Archive of Our Own

1.

“Babe!” you call from the coach. “Your phone’s ringing!” 

“Who is it?” he asks from the kitchen. 

“Probably your other bitch.” 

Rafe swallows the retort bound to ruin your entire day on the tip of his tongue and settles for rolling his icy blue eyes and rubbing the exasperation from between them. 

“This girl,” he mutters under his breath, grabs two waters from out of the refrigerator and heads back into the living room where you’re parked with snacks and a movie ready to go. 

 “Can you be serious for a second?” 

 “Number’s unsaved,” you reply instead, choosing peace and a pleasant evening over starting the fight brewing beneath the surface if it really is one of Rafe’s other girls calling his phone. 

“Then it’s not that important,” he says, handing you a bottle. “Here.” 

You take the water and set it between your thighs. Your gaze flicks back and forth from Rafe’s phone ringing and vibrating on the coffee table to him setting his own water down and heading into the hallway. 

“You’re not gonna answer it?” you ask. 

He returns with an armful of blankets a second later and tosses them into a pile on the cushion beside you. 

“No?” he replies incredulously. 

“But it could be—”

“Numbers not saved,” he says, plopping down beside you, barely sparing a glance at the phone when he plops down beside you and sprawls a blanket over his lap. “It’s not important. If it is, they’ll email me. Just start the movie.” 

“Hmmph,” you huff and reach for your own phone beside his casting the movie. Once it finally stops ringing, the home screen returns with a notification of a missed call and you can’t help glancing to memorize the number for future investigation. 

Behind the notification is your smiling face, catching you so off guard that you forgo the mission in favor of grabbing his phone for a closer look.

“That’s…” you start, staring at the picture. “That’s me.” 

“Yeah, so?” 

You look over at him, completely unfazed as he twists the cap off of his water and takes a swig. 

The picture is from a promotional Instagram post you’d uploaded to the Kildare County Surf Shop account — it was taken in front of the store on what you remember to be an insanely hot day. JJ snapped it and it was originally you, Cleo, Sarah and Kiara modeling new shirts the shop received but here in your hand, it’s cropped and zoomed to just you cheesing and posing. 

“I don’t… I’m…” you stammer and look back at yourself displayed on his lock screen. “Why?” 

“Why…?” 

“You made me your lock screen?”

“It’s a cute picture. Why not?” 

“You got a crush on me, Rafe?” you tease. 

He tries his damndest to fight a cheeky smile and settles for an unsuspecting smug smirk. “Yeah, something like that.” 

If a simple lock screen has you this giddy, finding out he has your post notifications across all social media platforms turned on so he can be the first to like anything you upload is going to send you to the moon. 

2.

Your face being the first thing you see when you extract Rafe’s phone off of the charger should tell you all you need to know, but you are nothing if not nosey. The unsaved number is still irking you even days later. Judging by what you find, your curiosity will not only kill you but Rafe, too. 

It’s an invasion of privacy, but you need peace of mind. Despite the clear violations of trust, you feel no guilt in hovering the device above Rafe’s sleeping face to bypass the passcode. You quietly slide out from your side of the bed and tiptoe to the bathroom. With one final look behind you to make sure Rafe is out, you close the door and click the lock. 

You lay out in the tub, feet propped up on the edge and fingers making hasty work of maneuvering around the screen to find anything. You don’t even know what you’re looking for in particular, but it’ll make itself known when you find it. 

Much to your surprise, his messages are scarce. In fact, they’re quite boring. Business here, money there; shit you hear him complain about all day long. 

The random thread of conversations he’s had with past flings do nothing to shake you considering the dates align to times you two weren’t together. The Sofia one is most recent and uneventful in context yet your eyes roll into oblivion at the bullshit lines he spewed and her silly ass believing any of it. She’s blocked anyway, so you do not fucking care. 

As predicted, his Twitter and Instagram DM’s are hot with unread messages from women who’ve certainly smiled in your face and tried to be besties at some point. You’re not an idiot — you know their game because it’s one you’ve played a time or two before. He’s not following any girls but you, Sarah and Wheezy. 

“Good boy,” you mutter, exiting the Instagram app and then opening the photos to find nothing but selfies, random shots of nature, screenshots of contracts, and food. His nudes in the hidden folder aren’t anything to wonder about since most of these have been sent to you and, judging by his threads, only you. Instead of a collection of nudes from other girls whether past or present, the only other naked body displayed in the folder is yours. Some of these you sent and some he took himself. There’s videos of just you two and nothing else. 

You scroll around, digging deeper to find a semblance of fuckery and stop dead in your tracks when you come across an album labeled with your name and the rosette emoji beside it. You click on it and you’re immediately met with about five hundred pictures of just you. Whether it’s you sleeping, a candid of you laughing with your friends, a selfie you sent him, something from your Instagram, surfing, cooking, doing your hair, anything — it’s there. 

“Oh, wow,” you whisper for lack of anything else. How do you react normally to this level of admiration? This is borderline obsession. 

You shuffle over to the notes app. More business, more ramblings, deals, boring, boring, boring. There’s thoughtful diary entries that you purposely scroll past because you’re here to snoop, not be invasive. 

Pinned at the top of the page, your name is attached to a note. Of course you press it and your eyebrows scrunch inward in genuine confusion at what you’re reading. 

There in concise and organized lists are your favorite restaurants and exact orders from each establishment. It’s all accurate down to how many sugars you like in your coffee from a local shop by JJ’s house. 

“This dickhead,”  you grunt, shaking your head. 

You were expecting ass, tits, and sexting! What the fuck is this? Since when did this stupid motherfucker pay attention? When did he listen? He cares so much and you’re almost nauseous by the amount. 

Even though you know you probably won’t find anything incriminating on Spotify, you open that  app next. Maybe you’ll find some kind of innuendo or secret code to lead to you discovering his other girlfriend, a wife, a few baby mamas and their three kids. Somehow you can uncover a web of lies and crash out on the man in the other room because there’s no fucking way it’s just you. 

By this point in your relationship, you’ve grown accustomed to Rafe’s hurtful antics. Even with all the progress the two of you’ve made, it’s not ridiculous to  be skeptical. Going through his phone would’ve saved you a world of hurt in the past and now that you’re learning from your old mistakes, there’s nothing to find? 

You’re frustrated with yourself for being frustrated. All the lessons you’ve taught him are actually being learned? He’s actually a good partner? You’re a priority? You can trust that asshole? 

Have you actually reached the point of psychoticism where you get mad about not being dogged out? Are you so crazy that it feels like you’re being gaslit to find no proof of Rafe being a lying, cheating, low down, dirty weasel of a partner? 

Or is he just better at hiding all the wrong he does now?

You scope out his extensive playlists. There’s one for the gym, the ones you’ve shared between the two of you, a daily list, his most streamed, and one for sleeping. 

And there at the very bottom of the lists, there’s 'belle.'

That’s you . 

He made you a playlist. Sorta. 

He’s never sent this one. You’d definitely remember one this long if he did. Is there a reason why he didn’t?

“What the fuck,” you exhale tiredly. You’re going to drive yourself into an early grave if you don’t put the phone down. 

As weird as this all is, you might as well embrace it. Music is the universal language and if you want to know the extent of Rafe’s feelings, there’s no harm in pressing play. 

Inner turmoil aside, you’re mostly satisfied. 

Setting the phone on your chest, you let the screen time out and fade to black as the sounds of Rafe’s love fill the bathroom. 

3.

You hate Rafe so much that it makes you physically ill. 

Everything about him annoys you and some days you truly wonder why you didn’t just listen to your friends and leave him. He’s mean, wildly disrespectful and you can only take so much before you do what Pope should’ve and shoot him. 

And despite all that, you’ve got tears brimming your eyes when he calmly reminds you that he’s going to go meet up with his stupid ass friends at the country club for a four o’clock tee time and then the bar afterwards. For all the hatred you have towards him, that’s still your baby and your baby is leaving. 

It’s weird because why would he leave you to go be with them as if you’re not all he’ll ever need? What did they have that made them so special that he just has to spend the afternoon with them when he’s already spent the entire week with you? Is he suddenly tired of you? Does he hate you? Have you been so annoying that he needs a reprieve and Topper and Kelce of all fucking people are less annoying to be around? 

“What the—” he starts, turning around from gathering his keys at the entrance when the sound of your sniffles reach the entryway. Eyebrow quirked and scowling, he re-enters the living room to behold you curled up in a pathetic ball wrapped in a fuzzy blanket on the couch. 

“Why the hell are you crying?” 

“I’m not,” you whisper despite the evidence rushing down your face in fat drops. You wipe your face and look away, but your hiding is in vain when he approaches and stands directly before you. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing.” 

“So, you’re crying for no fucking reason?” 

His tone pokes at your nerves, triggering another round of tears you hastily wipe away with the pad of your hand. 

“I’m fine,” you croak, turning away again and praying that if you ignore him long enough he’ll disappear. 

Instead Rafe squints down at you, analyzing your body language and trying to make sense of your dismay. 

“Thought you were leaving,” you say, zeroing in a random spot on the floor to avoid the heat of his intense staring. “You’re gonna be late.” 

“I kinda can’t go and enjoy myself when you’re here crying for no reason.” 

“I’m the problem, huh?” 

Rafe blinks. “What?” 

“It’s fine, bruh,” you insist, quickly standing to your feet and attempting to push past him but his large frame halts you in place. “I’m just gonna go so you can enjoy yourself.” 

“Okay, so first thing,” he says, lightly pushing you back in place on the coach and pointing. “Don’t call me ‘bruh,’ alright. I’m not your bruh, your bro, your buddy — none of that. Don’t disrespect me with that. Second, you’re not going anywhere.” 

“Excuse me?”

“You clearly have something wrong with you right now and I’m not going anywhere until we figure it out.”

Your defiant grimace falters into a quivering pout as his tone grows increasingly agitated. 

“It’s fine, Rafe,” you say, the hurt in your voice directly contrasting that. “Just go. I’ll be here when you get back.” 

You will not but he doesn’t need to know that. As much as you’d love to sit and wait for his selfish ass to return so you can spend yet another night in each other’s essence, you’d rather suffer in the comfort of The Chateau or JJ’s and never see this man again. 

“You’re not fine so stop saying that.” 

“You’re not gonna tell me how I feel.” 

“You’re sitting here with fucking tears in your eyes. I’m looking at you and you’re not fine. Stop saying you are and tell me what’s wrong.” 

“Why are you yelling at me?” you whine. 

“What are you talking about? I’m not yelling. We’re just talking.” 

“You are yelling , Rafe.” 

“Are you insane?” 

“ No !” you exclaim and his body blurs into a silhouette of random colors as more tears pool in your eyes. “I’m not insane. You’re yelling at me. I didn’t do anything to you and you’re being mean.” 

“How am I—”

“You just are,” you answer before he can finish asking. “Like, I don’t know what I did to make you talk to me like you hate me but I’m sorry, okay? Whatever I did to make you wanna leave, I won’t do it again, okay?” 

“Leave?” he wonders aloud. “Belle, what’re you talking about?” 

“You’re going to play golf with stupid-ass Topper and dumbass Kelce,” you whine, shaking your head in disbelief. “And then you’re gonna go to the bar and have drinks and get drunk and find some other girl and kick me out—”

Before you realize it, Rafe is crouching to your level and cupping your drenched face in his hands to redirect your focus back to him instead of the living room floor. 

“Hey, hey, hey, hold up,” he coos sweetly, lifting your head and searching your expression. “Is that what’s wrong? You don’t want me to go?” 

You hum a noncommittal noise but he shakes his head.

“No, use your words. You don’t want me to go?” 

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you weep, tears coating his fingers when you shut your eyes. “You can go, obviously. I’m just…” you search for the word and shake your head again. “I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

“Answer me.” 

“Go on and enjoy yourself with your friends, baby. I’ll be fine. I’m just—”

“Don’t make me ask again.” 

The finality in his voice leaves no room for anything other than the direct answer you’re far too embarrassed to give. 

“No,” you tell him quietly as if it were some secret. “I don’t want you to go. I want you to stay here with me. And I don’t know why. You should go and have fun, but I can’t bear not being around you right now for some reason and I’m gonna lose it if I don’t figure it out. Like, fuck.” 

Rafe considers that, taking a moment to think about it and putting on a poker face as he does because such an admission has him internally flushed. As much as he’d love to blush and twirl his nonexistent hair at essentially being told you need him, he clears his throat. 

 “Okay,” he says, standing back to his full height but keeping at least one point of contact on you with a steady hand cradling your head against his thigh while the other pulls out his phone. 

“I’m sorry, Rafe,” you mumble into his khaki shorts. 

“Hush,” he utters, typing out a message to the groupchat with his friends before scrolling over a few pages to check the period tracker app. 

Period in 1 day 

“Ah.” Rafe nods to himself and tucks his phone back into his pocket. “Listen, belle, I’m gonna go pick up some things, okay? I’ll be back in an hour.” 

“Where’re you going?” 

“Just getting some stuff,” he repeats. “You stay here and when I come back we can get cozy for the night? That sound good?”

“What about golf?” 

“Fuck that. The guys’ll be alright.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’d rather be here with you anyway.” A broad smile beams over his handsome face. “I’ll be back, okay? Just sit tight, pretty girl.” 

“Okay, Rafe,” you agree obediently and a surge of warmth floods through you when he bends forward to kiss your cheek. 

True to his word, Rafe returns within the hour with a bag from a local shop full to the brim with a random selection of your favorite snacks in one hand and a bag from the pharmacy in the other.

“For you,” he says, setting the snack bag on the coffee table and swiftly exiting after mumbling out that he’ll be back.  

“What’s in there?” you ask, gesturing to the other bag as you rummage through your snack options for something that’ll satiate your cravings. 

“Don’t worry about it right now,” he calls over his shoulder. “Just enjoy your snacks. I gotta put some stuff away.” 

You’re far too distracted and satisfied with your bag of tortilla chips to care and push the inquisition, so you do as you’re told and relax. You’ve demolished half of the bag, a Snickers, and a strawberry iced tea by the time Rafe comes back downstairs, having traded in his golf clothes for jeans and a raglan t-shirt. 

“You feeling better already?” he asks upon entering the room. 

You nod with a dopey grin and scooch over to make room for him. “Lay with me?”

Rafe obliges, laying his head on your thighs and whipping out his phone to scroll a little. With your nails scratching languid circles on his scalp, you do the same, cherishing the calm domesticity of the afternoon.

Sometime in the middle of the night, the red dam breaks. 

Half asleep, you groan into the dark of Rafe’s bedroom. You pick your phone up off the charger on the nightstand to check the time and grimace at the large 2AM glowing back at you. You’re almost positive the fancy pants superstore on Figure 8 isn’t twenty-four hours like the pharmacy on The Cut so going out for a pack was definitely out of the question. 

You set your phone back down and hobble throughout the mansion to the best of your abilities in the dark to find Sarah’s bedroom. Once you do, you crouch to rummage through her bathroom for some products and cuss under your breath when you remember she hasn't lived here in years therefore coming up empty. You’re heading down the hall to Wheezy’s room on the same mission when the master bedroom door creaks open and Rafe’s head pops out. 

“Belle,” he calls, voice thick and hoarse with sleep. “The hell’re you doing?”

You wave him off and turn back to continue the hunt. “Go back to bed, babe.”

“You first. C’mon.”

“In a minute,” you assure him. “I’m looking for something.”

“Missing treasure again?” 

“Why, so you can steal it again?” 

He rolls his sleepy eyes upward. 

“I just need something from your sister’s room. My period started,” you tell him. “I’ll be back to bed in a minute.” 

“Come here.” 

You wave him off again. “Just a second, Rafe, damn.”

“This hard-headed ass girl,” he utters to himself. 

Patience at an all time low, Rafe follows you down the hall and takes an assertive hold on your arm to lead you back to his bedroom. Before you can fully awake to cuss him out, he nudges you towards his ensuite bathroom. 

“Under the sink,” he says. 

You side eye him for manhandling you but follow his instruction nonetheless. Like a ray of light in a field of darkness, your specific brand of tampons and pads are fully stocked next to the toilet paper, paper towels and other random toiletries of yours you’ve left over time. 

You do not remember leaving any of this here. 

You rise to your feet and stand in the threshold between the bathroom and bedroom. Rafe’s gone back to sleep, oblivious to your intense staring as you try and put two and two together. 

The snacks, canceling on his friends, the pharmacy bag, him telling you he had to put something away…

How’d he know? Was it your behavior? You weren’t any more irritable than usual, so what tipped him off?

You approach the bed, just staring down at your man and cocking your head to the side in confusion. He almost appears soft this way.

“Hmmm,” you hum to yourself and retreat back to the bathroom to change. You swap out your panties for a new pair and your shorts for his sweatpants out the dresser.

You lay awake for a moment, watching the ceiling and then Rafe. Slowly, you ease towards him and mold yourself to fit in his arms. 

Without missing a beat, he envelops you in his grasp and pours his light snoring directly in your ear. Any other time the sound would drive you mad enough to switch rooms but not now. 

There’s nowhere you’d rather be than in this man’s arms.

4.

In being with Rafe, your faith in love wavers. You know he loves you. You know he cares. But sometimes you get stark reminders that this is Rafe you’re dealing with and until your heart can fully detach from the man, you’re resigned with what you’ve got. 

And what you got on the morning of February 14th is nothing. Not a text, a missed call, a bouquet of flowers. 

Nothing . 

Granted, you and him got into it the night before, so you weren’t expecting him to be in the mood to even be around you let alone acknowledge that it’s Valentine's Day. 

He’s petty above anything. 

Aforementioned stark reminders come in the form of Kiara, Sarah, and Cleo smiling from ear to ear admiring the trio of bouquets each of their boyfriends gifted them that morning. 

John B got Sarah a new pair of gold earrings that she couldn't help showing off and gushing over the second you entered the shop. 

It’s unlike Cleo to show her soft side, but it’s on full display as she thanks Pope over the phone for her new Caribbean inspired cookbook, rambling off about all the new concoctions she’ll come up with. 

Even Kiara’s in the spirit, happy as you’ve ever seen her with the hefty donation check to her favorite local turtle sanctuary JJ put in her name. 

Seeing your girls so appreciated grows your heart three sizes even when the twinge of envy floating around your muddied mind leaves you unable to be around them and absorb the love. Their matching looks of pity could all be in your imagination, but you don’t stick around to press it or allow them to perceive you in this state. 

There’s no use explaining anything — they know who you’re with. They can only pity you but so much since it’s a choice you made and continue to make when you truly don’t have to. 

You make yourself scarce around the Chateau, JJ’s and Pope’s so to give your friends their privacy. If you weren’t at any of those spots, you’d be at Tannyhill. 

You yourself don’t have a home to return to, so you find solace on the beach. 

There’s a couple here and there enjoying the scenery for a soothing, romantic walk. A father building a sandcastle with their kids while their mom bundles up in a blanket and reads. A dog chasing after a frisbee. 

It’s so serene. The only thing that would make all of this perfect would be a picnic and an apology. 

You’re not getting either any time soon, so you continue to take everything in with a schooled expression you hope doesn’t show how heartbroken you are. To ease the heartache you could rationalize that it’s just a day, it’s just Rafe, and this whole ordeal is so stupid. 

That doesn’t work and the tears bundling in your brown eyes are proof of that.

Time flows by at a steady pace. The crowd thins out, the waves rocker slower, and the warmth in the air lowers into a light chill when the sun disappears behind the horizon. The yellow of the day changes to blue and you’ve stayed in the same spot.

In the midst of considering if you should stay the night, you take your phone out of your pocket to check the time. A text from Sarah lights up the screen.

Sooooooo you should come back to the shop like now. 

- 7:32 PM 

Your eyebrow quirks inquisitively as you stamp a question mark on her message. Barely a second later, another message comes through. 

No fr girly like get here soon. 

- 7:32 PM 

Despite not wanting to be around anyone, it’s time to go home. You’ve moped long enough and the last thing you want is for your family to worry. 

You wipe the sand from your jeans upon standing and zip up your hoodie. Phone in hand, you begin the walk back to the shop. 

When you arrive at the shop at around a quarter past eight, the reason Sarah insisted you come back is a glaringly obvious shock to the senses. You expected a break in or a fire but this is far more unbelievable. 

There sat on the steps with a large bouquet of pink peonies in one hand and a gift bag in the other is a sharply dressed, annoyed looking Rafe. His expression relaxes and a small grin spreads over his lips once you come into view. 

You hesitate, blinking rapidly to assure he’s actually here and your brain isn’t playing some sick joke on you. He stands to his feet and meets you halfway across the lawn, looking you over with regret, pity and adoration all in one. 

“Belle,” he utters. 

Your gaze narrows. “What are you doing here?” 

“It’s Valentine’s Day.” 

“So?” 

“I came here to ask you to be my Valentine.” 

You pull a face waiting for the punchline. Rafe continues to stare as if you’ve hung the moon, handing over the flowers. 

“You forgot,” you mumble, accepting the bouquet and redirecting your focus elsewhere when it’s obvious this isn’t a joke and he’s looking at you this way for a reason. 

“I didn’t.”

“Then where you been all day?” 

He exhales tiredly. “Figuring out how to get my head outta my ass.” 

“And did you?”

“I’m here so yeah.” 

“I didn’t think you would be.” 

“I couldn’t do that. Not today of all days.” 

“You’re late,” you remind him. “Like, so late.” 

“I know, baby. And I’m sorry.” 

“Thought you were mad at me.” 

Rafe nods. “I am.” 

“Hmph.” 

“But just because I’m mad at you doesn’t mean you stop being my girl,” he continues, snaking his hand around your waist to bring you closer. “It doesn’t mean I stop loving you, belle. You understand me?” 

The soft timbre of his voice cracks your resolve and you nod in full comprehension. Any dedication you had to being mad at him dissipates at the gentleness lacing his tone. 

“You love me really?” 

“So fucking much,” he declares with certainty. “More than anything.” 

Before you can stop yourself, you lean inward to press your lips against his to seal his words with a kiss. He reciprocates, slipping his tongue past your lips and into your mouth to curve and slide around your own. He pulls back first to peck the side of your mouth.

“I don’t wanna spend the rest of the night worried about yesterday’s bullshit, okay?” he says, caressing his thumb over your cheek. “If you wanna argue, we’re gonna wait til’ tomorrow. We got time to make up for.” 

You nod again. “Yeah, we do.” 

“So, I got you a little something.” He passes over the gift bag. “I’ll take you back to my place so you can change and then we can go.” 

“Where we going?” 

“Somewhere nice.” Rafe answers. intertwining your fingers with his and lifting your hand to kiss it. “Happy Valentine’s Day, baby.” 

5.

“Baby,” you whisper into the dark of his bedroom, watching him watch the ceiling. 

“Hmmm.”

“Are you okay?”

“Huh?”

“Are you okay?” you repeat, closing the distance between your bodies and propping yourself up on your elbows. “You were kinda out of it today and I just wanted to make sure you good.” 

He hesitates, glancing over to meet your expectant staring and then back at the ceiling. “Was I?” 

You nod. “Yeah. You just didn’t seem all there at the beach or dinner,” you explain, tracing your pink manicured index finger along the curve of his ear. “Did I do something?” 

He blinks his blue eyes slowly, exhaling a heavy sigh that undoubtedly carries the weight of his racing mind. 

“I’m sorry, belle,” he mumbles. “It’s nothing you did. Shit’s just been…” he pauses, thinking of the right words with a pensive lilt in his voice. “…weird.” 

“You wanna talk about it?” 

“I’ve bored you enough already today. I’ll make it up to you tomorrow.” 

“It’s okay,” you assure him. Your finger drags along his face to caress his tense jaw. “I just wanna make sure you’re okay. You can tell me.” 

“I know, but I don’t know if I’m ready to,” he admits. 

“It’s gonna kill you to keep it in.”

Rafe considers that, looking back over at you and encasing your hand in his own and then setting it over his chest. 

“My birthday’s next week,” he tells you. 

“Yeah, I know.” 

“I’m turning twenty-five.” 

“Old ass.” 

The two of you chuckle quietly. He sits upward, arranging himself on his side all the while keeping your hand over his left pec. 

“Dad was twenty-five when he and my mom had me,” he continues. “Married, already running the business, homeowner, all the dressings, ya know?” 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He nods, focusing everywhere but your face. “Weird I got almost everything he had when he was my age, but he had to die for me to get it.” 

You aren’t going to pretend to be sad about Ward Cameron of all people, but you’re empathetic to his turmoil. You have the decency to appear sincere.

“So, you’re sad about Ward?” 

He scoffs. “That’s not what this is about.” 

“Then what’s wrong?” 

He pauses again and only opens his mouth a minute later when the thought finds him. “He wasn’t a good man. I know that.” 

You nod in agreement. 

“I’m not either.” Rafe shakes his head. “I’ve done a lot of fucked up shit trying to be like him because I thought that’s how I was supposed to be. And at the time I did all that, my goals in life were so misguided. When I got what I thought I wanted it ended up not meaning a fucking thing.” 

You take that in, digesting it for all its worth and blinking back the memories associated with aforementioned “fucked up shit.” 

“So, what do you want now?” 

“Not to be like him,” he confesses. “I want Sarah and Wheezy home, but I know it’ll be a cold day in hell before that happens.” 

“Sarah would listen if you—”

“No,” he interupts, shaking his head again. “She’s gonna need time, baby. You know that.” 

You do. Instead of fighting it, you nod again. 

A beat of silence passes. Rafe idly plays with your favorite ring snug around your middle finger and then taps the third finger. 

“I want you to be my wife one day,” he utters and your eyes shoot up to his face. He’s still not looking at you and the glow of the moon illuminating the dim room through the large windows does little to help you make out his expression. 

“We’re not ready right now,” he continues. “We still gotta figure some shit out but yeah. One day.” 

“You sure?” 

“It’s you or nobody, belle.”

Your face flushes as a grin spreads across your lips. “Me or nobody, huh?” you repeat.

“Nobody.” 

“Rafe Cameron marrying a pogue. Next thing you know pigs’ll start flying.” 

“You marrying a kook must mean the cow jumped over the moon.” 

“And then when we have kids they’ll be half pogue, half kook. Cue the impending identity crisis.” 

“Seems to be working out for Kie.”

“Just means they’ll have to make a choice one day,” you say and pull your hand away to lift his face by the chin to bring him out of hiding. “You know taking that step with me means my friends come, too? Pogue princess can’t just become Mrs. Cameron and that be it.” 

“I don’t care. I want every part of you.” Rafe nods, his demeanor slipping from hardened to vulnerable within a second. The longer he regards you, the more tears rush to his eyes, reddening the whites. His lips curls and wobbles while  his tongue pokes his cheek in a meek attempt to stop the moisture from rushing down his face. 

It’s all in vain, and the protective nature deep within you bubbles over and explodes to the surface at the sight of your love crying. 

“Hey,” you whisper, caging his face within your hands. 

“I’m sorry.”

“ Shhhh ,” you hush him. “It’s okay.” 

“No, it’s not.” 

“Rafe, baby, stop…” You wipe away his tears with the pads of your thumb and bring him forward to shield him within your embrace. “It’s okay. We’re okay.” 

His grip around you tightens with each passing minute he sniffles into your skin. You reciprocate and hold him back, keeping your touch gentle yet reassuring. 

You run your hands through the tufts of his blond hair and kiss wherever on his face your lips can reach. He buries himself deeper within you, trembling and whimpering as if it physically pains him to let go. 

“It’s okay, Rafe,” you whisper in his ear. “It’s alright.” 

“I’m sorry, belle.” 

“You’ve nothing to be sorry for,” you say even if you don’t believe it yourself. You pray he’s too distraught to challenge you on it so he can calm down even if it’s just a little bit. Seeing him like this aches down to your core and you wish you had the emotional capacity to soothe him beyond just repeating that it’s okay. 

Underneath Rafe’s hard exterior born of childhood trauma, neglect, and untreated mental illness is a very sensitive little boy begging to be heard, comforted and accepted. It took years for you to crack that exterior and knowing him as well as you do, you know that the little boy is the real Rafe and the exterior is simply a defense mechanism. 

That side only comes out in moments like this. 

You could probably count on one hand the amount of times someone has held this man without hurting him. Did anybody before you ever think of touching him this way? 

He spends another minute hiding and soaking your neck as he struggles to regain control of himself. Your hands never stray from his head, back and shoulders as tangible reminders he’s not alone. Eventually his cries dwindle, he nuzzles his face into the side of yours and plants a litany of butterfly pecks along your cheek. You nuzzle back, moaning chastely at the warmth spreading through you. 

““What’s wrong? Tell me,” you beg him softly, adjusting your legs so that he lays comfortably between your plush thighs. “Talk to me.” 

He exhales and pulls away to peer down at you. You can’t see it, but you know there’s a gleam of adoration swirling in those ocean blue irises. 

“You’re the only proof I’ve got that God still loves me. I know I can be a good man to you one day,” he croaks and clears his throat. “I know I can. I know I can do that. I know I can get myself together and I know I can take care of you.”

“Rafe,” you mutter. 

“Just please don’t hate me before I figure out how,” he says, closing his eyes to keep an ounce of the internal shame at bay. 

“I don’t hate you,” you reply. “Not even on our worst days.” 

Whether or not he believes you is up in the air since his face won’t confirm nor deny. He shakes his head once more and kisses your face again. 

“I love you,” he utters into your skin. “I’m sorry for—”

“Don’t,” you stop him. “It’s okay.” 

Neither of you say much after that even though you’re both wide awake. All that needs to be said is communicated through reverent touches, slow kisses and synchronized heartbeats against the other's chest. He appears better than before, so you don’t feel the need to ask if he’s okay again. 

Having had this conversation, you should seriously reconsider what to do for his birthday. 

+1

“You could slum it with a pogue like Cameron over there.” 

It doesn’t take much to irritate Rafe.

Everyone from his family to the pogues to his friends knows at the slightest inconvenience, he’s flying off the handles. 

But he’s working on his anger issues, channeling his emotions healthily, and practicing patience. As much progress as he’s made since you turned his life on its head, he’s still him. 

He’s been your man on and off for two years now. He’s been Rafe Cameron for twenty-four. There’s still a bit of the devil in him.

And fuck, he’d like to control it. He’d like to be normal, but he’s accepted he’s not. 

Especially when it comes to you. 

You and him are Kildare’s worst kept secret. A fair share of the island knows the king of kooks has been involved with a pogue princess for some time now. He doesn’t care about the perception of your starcrossed relationship the way he would when he was younger, but the aforementioned devil inside eggs him on. 

It’s so stupid. He should relax. He should just walk away and not let these presumptuous dumbfuck kooks bother him. He should just be a good boy and wait for you to arrive so you can enjoy the nice day he promised at the country club. 

But that wouldn’t be a Rafe Cameron thing to do, would it?

He’d think people would steer clear given his reputation, but not everybody is that smart. 

“Wait… he’s still with her?” 

“Dude’s totally whipped.” 

“Sad.” 

“I know right.” 

“I heard she hooked up with that Maybank kid, so he’s getting sloppy seconds anyway.” 

“Poor guy doesn’t even realize it.”

“Maybe he does and he just doesn’t care.”

“Then he’s more pathetic than I initially thought.” 

A less healed Rafe would’ve lashed out by stomping over to the kooks and making a very clear example of the pair of douchebags. He would’ve challenged them to say that shit to his face instead of pussyfooting behind him but instead he slyly glances back to put faces to the voices.

He recognizes the two frat guys as friends of Topper’s girlfriend, Ruthie, which makes almost too much sense. She’s annoying, so of course her company’s annoying. 

He commits their faces to memory and continues to lounge in the shade as though he heard nothing while he awaits your arrival. 

He almost forgets what he’s pissed about when you finally arrive, all beaming and doe eyed as you make your way to the veranda. Rafe stands, grinning to himself at how quickly his sour mood is gone at just the sight of you. 

“Hey, baby,” he greets you, kissing your forehead and taking your hand in his.

“I’m sorry I’m late. I got caught up with the shop.” 

“It’s okay, prettt girl. Just as long as you’re here.” 

You smile up at him and gesture down to your outfit. “You like it? Is it Island Club appropriate?” 

Rafe smirks, inspecting the length of your pink golf skirt and your breasts hoisted up and poking out of the low cut collar of your halter top. 

“Hell, no,” he chuckles. “But yeah, I do like it.” 

“Got called all kinds of uppity by my friends so you better.” 

Although enticed by what’s before him, Rafe is already prepared to take care of anybody who has a problem with your outfit. He nods to himself, bringing you closer to kiss your crown this time. 

“What do you wanna do first? Golf? Tennis? Swimming? Anything you want,” he asks. 

“Oh, there’s actual activities? I thought you kooks only came here to get drunk and act an ass.” 

Rafe scoffs, hiding a chuckle and nodding. “Alright, smart ass. Let’s start simple with some golf.” 

“Boring!” you sing-song yet follow when he rolls his eyes and leads you inside. You’re far too oblivious and distracted by the giddiness of being with Rafe  that you don’t notice the vicious glare he shoots at the two kooks minding your business. 

Whatever misconceptions you had about spending a day at The Island Club with Rafe are quickly proven disproven by the time the sun sets at half past seven. Golf wasn’t as boring as you’d think it’d be when you didn’t take it as seriously as him. Tennis was fun but a workout and you didn’t realize how out of shape you were until engaging in a friendly match. Eating a super fancy lunch and cooling off in the pool was your favorite part of the day. 

You’d stay for the movie night on the lawn if you didn’t have to be up early. 

“You sure you have to go?” Rafe whines, encasing you in his strong arms to prevent you from joining your friends waiting outside the club in the Twinkie. The hunk of machinery sticks out like a sore thumb, but it’s a sight you’re always happy to see. 

“Unhand her, kook!” JJ yells out the passenger side window, earning a few nasty looks from passersby’s. Rafe fixes his patented mean mug towards your friend and throws up a middle finger. 

“Down, boy,” you tease, grabbing his hand to intertwine your fingers. “Be nice.” 

“They’ve had you every night this week, belle,” he continues, damn near pouting. “Just come home with me. I’ll even make dinner.” 

“Tempting but you know we’ve got plans.

“You can go on a road trip any other day.” 

“Dude, c’moooooon!” JJ calls again and John B honks the horn. “We’re already behind!” 

“Shut up!” Rafe barks with a shrug.

You giggle, shaking your head at their antics. “I had fun today, Rafe. More than I thought I would. We’ll do this again when I get back, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, alright,” he utters, rolling his eyes in feigned annoyance. “I guess I’ll be okay for another lonely, cold, long night without you.” 

“That’s the spirit,” you say sarcastically, rising to your tiptoes to peck the side of his mouth.  “I’ll call you when we get there, alright?” 

“Yeah, you better ‘cus you know I’ll pull up.” He returns the kiss with one to your plump lips. “Have fun, okay?” 

“We will!” 

Rafe watches you make your way towards the Twinkie and perks up when you turn and points to him. 

“You sure you’re gonna be alright?” 

A devious smirk answers you before his words can. “Yeah, I got some shit I gotta handle tonight anyway, so…” 

“Whatever you say, babe,” you reply and turn back around to jog to your friends. They greet you with some light teasing and jeering as you climb in and wave one last time to Rafe before pulling off. 

He stands there until the van is completely out of eyesight. No good is going to come of the night and it’s probably for the best you’re not here to witness it. 

It might get back to you, but it’ll be worth it. 

-

The time that should be spent cuddled on The Island Club lawn enjoying a classic movie on the projector with snacks, drinks and a large blanket is just Rafe leaning back in a lawn chair with hawk like focus on Kook Number One relaxing on his blanket with his own date  

a mere few feet away. 

The world is such a cruel place; that waste of space is cuddled up with his girl while his is gone off on an adventure without him. What a joke. 

In the midst of biding his time, he occasionally checks your location on his phone. You’ve made it off the island and are set to be in South Carolina by the end of the night. You deserve a vacation for all the hard work you’ve put into the business. Part of him wishes he would’ve gone when you asked but no amount of love will overcome the sheer awkwardness of taking a trip with the pogues. He misses his sister to an extent, but he’s not exactly ready for that . 

Just when Rafe’s thoughts begin to race at the prospect of reuniting with his family, Kook Number One stands from his spot and departs from his date. Rafe waits until he disappears inside before following an unsuspecting distance behind. 

Kook Number One turns the corner to exit and make his way to the parking lot towards his Jeep. Rafe ducks out of sight amongst a group of people walking by and slyly stalks around the vehicle to the passengers side where the kook digs for something in his glove compartment. 

Like a bad dog being disciplined for pissing in the house, Rafe grabs the scruff of the kook’s neck and manhandles him with all the strength he can muster to the side of the car. 

“What the fuck!” he exclaims, face twisting  up in shock and fear when his wide eyes meet Rafe’s. “Dude, Rafe. What the fuck are you—”

“You know I can’t really say I appreciate your little comments earlier,” he starts, a humorless smile stretching over one side of his face. “Not. One. Bit.” 

“What the hell are you talking about?” Kook Number One shakes his head to deny before Rafe can even delve into the full extent of his anger. 

“Don’t act like you don’t know, man,” Rafe says casually as if he doesn’t have an iron grip on this grown ass man’s neck and malicious intent written all over his face. “You and your buddy weren’t exactly quiet. It’s almost like—” he stops to chuckle darkly. “—you wanted me to hear it.” 

“I seriously have no idea what you’re on about.” 

“Oh, now you’re gonna deny it?” Rafe rolls his eyes and shakes his head in mock disappointment. “You can say it behind my back but not to my face. Typical bitch behavior. All that shit you talked and my girl’s got bigger balls than you.”  

“Rafe, c’mon,” he pleads, hands up in surrender. “You know it’s just a little locker room talk. Nothing serious. We’re happy for you, dude.” 

“Happy, huh?” Rafe repeats, grinning. “Damn, I could’ve sworn you said pathetic? Maybe I’m hearing shit.” 

“I didn’t mean anything by it—”

“Yeah, I bet you didn’t know that I’ve got your neck in my hand, huh?”

“Just relax. C’mon.”

“Do me a favor, okay?” Rafe leans in close to bring his lips to the kook’s ear. “Don’t ever mention my girl again, okay? Her name shouldn’t even touch your lips. Don’t look at her. Don’t think about her. Steer clear ‘cus if I find out you so much as crossed paths with her, your embezzling daddy and your alcoholic mommy are gonna be picking out flowers to lay on your casket, alright?” 

The kook’s breath shudders, nodding as the threat seeps in. “Y-yeah.” 

“We good?” 

“Yeah, R-Rafe, we’re good.” 

“Good.”

To ratify the deal, Rafe swings a swift right hook directly into the kook’s abdomen and steps back to allow him the much needed room to double over in pain and cough into the pavement. 

“Glad we had this talk,” Rafe mumbles, smirking at the pathetic excuse of a man at his feet. “Glad we understand each other.” 

Rafe crouches above the kook, diving in his pocket to retrieve his car keys. He extracts the pocket knife keychain and twists it around his fingers tauntingly as the kook watches in unbridled horror. 

“W-wait,” he huffs, barely breathing and putting his hand up in defense. “Just hold on, Rafe.” 

“As if I’d risk a life sentence killing you out in the open,” Rafe grumbles, annoyed at the assumption. “You’re not even close to worth it.”

The “out in the open” bit sends a chill down the kook’s spine and he truly doesn’t know how to react when Rafe stands to his feet and starts poking holes into the Jeep tires. The hiss of the air escaping serves as a representation of the state of the kook’s lungs, and the picture is crystal clear. 

The kook nods in understanding. 

Rafe gives him one last warning look before tossing the keys somewhere across the lawn and disappearing behind the Jeep. 

-

“Why is there a rumor going around that you beat up Joey Pateks and Steven Marriano at The Island Club last week?” you ask in lieu of a greeting the second you barge into Tannyhill. 

Rafe’s eyebrow raises in speculation at the unexpected intrusion but he shrugs and gulps down his drink nonetheless. “How was your trip?” 

“Fine,” you answer shortly, grabbing the whiskey bottle out of his hands and setting it on the kitchen counter just out of his reach. “Tell me what the hell’s going on.” 

“It’s not really a rumor,” he says, gesturing outward as if to address the situation as a whole. “I mean it’s true. I definitely did that shit.” 

“Hello?!” you exclaim, blinking rapidly and throwing your arms up in astonishment. “What you do some shit like that for?”

“Don’t worry about it. Tell me about your trip. How was it?” 

“Topper says they’re thinking of pressing charges, Rafe,” you tell him. “The night I left, too? Jesus, we had such a good day, I leave for a few days and now you can't behave all of a sudden?” 

“Dogs tend to act out when their owners are away,” he teases. “I’d love to see them try it but they won’t If they know what’s good for ‘em anyway.” 

“So, you just beat on them, stabbed their tires and busted their bedroom windows just because?” 

“I’ve done more for less.” 

“This isn’t funny.” 

“I’m not laughing,” he huffs, hiding a poorly timed chuckle behind the glass when he lifts it to his mouth for another sip of whiskey. “You need not worry your pretty little head about it, belle.” 

“I kinda have to considering it’s all anybody’s been talking about and I’ve only been back on Kildare for an hour.”

“People talk. The island is small. It’s whatever,” he scoffs. “You know me. You know I didn’t just do it for no reason.” 

“But there was a reason.” 

“And that’s all you need to know,” he insists, setting his glass onto the counter and tilting your chin upward to plant a chaste kiss on your lips upon approach. “It’s not a big deal, okay? Those dicks had what was coming to them. There’s a one percent chance they don’t pussy out and actually go through with pressing charges. As if Topper’s grandfather will give a fuck.” 

“They’re saying you knocked Steven’s teeth out, Rafe,” you mumble, crossing your arms. 

“They’re probably saying a lot,” he replies and the concern etched into your pretty features stops him from admitting he definitely did simply because you can’t talk shit if you don’t have teeth. “Just trust me. Don’t worry about anything else. I made us a shit ton of money the last few days and the time we’re spending talking about some stupid kooks can be spent shopping while you tell me about your trip. We’re good. Business was handled. Okay?” 

You blink up at him and he stares back in awe that such pretty eyes hold so much worry for him of all people. 

Yeah, he doesn’t regret a fucking thing. 

“Okay?” he repeats, leaning forward to close the distance between his lips and yours. You reciprocate the kiss this time, shuddering at the bitter bite of the whiskey and plunging in for a better taste. Rafe’s hands snake around your waist while your arms hook around his neck. 

“Okay,” you say with a nod after pulling away. 

“Good girl.” 

You flush hot and grin against his lips. “And you swear it’s nothing we should worry about?” 

“On everything.” 

You pause in contemplation, running your nails over his buzzcut. “I believe you,” you tell him after a moment. “I just don’t wanna hear anything else like that going around after today.” 

“And you won’t.” 

“Good.” You peck his lips this time. “I’d hate to think all that progress you’ve made was for nothing.” 

Rafe can’t help the smirk overtaking his face. “Yeah. We’d hate that.” 

So, as said before, It doesn’t take much to irritate Rafe.

But it also doesn’t take much to calm him down either.