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boneblushed · 1 month ago

Text

You can hear it in the silence

synopsis: everyone in the Figure Eight is convinced you and your best friend Rafe Cameron belong together. In a bid to prove them wrong, you attempt to set each other up with someone else. (And fail miserably.)

wc: 14.1k

a/n: I love this dumb OOC Rafe so bad 🤗 hope you guys love him too, any and all feedback is much appreciated!

You aren’t sure why you say it, the words tumbling out of your mouth all erroneous. Plain dishonest in the name of being evasive.

From the perplexed look on Rafe’s face, you’re pretty sure he’s thinking the same.

Stupid, careless word vomit. You lied to your mother about having a boyfriend and then expected her to drop the subject without so much as a name.

In your defence, you were only doing it to get her off your back. She’d glimpsed Rafe Cameron in your room during your fortnightly FaceTime call, hunched over your desk in all his handsome, pixelated glory. (He was copying your accounting assignment as close to word for word as he possibly could. Asshole.)

Naturally, she’d ushered him over.

Infuriatingly, Rafe had obliged.

Even more naturally, she’d alluded to something boyfriend, something girlfriend, partners, lovers, whatever.

And so of course you’d said, unblinkingly, “Actually, no.”

To which she’d replied, “and why not?” Sounding a pathetic mix of devastated and indignant.

Probably, a normal person would have used this opportunity to explain that the two of you were just friends. Guys and girls could be that… right? Extremely platonic, totally boring friends.

You weren’t normal, though. Neither was Rafe Cameron.

No, you guys were exes.

Sort of exes. In second grade, you’d played at the significant other thing. Held hands for two weeks straight, ran around the playground together, shared arts and crafts memorabilia. Kissed each other on the cheek, once. Got bored of the relationship once the novelty of romance wore off.

Basically not exes. Definitely just friends, with shared custody of cheek kisses.

Not that it matters to your mom. Or to Rose. Or really, to anyone who lives in the Figure Eight.

For some strange reason, they all seem to think that your friendship is a cover for something more serious. Fate, or a concept similarly ridiculous.

You’re fucking sick of it.

Hence the reason you say, “because I’m seeing someone else,” when your mother questions you on why you and Rafe aren’t together.

She’s at a loss for words. You’re momentarily chagrined.

“Oh!” She exclaims after a beat, sending Rafe a doubtful glance. “And Rafe is…?”

“Seeing someone else too.” Shit. You aren’t sure why you said that either. “We both are. Uh… right Rafe?”

If Rafe looked perplexed before, there’s something worse than astonishment on his face now. Alarm. You’ve dug your own grave and managed to drag him into it with you.

“Right?” He says it like it’s a question. You grimace.

“That’s… great,” your mother replies slowly, sounding unconvinced. You’re losing her. You need to think fast if you want her to believe this farce.

“And you get to meet him… and her — them,” you add quickly. “Um… this summer. They’re coming to the Eight for a few. Isn’t that great?”

Rafe’s had enough now — you’ve damn near given him an aneurysm with this revelation. He throws his arm around your shoulder and pulls you into his side, giving you a squeeze that says: shut the fuck up immediately.

Warm and firm, the rough lines of his palm like pumice, but there’s a gentleness to his touch that’s almost imperceptible.

“So fucking great!” He announces then, quick with his words lest you say more. “Shit — I mean… uh,” he balks, grinning sheepishly, “excuse my French Mrs Y/L/N. Just stoked that you’re going to meet my girl.”

Another rough squeeze, gentler still. Almost like you’re the ‘his girl’ he’s referencing. As if. “And blink’s guy. Obviously.”

Your mother raises her eyebrows. “You’ve met him?”

“Oh yeah. He’s great!” Rafe’s still grinning, a little pained now. “Anyway, we better go. We’ve got a shi—a lot left to go of this assignment. Nice talking to you!”

He uses his free hand to swipe the phone from your grasp and end the call, cutting off you and your mom’s farewell.

“Hey!” You frown at his haste, reaching for your phone again. “I wasn’t done with—”

“Yes you were,” Rafe interrupts, swivelling you around so you’re facing him fully. “You absolutely were fucking done.”

He has one hand on each shoulder now, your phone in his back pocket. You cross your arms over your chest and continue to frown at him, your irises dappled yellow by sunlight.

Rafe’s always thought your eyes are pretty — in a fact kind of way, totally platonic. He thinks your pretend boyfriend would probably agree with this sentiment, think the eye contact would make him lose it a little.

He glares at you, mean but soft. Like his touch. “Don’t look at me like that. The fuck was that about?”

You sigh. “I panicked, alright? Sue me.”

“Understatement of the century.”

“I just… I didn’t want her to start harping on about me and you,” you say, your crossed arms acquiescing a little.

“But why?” He adopts a sombre expression, hands moving up to cup your cheeks faux-tenderly. “We’re betrothed.”

You make a face, ducking out of his grasp. “Shut up. I’m serious.”

If Rafe focusses too hard, he’ll clock how soft your skin is. The thought flits away quick. He grins, watching you walk away and flop onto your bed in defeat.

“Why do you care so much?” He asks. “She can harp on about us all she wants, we both know that it’s complete bullshit.”

“Still,” you groan. “I’m fucking tired of it Cam. I want her off my back for good.”

Rafe raises his eyebrows. “So you invented a boyfriend?”

You prop yourself up on your elbows, narrowing your eyes at him. “You went along with it.”

“Like I had a choice,” Rafe scoffs, walking up to your bed until he’s towering over you. He folds his arms over his chest, and you’re reminded of the fact that he’s like, super tall.

Annoyingly so, except for when he’s a pair of shoulders to climb onto at a gig. Or a windshield. A hoodie giver when he’s feeling particularly chivalrous (almost never).

“Regardless,” you say. “We’re in this together now.”

“Ha! Nice try.” He narrows his eyes in tandem. “You’re fixing this.”

“How?”

“I don’t know, blink. That’s why it’s you doing the fixing.”

“Rafe, c’mon,” you say then, looking pained. “You know I can’t do shit now. What’s said has been said. We need to follow through.”

“Dude, how the fuck are we going to find you a boyfriend on such short notice?” He reaches down to pinch your cheek, his blue eyes glinting with mirth. “This is a face only a mother could love.”

That earns him a scowl. You push his hand away, scrubbing the skin he squeezed exasperatedly. “We need to find you a girlfriend too, remember?”

It’s a weird angle, you below and him above. He pivots to the thought of other girls instead of this.

“I’ve got plenty of those.”

“You’re awful,” you say, making a face.

“I am,” he agrees, grinning roguishly. “They love it.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Enough to come all the way to the Banks over summer?”

Rafe hesitates. “Maybe.”

“Liar,” you say. The timbre of his voice gets rougher when he’s bluffing. “They’d never miss a Malibu summer. Not even for Phi Delt’s chief exec.”

“Why not? The Eight’s pretty lit over summer.” He sinks down on the bed beside you, placing his hands behind his head. “Dalt and Heath are coming for a bit, and I think I could convince Adi to as well. And they’re all like… fucking Beverly Hills royalty or some shit.”

“Wait a minute…” you pause, an idea dawning on you, “they are?”

“Oh yeah, they’re fucking pumped. We’re going to —” he falters at the look on your face, frowning bemusedly, “what?”

“Dude.” Your eyes widen, a triumphant smile on your lips. “That’s perfect.”

Pretty eyes, as previously mentioned. Though his frown acquiescing a little, the questioning look on his face endures them. “What’s perfect?”

You turn so you’re on your stomach now, head propped up on your elbows. Your forearms are pressed against Rafe’s side, legs dangling over the side of your bed.

“Tell me, Cam,” you begin seriously. “Any of your boys got a thing for me?”

Rafe cocks his head toward you, raising his eyebrows. “What do you think, blink?”

You frown. “Um. Is that your rude way of saying no?”

“C’mon.” He sounds bewildered, which is odd. “You know they all do.”

Your cheeks warm, abashed. “Oh. Wait — really? Why haven’t any of them made a move then?”

“I didn’t think you wanted them to,” Rafe replies, an edge to his voice now. It undercuts his aforementioned bewilderment. “Didn’t realise frat boy was your type.”

“Guy that likes me is my type,” you say then. “Reciprocity is my type.”

Rafe scoffs. “Right. So ninety percent of the guys at UCal then. Got it.”

You think it’s a compliment, which is also odd. Like finding you attractive is this matter-of-fact thing Rafe’s well aware of.

You wonder whether he agrees with the sentiment. The skin where your forearms meet Rafe’s side heats traitorously.

“Very funny,” you deflect, rolling your eyes. “Moral of… one of the guys you’ve invited to the Banks over summer could be into me?”

All of them. Sometimes he thinks they’re trying to goad him with how often they bring it up. Not that he’d care if you went out with any of them — they’re good guys, textbook charmers, would treat you right if they knew you were into it. If they knew Rafe was critiquing them.

He’d be happy to see you with one of them, he thinks. His blink.

“Uh huh. So?”

“So,” you reply, grinning now. “I just like… get one of them to be my guy.” Rafe’s train of thought snags. Your guy? “We could even go on a date or two before summer break, so we’re legit seeing each other. Wouldn’t even be a lie anymore. It’s fucking genius — I’m a fucking genius.”

“Alright, yeah, that’s pretty good,” Rafe allows. “What about me though? Can’t exactly get one of them to be the girl I’m pretend dating.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Maybe you come out as gay this summer.”

“I’ve seen enough locker room dicks to know I’m definitely fucking straight.”

You let out a laugh, and it unfurls over Rafe like warm sunshine. He used to dislike the sound when he was younger, too loud, all brazen and unabashed. It represents different things now — you delighted, you happy, him being the root cause of both of these emotions.

This he likes.

“Fair enough,” you say, amused. “How about… alright, how about I invite some of my friends to the Banks too? I’m sure I can convince one of them to tolerate you.”

Rafe raises his eyebrows. “You have friends?”

You scowl, giving him a reproachful shove. He doesn’t budge, not even a little, just grins at you all roguish. Asshole.

“Very funny. I know you follow all of them on Instagram, Cam.”

Rafe nods solemnly, giving you a mock salute. “Loyal story liker, baby. Gotta maintain the Phi Delt rep, you know?”

“Yeah, yeah, you’ve got all of them under your spell,” you reply, rolling your eyes. “You’ll have to take one on a date if this is going to stick, though. Think you can do that?”

“I date,” he replies, defensive.

“Giving sorority girls a tour of your frat is not a date.”

You’re only teasing really, Rafe’s one of the good ones. Sometimes, when you’re alone, he lets down his armour of insouciance and acts like a chivalrous fool. Makes things feel less platonic — you know, if you were that way inclined. If you were his pretend girlfriend, for example. You think she’d eat that sort of thing right up.

Rafe grins then. “It’s hardly a tour if we’re in my bedroom for the majority of it.”

“Okay, ew,” you cringe, making a face. “Gross. Moving on.”

“Don’t be jealous, blink,” Rafe teases, his blue eyes glinting with mirth. “You know you’ll always be my number one girl.”

“Focus, Cam. That’s the problem.”

Neither of you deny it, you being his number one girl. Like it’s obvious. You know, in a just friends sort of way.

“Alright, alright, you’re right. Who’re you going to pick?”

The tips of your ears warm. “Um. I don’t know. I could really choose any of ‘em?”

Rafe nods, bewildered again, because you being abashed doesn’t make any sense. He almost says: even me if you wanted, to properly drill in the fact that you really could have anyone on this planet.

Good thing he catches himself at the very last minute, speaking nonsense about his best just friend in a romantic sense.

“Ah,” your elbows tire from holding your head up, so you let it flop onto Rafe’s chest, chin to t-shirt. His heart beats steadily. “Why don’t you choose for me?”

Rafe raises his eyebrows. “Me?”

“Uh-huh.” You pause, tilting your chin to him. “You know them better than I do, and you definitely know me better than I do, so who better?”

“True.” Rafe grins. “Alright, deal. I pick for you if you pick for me.”

You smile in tandem, nodding. He leans in then, the hard ridges of his abdomen tensing. “I’m a boob guy, by the way,” he adds conspiratorially. “Keep that in mind when you’re picking a worthy suitor.”

You make a face like you’re going to retch. “I won’t.”

“Good thing all your friends have default massive racks.”

“Rafe.”

“Speaking truth, blink. Anyway — once we’ve picked, how do we play it?"

“Double date this Friday? We bring our picks to that new Asian fusion place on the edge of campus?”

Rafe doesn’t think a double date is a good idea. It’ll probably ruin the mood, having you bear witness to all of his God awful flirting.

Or him yours, now that he’s on the subject. Whichever brother he picks too, all their moves the same as his, charming but terribly predictable. Their rough hands on you, your bare skin on display.

No, not a good idea at all.

“Hm.” He pauses. “Nah. How about we all meet in between lectures on Friday afternoon? We can plan our dates then. Better alone than double, don’t you think?”

You begin to raise your eyebrows, acquiesce when you deep it a little. Rafe, you, the beautiful friend you choose, him not acting like your him all evening.

Bad idea. You nod your agreement. “Okay, yeah. Deal.”

Rafe holds out his hand for a fist bump. There’s something oddly sacred about the touch of your knuckles when you meet it with yours.

—

Rafe chooses exactly who you think he’ll choose: Aditya ‘Adi’ Patel of Patel & Co law firm fame, the only guy you know who openly studies for A grades.

He’s bring home to your mother sweet, his dark hair always windswept and his eyes the colour of thick molasses. The sensible choice.

And though you want to believe you aren’t as predictable as he is, you pick his date the same way he picked yours — finding a mirror of his outward persona, not the inner one you know. Reciprocally, platonically.

Phoebe, your darling roommate and friend, is frat guy bait disguised as a 5’5 brunette. The kind of girl you’d see at the airport once and think about for months. Unforgettable.

When you and Phoebe meet Rafe and Adi on Friday afternoon, you fail to mention how reluctantly Phoebe agreed to it all. Adi’s hesitation isn’t disclosed either. The pair of them seem not to think this is such a great idea.

Which is weird, because Phoebe’s as perfect for Rafe as Adi is for you — romantically, the way it matters.

All you guys need to do is prove it.

Rafe and Adi stand in the shade of a viridescent birch tree, freshly mown grass underfoot. The latter wears a stylish crew neck and Ralph Lauren shorts, an easy grin on his face and a Rolex glinting on his wrist. He looks cuter than he usually does, like he’s trying to impress, and you feel your cheeks warm as this revelation washes over you.

The former does too, though that’s no longer your job to notice. Rafe’s taller than Adi by a noticeable inch, the dappled sun painting his dirty-blonde hair a lighter golden.

Also not your job to notice.

Rafe’s noticing things too, like the fact that there’s something iridescent—highlighter?—making your cheekbones shine. That’s new. The shorts you’re wearing are new too, he’s guesses they’re Phoebe’s by the way they fit. You know… well. His gaze moves from Phoebe’s bare legs to yours, equally exposed but somehow far worse. Rafe’s gaze snags.

Very new. Thank fuck you decided against that double date you’d originally proposed.

“Phoebe,” Rafe says, all charisma as he accentuates his Southern drawl. You try not to smile. He’s told you way too many times how adorable girls find his Carolina accent. “Boy am I glad you see you.”

As he leans in to hug her, you hear him whisper, “I was praying it would be you, by the way. Gotta start believing in the big G now.”

Your heart flounders a little at how smooth he is, even if the amused part of you almost lets that aforementioned smile break through. It’s Adi’s voice that shifts your focus.

“Hello gorgeous,” he greets, pulling you into an equally cozy embrace.

“Hello,” you respond, a little breathless. Pet-names are new. Rafe thinks so too.

Your hugs break in tandem, Phoebe laughing at Rafe’s silly pick up line as she pulls away. It’s a melodic sound, far less annoying than yours.

Apparently, Rafe’s ribcage disagrees.

“Adi was pretty set on Malibu this summer, blink,” he says then, faux-solemn. “You being a million miles away was the only thing that convinced him to change his mind.”

Your cheeks warm. You still feel a little breathless. “Well I’m glad you’re coming,” you say to Adi. “The Banks is the best place to be over summer.”

“Yeah?” Adi grins, raising his eyebrows. “Will joining you in the OBX unlock the story behind your nickname, blink?”

It sounds weird coming out of his mouth, Rafe thinks. He realises then no one else calls you that but him.

He prefers it that way. Your bare legs snare Rafe’s traitorous gaze again.

You scrunch your nose up at Adi playfully. You’re fucking good, Rafe thinks, because that move is textbook adorable. “Depends how well dinner goes, I guess.”

“It’s all about location, baby,” Adi replies seriously, his dark brown eyes sparkling. “C’mon. Can I walk you to your next lecture while we decide where to go?”

“Anywhere but Lillian, yeah?” Rafe says then, sending Phoebe a meaningful look. “Wanna book that entire place out for me and Phoebs tonight.”

Phoebs. It’s so cozy your eyes staccato on his handsome features.

Blink’s cuter, right? Not that it really matters.

“Phoebs and I,” you correct.

Rafe makes a face. “You’re such a cock-block, y’know that?”

“Shoo,” you reply, ushering them in the opposite direction.

Rafe grins then, nudging your soft jaw with his knuckles before throwing his arm over Phoebe’s shoulders. His touch raises treacherous goosebumps in still air.

“Someone’s eager,” he teases, sending Adi a grave look over your head. “Don’t let her take advantage of you, Patel. She’s a fucking menace when she wants to be.”

You clasp Adi’s hand, using your other to flip Rafe off before turning. Where Adi’s thumb grazes your wrist, even more goosebumps bloom. Less treacherous. You let go of his hand so you can entwine your fingers in his more surely.

Once you’re out of earshot, Adi breaks the silence again.

“You guys are pretty close, huh?” He asks, the bones of his knuckles brushing the raw hem of your denim shorts.

You look up at him grimly. “Unfortunately.”

He laughs at your expression, shaking his head bemusedly. “C’mon. You don’t mean that.”

“Maybe not,” you allow. “Although sometimes, I wonder whether we’re almost too close.”

Adi nods in agreement, ducking his head until his lips are at the shell of your ear. “I wonder that too,” he murmurs lowly, his voice softening. “Whether this whole thing is overstepping.”

You shake your head quickly, looking up at him in earnest. “It’s not! I swear it isn’t. The fact that you even think that confirms my point.”

Adi cocks his head to one side questioningly. “And what would that be?”

“That we’re totally overkill. We’ve got everyone convinced that we have a thing for each other, and it’s scaring away the people we’re actually crushing on.”

Adi’s knuckles press skin this time, lower now, a surer pressure. “People like…?”

“Fishing for compliments is totally lame, by the way,” you tease, grinning up at him.

“Shit, noted,” Adi replies. “How about giving them?”

You smile gentler now. “I’ll allow it.”

“You’re really fucking pretty.” Now free from the shade of the yawning birch trees, the yellow sun mutes the dark brown of his irises. Burnt sienna. “I get why Rafe refused to give us your Instagram when we first met him.”

You balk. “He did what?”

Adi raises his eyebrows. “Uh… refused to give us your Instagram? Pretty sure it was Dalt who’d asked — he’d seen you guys walking to a class together I think. Was pretty stoked when he found out you weren’t like, his girlfriend or some shit.” He grins then, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. “We all were, to be fair.”

Your skin warms, but you’re still balking, eyes unblinking. “But… why?”

“Shit… I don’t know. We all thought it was cause he was into you at first.”

“He isn’t, though,” you say quickly. Too quickly.

Adi pauses, surveying you. “Right. So I guess it’s because he didn’t want the douchebag mob to lay any hands.” He shrugs. “Like I said, I get it. I’d probably do the same if I had such a hot best friend.”

You turn to him then. “You would?”

“Uh huh. He was being protective.”

This makes your skin feel even hotter, as if that’s fucking possible. Protective Rafe who acknowledges the fact that you’re sort of attractive, platonic status notwithstanding.

“Weirdo,” you joke, deflecting hard. “You guys can’t actually be that bad.”

“You’d be surprised.” Adi’s timbre drops, faux-sombre. “Not me, though. It’s why Rafe’s letting me take you out.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Rafe is? Or I am?”

“Shit.” Adi grins, reproached. “I guess you are, huh.”

“Dunno, Adi. Don’t think you’ve even asked.”

“Shit,” he repeats, ducking his head sheepishly. “You’re right. Dinner at 7? What kind of food do you like eating?”

He flounders more than you think Rafe would, less debonair and more endearing. It’s sweet.

Unlike Rafe, who’s as confident as he is charismatic, who has a way of making the most ridiculous pick-up lines work. Not that he’d ever use one on you. Even if he does think you’re beautiful enough to protect.

“Anything, honestly. You know LA better than I do Mr 90210. Let’s go to one of your favourite spots.”

“Damn. That’s a lot of pressure.”

You grin. “You can handle it.”

Several feet away, Rafe’s arm slinks down Phoebe’s back until he’s circling her waist instead. The exposed waif of skin he finds here is soft, glowing in the sun. Like yours.

“You’re crazy, Rafe Cameron,” Phoebe announces, breaking the silence first.

Rafe glances down at her in surprise, balking. “I am?”

“You are.” She looks up at him in tandem, raising her eyebrows. “You’ve got this beautiful best friend who’d do almost anything for you, and you’re just like… going to let some other dude date her?”

Rafe probably shouldn’t have eaten those two cheeseburgers at lunch, because there’s this sensation in his stomach like heartburn but worse. There for a second before it’s gone, with the same permanence as the words coming out of Phoebe’s mouth. Anything for him.

To be fair, he’d do just about anything for you too. In a best friend kind of way, obviously.

“As opposed to…?”

“Dating her yourself.”

Fucking burgers. It’s that fake Kraft crap they use instead of real cheese.

He makes a face. “No way. Blink’s a handful. Besides, I don’t like her like that.”

Phoebe cocks her head to one side, surveying him with interest. “You really believe that, huh?”

“You don’t?” He replies, frowning.

“Absolutely not.”

Rafe raises his eyebrows at that, trying for a grin but landing on a grimace. “Shit. She was totally right about all this.”

Phoebe’s brow furrows in questioning. “Hm? Right about what?”

“Everyone being convinced by this bullshit concept of us liking each other for real.” He glances down at Phoebe faux-sombre, giving her bare waist a squeeze. “Alright Phoebs, this shit is business now, you being seriously hot aside. You’ve gotta let me take you on this date, yeah? Think of it as charity work or something. You making sure my street cred’s intact.”

Phoebe lets out a dulcet laugh, softer than yours. Rafe’s ego swells, gratified by her amusement.

His heart doesn’t budge, though.

“Your street cred?” She echos, still laughing. “And how exactly am I taking care of that?”

“By proving that Blink’s not a massive fucking cock-block.”

Phoebe scrunches her nose up, mildly chagrined. “She isn’t! It’s not her — it’s girl code.”

Rafe raises her eyebrows. “Girl code’s stopping you from going out with me?”

“Girl code’s stopping half her friends from going out with you,” Phoebe returns, her cheeks growing pink. “You know we all totally think she’s hit the jackpot, right?”

Rafe grins. “The jackpot, huh?” He releases her waist to throw his arm around her shoulder again, pulling her closer so she’s forced to look up at him. She’s frowning, mostly playful, the light streaming through the trees mottling her face in golden shadows.

She’s really pretty up close, all flawless skin and rosy cheeks, a Cupid’s bow that makes him think devastating things.

You have a Cupid’s bow too. And flawless skin that nine-year-old him has kissed.

He blinks. His grin’s faded a little and he fears it might be that awful heartburn he was suffering from a moment ago.

“I won’t be elaborating,” Phoebe declares.

“Not even if I bought you dinner?” Rafe returns.

“Rafe Cameron buying me dinner.” Phoebe shakes her head, bleak. “Now I’ve heard everything.”

Rafe’s fingers brush the exposed skin of her forearm, raising amaranthine goosebumps. “Fucking hell Phoebs, if I’d have known that some bullshit girl code was the only reason you hadn’t shown any interest in me, I would’ve asked you out a long time ago.”

Phoebe glances up at him, raising her eyebrows. “Who said anything about not showing any interest?”

Rafe lifts his in tandem, intrigued. “Like I said… flattery will get you everywhere.”

Phoebe rolls her eyes then, but there’s a smile on her face that juxtaposes her exasperation. “So maybe we like bringing up how hot you are often… you know, to fuck with Y/N’s head a little. And maybe it works like, really well. Maybe she’s so sick of the ab and bicep talk that she’s banned all mention of it in our apartment.”

“Ab and bicep talk, huh?” Rafe’s grin returns, cheek-achingly fond. “How come this is the first I’m hearing of this?”

“Because Cameron,” she says seriously, “it’s top secret information. She’d kill me if she knew I told you this.”

“Ah.” Rafe raises his eyebrows. “You have to go on a date with me now Durrant. Otherwise I’m definitely snitching.”

She groans, mostly teasing. “Shit. I do, don’t I?”

“Don’t worry, though. I’ll let you cop a feel of my biceps and my abdomen.”

“Oh to be so lucky,” Phoebe jokes.

“Seriously though,” Rafe says then, meeting her gaze with an easy, almost charming look of sincerity, “let me take you to Lillian tonight. I can pick you up at 7.30?”

Phoebe raises her eyebrows. “You’ll let me keep interrogating you about Y/N?”

Rafe makes a face. “If I have to.”

She breathes a laugh, slightly amused. “Alright, deal. Guess you want this more than I thought.”

“Just call me pussy whipped, yeah?”

“Charming, Rafe Cameron.”

Rafe gives her a wink, his blue eyes glinting with mirth. “Blink would disagree.”

—

Your date with Adi is nice.

He’s as charming as he is endearingly gauche, with innocent hands and less chaste lips.

Your farewell kiss at the end of the night is textbook — all soft and fleeting, the promise of more ever-lingering.

So it’s weird when you realise your heart isn’t in it. You’re all giddy and breathless and yet it feels like you’re performing.

Nice. Just like Rafe’s date with Phoebe.

With her bringing you up as often as she did, it’s no wonder his thoughts kept straying to you and Adi.

Interrogating, but it’s his heart working overtime not his brain. Adi’s hand on your back, on your waist, his calloused fingers pressed to your soft skin. No longer untouched. Awfully chivalrous all night, definitely sweet, funny enough to be on the receiving end of your laugh.

And kiss you, probably. Cruel.

Not that he actually minds for real, he’s just doing that platonic protective thing again.

Besides, once Phoebe’s sick of lamenting you and Rafe, she begins leaning into his flirting and he begins enjoying himself a little. Thoughts of you endure though, like that double date plague the two of you were avoiding.

It doesn’t stop him kissing her. A nice feeling, sure with teeth-scraping pressure, the lust it awakens urging his roaming hands to search for more.

Not as tender as he predicts your kiss with Adi was. Tenderly is how he’d kiss you anyway, if it was him in Adi’s shoes.

“Did you tell him?” Rafe asks in lieu of a greeting, handing you an iced coffee and taking a sip of his own. Beads of condensation roll down the plastic cup ominously.

You frown, bemused. “Tell him what?”

“Why I call you blink, blink.”

The pair of you exit the café in tandem, walking onto the sunlight pavement. Dry leaves crunch underfoot, a blur of ochre and terracotta.

“Oh.” Your lips pucker around your straw when you taste your own, leaving a chaste sheen of gloss. Rafe’s never noticed it before today. His gaze has flickered to your mouth a perplexing amount. “Nah. Didn’t really come up.”

Rafe raises his eyebrows. “Didn’t come up, huh? What did come up then?”

“I don’t know, lots of things! We talked for ages.” You glance up at him then, smiling fondly. “He was sweet, Cam. Good choice.”

He was sweet? That’s all Rafe’s going to get?

He wants to ask exactly how sweet his friend was, whether he was saccharine enough to earn more than an embrace. Whether that shiny stuff on your lips left an imprint on his, whether the echo of his touch still lingers over your skin.

He wants to ask you whether you’re genuinely going through with this whole thing, but he knows this is unfair, it was his idea in the first place.

You and Adi in the Banks, visiting all your favourite spots as handsome tourist and cuter tour guide. Adi charming your family, meeting the old crowd from the Academy, buying you dinner at the Island Club and watching the sunset straight after.

Like you and Rafe always do. Fucking awful.

“How about you, though?” You ask then, breaking his train of thought. Hardly introspective, self-destruction in the name of being overprotective. “How was your date with Phoebs?”

Right, he has gorgeous Phoebe. It isn’t like he’s some sort of glorified third wheel, doomed to lie in the same grave he dug by suggesting this date thing.

You and Adi and him and Phoebe in the Banks, the pair of you playing tour guide, showing them the places you collectively favour. Together.

Better.

“Good,” Rafe replies, sending you a wink. “Think we did a little less talking than you guys did though.”

You make a face, trying for a jibe but landing closer to a grimace. This caffeine is making your heart race a little. “You’re welcome.”

“For setting me up with your hottest friend?” Rafe asks, nudging your arm with his. As you lift it to take another sip of coffee, the heat of his touch lingers. “Thank you blink, I owe you everything, including the bra she left in my —”

“Rafe,” you groan.

“Kidding.” Rafe grins, teasing. Golden sunlight reveals the specks of green in his blue irises. “Sounds like you’ve been gatekeeping her a while, huh?”

“Me?” You say, cheeks warming. You haven’t blinked in a bit and Rafe notices. “What about you dude? What’s up with the whole not letting your frat brothers follow me on Instagram?”

He balks. “Adi told you about that?”

You raise your eyebrows. “Told me they all thought you were into me because of it, too.”

If Rafe was hesitating before, he’s definitely buffering now. His poor heart flounders, troubled by the thought.

You’re nearing UCal business school now, the location of your afternoon lecture looming overhead.

He isn’t proud of what he says next.

“He’s fucking with you,” Rafe coughs out, taking another gulp of his coffee. “He just said it because he knew it’d piss me off.”

“Oh, yeah,” you reply. Unsure. “Sure.”

“Because he knows I’m not into you like that,” he continues, overcompensating hard now. “Would be pretty convenient if I was though, yeah?”

You splutter in surprise, full well choking on the mouthful of coffee you just attempted to swallow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Shit. He was being sincere but perhaps that’s the problem. He looks down at you abashedly, his features rumpling into a grimace. “Uh, you know… we wouldn’t have to go to all this trouble to convince people that I wasn’t.”

You swallow. “What about me?”

“What about you?”

You’re avoiding eye contact when you ask, “How do I feel about you in this hypothetical?”

Rafe wants hypothetical you to be into him too, in a dangerously un-platonic way. He’s still looking down at you, taking inventory of the planes of your face. The smooth column of your throat, unblemished.

The mouth he’d kiss fondly, if this was all hypothetical and reciprocal and you weren’t just friends like you insist you are.

You and Rafe in the Banks, no Phoebe, no Adi, visiting the same haunts you’ve loved since you were kids. Rafe buying your mom flowers, playing golf with your father, making fun of you flailing when Wheeze manages to rope you into doing Tik Tok dances. You lounging on the same weathered sun deck his mother used to when he was younger, back when she’d supervise the hand-stand competitions you’d have in middle school.

Rafe blinks. He doesn’t know what the hell has gotten into him.

“The same as all your roommates, obviously,” he replies after a beat, grinning weakly.

You make a face. “Ew. So in this hypothetical, I’m totally pathetic. Noted.”

“So it’s true.” Rafe raises his eyebrows. “They’re all in love with me for real?”

You send him a playful glare. “I wouldn’t go that far, Cameron.”

“You’re right. Maybe it’s more lust than love, yeah? Because Phoebe did tell me something about my sexy fucking abs…”

This gets your attention. You glance up at him in surprise, looking equal parts pained and chagrined. “No she fucking didn’t.”

He knows he shouldn’t enjoy your embarrassment as much as he does, the way your eyes grow wide and your nose scrunches up.

It’s sort of adorable. He thinks he knows what Adi sees in you when your face is this sweet and abashed.

Amongst other times.

“Oh, she did,” Rafe returns, sending you a significant look. “Told me all about how talk of me is banned in your apartment.”

“For good reason,” you reply grimly.

“Cockblock,” Rafe teases.

“Hardly,” you scoff, making a face. “There are girls out there who don’t happen to room with me that’d hook up with you in a heartbeat.”

“And what if I want the girls that room with you, blink?” Rafe returns, nudging your shoulder jokingly. If his tongue faltered the same way his pulse did from the skin-on-skin, it might’ve skipped over “the girls that room with” bit and made a claim far more dangerous than this.

Even worse, you might’ve wanted him to. Your skin warms at the thought, and you send him a playful glare in retaliation. “You don’t, Cam,” you say. “You’d have to deal with me every time you came over.”

Rafe faux-grimaces. “Shit. You’re right.”

“Which means,” you continue, “now that you and Phoebe are dating, you’ll probably be seeing a lot more of me than you want to.”

In the beat that passes, Rafe thinks, no way. He isn’t sure there’s any amount of you that’ll ever be too much for him.

Not that he’d ever admit it.

“Tragic, blink. Guess all good things come at a price, huh?”

You glance up at him then, more curious than you should be. Almost wretched. This close, you can take inventory of every freckle that dapples his cheeks, trace the sharp line of his jaw even where the shadow of his stubble softens it.

He’d probably arrived to his date clean shaven, lest he mark Phoebe’s face when he kissed her. Smelling of something awful and woodsy probably, leaving his cologne where he touched her skin, where he embraced her.

You’ve held hands with your best friend Rafe Cameron before. Platonically. So you aren’t sure why the thought of his calloused fingers entwined in someone else’s is giving you a stomachache all of a sudden.

You try for nonchalance. “Your date went that well, huh?”

You fail miserably.

Rafe nods, almost thoughtful as he slurps down the deliquesced remains of his drink. “Way better than I initially thought it would.”

“How so?” You ask. The coffee you’re almost through with swirls uncomfortably in your stomach.

“Because it started kinda rough.” He looks down at you then, raising his eyebrows significantly. “Phoebe was fucking adamant we should be a thing. Didn’t know why the Hell I was taking her out instead of you.”

You balk. “She was?”

Rafe nods again, holding out his hand so he can discard of your plastic cup along with his own. Where his fingers brush your skin, unfamiliar goosebumps bloom.

Like they would have on Phoebe’s hands too, equally unblemished. Perhaps it’s the buzz of caffeine in your veins, but this revelation makes your pulse thrum a little faster.

Pathetic.

He says, “she was. Told her it was bullshit though, don’t worry.”

“Good.” You pause. It shouldn’t feel this awful agreeing with him. “Maybe she’ll believe it if it’s coming out of your mouth.”

“Maybe,” Rafe agrees. Another pause before he adds, “especially now that you’re seeing Adi, yeah?”

If it wasn’t him speaking, the same boy you’ve known since before puberty changed his Southern timbre, you might’ve missed the odd inflection in his voice as he says this.

Seeing Adi. As opposed to what? Seeing Rafe?

Reticence as you navigate the crowd gathered in the business school courtyard, thick as honey. As you ascend the steps leading to your lecture theatre, Rafe turns to you, brow furrowed in thought.

“You know what’d be good though?” He asks, pulling open the door. “If our next date was a double.”

As he ushers you in, you’re struck by the fact that his bicep is this awful, formidable shield of body heat and muscle. Your shoulder bumps it as you squeeze past him, expelling a traitorous jolt of static.

Pathetic.

You frown, bemused. “I thought we agreed that was a bad idea.”

“For a first date, yeah,” he replies, raising his eyebrows. “But now that we’ve got the ball rolling, it might be good for Adi and Phoebs to see how much we definitely aren’t into each other.”

“By going on a double date,” you echo, still skeptical.

“Exactly.” Rafe doesn’t really know where he’s going with this either. You’re wearing a new perfume, something floral and unfamiliar, and he’s dwelling on the fact that it’s probably for Adi’s benefit. It’s stuck to his bicep where the skin-on-skin stunned him, and he’s still trying to figure out why it’s making him feel so strange.

Bad strange, almost wretched. Like he wants to go on this double date to keep tabs, not prove your friendship status.

“Um.” You pause. “I mean… I guess that makes sense?”

Besides, it’ll be interesting to see just how enamoured Phoebe is with Rafe. And vice versa, more so vice versa.

Not that you’d ever admit it.

“It does,” Rafe agrees. “Next weekend, yeah?”

You nod, bringing your bottom lip between your teeth. The eye contact you share vacillates, and in the beat that passes, you’re sure you’re probably thinking the same thing.

That this is a bad idea, desperate as you are to see it through. That you’re totally fucking fucked, even if your traitorous heart doesn’t share the same sentiment that you do.

—

When Rafe’s red Ford ranger pulls up to your apartment, Adi hops out of the car to hold the door open for you.

Rafe stays idle, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel, impatient. He hears your fond voice thank Adi, hears Phoebe do the same, and resists the urge to push down on the accelerator and rev the engine.

He thinks about all the times he’s picked you up over the years. Alone. Fresh-faced at fifteen driving his dad’s car on a learner’s permit, seventeen in his first car, nineteen in his second.

Twenty-one and sober when he drove yours home from Kelce’s birthday party, where you’d sworn you’d only have one but well overshot that number.

Where you’d called him cute whilst being cute yourself, all drunk and cross-eyed with shiny gloss on your lips.

Every summer since he’d got a car of his own, and never once has he offered to open the passenger’s side door for you.

It’s a dreadful revelation. He feels his throat burn like the belch of stale leftovers.

Except worse, because there’s something green and angry and wholly emotional about this. Something terrifying that he doesn’t think he’s ready to come to terms with.

“So you going to tell us what we’re doing tonight then Cameron?” You ask, getting into the backseat with Phoebe.

You’re wearing a blouse he hasn’t seen before with a heart-shaped necklace that he has, exposing kindling-like skin which makes his throat burn harder. And Phoebe looks gorgeous beside you, the way she always does, her brown hair styled in curls and her full lips a rosy pink.

That’s unfair. You always do too. It’s just that this fact is extra debilitating right now.

“Where’s the fun in that?” Rafe replies, his blue eyes glinting with mirth. He flicks on his blinker before pulling out onto the road, one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the centre console.

His bicep in your direct line of vision, the entire length of tanned muscle bulging.

You narrow your eyes. “I hate surprises. You know I hate surprises.”

Rafe nods. “Exactly.”

“Don’t worry Y/N, Rafe said you’d love it,” Adi says then, grinning.

“Oh for fucks sake.” Sweet, näive Adi. He’s forgotten the importance of taking everything Rafe says with a grain of salt. “Are we going to mini golf?”

Adi balks at you through the rear-view mirror, bemused. “Wait. Shit. You don’t like mini golf?”

“I don’t like mini golf with Mr Island Club’s under par champion,” you correct grimly, glaring at Rafe.

“Under par champion?” Phoebe echoes, raising her eyebrows. “I’m almost impressed, Rafe.”

“Shit Phoebs, how do I get you the rest of the way there?” Rafe asks, grinning.

“Prove it tonight I guess.”

Rafe sends her a salute through the rear view mirror, faux-sincere. “Aye aye captain.”

Adi must notice that you still look fairly indignant, because he pipes up then, tender bordering on abashed.

“Don’t worry Y/N, he only planned half of the date,” he says. “The other half’s all me. We’re going to that restaurant in Wilshire you’ve been dying to try.”

Your frown acquiesces a smidge. “Wait… seriously? I don’t even remember telling you about that!”

“You didn’t.”

The look on your face melts into surprise, almost endeared. Rafe aches. “Then how did you…”

Adi raises his eyebrows, tapping the side of his nose conspiratorially. “I’ve got spies everywhere.”

“It was you, wasn’t it?” You ask then, turning your head toward Phoebe intently.

She raises her arms in surrender, shaking her head. “Wasn’t me, babe, looks like Adi’s got moves.” She sends him an approving look, her bright green eyes sparkling fondly. “Not bad Patel, now this I’m totally impressed with.”

Rafe’s ego takes less of a blow than his wretched heart does. “Oof,” he says, trying for a grin and landing closer to a grimace. “I’m wounded.”

Phoebe winks. “Thought man-eater was your type, Rafe Cameron.”

“Nah,” he returns, mirth returning to his features. “More like women so beautiful they can get away with fucking anything.”

“So Y/N then,” Adi says.

You smile bashfully, cheeks warming. “Okay cute, but definitely not Rafe’s type.”

Rafe disagrees — he thinks it’s pretty obvious that you’re his type. Not in a romantic sense, or anything, it’s just that he’s a straight guy that resides on Earth and he doesn’t think there’s any of those whose type you aren’t.

Not that he’s going to disclose that at a double date with your friend and his.

“No,” he accedes, lying through his teeth. “Blink’s way too Outer Banks for me.”

“Exactly,” you agree, raising your eyebrows significantly. “We’ve got to bring new people in before our shitty bloodlines destroy us.”

“Fucking hell,” Phoebe says then, amused. “You guys are doing a great job of selling this place as a holiday destination, y’know that?”

“Hey now, don’t judge the place by the people,” you admonish, nudging her shoulder with yours. “If it wasn’t for my overbearing parents, I probably would’ve picked a college in the Carolinas.”

You don’t tell them that it’s really Rafe’s family that catalysed the move, how his mother passed away and his relationship with his father subsequently disintegrated. You don’t tell them about the quiet abuse he endured, how it prompted him to apply for a university a six hour flight away. For you to follow him, no questions asked, because in what world would you have survived three years away from each other?

“We both would’ve,” Rafe agrees, his gaze hesitating on you before moving to Phoebe through the rear-view mirror. “Glad we didn’t though.”

Phoebe turns to you, smiling fondly. “I’m glad too.”

“For me, yeah?” Rafe asks, his momentarily stoic features softening into something playful.

Phoebe rolls her eyes, mostly affectionate. “Who else could I possibly be meaning?”

“Well I for one,” Adi declares then, faux-sombre, “am extremely grateful for you brother.” He glances at you over his shoulder, winking. “For having a friend as gorgeous as Y/N.”

Rafe makes a face. He’s trying for a jibe but his heart isn’t quite in it. Begrudgingly, he says, “I’ve got plenty of gorgeous friends.”

That I’m not this protective over, his mind privately adds.

“Me and the boys don’t count,” Adi replies, raising his eyebrows. “Besides, none of us tolerate you as much as she does. That shit takes superhuman strength, Cameron.”

A laugh bubbles out of you, sweet and unabashed. Not for Rafe. It makes his wretched heart feel awful. “Finally,” you say. “The recognition I deserve.”

“Hey hey, what about me?” Rafe asks, admonished. “We did grow up together, you know. If anything takes superhuman strength, it’s living through all of blink’s tragic phases.”

Adi meets your gaze through the rear-view mirror, his hazel eyes mirthful. “Phases plural? Please elaborate.”

You send Rafe a warning look. “Don’t you dare Cam.”

Rafe grins in response, a dangerously roguish expression on his face. “Don’t you think it’s time everyone heard what your first ever Instagram handle was?”

“Okay,” Phoebe says, leaning forward in anticipation, “now I’m interested.”

“Rafe.” You’re basically begging now. Pathetic. “C’mon. I’m serious.”

Rafe hesitates. He doesn’t think your eye contact has ever left him this debilitated, all wide and pleading with sunset speckling your pretty irises. “Alright, chill, a story for another day.” Another pause. “Besides, memory lane is probably easier to go down with some visual aids.”

You groan. Adi and Phoebe perk up, grinning playfully. “Stop,” the latter says. “Like baby photos?”

“Blink’s mom is a hoarder,” Rafe returns, nodding. “She’s got so fucking many photo albums filled with digis of us, it’s embarrassing.”

“Both of you?” Phoebe asks, meeting Rafe’s gaze. “That’s kind of sweet.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not like Ward Cameron’s much of a memory collector,” Rafe returns, suddenly diffident. He coughs. Your features soften on instinct. “Someone’s gotta keep track of us I guess.”

“Besides, my mom’s more than happy to do so,” you add, attempting to shift the focus away from Rafe. “Before she married my dad, she worked as a wedding photographer.”

“Shit, that’s pretty cool,” Adi says, smiling kindly. “I’ll have to get some tips off her this summer. I’ve always been pretty into that stuff too.”

You glance up at him in surprise, a little endeared. “Wait… really? I didn’t know frat boy prodigies could have creative interests.”

Rafe’s heart pulls, something terrible and envious threatening to rear its ugly head.

You’re lying, you do know that they can — it was your mom that gave Rafe his first camera as a young boy. This antiquated old thing with a scratched up Canon logo above the lens; it was your mom that told him he had a good eye, your mom that encouraged him to transform his pain into meaningful images.

He’s finding it difficult enough to share you with Adi, he isn’t sure he’ll be able to bear lending him his favourite hobby. Or your mom, basically his mom, especially after his own passed away.

It’s dreadful.

He turns into the mini golf carpark and pulls into the nearest spot, quick to turn off the ignition and unfasten his seat belt so he can be the first person out.

He’s going to hold the door open for Phoebe if it kills him.

And he’s quicker than Adi this time, making his chivalry difficult to ignore. Adi says, “you’d be surprised,” in response to your previous remark, but you’re too busy taking inventory of Rafe’s fond expression to register it at all.

Him and Phoebe are all sparkly eyed with tandem smiles, his hand taking hers and her figure proximal to his. Devastatingly proximal, almost skin-on-skin with this promise of more that makes your chest feel awful.

“Oh,” you breathe out. It doesn’t matter that Adi’s opened the door for you too. “Right, yeah. Clearly.”

“Alright,” Rafe declares then, throwing his arm around Phoebe’s shoulder. More awful now, cloying as it climbs to your throat. “We going to make this game of mini golf interesting or what?”

You raise your eyebrows. “Interesting how Cam?”

Adi falls into your step seamlessly, knuckles brushing yours a beat before he’s entwining your fingers. He squeezes your hand comfortingly, the rough ridges of his palm exerting a grounding pressure. Your shoulders relax a little.

“Well,” Rafe begins, turning his head to look at you over his shoulder. Faltering in surprise when his gaze drops to your interlocked fingers. “Uh… I don’t know. Loser pays for dinner?”

Phoebe frowns her disapproval. “Uh, no deal hot shot. If I have to pay for anything, I’m not counting this as a date.”

“Woah slow down, who said you’d be doing any paying?” Rafe returns playfully, his blue eyes glinting with mirth. “Don’t worry Phoebs, I’ll make sure you aren’t the loser.”

“By being the loser yourself?” You ask, raising her eyebrows.

Rafe lifts his in tandem. “This coming from the girl who hasn’t made par in the history of the game.”

“Hey!” You defend, faux-admonished. “Every other time we’ve played I’ve been half cut on shitty beer.”

“So have I,” Rafe returns, grinning triumphantly. “Still manage to smoke everyone’s asses.”

“Not that it’s hard or anything. Kelce and Topper play more tragic than me, as if that’s fucking possible.”

Rafe lets out an appreciative laugh, his hold on Phoebe’s shoulders loosening a smidge. “Fuck, do you remember that time Top fell into the pond at Holey Moley?”

“Hard to forget,” you return, laughing in tandem. “Wasn’t that the night we took him out because we were sick of hearing him cry about John B and Sar?”

“Shit, it was! Back when Kelce was seeing that foreign exchange student… what was her name again?”

“Oh, um…” your hold on Adi’s hand acquiesces as you think on this, your brow furrowing in concentration. You don’t notice. Rafe’s arm has slipped down Phoebe’s back, lingering at her waist absent-mindedly before falling to his side again. He doesn’t notice. “F something…”

“Florence!” Rafe exclaims.

“Oh my god, yeah, Florence!” You reply. Adi and Phoebe share a look. The pair of you don’t notice. “Speaking of, did you see that hard launch he posted on his story? Since when does Kelce fucking Smith have a girlfriend?”

“Dude, fuck if I know, you know he’s always been so secretive about that stuff. Remember how long it took him to tell us him and Flor were a thing?”

Another amused laugh bubbles out of you, sweet and unabashed and all Rafe’s. His chest swells. “Until after she’d gone back to London,” you reply. “Classic Kelcey, huh?”

“So,” Adi interrupts then, sounding gauche. “This Kelce guy is one of your Outer Banks friends?”

You glance up at him in surprise; it’s as if you’d forgotten that he was there. That this was a double date with him and your gorgeous friend Phoebe, not just another Friday night hang-out with Rafe. The aftermath of this revelation is more sheepish than it is bashful, like a switch in your brain that reminds you that you’re supposed to be performing.

Double dreadful. You’re standing at the mini golf reception and you can’t even remember how you got here.

“Oh, yeah!” You reply, momentarily chagrined. “You’d like him Adi. He’s pre-law just like you.”

“Is he the hot one or the cute one?” Phoebe asks thoughtfully.

“Hot,” you reply without missing a beat. At Rafe’s raised eyebrows, you add, “not to me! They FaceTimed me the other day and Phoebs happened to get a glimpse of them.”

“Ah,” Rafe returns, and then he meets Phoebe’s gaze, looking comically grave. “Not as hot as me though, yeah?”

“Hotter,” she teases, smiling saccharine sweet. “Too bad they’re too polite to be my type.”

Rafe grins at this, sharing a knowing look with you. “Don’t know if that’s an adjective I’d use to describe Top and Kelce.”

You adopt a faux-bemused look, mirth hiding behind your expression. “Really? I don’t know. Remember that time Top politely told your dad to fuck off when he was wasted?”

Rafe cringes. “He’s lucky that the Ward Cameron didn’t press any charges.”

“Ha,” you scoff, “even if he had, it’s not like anything would’ve happened. Judge Thornton would’ve had that shit revoked within the hour.”

“C’mon, we can’t hate him too much for that. Remember when I got caught driving you guys around on my learner’s, and he managed to sweet-talk the cop out of confiscating my permit?”

Adi and Phoebe glance at each other awkwardly. They’re vying for a stake in this conversation and failing miserably.

Luckily for them, it’s in this moment that the receptionist beckons them over.

“Hey!” Adi greets in relief, springing into action. “Could we please grab four tickets?”

“Sure,” she replies, starting to ring it up. “Paying together or separately?”

“Together,” Adi and Rafe say in unison, just as you say “separately.”

You frown at the pair of them, shaking your head. “You guys can pay for dinner.”

“Loser pays for dinner,” Rafe corrects. “I’m paying for this.”

“You’re algood brother, I got it,” Adi insists, sliding his wallet out of his back pocket. “Besides, you’re going to be the loser that pays for dinner. The least I could do is cop this expense for you.”

Call it pride (even if it’s closer to something slightly possessive), but Rafe Cameron refuses to acquiesce on money matters. He has to pay, he always pays when it’s you and him.

Not that he particularly gives you a choice in the matter.

“Ha, very funny,” Rafe returns, activating the Apple Pay feature on his phone. “I’ve gotta pay Patel. If I don’t pay for this, I won’t have paid for anything tonight. It won’t even be like a real date. I’m paying.”

“Or,” you say then, sounding exasperated. “We could all pay for ourselves and not make a big deal out of this.”

The cashier lets out a beleaguered sigh, holding out the EFTPOS machine expectantly. “I assume you guys are on a double date? Why don’t the boys pay for their girls and we call it even?”

Rafe doesn’t like this idea either. The thought of Adi paying for you makes his heart drop to his stomach.

He knows this is kind of ridiculous. It’s why he’s forced to keep his mouth shut when the rest of you don’t share his sentiment.

“Very diplomatic,” Phoebe says approvingly. “I like it.”

Adi nods in agreement, tapping his card on the sensor once it’s ready for him. Rafe does the same, his lock screen displaying an old photo of you two before switching to his virtual credit card. His expression is almost unreadable — almost, perhaps to those who don’t know him very well.

To you, it’s clear as day. He’s resentful. It’s perplexing.

The emotion’s far too fleeting for you to comment on, melting into the same mixture of warmth and charisma you’re familiar with within a second. He grabs the equipment the cashier hands over, giving each of you a club with a charming grin on his face.

The yellow lights overhead speck his blue eyes with hints of aureate. As he smiles down at you, his ridiculous bone structure accentuated by the shadows they cast, you’re struck by the fact that your best friend Rafe Cameron is like… effortlessly handsome.

Double perplexing. You accept your club in a daze, missing the way his calloused palm lingers.

The rest of the night is similarly perplexing.

You and Rafe spend the first hole—which features an artificially azure pond—reminiscing over Topper’s aforementioned stumble.

At the fourth hole, he pulls a move that makes your traitorous stomach churn. When Phoebe hits it two under par, he lifts her up in triumph and twirls her figure around.

“That’s my girl!” He exclaims, the words tumbling out of his mouth all effortless. Holding her close with his strong muscles taut and looking like the absolute death of you.

“We’ll get them at the next one,” Adi murmurs comfortingly, ducking his head so his lips are at the shell of your ear. No sparks. He must think that your pained expression is a byproduct of your competitive spirit, not the surprise that jolts through you at hearing Phoebe is Rafe’s girl.

Not you. You could hold a mirror up to his resentment right about then.

It’s alright though, because diplomatic hole ten ensures you’re even.

When you struggle past par—and sure, perhaps more for Adi’s benefit than yours—it’s Rafe’s turn to feel his stomach pull despairingly.

“Here,” Adi says kindly, stepping toward you. “Mind if I…?”

When he embraces you from behind, chest to back with no regard for personal space, the crown of Rafe’s golf club forms a crater on the Astro turf.

At the tell-tale scrape of pressure, Phoebe glances down at the artificial grass, bemused. Adi’s rough hands find your waist and Rafe’s exert a punishing force on his handle.

“This is gonna sound like a line,” Adi murmurs, his deep timbre raising goosebumps on your neck, “but it really is all in the hips.”

He demonstrates by swinging them side to side gently, this effortless motion that makes Rafe’s heart flounder.

“Smooth Patel,” he calls weakly, trying for a jibe as if he isn’t attempting to throw him off.

Adi sends Rafe a pointed look just as you glance up at him, eyes widening in tandem. Unblinking. It makes him feel even more wretched, as if that’s fucking possible. Adi’s hands acquiesce on your waist so that they can fold over yours on the golf club handle. Arms and forearms touching, now.

No sparks. Maybe if Rafe knew this, he wouldn’t have left another dent in the Astro turf.

“So instead of pivoting with your wrists,” he continues, drawing your arms back with his, “you wanna pivot with your hips.”

When he brings the club down to take a hit, his chest presses closer to your back, emanating body heat and vetiver. He’s bigger than you, paradoxically strong as he is gentle.

Wearing a cologne you’re unfamiliar with. You’ve had Rafe’s woodsy cinnamon scent down packed since you were in high school together.

The golf ball rolls into hole ten easy. Rafe mistakes the triumphant smile on your face as a display of affection, hopelessly enamoured.

It fills him with this overwhelming urge to separate your figures now, to give his frat brother a baseless shiner, to replace his embrace with an even fonder one. He aches. You’re smiling an only-for-Adi smile that’s far from the platonic one he knows and he really aches.

“Hey,” Phoebe says then, breaking him out of his reverie. She’s staring at him with this funny look on her face that prickles uncomfortably up his neck. “Did you hear me Rafe? We’re heading to the next hole now.”

“Oh,” he replies, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. “Right, yeah.”

Phoebe cocks her head to one side, continuing to stare. Something knowing in her gaze that terrifies him. “You good?”

“Of course I am.” He grins weakly. “You’re just really fucking distracting, y’know that?”

A beat before she responds. She shakes her head soberly, turning to follow you and Adi to hole seven. “You’re a terrible liar, Rafe Cameron.”

By the time you’ve reached the last hole, both of you have already sworn to never do this again.

Privately. For less platonic reasons than previously mentioned.

You think your last straw was probably Rafe’s hole fifteen victory, when he asked his lucky charm Phoebe to give him a kiss before his final swing.

On the cheek, but still.

He’d wolf whistled approvingly when the ball had landed near the hole, beckoning her over to help him get it in in two.

“Me?” She’d asked, raising her eyebrows. Mostly skeptical; you think you’re the only one who registered the bashful lilt to her tone.

“You,” he’d returned, lifting his in tandem. Ducking his head when she neared, angling his sharp jaw forward. Accepting her kiss as if it wasn’t making your wretched heart flounder, and having the audacity to send you a wink when the ball rolled into the hole thereafter.

Payback, probably.

Because Rafe’s is earlier, when you comfort Adi for fucking up par at hole thirteen.

When Adi’s ball lands several meters short of its destination, Rafe lets out a delighted laugh, amusement evident on his features. He says, “Shit Patel. That’s gotta be a record.”

“Yeah yeah,” Adi mutters in response, slightly ruffled. “I’m just giving you guys a chance to win, alright?”

“My hero,” you tease, circling his figure to give him a reassuring squeeze. On your tip-toes, lips at the shell of his ear, you add, “don’t worry Adi. It’s a par four anyway.”

Awfully proximal, awfully liberal with your touch and disposition, as if that’s fucking allowed, as if Rafe’s supposed to be okay with it.

He doesn’t know how he’s going to make it through dinner. You’re now at the last hole and it’s getting closer and closer.

“Fuck yeah!” Phoebe exclaims, getting the final hole in three. She was the last one to go; the rest of you have already made hole eighteen. “That’s us done, right? Because I’m fucking starving.”

“That’s us done,” you echo, smiling feebly. More a grimace than anything particularly delighted.

“And if my calculations are correct…” Adi says, squinting down at the scorecard in his hand, “Phoebe’s the one paying for dinner.”

Phoebe gasps, faux-scandalised, sending Rafe a playful glare. “We had a deal, Cameron! What happened?”

Rafe grins. “What happened is I can’t stand anyone else paying for my girl. It’s on me Phoebs, don’t worry about it.”

Your heart drops again, that ‘my girl’ phrase feeling a dreadful weight in your ribcage.

You miss the fact that he didn’t specify who his girl was on purpose.

—

The restaurant is a bustle of energy when you arrive, soulful jazz undercut by the steady hum of conversation. Retro wall sconces bathe it in muted auburn light.

The four of you approach the front counter, where a pretty waitress is scrutinising the laptop screen in front of her. When she glances up to greet you, you don’t miss the way her eyes linger on Rafe’s features.

It draws forth a hunger pang. What you presume to be a hunger pang.

“Hello,” Adi begins, sending her a smile. “Reservation under Patel? Should be for 7pm.”

The waitress’ gaze drops to the screen again before she nods her approval. “Oh yes, four for 7pm,” she says, grabbing some menus and stepping out from behind the desk. “Follow me.”

She leads you to the back of the restaurant, where a candlelit table is tucked into one corner. The orange flame flickers ominously.

“Here we are,” she says, placing the menus down with a flourish. “Can I get you still or sparkling water to start?”

“Still,” Rafe says, just as Adi says, “Sparkling.”

The pair balk at each other, hesitating.

“Uh,” Rafe glances at you, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly, “sorry brother, force of habit. Blink hates sparkling water.”

Your cheeks warm instinctively. “We both do.”

Rafe frowns. “I don’t.”

“Why don’t you ever ask for it when we’re out for dinner then?”

“Because you don’t like it,” Rafe replies, like it’s obvious. It makes your warm skin burn even hotter, as if that’s fucking possible.

“Oh.” You look from Adi to Rafe, momentarily bashful. Behind them, you see swear you see the waitress raise her eyebrows. “I didn’t know that.”

“It’s not a big deal,” Rafe replies, shrugging matter-of-factly. He takes a seat and gestures for the rest of you to follow, turning back to the waitress and repeating, “Still would be great, yeah?”

You slide into the banquette seat beside Phoebe, still abashed, the vivid merlot upholstery complimenting the orange mood lighting. She’s wearing a tandem expression to the waitress. You try your best to avoid eye contact.

“So Y/N,” Adi says then, passing the menus around, “I assume you already know exactly what you’re ordering?”

You grin at him, once gauche now a little more fond. “Obviously.”

“Good,” he replies, placing his menu back down decisively. “You can order for me too, then.”

Rafe sends Adi a pitiful look, faux-sombre. “Rookie mistake Patel. Prepare to eat the weirdest combinations of food known to man.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “This coming from the guy who dips pickles into peanut butter.”

“No way!” Phoebe exclaims then, letting out an appreciative peal of laughter. “I’ve never met anyone else who enjoys that combination before.”

Rafe regards her with surprise, this awfully pleased smile on his face that makes you rue bringing up the connection in the first place. “Holy shit,” he returns, his Southern timbre like smooth molasses. “We really are a match-made in heaven, aren’t we?”

Soulmates. The regret cloys at your insides, lamenting.

“Oh yeah, I’m definitely only letting Y/N pick my meal,” Adi declares then, looking mildly disgusted by the pair of them. “You guys are fucking weird.”

You nod in agreement. “Thank you.”

Phoebe sends you a reproachful look, mostly teasing. “Alright hot shot. What exactly are you picking for us?”

Rafe responds before you can, the menu held up to eye-level as his thoughtful gaze pores over it. The emblazoned restaurant name stares down at you in mocking.

“Let me guess,” he starts, and then he pauses, contemplating, “edamame beans and vege tempura to start, obviously.” He looks at you over the menu’s edge, raising his eyebrows. “Yeah?”

You narrow your eyes at him. “No comment.”

He grins roguishly. “That’s a yes. And…” he glances back down at the menu “uh, gotta be the rainbow roll and avocado roll, definitely no sashimi, and maybe… the teriyaki chicken?”

“You forgot drinks, genius.”

“Too fucking easy, you’re obviously going to get a yuzu sour.”

Your eyebrows lift in tandem, juxtaposing the amusement that softens your voice. “And you’re going to get a Coors light and eat none of the edamame. Is that supposed to be impressive Cam?”

“Guilty.” Rafe shrugs. Adi and Phoebe share another reluctant look. “Edamame is fucking nasty.”

The waitress chooses this moment to return to your table with a notepad. She glances at the four of you in turn before her pretty gaze stalls on your features, expectant.

“Um,” you falter, the tips of your ears warming in gauche abandonment. You turn to Adi and Phoebe, directing your next question to them. “You guys happy for me to order for us?”

Phoebe’s got a funny look on her face that makes your skin feel terribly see-through, bare to the bone save the Rafe-sized box of details in your ribcage. You swallow. “Yeah,” she nods after pause. “If you’re gonna order everything Rafe says you will, it sounds delicious.”

“Agreed,” Adi says.

“Okay.” You look back up at the waitress, who’s stolen a quick glimpse at oblivious Rafe beside her. Oblivious handsome Rafe. What you assume is another hunger pang sears through you like a bullet. “Um… we’ll grab the edamame and vege tempura to start if that’s okay.” A pause. “The rainbow and avocado rolls too, please. And, um… the agedashi tofu.”

Rafe sends you a look. “No teriyaki chicken?”

You shake your head, looking at the three of them in turn. “Not unless you guys want any?”

“But it’s your favourite,” Rafe says then, ignoring you. Like there’s no way he’d pass up a dish that you’re fond of.

Like there’s a you-sized box in his ribcage too.

“If it’s your favourite, we’ve gotta try it,” Adi declares, looking up at the waitress. “Can we grab that too please?”

She nods in response, jotting down the menu items. “Any drinks?”

“A Coors light and a Yuzu sour,” Rafe replies before you can, ordering for you. As if it’s you and him on this romantic rendezvous, not you and him on dates with two other people.

Just shy of platonic, almost chaste with his intentions. He glances between Phoebe and Adi as you balk, adding, “You guys know what drinks you’re getting?”

They share another secret look that you’re sure Rafe clocks too. You swear you catch his ears redden as his eyes dart to you, almost sheepish. Flecks of ochre juxtapose the bright blue of his irises.

He knows you’re pretty the same way he knows the Earth is a sphere, but he finds this fact extra debilitating when you’re sitting opposite Adi Patel. Not him. Flirting all saccharine sweet with his good friend Adi Patel, smiling with your eyes when you regard him, wearing shiny lipgloss for his benefit.

Not Rafe’s. It’s absolutely wretched.

“A negroni for me,” Phoebe replies, sending the waitress a smile.

“Coors light too, please,” Adi says. He has an unreadable expression on his face.

The remainder of the dinner proceeds in much the same fashion, progressively devolving into this awfully gauche nightmare. Every attempt you make at flirting begins to fall short for some reason, and you find yourself grappling for purchase on something familiar.

Something you know. Like Rafe.

He does the same, even if his teasing jibes land easier. He’s doing a winning job at courting Phoebe; it’s a shame her heart isn’t quite in it.

The four of you probably come to the same conclusion at different points in the night — that this double date thing was definitely a bad idea. That perhaps you don’t gel as well with each other as your hopeful minds once predicted.

Except you and Rafe. Obviously.

Phoebe and Adi aren’t shy to bring this up with the pair of you when the night is finally over.

After saying farewell to Adi and Rafe—no goodnight kisses, thank God—you and Phoebe walk to the front door of your apartment in awkward silence.

Phoebe breaks it first. “Well. That was interesting.”

You look over at her, pathetically hopeful. “Interesting fun?”

When she meets your gaze in turn, there’s an undercurrent of skepticism painting her green irises deeper verdant. Your stomach turns. “Interesting interesting.”

At your reticence, she raises her eyebrows, adding, “Interesting sort of weird, don’t you think?”

“Only because we’ve never done that before,” you defend, frowning. “We tend to stay out of each other’s love lives, alright?”

Phoebe guides her house key into the mortise lock, opening the front door. “I wonder why.”

The tone of her voice suggests she knows exactly why. Your cheeks warm. “Obviously because we’re grade A cockblocks to each other.”

Phoebe enters the apartment first, your figure following close behind her. At your response, she turns to face you, hands on her hips with an arch expression on her features. “I wonder why,” she repeats, eyebrows still raised.

“Phoebe…” you sigh. “Lesson learned, okay? No more double dates.”

“No more Rafe and me either,” Phoebe replies with a snort, shaking her head. “You can deny your own feelings all you want Y/N, but it’s pretty fucking obvious that guy is totally into you.”

You eyes widen, unblinking, your wretched pulse thrumming. “He isn’t,” you reply weakly, hardly convincing. “If he was, why would he set me up with his friend?”

“Why would you set him up with yours?”

“I…” the answer seems less obvious now than it did when you first devised this plan, “I guess I thought you guys would be cute together.”

Half true. You fail to mention how this whole thing was borne as a bid to get the Figure Eight off your back, because suddenly they seem less imposing than seeing Rafe with someone else. Romantically.

Selfishly, you think you might want him both ways. Familiarly platonic and now also a little less chaste.

It’s a terrifying revelation.

“D’you still think so Y/N?”

No. “Yes.”

She sends you a look. “Y/N.”

“He’s not into me Phoebe,” you return, hopelessly stubborn.

“He is,” she disagrees, crossing her arms across her chest. “He may not have known it before, but he sure as hell knows it now.”

She’s always been awfully perceptive; Rafe’s driving back to his frat now and his fists are tense against the steering wheel, troubled. He’s trying to find a way to tell Adi you’re his without saying it straight. He wishes his friend could just feel his cumbersome heart ache and just know it.

Good thing Adi’s pretty observant too.

Although is it that impressive when the pair of you make things so obviously un-platonic?

“You were right,” Adi announces suddenly, breaking the silence. “Blink and me really do make a good match.”

Rafe’s heart drops. “Yeah?”

Adi nods in response, hedging while continuing to sound painfully nonchalant. “No offense, but I kinda wish that was a solo date. The only reason I didn’t kiss her goodnight was because of you and Phoebe.”

Rafe thinks his heart is probably at his knees now, his ribcage empty. He forces himself to stretch out his fingers on the steering wheel, the tension in them beginning to hurt.

“Oh,” he says roughly. “Right, yeah. You think you gonna ask her out again?”

“I want to. She’ll probably say no though.”

“What?” Rafe frowns. “Why would she do that?”

“Because I’m pretty sure it’s you she wants, Cameron. Not me.”

Rafe falters, glancing at him in surprise. “Huh? No she doesn’t.”

Adi raises his eyebrows. “At the risk of getting us into a car crash, yes she does.”

“Fuck off,” Rafe scoffs weakly, feeling his poor pulse jolt. “Blink doesn’t like me like that. She’s the one who wanted us to set each other up with our friends.”

“Bro.” Adi’s tone is firm, almost determined. “The female race is a fucking mystery, what’s new? All I know is she’s as into you as you are into her.”

Rafe’s foot staccatos on the brake, bringing them to a jostling stop in front of a set of traffic lights. He coughs. His Adam’s apple bobs awkwardly in his throat. “I’m not into Blink.”

Lie. He doesn’t know who the fuck he’s kidding.

“Yeah?” Adi raises his eyebrows. “Cause I clocked the look on your face when I said I wanted to kiss her.”

“Do you actually want to kiss her?” Rafe asks slovenly.

“Of course I do, she’s fucking hot.” A pause. “It doesn’t matter, though. I know she’s off limits now.”

Rafe glances at him as the light turns green, accelerating forward hesitatingly.

He knows his friend is right. Because it’s dreadful, the highlight reel of Adi’s unwanted touches that’s playing in his brain right now, taunting him. He wouldn’t survive it if you and Adi were actually a thing, if you and anyone on planet Earth but him were a thing. Romantically.

You’re his earliest platonic memory and now he’s wondering whether you’re his earliest ardent memory too.

It’s a terrifying revelation.

“She… yeah. I guess she is.”

—

“You’re being weird,” you accuse, narrowing your eyes at Rafe over your laptop.

Rafe meets your gaze sheepishly, and you’re momentarily thrown. A beam of sunlight divides his handsome face in half, painting one eye brilliant teal while the other hides in shadow.

You haven’t seen much of him since your disastrous double date, and you attribute this to the stress of studying for finals. Two weeks later with three difficult exams under your belt, the pair of you finally organised to study for your last one together.

Which is weird, because you seldom fly solo during exam season. Last year, you’d spend all your time together at this library table, laptops touching with tandem tired eyes and concentration aging your features. Last year, you’d take turns buying each other sugary energy drinks, alternating your all-nighters between his frat house and your apartment.

So maybe it’s more than the stress of finals keeping you apart. Maybe being cognisant of your romantic feelings for each other is also wreaking havoc on the poor chambers of your hearts.

“No I’m not,” Rafe murmurs back, his voice deeper when it’s quiet.

“You are!” You exclaim-whisper, frowning at him. “You’ve barely looked up at me since you sat down.”

Rafe sighs; he knows you’re right. He just doesn’t know how to tell you there’s a good reason why.

He can’t just say that it’s because of the window of blinding sunlight behind you, that it’s because it creates this golden halo around your face as it silhouettes you. So beautiful it’s distracting. Feels like the understatement of the fucking century.

“Because we’re in a library Blink,” he lies, frowning back. His eyes drop to the shine of gloss coating your bottom lip. “C’mon. Let’s take a caffeine break.”

You falter. You, Rafe, coffee without a buffer, no physical Phoebe or Adi but the memories of your last conversations with them ever present .

Terrifying. You nod after pause, slowly closing your laptop. “Yeah. Okay.”

The two of you walk out of the library in tandem, awfully proximal, the tip of your shoulder brushing his upper arm intermittently. Shifting a very un-platonic jolt of static through your skin everytime it does.

Outside, the tepid warmth of summer unfurls over you. You join the footfall heading toward the plot of cafés at the fringe of campus, a cloudless blue sky stretching out overhead.

When you glance up at Rafe with earnest eyes, you find that he’s already looking down at you. Coffee seems less important now than it did a second ago. “So…” you ask tentatively, “what’s up with you?”

“Nothing,” Rafe lies.

“C’mon, you can tell me. Did you bomb a final or something?”

Worse. “Way to believe in me Blink,” Rafe returns, looking somewhere between amused and exasperated.

You raise your arms in surrender. “I’m just thinking worst case here. What is it then?” You hesitate, the tips of your ears warming. “Is it me? Did I do something wrong?”

Rafe balks. If he thinks on this too hard, he’ll say yes.

Except is it wrong for you to have inadvertently forced him to come to terms with his romantic emotions?

“Shit.” Your eyes widen abashedly, and you groan. “I did do something, didn’t I?”

You take his arm and pull him onto the side of the pavement, lest the steady foot traffic snag either one of you away. This is serious now. You’re to blame for his gaucheness and you need to get to the bottom of it before it kills you.

“What is it?” Your hand acquiesces on his bicep, and the skin where your fingers were burns traitorously in their absence. “It’s the double date, isn’t it? I was a total cock block and you’re pissed at me for it?”

Rafe opens his mouth to disagree, but you refuse to be interrupted.

“Fuck,” you groan, your pretty features scrunching up. Sunlight dapples them golden and Rafe’s skin burns harder. “I knew it was a bad idea. Listen… I can totally make this right. Did you ask Phoebe out again or something? Did she say no?”

You look up at him expectantly, and he’s momentarily thrown by the eye contact. It takes him a second too long to recalibrate and you mistake his silence as confirmation.

You swallow nervously, your poor heart in your stomach. “Right, yeah, of course you asked her out. She’s beautiful, why wouldn’t you? She’s silly for saying no.”

“No,” Rafe interrupts then, “that’s not —”

But you’re not listening. “Don’t worry though, okay? I’m gonna make this happen for you. I’m going to get you another date, trust me, I just need to have a talk with her.”

“Blink —”

You’re rambling hard now, eyes wide, and Rafe feels helpless to it. He’s struck by the memory of the first time he addressed you by your nickname, at your fourth grade science fair when you were presenting an experiment.

Floundering through it, really, dreadfully anxious and unblinking.

It’s the first of your tells he learnt, and he’s ready to admit that he thinks it’s kind of cute. He’s watched your eyes grow with every callow crush you’ve had over the years, every nerve-racking presentation, every blunder and improvisation.

He’s pretty chuffed to be on the receiving end of it now, all things considered.

“I’m serious Cam, I’ll do it tonight. She’s into you, I swear she is, she just has this stupid idea in her head that you’re —”

It happens so fast, you’re momentarily caught off guard. One moment you’re shaking your head at the pavement and the next they’re cradled sweetly in Rafe’s large hands.

When he kisses you, it’s with a sense of urgency that leaves you breathless. His lips exert this devastatingly ardent pressure on yours that makes you think he’s wanted to do this for ages.

And he has, if he’s being really honest with himself. As you melt into the embrace, something in Rafe’s ribcage cracks. He feels the tender press of your body against his, firm on soft, and figures he’s probably incapable now of letting go.

And he tastes like this heady mix of peppermint toothpaste and the absolute death of you, his sloven hands on your skin like the peal of a siren song.

You don’t want to pull away from him at all. You think you could stand on this pavement and kiss him until your poor heart finally stops.

So it’s him that finally breaks away, more to marvel in the luxury of your closeness than anything particularly chaste. Your long eyelashes flutter open, and Rafe’s heart fucking aches.

“That I’m into you?” He murmurs roughly, his calloused thumb swiping across your cheek. “Yeah. Not so stupid.”

“Awful,” you reply softly, still breathless. “We aren’t supposed to be into each other.”

Rafe grins. “Yeah? So you’re into me too then, Blink?”

You make a face. “Apparently it’s obvious.”

“Not to me.”

“Not to you.” You glance up at him through your eyelashes, suddenly bashful. “How long?”

“Apparently forever,” Rafe returns, grinning sheepishly.

“Awful,” you repeat, mostly teasing now. “Does this mean your friends aren’t going to be coming to the Eight after all?”

“Of course they are!” His thumb continues to brush absent-minded circles on your cheek, and you lean into his touch instinctively. “Adi’s still pretty keen. Just… maybe don’t introduce him as your boyfriend, yeah?”

You grimace. Rafe thinks you’re adorable in a wholly un-platonic way. “Is he upset?”

“Not at all. He’s been trying to get me to tell you how I feel since our double date.”

“Seriously?” You ask then, smiling abashedly. “You know what Cam? Think we need to set him up with Phoebe. Because they totally think alike and she’s totally been doing the same to me too.”

Rafe grins in tandem, his tender heart soaring. “No way. That double date really was pretty shit, huh?”

“Needed though,” you murmur.

“Needed,” Rafe echoes.

“Awful,” you say again, the jibe bordering on fond now. “After all that, the Figure Eight still wins?”

“No way.” Rafe ducks his head to sear your lips in another heady kiss, the feel of his mouth on yours the delicious opposite of just friends. Wholeheartedly romantic. “If you’re into me, I’m the one who’s winning.”

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