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cherryflavv · 1 year

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So Gorgeous It Actually Hurts

notes Rafe Cameron x fem!reader + childhood enemies to lovers, the slowest of burns, an unbearable amount of pining, both parties in heavy denial for like 90% of the fic, Rafe’s a total douchebag but he can’t help it (you’re gorgeous), tw for angst, drinking, and drug use

wc 12.1k

a/n a labour of love that I am SO excited to share, I hope you guys enjoy this as much as I did writing it <3

Seven.

It’s the scraped knees and bruises age, popsicle-sticky fingers, monkey bar calluses and sneaker toe blisters. It’s the messy hair age, the bike riding age, the sugar-high at your first sleepover, the whispered secrets and pinky-promises under blankets age.

For you, it’s the age that summer changes forever.

When you’re seven years old, your father announces that he’s bought a beach house on the Outer Banks.

At the heart of an island, Kildare, with a funny sounding name and tonnes of roaming space, it’s big with a bigger balcony and a view of the sea, waves that crest and foam, seagulls with hungry beaks.

To seven-year-old you, the place has everything. Sunny weather, a shortcut to the beach, an ice-cream truck that circulates regularly. Hopscotch on the side-walk and a neighbourhood with kids your age, some freckled, some loud, one that you hate.

Seven is the age that you meet Rafe Cameron.

He’s a playground bully with blue eyes and overgrown hair, his makeshift throne at the very top of the jungle gym.

Back then, he doesn’t have as many inches on you as he does now, but Rafe Cameron is still bigger and older than you, the new girl.

When you tug on a bit of jungle gym rope and cause him to teeter, you don’t mean anything by it. You’re just trying to get his attention so you can climb up the throngs too, enjoy the ten-foot-high view alongside him.

He scowls down at you, all narrowed eyes and dangling limbs.

“Who’re you?” He accuses, not asks.

“Hi,” you greet brightly, pulling on the rope again. “I’m Y/n. Can I come up too?”

His features remain the same, hard and defensive, a nine-year-old that hasn’t learnt how to share. “You’re new,” he states plainly.

“Yeah!” You agree, nodding enthusiastically. “What’s your name?”

Rafe doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he braces his knees and jumps down, landing just short of your brand new sneakers. A cloud of dirt settles on the white tips.

“You can’t go up there,” he instructs. “Ever. It’s my spot.”

You frown. “Says who?”

“Says me,” Rafe answers firmly, folding his arms across his chest.

“And who are you?” You ask, folding yours in tandem.

“Rafe,” he says. His scowl hasn’t left his face yet, only deepening when your lips pull down and tighten. It’s a frowning contest of will, and Rafe’s never one to back down from a fight.

Neither are you, as he’ll soon come to realise. The only boy his age that’ll confidently jump the ten feet without a scratch, he’s fairly used to wearing his so-called spot like a bravery badge. There’s no way he’s going to give it up just like that, especially not to a girl who’s shorter than him, smaller with pigtails and frill-hem socks.

Even if she has pretty eyes.

“Well, Rafe,” you throw back, straightening to your full height, scowling some more. Intimidation tactics that are useless on she-has-pretty-eyes boy. “You’re not the boss of me.”

“Yes, I am,” Rafe insists, crossing his arms tighter. “I live here. You don’t.”

“Yes, I do,” you argue, pointing to a walk-way in the distance. “Through there. I do.”

Rafe turns to where you’re pointing, his bully scowl deepening. “You’re lying.”

“No I’m not.”

“Are so.”

“Am not.”

“You have to be. I live through there, and I’ve never seen you around before,” Rafe decides with finality, his shoulders square as he pushes past you. He has that, older-than-you air about him that makes you fume; there’s no way you’re letting him dictate how you live your life, especially not with a mean-spirited attitude.

You huff and lift your nose to the air, catching a hold of the jungle gym ropes. “Maybe,” you mutter, already climbing up them, “you should pay more attention then.”

It takes you the same amount of time to clamber your way to the top as it does Rafe to turn around, now an eye-squint away with features that you think look chastened. You can see far above him, over fluffy treetops and slatted roofs, toward the blue shimmer of a sea blessed by sun.

“Hey!” He yells angrily, running back over. “I told you not to —”

He reaches the bottom of the jungle gym alarmingly quickly, small hands with more force than you’re used to pulling at the ropes below you.

You teeter dangerously, lurching forward and losing your balance at the last minute. There’s a nosedive before a muffled thud; the boy who has caused you to fall has broken it too, his back splintered with bark and dirt, his eyebrows scrunched up.

“Hey!” You scrabble off of him with aching knees and grazes on your palms, bottom lip beginning to tremble. “You hurt me!”

“You fell on me,” Rafe groans, propping himself up on scrape-red elbows. “I told you not to go up there. That’s what you get for not doing what I tell you.”

“I — I… I hate you!” You sputter out as vindictively as you can, eyesight a blur, limbs shaking as you stand.

“Yeah? Well I hate you more!” Rafe throws back, standing up too. There’s a fleeting moment where your seven-year-old brain looks over his longer legs, the bark-stained rips in his jeans. They look like they hurt — why isn’t he crying?

You sniff loudly and turn on your heel, breaking into a run toward the walk-way you pointed out earlier. Past the salt boxes along your Cul-de-sac, with lungs bleeding and wind whipping by your ears. Past the ice-cream truck, past the other children that live here, past the large, Tannyhill Estate that sits beside your house.

And when you hightail it to the kitchen, freshly bruised with tears in your eyes, your mother asks you what’s wrong, and you say, “Rafe did it.”

The same Rafe you re-meet at a barbeque the next day, the hybrid of an introduction and a housewarming hosted by your parents.

His eyes are the same, cold blue that they were the day before, but he’s sporting a new haircut, a two girl posse of younger siblings.

“See?” You say by way of greeting, jutting out your bottom lip obstinately. After the initial pleasantries, your parents have taken theirs inside, along with his youngest sister, Wheezie. “I told you I wasn’t lying.”

“You still shouldn’t have done it,” Rafe argues back, scowling meanly. “That’s my spot.”

You huff dismissively, throwing your palm in his face. “Talk to the hand.”

And when you push past him, shoulders square as can be, you hear six-year-old Sarah giggling, the noise loud and obnoxiously giddy.

She peels herself away from her brother to fall into your step, instead, limbs the same length as yours, soft hair in the same pigtails. Your equal.

“Can we be friends?” She asks significantly, wide eyes looking over your features.

You grin wide, unabashedly pleased. It’s the first time Rafe’s ever seen you smile, and his stomach lurches like there’s something in there fighting to break free. He scowls some more.

“Of course we can!” You exclaim excitedly, extending your pinky finger. “Best friends forever?”

“Forever,” Sarah promises, twining it with hers and squeezing.

Rafe’s rooted to the spot, watching you from a distance away, a one-sided staring competition. You find a patch of grass to sit down on cross-legged, and it’s only when you begin plucking daisies that he acquiesces.

Over the course of the summer, you and Sarah make close to a thousand daisy chains, stems twined together with precariously held petals. Rafe finds them everywhere — playground ledges, dining room tables, the sand on beach days, the deck on days in. And when he does, he remembers you, and crushes them in his hands, monkey-bar calluses his only accomplice. He hates them the way he hates you; he sees them, and they have a Pavlovian effect.

One night, when you’re camped out in Sarah’s backyard, he storms over to your blanket fort and throws one down. The air is thick and treacly, heavied by the smell of marshmallows and coconut sunscreen. Purple dusk on a grey roof, a sea of fairy lights below him.

He makes furious eye contact with you, and crushes the daisy chain with his bare-foot. When you frown, an odd sense of satisfaction bubbles up into his chest, his lower lip curling triumphantly.

With the sliding door open wide the way that it is, your loud giggle can travel into the living room freely, a Rafe-specific, video game distraction. He’s lost three games of Call of Duty to it; his best friend, Kelce, is unperturbed and victorious, and Rafe can’t quite understand how that is.

Isn’t the sound of your laugh as evasive to Kelce as it is to him?

“Stop littering in my house,” Rafe demands, narrowing his eyes at you.

You duck out of the fort and stand up tall, crossing your arms across your chest defensively. “It’s Sarah’s house too. She wants them there.”

Sarah peeks around your ankles, poking her tongue out at her older brother. “It’s not littering. They’re pretty.”

“She’s a bad influence on you, Sarah,” Rafe chastises.

“No she isn’t.” Sarah scowls argumentatively, the spitting image of her older brother. “You just don’t like that she stands up to you.”

Rafe scoffs incredulously, feeling the tips of his ears burn. “Whatever.”

For years, he associates nine with jungle gym scuffles and daisy chains in odd places. And then there’s ten, with the infamous handball fight and sand-castle brawl, eleven and the mystery of the missing Harry Potter book.

Twelve is pretending he isn’t too old to play stuck-in-the-mud, brutal, one-on-one tag games that last all summer long.

It’s the year that Ward bestows him with real, older brother responsibility, forcing him to accompany you and Sarah wherever you go.

“Oi!” He trails behind reluctantly, hands jammed into his front pockets. “Don’t go out too far, I’m serious.”

You turn your head, poking your tongue out at him. When your hair lags behind, pretty, wind-mussed locks that shine in the sun, Rafe notices. He thinks this is something that everyone notices, the subtleties in your appearance, the way your nose scrunches up when you’re making a face at him. He doesn’t think he’s looked over at Sarah all day.

“And what if we do, Rafe?” You hedge, challenging him.

Rafe’s heart lurches violently. It doesn’t matter that you say it in that derisive, high-pitched voice, every time you call him by his name he feels a little funny.

“I’ll tell dad,” he says firmly, narrowing his eyes at you. “He put me in charge.”

“Of Sarah,” you argue, folding your small arms over your chest. “Not of me. You can’t tell me what to do.”

“Of both of you,” he corrects. “It’s not like you have an older brother looking out for you.”

Sarah makes a face. “You never look out for me.”

“You think I want to be out here, Sarah?” He throws his arms up in the air exasperatedly, making his way toward the two of you. “I should be at Kelce’s, playing COD on the new PlayStation he got for his birthday.”

You match each step of his with one of your own, backing away with an arm linked in Sarah’s. Rafe’s eyes fall in tandem with your movements, his eyebrows raised, a warning.

“If you want us to stay close,” you say, voice full of mirth. “You’re going to have to keep up!”

And with that, you break into a run, Sarah’s slower legs causing your elbows to untangle, a one girl game of catch-me-if-you-can.

Of course, Rafe’s bigger, taller. He catches up with you a mere, few feet away from his sister, taking a hold of your wrist and tugging you backward.

His pinky finger touches his thumb when he clasps it, and it occurs to Rafe how much smaller you are than him. How important it is for him to look out for you.

Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, he reasons, like this makes any sort of logical sense.

Like hating you is first nature and protecting you is second.

“Get off me,” you grumble, wriggling out of his grasp.

“Stay put,” Rafe instructs, sending you a stern glare.

“No.” You braces your knees, slapping his forearm before breaking into a run again. “Tag! You’re it.”

He tags Sarah, who tags Rafe, who tags you, him again. Everyone else gets tired of playing, but you and him continue into the night. And then, over several days, back and forth until you’re locking yourselves into bedrooms, doubting shadows on the pavement, walking around the house with backs pressed to the wall, praying for sweet solace.

Pretty soon, the rest of the neighbourhood bans the pair of you from participating in games. Everything from hide-and-seek to bull rush is off limits; your competitive streaks are unbearable, even more so when they clash with each other.

You’re a sore loser. Rafe’s even sorer.

He’s just grateful that you’re only ever here for the summer; he doesn’t think he could stand you in the Outer Banks all year round. Having to go to school with you, deal with four seasons of bickering… he shudders to think what he would have done with himself; two months is more than enough time in your presence.

For the past three years, you’ve left the Outer Banks on the exact same day, in the exact same way.

Skipping to his front porch with your big backpack swinging, where his younger sister Sarah awaits farewell with outstretched arms. A big, squeezing hug, promises to call, and then, you always whisper something imperceptible in her ear. Every year, without fail, and Rafe absolutely hates it — a little because he can’t hear what it is, a lot because he doesn’t know why he cares so much.

From the ages of seven to nine, you don’t bother to say goodbye to anyone else. But at ten, having mastered the art of antagonising Rafe Cameron, you decide to leave him with something worse than plain silence.

“Bye, Sar,” you whisper into her hair, pouting as you pull away. “I’m gonna miss you.”

Her lips pull down in tandem, arms still held out around phantom you. “I’m gonna miss you more. Don’t forget me!”

“Never, ever,” you promise earnestly.

You turn around and walk down the porch steps, the wood sun-faded, your shadow skating down each wrung.

“Rafe!” You call out once you reach the bottom, looking up at his cracked open window.

He almost jumps, the curtain shivering as he clutches it in surprise.

“What?” He asks, sounding irritated, busy, as if he hasn’t been lurking right behind it to eavesdrop.

The sun is directly above the estate when he ducks his head out, creating a flyaway halo of yellow hair. It’s always longer at the end of summer than it is at the beginning; he’s going to get it cut when you’re gone, grow another inch or four when you’re gone. Your stomach feels funny.

“Do me a favour,” you say, frowning sternly, “and don’t be mean to your sister while I’m away.”

Rafe snorts derisively. “Do me a favour,” he mocks, “and don’t come back next year.”

“Aww,” you return, smiling saccharine sweet. “I know you’re going to miss me.”

“When hell freezes over, train wreck,” he throws back wryly.

Your expression falters, the nickname rolling over your skin like a sunburn. “Don’t,” you grit out, “call me that.”

“What?” Rafe lips pull up into a satisfied smirk. “A big, ugly, train wreck?”

“I hate you, Rafe Cameron,” you call back spitefully, sending him a furious glare.

“Didn’t ask,” he returns coolly, already retreating from his window-site spot. “Don’t care.”

——

Eleven.

It’s the staying up past bedtime and writing in your diary age, chipped nail polish and stringy bracelets, neon colours on slogan tees. It’s the flip-flop tan age, the Chinese whispers age, watching High School Musical for the first time, the strange, butterflies-in-your-stomach age.

For you, it’s the age that Rafe goes from boy to boy.

At thirteen, the cusp of teen and almost-grown-up, he’s four inches taller with brand new jeans and larger shoes. His hands are rougher than yours are, limbs somewhere between lanky and long. You begin to doubt that you’ve grown the inch pencilled into your bedroom wall, a once-proud apogee that now feels small.

Oh, and he’s gorgeous. It makes you kind of furious.

On the first day of summer, you race over to Tannyhill the minute you’re home, a force of nature on its way to her best friend, Sarah. But when your knuckles rap the large door, head just short of the knocker, it’s Rafe looking down his nose at you, not her.

It takes him by surprise too, the height difference. Thirteen’s been stressful enough as is — growing pains and wardrobe changes, confusing, terrifying feelings for girls in his class — without him also feeling like a giant all of a sudden.

It occurs to him he’s known you almost four years, now. A third of his life. His palms grow sweaty.

And then, you open your mouth to greet him, and he realises his hands have no business being this clammy.

“What are you, big-foot?” You ask crudely, raising your eyebrows up at him.

Rafe doesn’t say anything at first, his features changing in subtle ways — colder eyes, tightened lips. A powerful emotion rises up in chest; it’s thick as molasses, fiery, that whisper of wistfulness long gone within him.

He turns around without another word, sliding his phone out of his front pocket.

“Sarah!” He calls out, a wry, almost bored edge to his tone. “Your loser friend is here.”

For some reason, his dismissal feels worse than an insult would. You stand just short of the door ledge, a little slack jawed, a lot chagrined, watching the back of him disappear up the stairs. There’s far more brown on his head than there usually is, and you realise he hasn’t had his start-of-summer haircut this year.

An odd, nostalgic ache springs forth at the revelation.

And then, as quick as it arrived, it’s gone; Sarah appears at the end of the hallway, and your elated smile is all you want to focus on.

“You’re here!” Sarah squeals excitedly, running up to you and hugging you hard, a long awaited reunion with wind-chimes cheering in the background.

Her hair’s a salt-matted mess, skin sticky and a little scratchy, a canvas of sand on coconut sunscreen glue. When she draws back, her cheeks are flushed. “I missed you, I missed you, I missed you!”

“I missed you,” you insist, and then you frown a little, faux-reproachful. “Kind of mad at you, though.”

“What?” Sarah’s eyes widen worriedly. “Why?”

“Because,” you say, making a face, “you didn’t open the door for me. Had to see him before I did you.”

Sarah grimaces, a sheepish, half-scowl that exposes her bottom row of teeth. “I was on my way, I swear,” she insists, squeezing your arm apologetically. “But he’s been sulking around all day. Waiting.”

“For me?” You ask, raising your eyebrows skeptically. “Yeah, right.”

“I don’t get it either,” Sarah agrees, sighing defeatedly. “He’s been so moody this year… way moodier than usual. Dad says it’s cause he’s a teenager…” she pauses, makes a face, “…whatever that means.”

You frown apologetically, linking your arm in hers. “Doesn’t matter,” you decide. “He isn’t going to ruin our perfect summer.”

And you’re right, he doesn’t — he has his own summer to ruin.

Eleven is the first and only year where the age gap between the two of you feels so apparent.

Thirteen, for him, is a set of diametrically opposed firsts — first fight and first kiss, first girlfriend and first break-up over text.

You’re having an underwater, hand-stand competition with Sarah when you meet Blake Somerset. She’s a pretty girl with wide, amber eyes and her hand in Rafe’s, his bicep to her shoulder in a trendy, Brandy Melville outfit. Everything you want to be at thirteen, everything that you aren’t at the moment, an eleven year old in a plain one piece and stupid-looking swim goggles.

She makes you self-conscious. You blame Rafe Cameron.

“Get out,” he demands wryly, sliding his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose to glare at you.

An angry, blanching, goggle-shaped imprint circles your eyes. “Why?”

Rafe scowls irritatedly. “You’ve had your turn. It’s ours now.”

At ‘ours’, he holds up Blake Somerset’s hand, forcing you to look up at the way their fingers intertwine. An ugly emotion grows within the chambers of your heart, making you frown.

“No,” you attest, standing your ground. “We just got here.”

“Besides,” Sarah adds knowingly, narrowing her eyes at her brother. “You and Blake never hang out here, anyway.”

Rafe balks. His eyes flit to yours for a split-second, heat spreading over his cheeks like an impromptu game of connect-the-freckles. With a line of fire. He clears his throat. “All the more reason to give us space to hang out here.”

Blake speaks up then, turning to you with a voice smooth as honey. “Hi,” she greets, smiling brightly, something contagious about it. This is a thirteen year old girl who has already discovered the wonders of pretty privilege. “I’m Blake!”

“Oh.” Your eyes widen, almost affronted by her kindness. “Hi. I’m Y/n.”

Rafe’s brow pulls down, a narrow-eyed warning. “Don’t bother, Blake,” he sneers, looking directly at you as he says it. “She’s only ever here over the summer, anyway. Not worth getting to know.”

“That’s mean, Rafey,” Blake says reproachfully, frowning at him.

“Yeah, Rafey,” you mock, raising your eyebrows at him. “That’s mean.”

Rafe scowls some more, dropping Blake’s hand to take a step closer to the pool. “Was I talking to you, train wreck?”

“You were talking about me, big-foot,” you bite back spitefully, scrubbing the goggle mark on your upper cheek.

“You know that you have a house too, right?” He asks testily. “You don’t have to be in mine every hour of every day?”

“It’s Mr Cameron’s house,” you argue, jutting out your bottom lip obstinately. “Not yours.“

Rafe shrugs a same difference shrug. “It’ll be mine soon.”

“Or Sarah’s,” you argue.

“I’m older,” Rafe returns angrily, an edge to his voice as his jaw clenches.

Your hand drops. His jaw loosens a touch.

“And somehow,” you shrug, “still dumber.”

Rafe scoffs indignantly, shaking his head in defeat. “Come on, Blake,” he says, turning around and throwing his arm over her shoulder. “It’s not worth arguing with her. She never learnt how to share.”

“Hey!” You call sharply, quick to rise to his bait. “That’s — no way. You’re — you’re the one who doesn’t know how to share, from the stupid jungle gym to —”

“We can go to the beach, instead,” he adds loudly, talking over you as he walks away. “More privacy there. No unwelcome guests acting like they own the place.”

“I — I hate you, Rafe Cameron!” You fume, cheeks splotchy with heat, sun on chlorine.

You don’t think he hears it, because he doesn’t say it back.

This hasn’t been possible since he was nine years old. No matter how hard he tries, your voice tends to find him, wherever he goes. It’s like his brain is primed to pay extra attention to it without meaning to — you’re everywhere all at once, and maybe that’s why he resents your presence at Tannyhill so much.

Later, when he’s lying awake and staring at ceiling shadows, he reasons that he didn’t say it back because he knows that you wouldn’t have heard it. The words would’ve fallen on deaf ears — a lone tree in the forest that hits the ground without making a sound.

That’s what you are to him, now, a series of stupid excuses and contradictory emotions.

Summer overflows, drowning the months of June and July before it begins to ebb, leaving you a fresh repertoire of insults by the time August comes around.

The week before you’re set to leave the Outer Banks for another year, the dusk air cools, molasses-thick heat replaced with something more tepid. You’ve come to call this diminution six-day-long-sleepover weather.

On one such night, you find yourself alone in Tannyhill Estate, frozen just short of the kitchen where’s Ward’s voice keeps you rooted.

Sarah’s still in her room under a mountain of plush blankets, having declined to head downstairs for a glass of water with you.

Rafe’s on the other side of the door. Eleven is age that you come to find out how much braver he is than you’d once imagined.

“I mean — you’re thirteen, now, Rafe!” A frightening sound, like a hand making contact with the marble counter, hard. You realise that you’re holding your breath. “I expect more from you — from the name I’ve given you. Cameron. Do you know what that name stands for, what it means to the people on this island?”

“Dad, I…” The shake in Rafe’s voice makes you flinch.

“Get out,” Ward instructs sternly, a dangerous edge to his voice. “Clean yourself up before your sisters see you. I mean — honestly… is this the example you want to set for them, Rafe? Getting into fights and coming home way past curfew?”

A pause. You think you hear Rafe swallow thickly, before you realise that it’s your own throat that’s shifting, a nervous tick.

“ANSWER ME!”

“No — I… no,” Rafe stutters out quietly.

There’s deafening silence, before the dull thud of retreating footsteps. A few feet away, an aperture above the stairwell channels a silver neck of moonlight to the ground, a ceiling-to-floor beam.

It’s dim edges illuminate you in the shadows, not quite hidden.

Although, even if you were, you have a funny feeling Rafe’d spot you anyway.

When he does, he stumbles back in surprise, doleful features hardening. There’s a split second where his armour of austerity wavers.

“Eavesdropping too, now?” He accuses, folding his arms across his chest defensively.

Your eyes fall to his knuckles, reds that graze and purples that bruise. There’s a split-second where your hands ache, as though you’re hurt too.

“Getting into fights too, now?” You counter, equally-defensive, raising your eyebrows up at him.

He averts his gaze, jaw clenching. His eyes tremble with unshed tears, and it terrifies you. “None of your business, train wreck,” he mutters, hiding his hands in his armpits urgently. There’s a cut on his lower lip that’s crusted over, the tell-tale maroon of blood that’s earned it’s place.

A beat. You wait for Rafe to push past you, mutter something derisive and walk away. He waits for you to do the same.

Neither of you move.

“I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, you know,” you say quietly, the tension in the air palpable.

You think Rafe’s expression almost softens. It makes your palms sweat.

“It’s fine,” he dismisses roughly, running his fingers through his hair. “What did you want from the kitchen? Water?”

You clasp your hands behind your back, and they slide over each other, all warm and clammy. “You know,” you mumble, feeling brave. “It’s okay if you’re upset about what he said. I won’t tell anyone, I promise.”

And just like that, the thaw halts and reverses, re-freezing double time.

If there’s one thing Rafe won’t have, it’s you — this loud, unabashed, strong-willed girl — feeling sorry for him. If you’re loud and unabashed, he needs to be louder, bolder, with miles more will and enough self-assurance to outdo you. He needs you to think that nothing could ever phase him.

Not the taunting, not his father, not even you.

“I’m not upset,” he says fiercely, glaring at you. “And I don’t want your shitty promise. You — you don’t know me.”

Your earnest expression falters, replaced by something cruel, spiteful. “I don’t want to know you either,” you bite out, pursing your lips. “I — I was just trying to be nice, but I should’ve known that you wouldn’t know how to deal with it.”

“Yeah, I don’t,” Rafe says flatly, pushing past you. “We aren’t friends.”

You let out an indignant scoff, whirling around angrily. “And I don’t want to be, either. Ever.”

Rafe doesn’t bother turning around. His knuckles burn, his split lower lip too, and now, because of you, he has to deal with this funny ache in his chest on top of everything else.

“Good.”

——

Fourteen.

It’s the wispy mascara and strawberry chapstick age, thready crop tops over swimwear, sausages-or-legs Instagram stories on sun loungers. It’s the ripped denim age, the caramel Frappuccino age, going to your first, red solo cup party, the getting hit on by guys that are older than you age.

For sixteen-year-old Rafe, it’s the age that you go from girl to girl.

Fourteen and a little taller, a little more mature; he’s created a tradition out of opening the door for you before his sister can, and it’s the first year that he’s the one balking at the threshold, not you.

Suddenly, he doesn’t remember you being any other age. You look airbrushed around the edges, bruise free with enough exposed skin to make him sweat a little. He scrambles for purchase on something that he knows, something that he hates — the fact that your dress is too short, the fact that your lips are too soft.

If it isn’t already obvious, he thinks that you’re gorgeous. It makes him furious.

“Are you going to let me in, big-foot?” You ask, raising your eyebrows impatiently.

The taunt brings about a predictable scowl, his surprised expression slipping. With callous features hardening the way that they are, you’d never guess that his last thought was: have her eyes always been this pretty?

“Good to see nothing’s changed, train wreck,” he returns wryly, placing his hands either side of the doorway to prevent entry.

You roll your eyes at him, ducking under his bicep and forcing your way in. Despite growing a few inches over the course of the year, Rafe still towers over you, a solid wall of hatred and obstinance and muscle. A lot of muscle.

“And it never will,” you throw over your shoulder easily, not bothering to look back at him.

“Do you not have any other friends or something?” He goads, sauntering behind you. “Other families on this island to leech off?”

You whip back around angrily, arms crossed, nostrils flared. “Do you have any friends at all, Rafe?”

Rafe furrows his brow mockingly, pretending to look confused. “Oh yeah,” he sighs out, non-existent realisation dawning on his features. “You’re not actually from here, so I’ll explain —”

“Except,” you interrupt, irritation piquing, “that I didn’t ask, and I don’t care.”

“Basically, everyone here worships me,” he clarifies faux-sombrely, ignoring the sentiment. “So if I were you, I’d probably apologise and fall in line, princess.”

You scoff incredulously, sending him a glare. It occurs to Rafe that a part of him antagonises you for all this fierce, soul-deep eye contact.

“Worshipping you?” You echo, making a face. “Not only are you a total douchebag, but you’re also somehow delusional?”

“Aw.” Rafe clutches his chest dramatically, pouting down at you. “You think I’m a total douchebag? I’m touched.”

“Don’t get it twisted,” you say, narrowing your eyes warningly. “I don’t think about you, Rafe Cameron. I know that you’re a total douchebag as a fact.”

“You know what else I am?” Rafe asks, trying for disdainful as he looks you up and down. He lands somewhere between impassive and slack-jawed. “Bored of this conversation.”

He moves past you and toward the kitchen, and to the back of him, you say, “Oh how I’ve missed our little chats.”

Rafe knows you don’t mean it like that. His pathetic pulse lurches anyway.

“Yeah?” He asks.

“Yeah,” you reply dryly, turning away from him. “They serve as a good reminder of why I hate you so much.”

You leave no space for him to throw the words back at you, already checked out of the conversation and halfway up the stairwell.

Not that he’d ever do so, anyway. Where you’d brushed past him, the fabric of his t-shirt still smells like crisp bergamot, the sweet vanilla notes of your new perfume.

It’s all he’s able to focus on for the rest of the day.

Upstairs, Sarah squeezes you tight, and demands that the pair of you take a walk along the beach.

It’s how you find yourself on Theo Deverell’s radar that summer, find yourself receiving an invite to his party a few weeks later.

A handsome junior with a skateboard under his arm and ashen hair that hasn’t been cut in a while, he’s confident and kind, his sweet-talk thick molasses.

Like a flytrap.

Along with an invite to his party, Theo innocently requests that you arrive alone and not-so-innocently buys you handful of white claws. Unfortunately for him, he doesn’t take into account the fact that someone else at this party might see you, recognise you.

Know you better than they know themself.

Rafe hears your laugh before he does your voice. It has that same, unabashed timbre it did when you were kids; loud and too-familiar, distracting. It first found him at nine years old and hasn’t left him since.

When he follows the sound to you, there’s a white claw in your hand, and Theo Deverell’s arm around your shoulder. If it wasn’t for that fact that this meant extenuating circumstances, he’s sure that he would have stolen a few more moments to look you over.

All of you, from your kind eyes to your pretty smile, the light skating along the column of your throat, the expanse of glowing skin between your singlet and raw-hem denim shorts.

Bare glowing skin. Kind eyes on scum of the earth, Theo fucking Deverell, pretty smile like a sunflower leaning into the wrong rays of sun.

Rafe’s jaw clenches like clockwork. You have no business being here — not with his friends, the people in his year, not in that outfit and definitely not with a white claw in your hand.

He asserts that it isn’t jealousy.

After all, his line of reasoning doesn’t touch the Theo Deverell effect at all; he’s just being protective over you, covering all of his bases.

If something happens and you get hurt, he’s the one that everyone will blame. Rafe decides to ignore the fact that when it comes to you, he’s his own harshest critic.

“Y/n.” He says your name like it’s an accusation, something rough, callous in his tone.

Your shoulders tense. The grip you have on your white claw tightens to a blanch, the muscles that move your jaw, too. When do you finally look over at him, he’s closer than his voice was, taller with broader-set shoulders, an angrier frown.

He tugs off his backwards cap distractedly, and your eyes move to his fabric mussed hair, longer than you remember. It suits him.

“What?” You defend coolly, narrowing your eyes at him.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he states, pinning you with a glare. Body heat and cologne rolls off his skin, cedar-wood with something spicier hidden within it. Cinnamon, you think.

“Why?” You argue, nostrils flaring. “Last I checked, this is Theo’s party, not yours. He invited me.”

Rafe’s gaze cuts to the aforementioned boy for the first time that night, a split-second power struggle. There’s an undercurrent of steel to his eye contact that makes Theo sweat a little.

“I’m taking you home,” he says resolutely, grasping your wrist. “Now.”

“What?” You scoff incredulously, quick to break free. “No fucking way. I’m staying.”

Keeping your eyes on his, you tip back the white claw and gulp down half the can. It doesn’t make your insides burn the way everyone says alcohol should; like a drink of soda, it slides down your throat with ease.

Your throat. Rafe’s gaze falls, the unmarked skin making him falter. Bathed in lemon-yellow light, your silver necklaces winks up at him, a taunt.

It makes him fucking mad.

“Whatever,” he mutters spitefully, downing his own drink just as easily. “Your fucking funeral.”

You roll your eyes, looking up at Theo and smiling your sweet, sore-cheek smile. For some, perplexing reason, this makes him even madder.

“Can I have another?” You ask, using a pleasant voice Rafe hasn’t heard before.

Theo nods without question, pulling open the fridge and handing you another. For a split-second, Rafe considers the consequence of giving him a shiner in his own kitchen.

Then, he goes back to channeling all of his anger onto you.

Since this definitely isn’t jealousy, he has no business being mad at Theo, even if said boy’s arm around your shoulder is begging to be broken. It’s you that’s at a party you shouldn’t be at, you drinking a white claw, you with the pretty smile — the siren smile.

The smile he’s never been on the receiving end of.

His head hurts. He crushes the can of beer in his hand like it’s nothing, and as he stares at you, disappearing onto the deck with Theo Deverell, you stare at everything but him.

It’s the first time since he was nine years old that he’s felt that ugly bubble of hatred in his gut. Not for you, though, of what he can’t have, even if he’d deny this if anyone were to ask.

It’s an hour before he finds you next.

There’s an alcohol induced slowness to his limbs by then, but his mind is sharper than ever, miles ahead of yours.

Skin warm and dew-damp, you’re sprawled out on the grass. Above you, the sky spins, a kaleidoscope of purple and indigo, darker streaks of dusk. And then, Rafe’s face.

He’s scowling, the way he always is. You’re alone.

“The fuck?” He loops an arm around your waist, yanking you up in a single, sweeping motion. “Why are you out here?”

Alone, he wants to add. It’s all he can focus on.

“The fuck?” You mock, words liquefying around the edges. “Why d’you always talk like s’that?”

“For fuck sake,” he mutters, cringing at the way your voice slurs. “How much have you had?”

You raise your eyebrows comically high, pretending to zip your lips and throw away the key.

Silence. Rafe’s rough fingers hold firm on your waist, all of your weight pushing into his forearm as you angle away. There’s a lot more skin-on-skin body heat this close, a lot more cologne and fierce eye contact than you can handle.

The closeness is burning hand-shaped holes into your skin. Large hand-shaped holes.

“Alright,” he announces firmly, straightening and pulling you up with him. “We’re leaving.”

“No,” you argue, more for the sake of it than anything else. “You’re leaving. M’staying.”

“Y/n,” Rafe warns, clenching his jaw. “You’re not staying here by yourself. You’re drunk.”

You make a face. “Why d’you care?”

Rafe chooses to ignore this question. A little because his focus is trained on moving your dragging feet forward, a lot because the answer to it is something that absolutely terrifies him.

And makes him furious. Amongst other things.

“Rafe, stop,” you whine, voice all messy and loud. “You — you’re not the boss f’me.”

“Didn’t ask.” He’s already shifted you from the backyard into the kitchen with surprising ease, rough hands on skin like a nectarine — soft and bare and easy to bruise. “Don’t care.”

Once inside, he pushes you toward the sink, reaching for an empty solo cup.

“Here,” he demands, thrusting it into your chest. “Have some water.”

He’s caging you against it with arms either side of you, your dim, kitchen window reflection making the proximity apparent. It makes you dizzier than the alcohol in your veins does, streaks your throat with the taste of bile.

“Don’t wan’t any,” you argue, frowning stubbornly.

“I’m serious,” he warns, turning the tap on and filling it to the brim.

“So m’I,” you throw back.

“Drink,” he instructs firmly, holding it out in front of you. Your eyes fall to it, faucet ripples making your face all soft and blurry.

And as you begin to shake your head at it, an acid-sour trill of vomit rushes out of your mouth, forcing Rafe to drop it back into the sink.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters exasperatedly, one hand steadying your waist, the other holding your hair back. There’s something to be said about the fact that Rafe hasn’t run for the hills at the sight of your puke; his broad torso hides you from view, a shield of armour hiding behind so-called hatred.

He adds, voice still low, “You really are a train wreck, huh?”

It’s the only sentence you remember of your conversation the next morning. Maybe this is because it’s the first time he’s used the insult in an affectionate way.

What you think is an affectionate way. All that booze on an empty stomach has probably messed with your naïve brain.

When you wake, it’s in your own bed with curtains drawn. The comforter you’re snuggled under smells of him, soap and musk pheromones that make your insides tumble. You feel sick.

There’s a note tucked under a glass of water on your bedside table, a blister pack of aspirin alongside it. It reads: for once in your life, can you just fucking do what I tell you to?

You feel sicker.

Like poison, it’s thrown directly into the bin. Like the plague, you avoid Rafe Cameron for the rest of summer break.

——

Sixteen is the first job age, branding you a visor-wearing cart girl on the Island Club green.

Having graduated from the Academy this year, it’s also the last summer before Rafe moves for college. You aren’t sure what this means for him, whether the frat he inevitably joins will lead him elsewhere for subsequent breaks.

Away from you. The thought makes your heart feels too heavy for your ribcage, tight and wrung through, a sinking deadweight.

When eighteen-year-old Rafe first sees sixteen-year-old you, he’s on the course with his best friend, Kelce. You’re manning the drinks cart a distance away, laughing this high-pitched, saccharine sweet laugh as an older man exchanges beers for some cash. It’s a new sound falling from lips he’s known half his life, a fresh coat of gloss making them shine. Your skin looks fresh, sunscreen soft.

“Oh shit!” Kelce exclaims, following Rafe’s gaze to your figure. “Isn’t that Y/n?”

He jogs toward you without waiting for an answer, forcing a reluctant Rafe to do the same.

“Guess they’re just hiring anyone nowadays, huh?” He calls out a little urgently, winning the race for your attention Kelce didn’t know he was participating in.

You turn toward him and your customer service smile slips, pretty features hardening to a scowl.

“Find another cart girl,” you demand, folding your arms across your chest. “I’m not serving you.”

“And I’m not giving you any of my service,” Rafe scoffs, halting in his tracks too close, the way he always does.

It makes him difficult to ignore, which you hate. Your gaze skates over his broad shoulders and chiseled torso, sleeve-taut biceps that become solid forearm, rough hands in rougher golf gloves. His blue eyes are unblinking, fierce, bright as the sun despite his cap shielding from it.

Your gaze shifts to Kelce in a hurry.

“Hey, Kelce,” you say amiably, smiling at him. “Anything I can get you?”

“Your number?” Kelce jokes, grinning back.

Rafe’s jaw tightens, an unnameable emotion rearing it’s ugly head. As his younger sister’s best friend — as a girl that he hates — you’re strictly off limits to him.

By proxy, you’re also strictly off limits to his best friend.

“When did you start, anyway?” He cuts in furiously, glaring down at you.

You sigh warily, sending Kelce an apologetic look.“Last week,” you say in a clipped tone.

“Why?” Rafe demands.

“What do you mean, why?” You throw back, scoffing indignantly. “Because I’m old enough to get a job, now? Because I wanted some extra cash?”

“What?” Rafe hedges, raising his eyebrows. “To go shopping with your one friend on the island?”

Outrage rolls over your skin like a heatwave, making your cheeks burn. “What do you care?” You return angrily, nostrils flaring. “This doesn’t concern you in any way.”

It does when your presence is capable of throwing him off his game. It does when he has to watch you flirting for tips everyday.

Besides, why would you possibly need a job, anyway? Theoretically, Rafe could pay for everything that you wanted and then some.

“It does if you refuse to serve me when I’m here,” Rafe says.

You falter, clenched jaw acquiescing by a margin.

“Right,” you reply curtly, plastering on a smile. “Was there anything you wanted, Rafe?”

“Aw.” Rafe pouts mockingly. “The waitresses at the Club normally call me sir.”

Your smile tighten to a grimace. “Don’t fucking push it, Cameron.”

“Mr Cameron,” Rafe chastises, biting back a smirk. “I’d love a beer, princess. Think you can manage that?”

“And I’d love for you to leave me the fuck alone,” you snarl back, forced pleasantries long forgotten. “But unfortunately, we don’t always get all the things we want in life.”

“Now, now.” Rafe raises his eyebrows warningly, his gaze cascading over your features without meaning to. “You wouldn’t want me to go inside and complain about the gorgeous cart girl with no manners, would you?”

You blink. “Gorgeous cart girl?”

Rafe’s expression falters, his slanted jaw slackening. “Cart girl,” he amends quickly, almost tripping over his words. “I said cart girl.”

“Whatever,” you mutter, ducking your head awkwardly. “If you aren’t going to buy something I can actually sell you, I’m leaving.”

You turn around and climb into the driver’s seat of the drinks cart, switching on the ignition and leaving the two boys in your dust.

When you do so, Rafe realises a few things.

The first, that not letting his eyes stray from your pretty face to your cleavage is an invaluable lesson in self-control. The second, that you’re the same height as his heartbeat, your smaller hands the size of a single chamber within it. The third that your ass looks fucking criminal in a golf skirt, and the fourth? That you’re beginning to make him furious for the all wrong reasons.

Kelce breaks the silence first.

“Holy shit,” he wolf whistles, “when did Y/n become such a baddie?”

“Never,” Rafe grits out, cutting him a stony glare. “Don’t let me hear you say that shit again, Smith. I’m not fucking playing.”

“Woah, relax tough guy,” Kelce replies, raising his eyebrows knowingly. “I’m just stating facts. You know that I’d never actually go there.”

“Good,” Rafe says grimly. “Because she’s off limits.”

“Right.” Kelce eyes Rafe warily. “The real question, though… when are you going to make a move on her?”

“What?” Rafe’s head shoots up in a panic, his expression somewhere between helpless and incredulous. “The fuck are you talking about?”

Kelce scoffs. “The fact that you’re in love with her, obviously.”

Rafe’s heart lurches.

“You’re delusional,” he mutters, shaking his head exasperatedly.

“Whatever you say, bro,” Kelce responds with a shrug. “She’s fucking hot. If I were you, I’d be tying her down before some other guy on this island gets the chance.”

Though the mere thought of this has him seething, he attests that it isn’t jealousy.

Just self-preservation, or something. He doesn’t need some deadbeat with empty promises thirsting over a girl he’s known since he was a kid.

Over the course of the next few weeks, interactions with Rafe at the Club drop to a minimum. Though he’s often there when you are — his golf cap cycling between sitting forwards and backwards on his head — you always seem to catch him in the middle of a conversation. With his friends, other patrons, the waitresses that swoon over him in the break room. Everyone but you. You begin measuring the days apart with his hair, the length the tawny locks grow past the head of his cap.

Somewhere between long and overgrown, the tip jar begins collecting wads of cash with your name taped around them. At first, you think someone’s playing a prank with counterfeit bills; it’s only after they’re properly checked that you gratefully accept them.

To your chagrin, the waitstaff who know of the mystery tipper refuse to reveal their name. After a while, you begin taking the money without question; you presume it’s the old widower who meets you at hole nine every Friday, a little lonely, a lot wealthy. There’s no one else you know endowed with that much disposable income.

No one else apart from everyone in the Cameron family, anyway.

The next time you see Rafe, you’re trying hard to understand something that’s very clearly out of your depth.

“Trust me, darlin’, the clean’s real essential,” the mechanic continues seriously, overplaying the importance of a trivial add-on. “Without it, your car’ll break down within the year.”

“But…” you trail off, frowning bemusedly, “…I mean, my dad only bought it a few months ago —”

“These newer models,” the mechanic explains, raising his eyebrows haughtily, “they need more maintenance. Got bigger engines with —”

“Isn’t it a V Dub Golf, Cam?” Asks a voice behind you. “Shouldn’t need anything done to it for at least a few years.”

It’s deep, a little gravelly around the edges, with a subtle, Southern twang that’s so familiar it hurts a little.

Rafe’s always had this way of garnering the attention of a room without needing to raise his voice.

“Well,” the mechanic balks, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. “Uh… shit, I mean, there’s been talk of the suspension on these Volks going bust —”

“Right,” Rafe says steadily, coming up beside you. “I think she’ll take her chances, though, bud. The service on its own should be fine.”

He folds his forearms over the front counter staunchly, an air of resolve to the way he holds himself. It makes you feel nervous and relieved at the same time, as if that’s in any way possible.

Oh, and furious. He’s a wall of body heat with one too many inches on you, his bicep knocking your shoulder, his sharp jaw shepherding your gaze. There’s a shadow of stubble that trails to his Adam’s apple, steely, blue eyes that almost have you drowning.

Your chin falls as you sink, hitting his forearm where it rests on the counter. The contact sends a shockwave-like jolt to your skin, and you shoot back up in a hurry, glowing with embarrassment.

Don’t drown, swim, you chastise in your head.

“At the end of the day,” the mechanic named Cam says, sending you a meaningful glance, “it’s up to you, darlin’. Did you want me to throw in the clean?”

You can feel Rafe’s eyes on your features, his closeness makes your heart stutter a little.

“Uh,” you pause, chewing on your bottom lip absently. “I — maybe not, anymore. Thank you.”

Rafe’s gaze slides to your mouth as it moves without meaning to. Your pretty mouth. He begins scrambling for an excuse to stay this close, this counting-your-worry-lines proximity for a little while longer.

“Alrighty then,” Cam agrees, his Southern drawl kicking in. “Should take two hours, ‘roundabout.”

You nod and smile swiftly, handing over your keys and watching him retreat. It’s only once he’s out of sight that you peel away from the counter, refusing to make eye contact with Rafe as you do so.

“I had that handled,” you say stubbornly, turning your back on him.

“You’re welcome,” he returns dryly, stepping in front of you so that you’re forced to look up.

When you do, a pause. Somewhere within your too-weak glare, Rafe swears he spots a gleam of something softer, diffident gratitude hidden within pretty irises.

It makes his bones ache.

He knows that he’s the one taunting a thank-you out of you, but the last thing on Rafe’s mind is actually getting any sort of credit. The only reason that he even stepped in in the first place is because that’s his job — your best friends older brother, and all of that. Not to mention, he refuses to watch someone else take advantage; he’s the only person that’s allowed to do that, make a fool out of you and be able get away with it.

“Whatever, Rafe,” you mutter, tearing your eyes away again. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

For a split-second, he seriously considers saying, kissing you.

And then you add, “Following me?” in this cruel, defensive tone that has him deftly swallowing the words.

“Newsflash, princess,” he chides, rolling his eyes. “You’re not the only person on the island with a car that needs servicing.”

“What?” You goad. “Your little douchebag patrol posse too busy to run this errand for you?”

“Nah,” he returns wryly, raising his eyebrows. “Gotta do this one myself, make sure they don’t get swindled the way you were about to.”

Your jaw tightens, eyes narrowing angrily. “Like I said, I had it handled.”

Rafe’s noticed, that when you fume, you step closer to him without meaning to.

So maybe he’s goading you on purpose. So what? One look over your pretty, up-close features and his chest is a mess.

“Honestly,” he tuts, shaking his head tiredly. “What would you do without me?”

You pretend to think. “Oh, I don’t know,” you say, knitting your brow mockingly. “Maybe like, be at peace?”

“I’m on your mind that much, huh?” He asks, pressing his tongue against his cheek.

You force a breath out through your nose furiously, attempting to push past him. But he’s taller than you, stronger, catching you wrist just short of an arms length away.

Where his personality is abrasive, his touch is anything but. It’s featherlight like he thinks he’ll ruin you if he holds firmer. Your soft palms sweat.

“Hey, relax,” he chides, not letting go. “You gotta wait here till your car’s done, remember?”

Normally, you’d scowl at his holier-than-thou tone, but the juxtaposition of his careful hands and sloven words has your mind veering off track.

“So?” You bite back, forcing yourself to pull away. “I’m not staying here with you. I’ll go on a walk or something.”

Rafe frowns. “No,” he instructs. “You stay. I’ll come back.”

“Stop doing that,” you reply frustratedly.

“Doing what?” Rafe asks.

“Doing…” you trail off, forcing another breath out through your nose, “…doing me all these favours I didn’t ask you to do. I don’t want to be indebted to you, okay? Fucking quit it.”

Rafe balks. An unreadable emotion flickers over his once-amused features, painting them a rueful shade of grey.

“I’m leaving for me, not for you.” A pause. “You’ve never owed me anything, Y/n.”

He’s gone before you’re able to decipher his expression, find the cause of his sudden change in demeanour.

He doesn’t come back, the way he said he would. It’s a week before he returns to the car mechanic at all, long enough for you to have forgotten about the exchange.

——

Seventeen is the first year that Rafe doesn’t have a date to Midsummer’s.

Maybe this is because it’s also his first year away from home — setting Rafe up has always been Ward’s prerogative, and without the face-to-face, manipulating his son is a little more difficult. Maybe it’s because Rafe’s finally standing up to his father — heir to the Cameron Development empire or not, he’s sick of every girl he takes out being a business transaction.

Or maybe, it’s something else altogether. Maybe turning nineteen and going to a college out of state has forced Rafe to re-examine how he feels about Kildare Island.

The people on it. Person.

On Midsummer’s day, the weather is faultless.

A big, yellow sun coasts over the horizon, irradiating rows of hydrangeas and buttery-white peonies, the brilliant decorations that bedeck the venue. Prematurely hung fairy-lights dangle from green trees, the bright glare making them shine.

Rafe arrives at the Island Club a little before you do, blue skies melting woven periwinkle onto his suit blazer. He knows, from a phone conversation he overheard between you and Sarah, that you’re probably going to be late, so he doesn’t bother searching for you when he does.

Not that he’d actually do anything if he found you, anyway. It’s just that the promise of your closeness keeps him sane.

There’s a time lapse between when you do finally arrive, and when Rafe realises that you have. He’s sneaking a second flute of champagne when he spots you; you’re outside, and he’s in, the crystal-clear sliding door a hindrance.

Seeing you is like having the wind knocked out of his lungs.

You’re wearing a pearly slip of paper-thin satin, the silky fabric cascading down your figure like a waterfall. A gleaming, silver chain loops around your neck, and in your hair, a ribbon of artificial daisies glow. Like when you were seven. Rafe’s poor heart stutters.

And just when he’s sure he can’t catch a break, his legs lead him to you of their own accord — two magnets sucked into a field of charge.

Of course, this makes him furious.

“Nice of you to finally grace us with your presence, princess,” he greets sardonically, halting just short of your figure.

You’re leaning against a tall pillar on the deck, its column bedecked with a garland of ruby roses. At the sight of him, you hurry to straighten, smoothing over the sides of your pearl-white slip.

“And here I thought,” you throw back, narrowing your eyes up at him, “that I’d be lucky enough to get through tonight without having to talk to you.”

“Who else would you talk to?” Rafe’s gaze falls, skidding at your pretty lipgloss, again where your silver chain kisses your neckline. “Me and Sarah are the only two people you know here.”

“How can you be so sure?” You argue stubbornly, folding your arms across your chest.

The barely-there fabric of your slip creases when you do so, enough cleavage spilling over to make Rafe balk a little.

He coughs. “I just am, alright?”

You scoff. “You’re so fucking full of it.”

“Aw,” he pouts, still looking over you absently. “You really think so?”

It’s your cat-and-mouse game on autopilot. Both of you take turns throwing glib insults at the other, stalling. Maintaining this maddening, look-don’t-touch inch between you.

“I would,” you answer, scowling. “Except that I don’t actually think about you at all.”

“Right,” Rafe says, raising his eyebrows. “Why were you late, anyway?”

You scowl harder. “How do you know that I was late?”

“Sarah was complaining about it,” Rafe lies. An inscrutable something flickers over his features, and you realise that he’s standing close enough for you to notice.

Even in heels, he has several inches on your figure, solid shoulders and chiseled torso in soft periwinkle that makes you falter. You swear, as he waits for you to answer, that the fingers in his right hand twitch forward and flex, dropping back down in a hurry.

A trick of the light, you suppose.

“Well,” you answer, jutting out your bottom lip. “It’s really none of your business.”

“Actually, since the event is honouring my father —”

“JJ!” You call out suddenly, forcing Rafe’s voice to break off mid-sentence. “What are you… how are you here?”

JJ? Rafe falters. As in the same, dirty-blonde deadbeat that’s pogue-side and fucking insufferable?

Before he can so much as open his mouth in protest, the younger boy enters Rafe’s peripheral vision. He’s wearing a waiter’s uniform on his figure and a grin on his face, his unkempt hair a wind-mussed mess.

You’re smiling in tandem. Rafe feels his throat close up.

“Shhh,” he hushes, his blue eyes full of mirth. “I’m ‘working’ the party, alright? Don’t worry your pretty little head about it.”

You laugh, and Rafe’s heart lurches. “Whatever you say, J,” you reply, shaking your head bemusedly. “A request, though?”

JJ mock curtsies, fixing you a faux-sombre look. “Anything, m’lady.”

“Can I come with?” You ask sweetly, eyeing Rafe warily. “Not in the mood to stick with present company.”

JJ turns to Rafe then, a silent but fierce battle of wills. “Of course,” he responds after a beat, knowing the older boy wouldn’t lay a hand on him with you around. “C’mon.”

The satin of your slip sways over your heels as you disappear, giving the appearance of a girl that’s floating out of sight, not walking.

A pretty girl, with wide, stubborn eyes and a frown that makes Rafe ache, in his stomach, in his bones, in the stupid, you-shaped cavity within his ribcage. He downs his flute in a single, deft gulp, tearing through the crowd in search of something stronger than champagne.

—

open the door

You’re already downstairs, filling a glass tumblr with water when your phone dings.

It’s the first anyone’s heard from Rafe since your squabble at Midsummer’s earlier that day; a little after 10 pm now, he’s hasn’t been accounted for for at least a few hours.

This realisation, paired with the laconic tone of his text, cloys with your stomach, a heavy vessel of cement. For the first time in your life, you don’t hesitate to do what he says.

When you creak open the door, Rafe’s figure is silhouetted by a moonless sky, dim, doleful stars your only source of illumination.

He can’t stand still. There’s a rumpled bow tie at his collar, sleeves pushed up and blazer thrown over his shoulder slovenly. Gel long gone, his hair’s a dishevelled mess — strands sticking up at odd ends, falling into his line of sight so he’s forced to blink them away.

Or try to, with these wide, all-pupil eyes that have your stomach dropping.

“You’re high.” Too harsh for a greeting, too weak-sounding for an accusation.

“Can I come in?” He asks, swallowing thickly.

You hesitate, gaze moving over his features tentatively. It occurs to you that, even on cocaine, that fond, attentive part of your brain still finds him attractive.

It’s infuriating.

You shake your head firmly, shooting him an exasperated look. “Are you kidding? No fucking way.”

When you attempt to shut the door in his face, he stumbles closer, barring you from doing so.

“Wait — no — shit, please?” He begs. “I — I’ll sleep on the floor. On the deck. Anywhere. I just… I had nowhere else to go.”

You sigh tiredly. “Your house is right next door, Rafe.”

Rafe falters, something harried, worrisome, washing over his face. “I can’t go there.”

A pause. The absence of light has your figure blurring around the edges, but Rafe has so much of you committed to memory that this fact is irrelevant.

You’re wearing PJs he hasn’t seen in years, this tired, out-of-reach glow to your limbs that has him reeling, struggling for air. Face scrubbed clean, exposed skin everywhere he looks, and this close, he swears he can see every frown line that etches your features.

It’s like you’re iridescent. He’s never used that word before, probably never will again, but in this moment, Rafe swears it’s the only one that makes sense.

You exhale again, stepping away from the door to allow him in.

“Fuck… thank you,” he mumbles sheepishly, his movements jagged, sloven. He follows you down the hallway and into the living room, collapsing onto the couch with sigh of his own.

You look him over with uncertainty, chewing on your bottom lip. “Do you need food, or something? Water?”

He lifts his head, parts of his face illuminated by the silver-white streak of the blinds, a barcode of guilt. “Go to sleep, Y/n,” he replies quietly. “I don’t need you worrying about me, on top of everything else.”

You scoff, folding your arms across your chest defensively. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

A pause. “That you deserve better than that. Me.”

There’s dense, sludge-like tension in the air, rising to the ceiling like heat before dropping, slinking through the floorboards and pulling you down with it. More silence. You don’t realise you’re holding your breath until you open your mouth, your response to him a heavy whoosh of air.

“Why’re you high, Rafe?” You ask quietly.

His head drop agains. “Go to sleep, Y/n.”

“I’m not sleepy,” you lie.

“Neither am I.”

“Tell me,” you try again, a little firmer, a little more urgent. “You… it’s the least you could do.”

“Fuck, Y/n,” he groans out frustratedly, roughing his fingers through his hair. “You really wanna to play that game? Why were you hanging with those pogues the entire night?”

“I — huh?” You stutter, eyes widening in surprise. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Don’t do that.” You hear Rafe swallow again, his voice low. “You know exactly what it has to do with everything.”

Another beat. The sludge-like tension returns and roots you to the spot, preventing you from removing yourself from the situation.

Preventing you from moving closer, too. You murmur, “How come you didn’t go to Kelce’s?”

“Because,” he breathes out softly, like he’s only just admitted it to himself, “you’re the one that’s always on my mind, not him.”

Your stomach somersaults. “What?”

“Goodnight, Y/n.” Rafe turns away from you, pulling his legs up onto the couch and exhaling again. “I’ll be out of here before you wake up.”

He lets his eyelids droop and his breathing slow, and you stare at him until you’re sure he’s actually falling asleep.

As you watch him, a million different should dos whizz through your mind. You should get him a blanket, a pillow, move him into the guest room, you should stay.

You do none of them, nor do you get a wink of sleep the entire night. Somewhere between morning twilight and dawn, you hear him creak open the front door, leaving without a trace.

——

“Thanks, Rose,” Rafe hears you say, your sweet voice travelling over from the kitchen. “Yeah, no, I’m super excited about it. A little far from home, but it’s been my first choice since forever.”

“That’s wonderful to hear, my dear,” Rose’s voice answers pleasantly. “You’ll have to make time to visit when you can.”

“Yeah,” adds Sarah faux-sternly. “Just because your parents are selling the beach house doesn’t mean you stop coming here, okay? I don’t care if you’re going to a college across the country, you’ll always be an Outer Banks girl, whether you like it or not.”

It’s as though someone’s dropped a two-tonne rock into Rafe’s stomach. He begins to rush forward slovenly, his gait jagged, desperate to take him into the kitchen.

He walks into it just as you say, “I will, I swear,” in this soft, earnest voice that makes him honest-to-God yearn.

It’s enough commotion to garner your attention, your eyes growing wary as they look over his figure. “Oh,” you say, overplaying your disinterest. “It’s just you.”

For the first time in eleven years, Rafe Cameron doesn’t bite.

“Since when are your parents selling your house?” He demands, not asks.

A pause.

It occurs to Rafe, as he takes inventory of your features — all the smooth planes and pert ridges, the furrow in your brow, the shine of your lips — that he can’t remember a time where he hasn’t thought you were beautiful. He’s spent half of his life antagonising you, being antagonised by you, and it occurs to him that he can’t remember a time where he’s ever actually meant it.

You’re eighteen-years-old, now; he met you when you were seven. Something in Rafe’s chest careens. It occurs to him that it’s the same, heart-lurching feeling your seven-year-old smile had once given nine-year-old him.

You raise your eyebrows at him. Rafe decides in that moment that he isn’t going to bite ever again.

“Since last week?” You answer defensively.

“And when,” Rafe takes a steady step closer, “were you going to tell me?”

The pair of you glare at each other. In the silence, Sarah and Rose share a knowing look too, the pair of them peeling away from the kitchen table carefully.

“Sarah, sweetie,” Rose says, raising her eyebrows meaningfully. “Do you mind helping me sort through the washing?”

“Not at all,” Sarah answers quickly, springing into action.

They bee-line for the door before you can so much as protest, leaving a tension that’s palpable in their wake.

You swallow it down before forcing out a sigh, slipping out of your seat and moving past him. “Didn’t think I needed to.”

The side of your wrist nudges his, shooting tendrils of heat straight to your chest. And then, it’s Rafe’s touch making your skin burn, his rough palm making contact with yours.

“Y/n,” he murmurs helplessly, turning you back to him. “You can’t drop a bomb like that on me and just leave like it’s fucking nothing.”

Your breath hitches, gaze dropping to where your fingers are intertwined. “Like I said,” you say weakly, refusing to make eye contact. “Didn’t think you’d care.”

Rafe cares. Rafe cares a lot.

Rafe’s feels like he’s cared about you longer than he’s been alive.

“Do you care?” He asks quietly, dipping his head to eye level. “About moving, I mean. Do you care about the fact that you won’t be here next summer?”

With me, he wants to add. Won’t be here with me.

You swallow nervously, forcing yourself to meet his gaze.

He’s looking down at you with the same, ocean blue irises he had when you first met him. Eleven years on, several inches more height difference and several inches less personal space, you realise that they also still make the same, fond mess of your chest.

Your mind reels. You try to remember the conclusion of any of the arguments you’ve had over the years.

You can’t.

You realise that what you can remember are the small details, the subtleties anyone else would forget — the way his hair’s grown over time, the parts of his body most susceptible to a sunburn.

For Rafe, it’s the way your pretty smile’s gotten prettier. It’s the number of times your eyes have narrowed in an argument, the neckline of every single one of your dresses. He remembers the forgettable things — when you swapped out that Victoria’s Secret perfume for something more mature, when you first wore that lipgloss that smelled like peaches and vanilla.

When you smiled at him, for the first time ever. Rafe remembers the first time you called him by his name instead of an insult.

“Of course I do,” you mumble. “I’ve spent more summers here than I can count on both hands.”

“Do you care about the fact that I will?” Rafe steps closer. His hand is still in yours, refusing to let go. “The fact that we aren’t going to be in the same town at all, next year?”

Your heart stutters. “Rafe —”

“Because I do,” Rafe interrupts, his other hand moving up to your face. He cradles your jaw gently, reverentially, his rough skin at odds with his barely-there touch. “I care about the fact you won’t be in the Outer Banks and I fucking will. I mean… shit, Y/n, summer won’t be summer without you here.”

Your eyes widen, sitting somewhere between bashful and surprised. “What?” You ask weakly, feeling your knees buckle. “You… we — you hate me.”

“You can’t actually believe that,” Rafe says, a little exasperated.

“And I… I mean — we drive each other fucking crazy,” you add in a rush. His callused thumb swipes over your cheek softly, and you sigh. It’s a tired sound. Longest eleven years of your fucking life.

“It’s maddening,” Rafe agrees softly, drawing closer still.

Lips an inch from yours, now, less than, there’s cinnamon and cedar-wood everywhere.

“Makes me fucking furious,” you mumble absently. “You make me fucking furious.”

“Fuck, so do you.” His voice sounds rough around the edges, strained. Spearmint breath fans over your too-warm skin. “Do you have any idea the effect you have on me, Y/n?”

There’s a brush of lips on yours, just. You say, “Probably not.”

“All I’ll say,” he murmurs, this close to kissing you, “is that you aren’t the one that’s a train wreck, train wreck. It’s me.”

And then he’s pressing his lips to yours fully, urgently, his other hand finding purchase on your waist and squeezing hard. The way he pulls you to him is sloven, pleasurable, a teeth-scraping pressure that has you gasping for air. He backs you up against a wall like he’s afraid that you’re going to escape his grasp, sometimes hard, sometimes soft, so-called hatred melting into a fierce need for more.

Rafe Cameron kisses you like he’s wanted to do it since he was nine-years-old.

And when he drags his mouth along your jaw, down your neck, it’s to create a bouquet of careless, purple bruises — he needs everyone to know that you’re his, and he isn’t going to share, the same way he’d once refused you a spot on the ten-foot-tall jungle gym. His rough hands are worse, grappling for bare skin everywhere they roam, your own palms skating up his chest to his shoulders.

When he pulls away for air, you wrap your arms around his neck tightly.

“Right,” you murmur, smiling coyly. “You’re still big-foot though, big-foot.”

“Shit,” Rafe breathes out a laugh, his cheeks flushed, his lips bruised. “That nickname made me so fucking angry when we were kids.”

“You made me so fucking angry when we were kids,” you return.

“And how about now?” Rafe asks, his voice a little messy from all of the kissing. “How do I make you feel now, Y/n?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” A pause. You think he knows the answer to his own question before you even open your mouth. “Like a train wreck, Rafe Cameron.”

#ryn’s recs ✧˚ · .

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