost trying to figure out what you've been up to, why you've been running and hiding from him ever since you got back from your trip all those weeks ago. He’s especially lost in trying to figure out why you've been running with his sister and her annoyingly arrogant Pogue friends. 

Rafe assumes you tell them all your tidbits now, like what you did that day or what show you're watching, talking to them how you used to talk to him.

It makes him sick. He feels like a fucking idiot trying to figure out what he did wrong, always coming up blank on answers but never having the courage to just ask you what the hell happened that rendered such coldness from you. 

“Yeah. Been okay,” he settles on. 

Despite the strain on his voice, you manage to smile at him, but there’s an ounce of worry in your expression that throws him off.

He’s confused: do you still care about him? Is that still on the table? Are you really going to dance around the elephant in the room? Are you going to keep acting like nothing is wrong? Are you ever going to tell him what he did?

“It’s a busy time of year, I wouldn’t-” you start nonchalantly, but Rafe suddenly scoffs at your attempt to small talk with him. This earns a pointed glare. “Is something wrong?”

Rafe scoffs again. “Of course something’s wrong." No going back now. "Everything’s fucking wrong. We’re standing here making useless bullshit small talk as if you haven’t been ignoring me for weeks.”

Curse him and his temper, he wants to immediately apologize for his tone. But you frown even further and loosen your grip around his neck but Rafe tightens his.

“No. We're talking about this. Stop running for a second.”

“Running?” you hiss. “I’m not…I haven’t been-”

“Yes, you have,” Rafe says, trying to stay even but his voice betrays him as it shakes. “I don’t know what’s going on with you but I’m losing my mind because you won’t talk to me, shit, you won’t even look at me anymore.” He shuts his eyes for a moment, gathering himself. “I just…need to know.”

Your frown turns into a thin lipped line. Isn’t this what he wanted? Space? 

Your mind is reeling. On one hand, you're pissed.

How dare he act ignorant to the fact that he was bitching and moaning for some peace and quiet to his friends, how desperate he was to have some space from your oh-so-overwhelming clinginess, how you couldn’t even do your own thing due to how much you depended on him for everything: friends, a social life, style, a personality. Like, what the fuck?

But on the other hand, you sees Rafe. Your Rafe.

The Rafe who climbs through your bedroom window in tears from his father’s vocal bullets, searching for solace and warmth that he simply can’t get in the comfort of his own home. The Rafe who rarely knows how to express himself in anything other than rage because that’s how he was taught to deal with his emotions: through instilling fear. The Rafe who would truly do anything for you if you asked nicely. The Rafe who, behind closed doors, is kind, loving, and sweet when he cares, like getting you your favorite ice cream after you failed your exam or staying up until sunrise with Wheezie finishing the show she’s been raving about.

You sees Rafe, a boy who needs answers. 

“Please.”

His tone of desperation pulls you from your thoughts, a tone he only saves for late night confessions under starlight, just for you. 

You can’t help but teeter between the two hands. 

“Rafe,” you start carefully, “I came home a day early from my trip.”

He frowns. The music is too slow, too beautiful. He’s confused. “You did?”

You nod. “Yes. I wanted to surprise you.”

The gesture is so fucking sweet that it makes Rafe melt in agony. What did he ever do to deserve your love and friendship for as long as he had it?

“I walked around looking for you, and assumed you were in the back with Top and Kelce. You were, but I heard what you said. All of it.”

Rafe reels back in confusion.

What?

What are you talking about?

You notice his confusion and scoffs lightly, the sound heavy with hurt instead of bitterness. “Of course you don’t remember.” You take a breath, replaying the words that have been on repeat in the back of your mind for weeks. “‘It’s been nice to have some peace and quiet without her constantly attached to my hip. The clinginess has really been pissing me off. It's like she can’t do her own thing.’ You don’t remember saying that?”

What?

Rafe's mind is spinning because. What. 

“I…” he starts, but then stops, piecing it together. No, he couldn’t have. 

But you nod, confirming it. “I heard it. So did Wheeze. I didn’t want to make a scene and just figured it would be easier to give you what you wanted. So I backed off. Gave you your space. Found my own footing.”

Rafe stares at you in disbelief. The words come back to him, each one hitting him harder than the last. 

“It’s okay,” you say before Rafe can get a word in, noticing his internal conflict.

He hates the small, understanding smile you're wearing. You should be hitting him or cussing him out.

Instead you're fucking smiling at him, even though it's laced with sadness, it's still a smile. “I’ve…come to terms with it. I just wish you told me I was being too clingy instead of complaining to your friends about it. I would’ve backed off if you asked.” 

Rafe shakes his head, because of course you would do something if he asked you to without any hesitation.

He can’t believe it, how you heard him say something so horrible (and completely untrue) and aren't cursing him out or going around telling people his deepest darkest secrets and demons. He deserves worse. He deserves nothing good after making you feel so unwanted, like you had to completely remove yourself from his life in order to give him what he – seemingly – wanted. 

Rafe can only say your name.

“Really, Rafe,” you say after he can’t form the words he wants, “it’s okay.” 

“No, it’s not,” Rafe snaps, chest heaving. “It’s not fucking… I didn’t mean it.” 

Okay. Now you scoff and he frowns.

You're not gonna sit here and listen to him spew out excuses, bullshit excuses, so he can get back on your good side. You're not gonna forget how those words made you feel. If there's one thing bigger than your ability to hold a grudge, it's the need to defend your dignity.

“If you didn’t mean it, then you wouldn’t have said them – fuck – you wouldn’t have thought them in the first place.” You try to loosen your grip once more to escape but he holds you tighter. You huff. “Rafe, let go. Seriously. I said it was fine. Let me go.”

It isn’t fine, you both know that, but you personally don't want to entertain his fragment words.

But Rafe can’t let you go. Not like this. 

“No, I need to– fuck…” Rafe curses.

Why can’t he just say he’s sorry? Own up to it? Push his pride down? No, because that would mean admitting defeat. That would mean admitting something he’s tried to push down for years and years in fear of ruining your friendship. 

Well, he’s already ruined it, so what’s left to lose? 

You, he realizes. He’s losing you, and he’ll lose you forever if he doesn’t get his shit together at this given moment. 

His chest is heaving, he realizes.

His heart feels like it’s in his throat and he’s gripping you as if you're going to disappear if he lets go. Rafe doesn’t know if it’s better or worse that the world keeps spinning around them. Couples keep slow dancing, people keep laughing and drinking, the song still plays. No one knows what’s going on within your bubble right now, the emotional turmoil sizzling between you both speaking in hushed breaths. 

“I’m sorry,” he says low and heavy with emotion.

You take that as irritation. “You’re sorry you got caught.”

Rafe shakes his head, furrowing his brows as if that’s the dumbest thing he’s ever heard. “No. No. I’m sorry for saying that stupid shit. I didn’t mean it, Snips. Not really.”

The nickname makes your heart leap to your throat, but you swallow it. “Not really?”

Rafe curses. “No, I…fuck-”

“You what? What, Rafe?”

“I–”

“Wanted to impress your friends?”

He grimaces. “No–”

“Needed to brag about how I’m always at your beck and call? Your bitch waiting at your disposal?”

“No!”

You laugh humorlessly. “Then what-?”

“Because I need you more than you need me, and it scares the shit out of me.”

You freeze, your next retort dying in your throat as you look at Rafe's desperate expression.

His eyes bore into yours, those piercing bright blues, and you don't notice until now that his hands have been shaking, his chest is falling up and down rapidly, how the crease in his brow is more prominent than ever. You study him, looking for any signs of duplicitousness but coming up short.

Instead you see how broken he really is. 

Rafe notices your pity and hates the expression, so he shuts his eyes. “I…I think I said it to pretend it was the other way around. That…maybe if I said it and put it in words, I could pretend that you needed me in the same way. I hated the way I felt for those three weeks without you, and it scared the shit out of me.”

Silence. 

Your hand travels from the back of his neck to caress his cheek, which makes him open his eyes to meet your gaze. 

“It doesn’t make it okay,” he quickly adds. “What I said wasn’t okay. At all. I hate that you heard it.”

Rafe leans into your touch instinctively, your palm boring into his cheek. His heart thumps for a different reason now, for your silence. He doesn’t know what to make of it. The tension is thick and he hates the way you don't say anything.

Something foreign pricks in his chest, an unsteady murmur.

“Please, say something,” he pleads pathetically, feeling stupid at the desperation. 

You feel flustered from his words, speechless.

Your heart lurches in your throat at the confession that probably ached in his soul all these weeks, that gnawed at him every time you brushed him off or ignored his messages and did exactly what he was afraid of: leave.

What Rafe said was wrong, very wrong, you know. There’s no if, ands, or buts about it.

Your heart sinks, though, at the thought of him pushing down his feelings, his real feelings, so deep to the point where he was drowning in his own mind. This is the boy you grew up with, who held you when you were upset, who knew your every thought before you could formulate it, who begrudgingly took you to prom after your date stood you up.

Your Rafe, sharing something so raw and scary. 

You hold him with such lightness, such care, murmuring quietly, “Rafe–”

Suddenly, a throat clears next to you.

Rafe's anger flares back up when he sees fucking JJ Maybank looking at you, feeling tidal waves of stupidity and irritation that he confessed something so raw to you. He wants to rip you away from this crowd, from JJ, to talk somewhere in private, to even sit in silence if it means he can hold onto you like this for a little while longer.

Call him selfish. 

“Sorry to…interrupt,” JJ says, darting his gaze between the two of you, finally settling on you after a moment of taking in…whatever was happening here. “We gotta go. Now. Rumlow pushed our slot up.”

Your hand falls from Rafe's cheek and he gets even more irritated. What business does JJ Maybank have with you? Who the fuck is Rumlow?

You step away from Rafe and, this time, he lets you. “What? You’re kidding.” You groan and curse, “The whole deal about winning Greengate was that we’d get first pick of the Stonepit slot.”

JJ huffs. “Freddie slid him a fifty to make sure we go right after his band, so second to last.”

Band? Rafe furrows his brows. 

His confusion is put on the back burner as you ball your fists tight at your side. “Damn it.” Then, you take a deep breath. “Okay. Let’s go out the back.”

JJ glances at Rafe wearily, whose stare couldn’t be more piercing. “Uh, what about your stuff?”

“It’s at the table. My mom will definitely ask too many questions.”

“Blame the period?”

You snort. “You still clearly know nothing about women. Not believable. Best chance is to just slip out. I’ll deal with my mom later.” 

JJ moves to leave, walking a few steps away until he notices you aren't following. You hesitate, looking up at Rafe who has been awfully quiet and confused, watching your conversation happen in front of him. His blue eyes bore into yours, a twinge of pain hidden within his features that makes your heart lurch.

You have the sudden inclination to grab his hand, to comfort him for a moment more. 

Silence. 

Clearing his throat once more, JJ rubs his forehead at the tension between the two. “Uh, I’ll give you guys a minute.” He shoots Rafe a warning glare, one that makes Rafe narrow his eyes, before turning his attention back to you. “Meet us out back when you’re done.”

And like that, JJ walks off the dance floor and disappears through the staff doorway.

His absence is felt, the air thick between you and Rafe as unspoken words yearn to come into fruition. The slow, romantic melody continues to play as couples sway around you and the emotion behind it makes your tummy feel weird. 

“You’re leaving?” Rafe manages to ask thickly, the words feeling like lead in his throat. "With...Maybank?"

You look up at him once more, and this time, you actually do grab his hand.

He gazes down at your intertwined fingers as your other hand comes up to graze his knuckles, fingertips smoothing over his rough, calloused skin in such a delicate manner it allows him to breathe for a moment. Your cool rings feel like ice against his hot skin, and he nearly flinches from the contrasting feeling. 

Your next words are cautious and slow. “You’re truly sorry?”

“Yes,” he immediately answers. “More than you’ll ever know. More than I’ll ever be able to say.” Rafe squeezes your hand. “Let me make it up to you. Please.”

You meet his gaze.

His pretty blues no longer glisten with sadness, but instead hold their own. Promising. Genuine. Home. You find herself suppressing a smile because, fuck, you missed him more than you'd like to admit. 

Glancing back towards the family’s table, you notice your parents are still talking to Rafe's, the waiter coming over to top off their drinks as they obnoxiously laugh over something that probably wasn’t very funny. Nevertheless, they’re distracted for the night and clearly not caring about the whereabouts of their children. 

An idea - a really stupid idea - pops into your head when you turns back to Rafe, a newfound determination gleaming in your eye that he only knows as trouble. 

“Come with me.”

Rafe's lips part in confusion. “You want me to?” Then, more uncertain. "With...them?"

Pushing down the impending fight night that'll probably happen between him and the Pogues, you quirk a brow as you teasingly squeeze his hand.

“Thought you wanted to make it up to me.”

“‘F course.”

“Then let’s get into some trouble.”

He finds himself narrowing his gaze, but there’s no real strictness behind it as he tries to suppress a smile. “Snips, what are you getting me into?”

You tilt your head to the side and bite the inside of your cheek, taking one last glance at your parents – more occupied than ever – before you start pulling Rafe off the dance floor, dragging him through the crowd and through the same staff door that JJ disappeared into earlier.

You don't let go of his hand as you swerve past the catering staff and waiters, beelining for the backdoor leading to the alley. 

Noses scrunch at the smell, reeking of garbage, cigarettes, and gas. It’s not the worst thing out there, no, because Rafe tries his best not to grimace when he sees your new group of friends, the Pogues he oh-so despises, hanging by their clown minivan as they all change out of their catering uniform into their own clothes, their performance clothes, just shamelessly half naked and laughing as if it isn’t ridiculously intimate. 

Sarah is slipping her ripped jeans on under her dress and shimmying on a tank, a cigarette poking through her plump lips. Kiara is applying lip liner in mirror, perched in the passenger seat. John B. finishes buckling his belt, taking the cigarette out of Sarah's mouth to take his own hit. Pope is sitting in the driver’s seat, drumming his thumbs on the steering wheel and checking the time on his watch anxiously. JJ's putting on a shirt when he sees you and Rafe emerge, hand in hand. 

“Country Club, you comin’ with?” JJ teases as he throws his ratty t-shirt on, wearing a smirk that Rafe wants to smack off his stupid face. 

You speak before Rafe can start an argument. “Guys, Rafe's gonna tag along tonight. Any issues?”

Everyone stops what they’re doing to stare between you and Rafe, and he squirms under their judgemental stare. He knows he hasn’t been the nicest to them, and vice versa, as their social circles often clashed with ferocity. He also knows that they’re aware of the previous animosity with you based on the way the girls, Kiara and his own damn sister, are glaring at him with such a deep warning that it makes him shiver. 

It’s Pope who breaks the silence. “I don’t give a fuck if he shits gold. We need to go now if we want to warm up.”

JJ snorts. “We’d be lucky to make curtain call.”

“Have some hope, Jay,” Kiara mumbles to not mess up her lipliner. “Pessimism gives you crows feet.”

Sarah hums low as she steals the cigarette back from John B., who looks Rafe up and down. The two of them have had their fair share of qualms. Rafe truly can't keep track of how many times he's gotten a black eye from his sister's boyfriend, and vice versa.

But, no, he can't be getting into fights tonight. Not while he's on your probation.

Pope groans and rolls his eyes. “Crows can’t drive. Now, can we please all get in the car before that shitbag gives our slot away?”

It's muscle memory when Rafe lunches forward to snatch the cigarette from Sarah's mouth, throwing out the cigarette butt onto the concrete with a narrow gaze. She sends him an eye roll, but wordlessly climbs into the minivan with John B. behind her, and to Rafe's surprise, all of the back seats are folded down so they all sit in a circle in the trunk.

His mind races at the hazardous set up.

You notice his concern as you sit down next to him, stifling a laugh and squeezing his hand once out of comfort, pulling it back before Rafe can even process what is happening. 

“We throw all the instruments back here, so the seats stay down,” you say softly, just to him. Rafe straightens up a little, feeling a sense of pride that you're only talking to him. “You get used to it after a while.”

But that beaming pride doesn’t last long as JJ sits on the other side of you, a little too close for his liking, smirking at the two of you.

Rafe bites his tongue as the blond grins toothily at him. “Don’t worry, Country Club. You can hold my hand if you get scared,” JJ teases, wiggling his fingers at him. 

Rafe rolls his eyes and fights the urge to jump him right here and now. The only thing pulling him back to reality is the sound of your laughter.

“Fuck off, Maybank,” is all he manages to pathetically muster up in response. 

Pope drives sporadically, ranting about how they’re not gonna make it now that their slot is moved up, how the lights are never green when he needs them to be, how John B. didn’t fill up the gas tank since he was the last one to drive, and so many more complaints that Rafe loses count.

In the back circle, however, they’re talking business and spewing vocabulary Rafe's never even heard of.

John B. is going on about JJ needing to remember to wait a beat before the chorus on their first song, and how Kiara needs to be a second step harmony above you, not just one, and how he himself wants to remember one specific rhythm in a riff he’s been practicing.

Rafe feels a little outdated due to his outright confusion, feeling like he’s at a tennis match just watching them pull out notes back and forth and back and forth. 

It isn’t until Sarah tosses you a bag where Rafe truly short circuits.

Your confusion is apparent when you hold up the bag, raising a pointed brow.

Sarah gestures to the bag. “Change. You won’t have time when we get there. I put in some cute earrings for you.”

Such a Plan A girl, you think, smiling at her as you open the bag: a sultry tank top, black mini skirt, and your mile high boots that you know and love. At the bottom there’s a little baggie full of jewelry.

“Thanks, Sare.” You shuffle to slip your heels off, nudging Rafe's shoulder on accident as you do so. 

He nearly winces when you take the black mini skirt and starts to roll it on under your long, expensive dress, catching a glimpse of your dainty underwear. Next, you let the shoulder straps slip down your goosebump covered arms.

Then, with complete fucking nonchalance, you turn your back to Rafe, cheekily looking over your shoulder at him.

“Zip?”

Rafe stares wide-eyed back at you, his gaze flicking between your dress zipper and your smug expression.

His heart races in his ribcage at the thought of you changing in front of all of these people with no question. It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before, but the fact that you're ready to completely undress in the back of this dingy van has his head spinning. 

JJ snorts, bringing him back down to Earth. “She asked you a question, Country Club. Angel, want me to do it?”

That snaps Rafe out of his trance. His nimble fingers immediately go to the zipper, delicately pulling it down. “Don’t play around, Maybank.”

“CC, you’re my favorite person to play around with.”

“Watch it.”

You roll your eyes at the two. “Alright, brats, let’s simmer. Now, I was thinking–”

Rafe tunes out the rest of what you say when you let your dress slip down off your shoulders, exposing a strapless bra barely fucking covering anything as your long dress pools down on the dirty van floor. Continuing to yap about whatever notes you have, you grab the sultry tank top from the bag and pull it over your head, not breaking your thought process while Rafe's thoughts have been completely broken to begin with.

He coughs quietly to himself to get his shit together, especially when you unapologetically adjust your bra and tank top to how you want it. 

Now dressed, you shift again to sit back down on your ass, brushing Rafe's shoulder once more.

But Pope takes a wild turn, everyone shifting from the force of it. John B. smacks his head on the window as Sarah plummets into him, JJ holds his own as he grabs onto the door handlebar, and you fly into Rafe's lap, his hands instinctively thrown up to catch you, or at least attempt to, as you scramble to get up. 

“Fuck, sorry,” you murmur, placing a hand on his thigh to push yourself up. “You good?”

But JJ's laugh interrupts. “Oh, he’s great.” He holds his fingers up to wiggle at Rafe again, wearing a shit eating grin that, pathetically, turns the tips of Rafe's ears pink. 

He ignores it. “You wanna see great?”

You sit back down on the floor in your original spot, sliding on your socks and boots. “Boys, play nice. You’ll have to get used to each other at some point because you’re both not going anywhere.”

Kiara pipes up from the front seat. “Maybe we can lock them in a closet together. That’s what John B. and Sarah do whenever they fight.” 

“Usually we end up fucking instead of actually making up, but, who knows? That could probably work for you guys, too,” John B. chides, earning a slap to the chest from Sarah.

Rafe rolls his eyes so hard it kickstarts a migraine. 

He feels your hand brushing his thigh as you laugh and, despite his rising temper, it manages to relax Rafe just a fraction. Especially when you lean more into his arm. Christ, your perfume scent is the only thing he can think about. 

Then, Pope makes a screeching halt and everyone is thrown around once more. Before you can fly across the van into Sarah, Rafe grabs you by the waist and pulls you flush against him.

Everyone waits a beat, then two, then sigh in relief when they realize the van isn’t going to be moving anymore. 

Pope turns around with a giant grin. “We’re here, andiamo!”

Everyone blankly stares at him, hair askew and clothes out of place. He frowns at the crowd. 

“What? At least I got us here with ten minutes to spare!”

It only takes one minute for shit to hit the fan. 

It’s already unnerving enough for Rafe to realize where they are: in a dingy basement nightclub in the shitty part of the Cut where he normally wouldn’t even think about coming to.

A slice of anger rises in his throat, to cuss you (and Sarah) out for being so reckless if this is where you've been spending all of your time, in a place that doesn’t feel safe to him in a part of town that isn’t meant for girls like you.

He hates thinking like that, knowing damn well you're capable of protecting yourself – Henry Kennedy's permanently crooked nose can attest to that – but there’s a sliver of primitive instinct in him that wants to constantly protect you, shield you from everything and everyone. If he ever found out something happened to you in a place like this, there's no question that he'd burn it to the ground.

Rafe's hand ghosts over the small of your back when they enter the venue, which earns a finger wiggle from JJ, teasing him. Thank god you don't see it, or Rafe would’ve really had to punch the fucker in the face. 

But the play time’s over when the group watches the slot before them get on stage, the Pogues (including you) collectively booing them and flipping them off. Rafe looks around to see if anyone’s pissed at the Pogues for, once again, creating a public disturbance, but they just sort of let it happen.  

You nudge Rafe, nodding to the lead singer who all but gropes the microphone. “That’s Freddie.”

Rafe studies Freddie: tiny, skinny, shaggy hair and a crooked smile that’s directed right to you. It sends a shiver down his spine, and he immediately straightens up protectively, sizing the scrawny guy up and down, narrowing his fixated gaze as Freddie grabs the mic and introduces their band with a deeper voice than Rafe expected to come out of him. 

“You know,” JJ nudges Rafe as if they’re best buds and he darts his gaze from the spot JJ nudged back up to the blond boy to try and find the audacity in the space between, “Angel here beat him up once. It was one of the greatest things I’ve ever seen in my life. I won ten bucks out of it.”

Rafe quizzically looks between JJ and you, stunned. 

JJ laughs. “What? You didn’t think his teeth are naturally that fucked up, did you?”

But his attention leaves the nuisance and solely focuses on you. Rafe snorts, suppressing a beaming grin. “Snips, how hard did you hit the guy?”

“What?” You feign innocence, shrugging as if the thought of it doesn't make Rafe's head spin. “I hit him as hard as he deserved. He did touch my ass.”

Rafe stills. 

“He what?”

“Easy, Rafey. I took care of it,” you joke. Then you notice the stone cold glare in Rafe's eye as he sizes Freddie up and down, suddenly frowning and grabbing his hand to pull him out of the trance. “Rafe. Jesus. Don’t actually kill the guy.”

JJ's cackle just pisses Rafe off even more, especially when he claps a big, audacious hand on Rafe's tense shoulder. “You know, I wasn’t sure what part Country Club would play in our show tonight. But I think we just found our new bodyguard.”

You squeezes Rafe's hand once. Twice. He relaxes his shoulders, shrugging JJ off but still keeping his hold on you. 

The glue of the group, Pope, claps his hands together. “Personally, I don’t give a fuck about Freddie’s set. Before I get up there and strangle Rumlow myself for being shady, let’s go backstage to–”

All of a sudden, Freddie's band starts playing their set, and the first few notes cause the group to freeze, including you.

“Are they–?” John B. starts in disbelief.

Sarah gasps so dramatically it gives Rafe whiplash. 

Pope grips his hair so hard it might rip out. “I knew it. I knew something was up. Those cock sucking, donkey bastard motherfuck–” 

John B. slams his hand against the wall, cursing. Sarah tilts her head back in frustration. JJ and Kiara attempt to wrangle Pope from jumping on stage from throttling the lead singer. Each Pogue crashes out unexpectedly, though their actions and waterfall curses are drowned out by the amplified music. No one even bats an eye.

Rafe glances from the scene happening with your friends, to the stage, and down to you, brows furrowing in confusion as to why everyone suddenly started crashing out as soon as they stepped in the building, the band on stage playing a song he vaguely recognizes. 

“Uh, what’s going on?”

You watch the stage, unnerved. “They stole our set.”

Rafe follows your gaze beyond the stage, to a burly guy standing behind the curtain, shrugging at you mockingly in a way that makes Rafe straighten up and fight the urge to pull you to his hip.

“What?”

“Our songs. Fuck.” You curl your hands in a fist. “Of course Freddie paid for us to get bumped. He knew our setlist, and paid Rumlow to bump us so we wouldn’t have time to figure something else out.”

Rafe places a cautious hand on your shoulder, testing to see if you'll shake him off. You don't, so he keeps it there and gives a gentle squeeze. “Why would he…do that?”

“Because he’s an asshole, Country Club,” JJ jabs, walking into their conversation with a struggling Pope under his bicep in a headlock. “He knew we’d beat him so he fucked us over.”

John B. joins the circle, clenching and unclenching his fists. “What’s our play?”

“Kill Freddie with a gun,” Pope quips from his headlock, trying to break free but failing. 

Kiara places a hand on Pope's head and Sarah follows, as if they’re trying to summon something. “Use that brain of yours. Think about something other than murdering Freddie for one second.”

It’s JJ who speaks up. “What about using the same set from Greengate?”

“We can’t reuse those songs, Jay,” Kiara murmurs, lost in thought. “We’d get points off.”

“What about ‘I’d Rather Die’?” Sarah suggests, rubbing Pope's head like a crystal ball. 

Kiara's face upticks in disgust. “That song is way too outdated. The ratio between boys and girls is too drastic, we need more girls here for that song to hit.”

“Pink Floyd?” John B. suggests. “Or even Zeppelin. Something to get people on their feet.”

Rafe watches the group like a tennis match, gaze shifting from person to person as they spew out ideas that ultimately get rejected due to some reasonable excuse. He can feel their anxiety radiating off of them, bubbling in the air between them. He hates the way your brow is permanently furrowed, lost in thought yet pinched a fraction in worry.

Sure, he has no idea what’s going on, nor can he really offer any help, but he hates the dejected look on your face. 

Before he can speak and embarrass himself, Pope squeaks from underneath JJ's arm. 

“What about our originals?”

The group ceases their arguing, freezing as the only sound heard is Freddie’s not-so-bad singing voice, singing their songs. They gawk at each other, waiting for someone to bring up a counter argument but no one offers one.

Noticing the contemplation, Pope wiggles to free himself from the headlock and JJ eventually lets him, joining the circle and stretching his neck from the kinks. He shoots JJ a glare that has him throwing his hands up in surrender. 

“It could work,” Pope defends cautiously. “I have the hard drive with all the backing vocals on it. We’ll still have Sarah, Kie, and JJ on backup vocals, but I can relay Angel's adlibs and prerecorded harmonies during the performance.”

Pope's the tech guy, Rafe realizes. The guy behind the curtain, and it suddenly makes so much sense why his anxiety was severely heightened on the drive here: he has to manage the sound check, the back tracks, the entire performance. Despite the guy being a little crazy, Rafe can’t help but nod in respect despite the tense moment. The group is right to elect him as the brains of the group. 

You speak up so quietly Rafe barely hears you. “We’ve never shown anyone our originals.”

Nerves prick at your voice, straining it.

It doesn’t take an idiot to notice your apprehension, even Rafe, who has no idea what’s happening. You don't even want to look at him, at the concerned look you know he’s wearing.

There’s a lot of fear surrounding the originals, mainly because they’re your originals that you wrote sporadically in journals over the last few months, never expecting the words to actually see the light of day. Recording and creating their own originals was more of a passion project, something never meant for the general public to hear.

Especially when the words on the page were mainly about the guy standing next to you. 

What if they’re not as good as your friends say they are? What if the recordings don’t match up with the live audio? What if the judges and crowd hate it, ruining their chances of winning the competition and getting the money? 

Kiara is the first to move towards you, gripping your hand so tight it hurts. “We should. We all worked really hard on them.”

“Kie’s right,” Sarah pipes up. “Plus, it kind of gives us an advantage. Shows people we actually give a shit, and we’ll surprise them.” She leans against John B., who wraps an arm around her and holds tightly. 

Pope holds his arms out in a well? gesture. 

JJ beams, latching one hand onto Rafe's shoulder and the other on John B's, shaking them as he whoops.

Rafe almost shoves him off with his death glare alone, annoyed with his assumed immunity since you'd break up any sort of fighting that could happen. Plus, he's really trying to be on your good side, to get back in your good graces, even if this blond fuck is making it really, really difficult not to drop everything and deck him across the face right now.

“I’m all in. I vote we do ‘Guilty Pleasure’, ‘Transparentsoul’, and ‘Misery Business’. Those will get the crowd bumping.”

You snap her head up. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope. And in that order.”

Pope nods. “That works. I can do that.” His anxious gaze darts from the stage and back to the circle. “I need to know right now so I can start setting it up. Pinkies?”

JJ holds his left pinky up first, his hand still resting on Rafe's tall shoulder. He attempts to tickle Rafe's ear until he gets shoved off. John B. holds up his pinky, actually sticking it in JJ's ear. Sarah and Kiara follow, wiggling their pinkies at you, who hasn’t held up anything yet.

With a sigh of great reluctance, your eyes meet Rafe's for a fraction of a second before you hold up your own pinky, grimacing when JJ whoops. 

“Country Club, you in?”

Rafe blinks out of his daze of staring at you, looking up to face the group who are all looking at him in expectation. His heart skips a beat. “Uh, wh–?”

JJ nods towards his hand. “Bodyguards get a say too. What’s your move?”

Rafe hates the way his face feels warm, and he thanks the world silently for making it dark in this venue. He clears his throat to push away the feeling, holding up his pinky without much convincing as he looks over to you, gazing up at him with your big pleading eyes that makes the room spin. 

Pope claps. “Okay. Good. You guys head back and go to our room, the guitars are in there and so are John B's sticks. CC, you stay with me.”

You grab Rafe's hand quickly, giving it a reassuring squeeze and you're not sure if it’s for him or yourself. Your palms start to grow sweaty due to the pressure of the upcoming performance, so you drop his hand as fast as you grabbed it. Rafe nearly whines at the loss. 

Everyone except Pope starts to move, and instinctively Rafe follows you like a lost puppy, but a strong hand backhands his bicep and Rafe stops, looking at Pope, the culprit who wears a confused look. 

“You’re CC now, you hear me?” Pope commands.

Rafe nearly laughs in his face at this five foot something spitfire barking orders at him, but his smirk slowly fades when he sees the craziness behind Pope's eyes.

He remembers the way he drove the band here, nearly killing all of them, as well as how he was seconds away from jumping the stage and taking out everybody in his line of sight, an aura of scrappiness surrounding him that makes Rafe believe he would rough up anyone in his path as a street rat would protect its food.

He decides that Pope is not the kind of guy you want on your bad side, not because of physical strength but because his mind would probably come up with something deeply concerning to torture you with. 

Rafe straightens, expression turning serious as he just nods stupidly.

That satisfies Pope. “C’mon. We need to set up.”

To say that the tech stuff is confusing is an understatement, it’s a foreign language.

But Pope seems to know what he’s doing, and all Rafe can do is watch, ask questions that he probably assumes are stupid due to the way Pope snorts as if there’s an obvious answer, and scan the crowd looking for you. He’s unnerved that he doesn’t know where you are, especially when he knows you've been hit on quite ferociously before, which makes his cheek hurt from the way he’s biting it. He doesn’t have a great view of the crowd but tries to crane his neck to see out from the side of the stage. 

All he sees is Freddie’s band exiting the stage, right towards them. His black beaded eyes meet Rafe's piercing blues, and he straightens up, fury bubbling in his chest after remembering what he did to you. His girl.

Freddie sleazily sizes Rafe up and down before clapping Pope on the shoulder. “You guys hire a guard dog?”

“Yeah, something like that,” Pope mumbles distractedly, his eyes not leaving his computer and sound board panel in front of him. “Nice set, by the way. Sounded familiar.”

“Ah, that old thing?” the douchebag laughs. “Came up with it all on my own. Just another stroke of my ingenuity.” He then pauses, noticing Rafe's button down rolled up to his elbows and dress pants, which makes him chuckle darkly. “Lookin’ pretty Kook-y for a lap dog. Wanna twirl for me, pretty?”

“Careful,” warns Pope, still fumbling with his sound board. “He bites.”

Freddie holds his hands up in surrender and it takes everything in Rafe not to knock the guy out cold where he stands. Noticing the gleam of unbridled fury in Rafe's gaze, Freddie takes a step back, partly in fear. “Alright, I’ll heel.” He finally looks at Pope as he stalks away. “Can’t wait to see what you guys planned.”

His words fade as he disappears into the crowd, Rafe noticing he's immediately handed a drink and a girl saunters into his other arm. He scoffs, fingernails digging so harshly into his palms he’s sure to draw blood.

The thought of that douchebag laying so much as a fingertip on you makes his blood boil, his heart lurching in his throat in regret that he didn’t lay out the bastard while he had the chance. 

“At ease, CC,” Pope murmurs. “You’ll get a crack at him one day. But not right now. Here, I need you to hold this button for me.”

After completing Pope's various tasks, the lights dim on stage. It piques Rafe's attention as he sees five silhouettes sneak onto the platform, noticing the glittery undertones of your top as you march right up to the mic.

The lights fade in ever so slowly, but the crowd recognizes them instantly as they begin to hoot and holler and cheer in a way that surprises Rafe. He reels and suppresses a beaming smile that, holy shit, his girl is…kinda famous? 

“Hi Gally’s,” you purr into the mic, the vibrato making Rafe's heart skip a beat. You look so goddamn pretty it hurts. “Didn’t expect to see us so soon, hm?”

The crowd jeers at your improv. You twirl the mic chord and whimsically stalks back and forth on stage, playing into the bit. 

“Now, I know you guys love to hear the stuff we usually play, and I only know that because of all the free drinks we get after we finish.” 

Someone in the crowd whistles, causing you to breathlessly chuckle into the mic. 

“And as much as we appreciate your love, we thought we’d do something a little different tonight. Instead of covers, we’ll be singing our own stuff. Hope you enjoy.”

Rafe catches a glimpse of Freddie’s face in the crowd and stifles a laugh. There’s no longer teasing amusement coating his eyes, instead it’s fear.

And if you're nervous, Rafe can’t tell because you carry yourself as a beaming enigma that can’t be brought down, a supernova. Your cheshire cat smile is enough to pierce through any heart willing to give into you. 

JJ's on guitar and he meets Pope's gaze, who counts down on his fingers, three, two, one, then Pope hits a button as JJ plays the opening notes to the song. Rafe realizes Pope cued backtrack vocals, a soprano yodeling fading into the audio. It starts slow, the spotlight beaming onto you as you start to sing low and sultry.

You get to a particular line that has Rafe raising his brows: “I fantasize what we would do, and how would it taste and the way you move–”

His breath hitches.

“--Oh, but some good girls do bad things too,” you sing slowly. 

Damn you, because you find Rafe's eyes and throw him a quick wink that has his knees nearly buckling.

You spin around to face the crowd as the lights beam on, coating the entire stage as everyone gets cued in. John B's on drums, Sarah's on backing vocals and keyboard, Jackie’s on his guitar, Kiara's on backing vocals and the bass. 

“I want this like a cigarette. Can we drag it out and never quit? And, oh my god, you are heaven sent with your dirty mind, yeah, you’re perverted.”

The song is good. Too good. The people in the crowd are feeling it, cheering and jumping and clinking beers. It could also be the way you're bending over and twirling on stage like you own the place, regardless of rhyme or reason or anything under the sun. 

Rafe watches you with a stupid grin that he can’t suppress, because here you are in all of your glory.

He can’t believe this is what he was missing out on, this is what you've been up to: looking too damn fine in a mini skirt and boots with a voice like honey, spice, and nothing nice, especially with that glint of trouble in your eye that means you're up to no good. 

“Feels like pornography watching you try on jeans,” you sing after the guilty pleasure chorus, and it has him reeling. 

You've totally been jean shopping with him before on multiple occasions. You always claimed to know what style was trending so you insisted on accompanying him whenever you felt his pants were getting a little outdated.

Rafe never thought anything of it, as you both went out and bought stuff together all the time, tried on clothes in the same dressing room, gave opinions on items and then went about their day as if nothing was intimate about it.

“You’re a pothead, you’re a cinephile, it’s been a while since you turned up the dial.”

Jesus, he knows he’s wearing a ridiculous expression on his face as his mind catches up to the notion that, shit, is there any way this is about him?

Rafe's head spins with two distinct things: is this about him, and if the answer is yes, then, holy shit, do you like him? Is he your guilty pleasure? Do you feel the same? Have you suppressed years of a school-girl crush like he has in fear of fucking up the one good thing in his life? Have you both been wasting all this time dancing around each other, caught up in the will-they, won’t-they?

Then he freezes. He doesn’t know if you wrote this one. It easily could've been Sarah or Kiara. Why would you? Why would he automatically assume that?

Rafe sucks in a breath of clarity. He shouldn’t assume it’s about him just because you're the one singing it. Maybe Sarah did write it about John B.. Disgustingly, Rafe wouldn’t be surprised, with the way that they look at each other. 

After a whole chorus of disassociated reeling, Pope nudges Rafe, shaking him from his trance as you keep on vexxing. "Chill. It’s about you. No need to stress.”

Rafe coughs, covering up his dumbfounded expression as he watches you in a different light now, a deeper one.

The bridge is just a vocal array of chaos, Sarah and Kiara and even fucking JJ belting yeahs as you fucking yodel, voice breaking in and out of pitch as you shut her eyes, avoiding looking in Rafe and Pope's direction. You belts your last hey, the chords in your neck prominent as you pour your soul into the note.

The backing vocals, the prerecorded harmonies, your powerful belt– it’s all too much and the realization hits him like a truck. 

He’s in love with you. 

You suck in a big breath after your long note, diving right back in. “You give me guilty, guilty pleasure.”

You repeat the line, over, and over, and over again until you build up to the end, “Pleasure, pleasure.”

Then you suck in a big breath, practically moaning, “Pleasure!”

The crowd wastes no time roaring their applause, hooting and hollering tremendously louder than they did for Freddie’s performance. You're spinning, as you can barely see three feet in front of you with the spotlight being so bright.

You instinctively looks backstage to Pope to see when he’s cueing the next song, but instead locks eyes with Rafe's piercing blues, wearing a smile so fucking big it makes your heart melt. You feel your cheeks burning red, that song written from the confinements of your journal, not that you'll ever tell him that.

But with the way he’s beaming, you have a feeling that he already pieced it together. 

You jump right into ‘Transparentsoul, starting off with a crazy drum riff that John B. formulated when he was drunk off three margaritas. It’s manic, but fuck, it works too well. You get right back into it, riffing and belting as if your life depends on it. John B's performance is one to note for the books, helping craft a nearly impossible song for drummers to replicate. He switches back and forth from double time, half time, and then free styling in the short breaks in-between right before the chorus. 

The three thumps of the drums and the lingering note from you end the song, sucking in a big breath to steady yourself. The crowd goes crazy, most people pointing to John B. and cheering for him. Sarah walks over to him, placing a messy kiss on his lips that leaves a red lipstick mark on his grinning smile, to which Rafe involuntarily rolls his eyes.

They take their places for the last song, ‘Misery Business’, and you nod to Pope to start the track that begins with a non-instrumental lead. 

Then JJ and Kiara jump into the riffs, this song being more punk rock that allows you room to show some attitude, and attitude you'll give as you see the dejected look on Freddie’s face, angrily sipping his beer with a blonde bimbo hanging off his arm. 

You wrote this one, the lyrics and melody originally being slower and more of a sad ballad.

Pathetically, it’s about Rafe and one of his past girlfriends that you just couldn’t fucking stand for the life of you. She’d ice you out, make you look stupid in front of your friends, belittle you, cling onto Rafe as if he was going to fly away with her and start a life in a different country.

She couldn’t handle being Rafe's second girl, so you showed her what it means to be his first choice, always.

It was originally slower, pitiful, and regretful. But when JJ read them during their pitch meeting, he said it feels angry, vengeful, hateful, and you liked the idea of making it a power ballad. Sure, it strains your vocals on the practical screams, but it’s all for the show. All to emulate the emotion. 

And, god, if Rafe doesn’t smirk the entire time.

He knows this one’s about him because you've fully said to him once that his misery business is finally over, when he told you that he broke up with Ada, his girlfriend of eight months.

Usually he’s the one dripping in jealously when it comes to you, shit, he could barely handle you spending all your time with different friends that weren’t him, but here you are – wearing green like it’s meant for you. And, dammit, if you don't rock green. 

They hit the bridge, and JJ and Kiara absolutely shred it for a few bars until you get real nice and close to the microphone.

“Whoa, I never meant to brag, but I got him where I want him now.” 

Your vocals riff up the line, throaty and raw and angry. 

Oh, and Rafe cannot wait to tease you about this one. He gets (and deserves) an eyeroll when he turns to Pope with a stupid smirk. “This one’s also about me.”

“Congratulations,” Pope deadpans before focusing back on the board. 

You belt out another note, then delivering your last line with that same sultry tone you began the night with. There isn’t even a moment of silence between the end of the song and when the crowd starts cheering – no – roaring in applause.

You linger in it for a moment, taking a breath of relief when you see that they like it. They actually like your stuff. You feels JJ clap a hand on your shoulder, shaking it back and forth in excitement, as Kiara comes up to bow while Sarah ambushes John B. 

You can barely see out in the crowd anyway, the spotlight being unbearable. Taking a step back from the front, you glance over to Rafe and Pope.

Pope prays up to the sky like he always does when he orchestrates another successful performance. And Rafe...

Rafe just stands there with his arms crossed, a cheeky smirk splayed on his lips. That dress shirt does him wonders, and you have to physically roll your eyes in order to tear your gaze away from him. 

Finally, finally, they exit the stage towards Pope and Rafe as the announcer comes up to say that there’s one more band going on before they pick the winners for Stonepit.

Rafe murmurs a good job to everyone – even JJ – as they pass by him. Realistically, he’s waiting for one person who happens to exit the stage last.

And for someone who was so confident and sultry on stage, you sure look sheepish as you approach him. 

Rafe tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear, feeling a fresh sense of confidence that he certainly didn’t have before the performance.

“You could’ve warned me that you were some kind of rockstar.”

“Stop,” is all you can muster, fighting a smile. 

“What? Don’t get all shy on me now.”

You playfully shove him away, but you both know there’s no true malice to it.

The group walks through backstage back to their dressing room. Rafe trails you, this time firmly placing his hand on the small of your back as you weave through other bands and stage managers, and he admits the notion is nothing short of wildly possessive, but he doesn’t care.

You just sang about wanting him twice on stage, so, yeah, he’s gonna make sure they all know who it was all about. 

The group enters their private room, two giant couches and an open space with empty guitar cases and bags full of clothes and makeup. JJ puts his guitar back in the case and collapses on the couch with a dramatic sigh, his grin wide as day. 

Kiara sits next to him, nudging his dropped head so he can readjust for her. “We’re so fucking winning this thing!” she yells, JJ whooping and hooting next to her.

John B. and Sarah shack up on the opposite couch as she practically sits on his lap. Pope squeezes in next to them with an annoyed eye roll but knowing smirk. You move to sit on the couch with Kiara and JJ, and motions for Rafe to sit first since there’s only room for one more. 

So he does. And when you moves to sit on the arm, he grabs your hips so you're planted firmly on his lap.

You roll your eyes and smack his chest. The act is nothing short of normal, there’s been plenty of times where you've sat like this at one of his parties, at family gatherings, on his boat, you name it. But now there’s a new underlying meaning, especially with the way his fingertips are light as feathers against your hips, almost teasing you.

You decide this is your favorite place to sit. Your throne. 

John B. shamelessly fondles Sarah and no one bats an eye. “We have fifteen minutes until we find out. I dapped Sean up before we came in here, so he should be bringing us drinks.”

“Thank god,” JJ groans, letting Kiara mess up his hair and Pope's hair reluctantly. Her boys, happy as sinners in church. 

“You guys were fucking crazy,” Rafe finds himself saying before he can stop himself. You turn your head to look at him softly. “Way better than that piece of shit who went on before you.”

Pope snorts while everyone looks to Rafe in surprise for even saying anything, Sarah looking lovingly at her brother's words. “Country Club scared him away without needing to say anything.” He leans over Kiara to look at JJ. “JJ, I support your decision to elect CC as our official bodyguard. It was great. I didn’t even have to look up or throw a punch or take out my knife or anything. He just…fucked right off.”

JJ hums in satisfaction. “Ah. See, CC? You fit right in.”

Rafe rolls his eyes, but surprisingly there’s no poor intentions behind it. Just mild irritation and a bit of swelling pride. 

Suddenly, the door opens and in comes a buff looking guy with a platter full of beers, Sean, Rafe assumes. Sean sets the beer down on the table between the two couches, wordlessly dapping John B. up one more time before exciting the dressing room. 

You lean forward to grab two, one for you and one for Rafe, and his grip tightens when you bend down enough for him to see a sliver of underwear peeking through.

But you sit back within a second, back flush against his chest as you hand him a beer. He reluctantly takes a hand off of you to grab it, clinking the bottle to yours and taking a sip. 

The group gets lost in conversation about the show, but your gaze focuses on Rafe's, faces inches apart.

Despite the chaotic and irritatingly loud conversation happening in front of them, it’s as if you're the only two in the room.

You look into his piercing blues, his gaze softening when he realizes you're not gonna look away and contribute to your friends’ conversation. His hand is searing hot against your hip, especially when his fingertips play with the hem of your top with eased nonchalance that it makes your head spin.

It’s like a second nature to him, to touch you like this, like you're the only thing that matters in this given moment.

To him, you are. 

God, you missed this. It’s embarrassing how much you do. You know you shouldn’t have, but your dignity is already out the window because you, frankly, forgave him as soon as he brought you on that dance floor. 

“What’re you thinkin’, Snips?” he murmurs, a contrast from the yelling going on around them. 

You purr, the adrenaline from earlier starting to wear off. “I’m happy you came tonight,” is all you say without giving in that easy, even though he probably knows how much you missed him from that performance alone. 

His gaze alternates from looking into your eyes and your lips. He hums, almost distant. “Thank you for letting me. Thank you for sharing it with me, even if it’s just for tonight.”

Your posture straightens when you feel his hand smoothly running up your back, leaving your hip and making it all the way to your flaming cheek, brushing that stray piece of hair away from your face once more and tucking it behind your ear, careful not to brush against any of the piercings that he definitely hasn’t noticed before. Rafe's hand comes back down to ghost over your cheek, his palm barely caressing it, almost afraid.

But you lean into his touch, making the contact for him. He hums low in his throat, almost in praise. 

Rafe's next words send shivers down your spine. “Couldn’t take my eyes off you tonight. Especially when you were singin’ about me.”

Your cheeks unabashedly turn a deep shade of red. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Out of embarrassment because, fuck, you got caught, you go to pull away from his hold but he slides his thumb to your chin and grabs your face gently, holding your gaze to his. 

“Baby, if watching me try on jeans got you all hot and bothered, you could’ve just said so. Instead of, you know, writing a song about it,” he teases as you groan, trying to pull away again but he tightens his grip just slightly. Then, softer, “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Probably had a girlfriend at the time,” you mumble right back, but a knowing smirk forms on your lips. “Wrote another one about that, too. Maybe you’ve heard it?”

Rafe hums in acknowledgement, running his thumb down your chin to the column of your throat, then back up to ghost over your bottom lip.

“Mhm. I have. Might need to hear it again, though. The girl who sang it kept distracting me the whole time. Could barely even think straight,” he admits, his eyes flickering to your lips for a fraction of second before meeting your eyes. 

“Yeah?” you challenge quietly.

“Yeah,” he confirms immediately. “Could barely even stand up knowin’ you feel the same way.”

You quirk a brow. “Hmm? And what way is that?”

“The way I can’t breathe when I’m not with you.”

Your breath hitches in your throat at the confession, the cool-girl facade fading as you take a second to look at him, to really look at him. Your brows furrow when you take note of the sincerity of his tone, or how his eyes don’t leave yours.

Or how his brow furrows and his lips barely part when he shifts his hips and you can suddenly feel him. 

Suddenly you're the only two people in the room, everything else drowning out besides the sound of your syncopated breaths and heartbeats thumping out of ribcages.

Rafe's hand lowers from your face and stalks down your spine, taking its rightful place back on your hip and squeezing ever so slightly. Your beer-free hand instinctively comes up to the back of his neck, fingers splaying on the nape to intertwine with the ends of his longer hair. His chest raises with a particularly deep breath, brushing against your ribcage for a fraction of a moment that sends a shock through your body. 

“Fuck, they’re starting the announcement,” Pope interrupts, causing you and Rafe to jump away from each other of surprise. 

Everyone in the group stands, excitedly bouncing towards the door and running out to the backstage. The last one to leave is JJ, who looks back to hold the door open for them but notices you and Rafe unmoved from your position, looking sheepish as if you've already been caught in a scandal.

After a moment of silence, JJ's face changes from confusion to understanding, and he barks out a short laugh. 

“Ahh. Okay. I get it,” he teases, quickly glancing at the group leaving before turning back to them with a wink. “I’ll put my sock on the doorknob.”

And with that, JJ shuts the door, leaving you and Rafe in the same emotional position as he did when he left you on the dance floor, the thick tension in the air growing between you as you take a moment to stare at the door, prolonging the inevitable.

Eventually, you move your gaze from the door back to Rafe, who’s already staring at you. 

You're nervous all of a sudden, the consequence of flirting and fooling around catching up to you. Months of assuming there were unrequited feelings – feelings you buried deep down to maintain the strongest friendship you've ever, and probably will ever, have – being disproved in the matter of the last twenty minutes.

But now he’s here, sitting pretty in front of you with such a serious expression on his face that it makes you suck in a deep breath at the intensity of it, the gravity of the situation and where it’s about to lead to.

Rafe notices immediately. “Hey,” he says softly, running the pad of his thumb over your hip bone, this time out of comfort. “We don’t need to do anything.” Then, he manages a genuine chuckle. “I just got you back. Being with you is enough f–”

He doesn’t get to finish before you're pressing yourself forward, taking the leap of faith and pressing your lips to his.

Rafe makes a noise of surprise, the words dying in his throat as he stays still for a moment, processing that, holy shit, this is happening. 

You, however, take his apprehension as rejection, and sheepishly begin to pull away.

But Rafe doesn’t let you as he leans forward to kiss you again, leaning far enough to place his beer on the floor without breaking contact. His new free hand allows him to caress your face, greedily pulling your body closer and closer to his to which you let out a noise of surprise.

He swallows the sound, his hand leaving your chin to slowly trickle down your arm and to your hand, where he takes the beer away and reiterates the same action he did with his bottle, allowing you to have your hands free to roam and touch and feel as you shamelessly make out like your lives depend on it.

Your fingers instantly grasp at his dress shirt, wrinkling the nice material as his other hand smooths up your thigh to grip the base of your ass, shamelessly fondling it like he has every right.

And, fuck, you whine so quietly that he barely hears it, but it makes him twitch underneath you.

The sound is music to his ears, so he does it again, and this time you lift your hips off of him, swinging your leg over to straddle and press back down against him, a sensation that sends warmth to your core and makes your eyes roll back. 

“You taste so fucking sweet,” he murmurs against your lips before hungrily taking you back in as he shifts underneath you. 

Hips stilling, you focus on kissing him fervently first, to which he gladly accepts. Rafe manspreads so god forsaken arrogant that it allows you all this room, but also forces your hips to spread wider.

You test the waters, gradually pushing your thighs down to further mold into his body. The act causes your skirt to push up your legs, your underwear shamelessly meeting his slacks right at the zipper as you grind down into him. 

You both moan at the sensation, you stilling with worry that you went too far.

But Rafe death grips your hips as he guides you down again, teasingly urging your body back and forth against him that has you quietly moaning into his mouth. He seizes the opportunity to slip his tongue to meet yours, kisses getting messy, sloppy, dirty. But neither of you seem to care, solely focusing on the high you're both chasing. 

Rafe grips your ass and hips so hard it’ll probably bruise, refraining from letting his hands do what they normally do and dive in recklessly.

He wants to do this right the only way he knows how – by slowing himself down. For you, he needs to be patient. The last thing he wants is to scare you off.

But you sense his reluctance, his hesitation, and nearly groan in frustration. You slow down your pace and find his right hand, putting your hand over his.

Rafe tenses in fear of hurting you, but instead you grip his hand and guide it up your body, over the curve of your ass, under your shirt and up your tummy, fingers splaying over your rib cage and, finally, just stopping under the swell of your breast. 

His breath hitches, then he hums quietly. “Gonna let me touch you there, baby?”

You nod against his lips. “Yes. Anywhere, Rafey. All yours.”

“All mine?”

You nod again, squeezing his hand to wordlessly assure him it’s okay. He mirrors your action, giving your breast a test feel and you sigh in relief.

Jesus. He nearly groans at the sound, the feel, the everything that’s happening right now. He doesn’t have a moment to process it because your hands are traveling further and further down his chest until they toy with the belt of his pants.

You tease him, running your fingers delicately under the waistline of his underwear, cool hands smoothing over his warm skin. Rafe unintentionally bucks his hips up at the sensation, his lips parting all pretty in a way that makes you cheshire-cat smile. 

“Am I yours, pretty?” you mumble, low and teasing, relishing in his fucked out gaze at the mere thought of you touching any lower.

He nods dumbly and you reel with the sight of it. It makes your tummy pool with anticipation.

“Will you let me?”

“Fuck, always,” he manages pathetically, chest heaving as he watches you undo his belt and zipper. Rafe nearly whines when your fingers ghost over his length, barely even touching him and you've got him a writhing mess. “Makin’ me go crazy, looking at me like that.”

You frown, feigning naitivity. “Like what?” you pout, pressing your thumb to his tip through his boxers that has him gasping in the shell of your ear. “Am I gonna have to ask nicely? Or will you be good?”

Slowly feeling him up over his boxers, Rafe bites his lip so hard he’s sure he’s gonna draw blood.

“You’re being a real fucking brat right now.”

“Hm? Am I?”

You squeeze around his length, causing him to huff, getting sick of the anticipation and just wanting to pin you down on this couch and make you eat your words. “Yes.”

Then you tilt your head so you can meet his gaze, taking note of his brows furrowed in frustration, and you can’t help but smile for knowing every trick in the book to push his buttons. 

“So punish me then,” you purr, sending chills down his spine. 

Before Rafe can pick you up and throw you down on the dingy couch, the door swings open and his irritation sky rockets as your friends hoot and holler obnoxiously, flooding the room.

Your pretty little fingers leave his boxers and settle on his tummy, your arm shielding the compromising hand placement.

Pope holds an envelope, undoubtedly filled with the money the first place winner is promised, while JJ thrusts a makeshift trophy in the air as if it’s the Stanley Cup. John B. holds Sarah bridal style, settling in on the couch across from you. Kiara runs over to the pair, ignoring the scandalous scene in front of her and gripping you by the shoulders and shaking you in such ferocious motion that it makes Rafe wince. 

“We fucking won!” she shrieks. “The whole damn thing!”

You beam, ignoring the fact that your skirt is pushed past your hips and that Rafe's hand is settled on your ass and how his belt is unbuckled. “You’re kidding?”

Pope waves the envelope in your face. “You should’a seen Freddie’s face. I wish I had a picture of it, I’d print it out and leave it on his doorstep every day for the rest of his life. Stupid fuckin’ prick.” He waves the envelope once in front of your face then in front of Rafe's face, then pulls back and starts doing it to everyone individually. 

What makes this whole situation worse for Rafe is that JJ decides to sit right next to you both, exhaling as if he’s had a long day at work.

In his nimble fingers, he admires the trophy that looks like a third grader made it, sighing and smiling. You make no effort to move or conceal what you were doing, so Rafe tries to push down your skirt to cover up a little bit with a huff, irritated even further that JJ's arm is brushing against Rafe's.

Oh, the audacity-

“Oh! Hey, guys. Didn’t see you here,” JJ says. He holds up the trophy. “You see this? Pretty fucking sick, right?”

“It would still be pretty fucking sick if you were three feet away from us,” Rafe spats, gripping onto you so tight to hold back from knocking his teeth in.

JJ pushes his luck by gasping and nudging Rafe's shoulder. “Aw? You like it, too? I knew you had a soft spot, Country Club.”

You laugh, chest bumping Rafe's in the process. “JJ, you could’ve at least knocked to let us know you guys were back,” you scold playfully, wrapping your arms around Rafe's neck and smushing your cheeks together, which makes the situation a little better.

Besides, it gives Rafe a better grip on your skirt, pulling it down over your ass successfully.

“Oh, please,” JJ chuckles. “No one gives a shit if you were fist deep in here. Sarah and John B. basically fuck all the time in front of us. We’ve seen more scandalous stuff than this, guys.” JJ gestures to their position. “Honestly, it’s a bit prude in comparison. We were brainstorming that there would at least be an ass in the air,” he teases, then wiggles his fingers at Rafe, “whose ass, we didn’t specify.”

Rafe seethes. “Anybody ever tell you to shut the fuck up and mind your own business?”

“All the time, actually.”

Rafe rolls his eyes and you hum in contentment, knowing that this is going to be their version of getting along from now on. 

The group lingers in the room for another hour or so, as you remain in your rightful place on Rafe's lap with the exception of getting up to use the bathroom with Sarah.

During your absence, JJ relentlessly teased Rafe when he fixed his slacks and belt to zip them back up. John B. jabbed that, hey, at least he was getting some, and for that he earned Rafe's slight respect.

Pope had complained that it wasn’t anything they weren’t used to seeing, then shooting John B. the most diabolical glare he could muster. Kiara had cooed that it was nice to see you so giddy and smiley, and Rafe liked the way it made him feel. 

Rafe can, truly, complain all he wants, but your friends aren’t that bad.

With the exception of JJ being the most annoying human being to grace the planet, but the others are situationally tolerable, including his sister who he (really) enjoys spending time with.

Plus, Rafe likes the smile that you wear when you're around them, a smile once reserved just for him. As much as he wants to be selfish and have it all for himself, he knows what it’s like to be on the receiving end of one. It’s glorious. He likes that you share it with the people you care about, even though he really hates sharing. 

You come back with Sarah and retake your seat on his lap, Rafe wrapping his arms around your middle to pull you back flush against his chest. He places a gentle kiss on your exposed shoulder, relishing in the moment.

You turn to look at him, a soft look in your eye. 

“Hi,” you say quietly, bringing your hand up to brush some hair out of his face. 

“Hey, Snips” he responds even quieter, resting his chin against your shoulder. He notices your sleepy expression and manages a small smile. “Tired?” 

You nod slowly, mirroring his smile. “Had a long day, if you could imagine.”

He hums. “Hm. No. Wanna tell me about it?”

You yawn, and before you can say anything, someone claps.

“That’s our cue,” Pope interrupts, suddenly standing. “Everyone in the van.”

Everyone groans, JJ louder than everybody else. “No! C’mon, man we’re just getting–” he interrupts himself with his own yawn, “--started.”

Pope simply shakes his head.

Minutes later, they’re all in the car packed to the brim with bodies and equipment. A little while later, the van stops in front of your house, the low whir of the engine being the only thing heard on the quiet street. Pope shuts the lights off and puts the car in park, John B. opening the heavy door with ease. 

Pope turns around to look at Rafe awkwardly. “You, uh, going home? I can drop you off with Sarah.”

You stand and exit the van, speaking before Rafe can. “He's staying with me,” you say, shooting Rafe a knowing look. 

Rafe quietly sighs in relief, since the idea of going home alone crossed his mind more than once and he did not like the thought one bit. So, without further coaxing, he exits the van behind you and slides an arm around your waist. 

“Uh, congrats on tonight,” Rafe says awkwardly. “It was great.”

“Such enthusiastic words, Country Club,” JJ taunts. “We were serious about that bodyguard offer if you’re up for it. Unless you’re scared of jackasses like Freddie.”

“You just can’t get enough of me, huh, Maybank?”

You roll her eyes, lazily pushing Rafe towards your house. “Okay, recess is over. I’ll see you guys on Sunday for the fire.”

The group choruses a goodbyes to Rafe, goodbye Country Club to Rafe (along with a quiet yet grateful 'bye, Rafe' from Sarah), and the two of you head up the driveway towards your house. 

You both sneak in the way you've always snuck in, climbing up the porch gate and onto your balcony (with Rafe's help, of course), as you quietly slip into the confinements of your room. Granted, your heavily decorated bedroom is on the opposite side of the house from your parents’ but you're always extra careful to avoid any suspicion. 

Standing in the dimly lit room, you sigh and shut your eyes, fatigue coming over you more harshly than you'd prefer, swaying gently when you feel Rafe's cool hands steadying you on your hips.

Then, you feel him hug you, his broad shoulders caging you in as he rubs his hands up and down your back soothingly, placing a chaste kiss on the crown of your head. God, it feels so nice and your knees nearly give out at how much you missed this, missed him.

“Let’s go to bed, yeah?”

You nod against his chest, drunk off the way you feel in his arms, letting him gently push you to sit on the edge of the bed while he grabs your favorite pajamas from the bottom drawer.

He comes back over to you, kneeling in front as he sets the pajamas down next to you. First he unzips your boots, delicately pulling your feet out of the shoe and rolling your socks off over her heel and past your toes. 

Once they’re off, Rafe gently taps her knee. “Hey. Your pajamas are ready.”

You pout. “Can you do it?”

Rafe lazily grins, his hands running up and down your thighs gingerly. “Of course, baby. Arms up.��

You do as you're told, raising your arms over your head as Rafe pushes your tank top up past your rib cage, over your bra, and up over your shoulders until it’s off. It leaves you in your bra, one that he caught a glimpse of earlier in the van, but he doesn’t move to pull it off.

Instead, Rafe grabs your pajama shirt, pulling it over your head and covering your torso protectively, then he reaches behind and unclasps the strapless bra, which falls into putty in his hands. He tosses it carelessly to the side.

Rafe pats your thigh gently. “Can you stand for a second?”

You whine in protest, but again do what you're told, pushing yourself up to stand while Rafe stays on his knees. He pushes your mini skirt down your thighs until it pools at your ankles, making him eye level with your core for a fraction of a moment. It doesn’t last long before he’s coaxing your feet to step through the pajama shorts, pulling them up your legs until they rest comfortably on your hips. 

He presses a chaste kiss to the back of your hand before standing, making his way into your en-suite bathroom to rifle through the drawers, looking for makeup wipes. When Rafe finally finds them, he brings it out to you and gingerly rubs circles on your cheeks, forehead, neck, all over to get the remnants of tonight off your pretty face.

Discarding the wipe in your bedside trash bin, Rafe pushes stray hair pieces out of your face. “All done. You ready?”

You nod gratefully, crawling onto the bed and slipping under the covers on your usually side of the mattress. Rafe quickly undresses out of his dress shirt and slacks, leaving him in his underwear – his normal attire for whenever he sleeps over – turning off the bedside lamp before sliding in next to you, practically caging you in. 

Furrowing your brows in confusion, you hum when you notice the lights are off. Although the befuddlement doesn't translate, because Rafe settles in, wrapping an arm around you and slowly rubbing circles on your back as he slowly gets comfortable in a bed he missed so damn much. 

“Wait, hang on,” you murmur against his neck, “the light’s off.”

“And?”

“Well, I…”

“You wanna sleep with the light on?”

You nearly groan in frustration. “Are we not… finishing what we started earlier?”

Instead of initiating like you want, Rafe simply chuckles, the vibrato rumbling your nerves. He pulls you flush against his chest. “No, baby. Get some rest.”

“But…” You trail off pathetically, almost whining. “I want to.”

“You’re tired.”

You fight a yawn. “No, I’m not.”

“Snips,” he warns. “Sleep.”

“Ugh, Rafe.”

He says your name mockingly, his tone insinuating he’s wearing a lazy grin. 

Your shoulders sag against him as you huff, fanning hot breath over his chest. If you were standing, you probably would’ve stomped your foot, and he definitely would've poked fun at your desperation. 

But not tonight, because the way he’s holding you, shit, you can feel yourself sinking into the mattress.

Nonetheless, you reach out to press a palm on his chest, yawning once more but gently slapping him for emphasis on your next promise.

“Fine. But in the morning, I’m giving you the best head of your life.”

Rafe chuckles, amused at your determination. “Brat. Go to sleep.”

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

notes this was a long spiel of absolute brain garbage, genuinely. if you understood the snips nickname, shoutout. hope you somewhat enjoyed????

[salem-s]

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 | NEXT PART ── 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!

[salem-s]

18+ mdni.

PLAYING THE PART UNDER THE SICILIAN SUN ── RAFE CAMERON

SERIES MASTERLIST

𓇼 ⋆.˚ SYNOPSIS ── when your image-obsessed mother catches you and Rafe Cameron ─ your friend-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 even more out of control when he says yes. ── fake dating, friends with benefits, she fell first but he fell harder, college au. ── contains fluff, angst, occasional smut (chapters marked).

𓆉 ⋆.˚ CHAPTERS

01 ─ 02* ─ 03* ─ 04* ─ 05 ─ 06 ─ 07 ─ and many, many more...

𓆡 ⋆.˚ NOTES ── This is a Rafe x fem!reader story. ── The only OC-leaning detail is that she has an Italian speaking grandmother (or grandmother-like figure) and can speak the language. ── This story is 18+. Do not interact if less than.

© 2025 salem-s please do not copy or replicate my work unless given permission from me. mdni.

[salem-s]

18+ only

: ̗➛ MASTERLIST

RAFE CAMERON

𓆝 SERIES

── Playing the Part Under the Sicilian Sun (18+) ─ fake dating, fwb, she fell first but he fell harder. contains fluff, angst, occasional smut (chapters marked). ── Temporary Truce (18+) ─ arranged marriage, fake dating, (slight) enemies to lovers. contains angst, fluff, eventual smut (chapters marked). IN THE WORKS. ── more coming soon...

𓆟 ONE SHOTS

── Stonepit Finals and Spring Chaos (18+) ─ childhood friends to lovers, miscommunication. contains fluff, angst, half smut. ── Admit You Hate The Way You Want Me (18+) ─ college au, academic rivals, enemies to lovers. contains smut, fluff. ── Sunrises, Penalties, and Losing Sleep Over You ─ jock!rafe x nerd-ish!reader, college au. contains fluff. ── more coming soon...

© 2025 salem-s please do not copy or replicate my work without permission. mdni