mid-sentence. - rafe cameron.
extended version from this line of the hc: One time, you kissed him without thinking. Like muscle memory. Mid-argument. Mid-sentence. He didn’t stop smiling for the rest of the week.
requested!
He’s already pacing when you get there.
Sun-bleached hair messy from the wind, jaw tight, arms waving around like he’s trying to physically argue his way into being right. Again.
“You can’t just ignore me for three days and then act like I’m the problem!” he shouts the second you step out of your car, like he’s been holding it in, like the words were burning a hole in his chest.
You don’t flinch. You never do. Not with him.
You slam the car door shut and cross your arms. “I wasn’t ignoring you. I was avoiding you. Big difference.”
“Oh, great, so now we’re doing semantics?” he huffs, pacing again. “You were avoiding me because of the boat thing, right? This is still about the boat thing?”
“Rafe,” you start, already exhausted, “you stole the boat.”
“And? The keys were in it. That’s on him.”
You rub your temples. “You said you were going to try this week.”
“I am trying! I didn’t even pull the gun this time!”
“Oh, progress,” you snap, sarcasm bleeding through. “No gun. Just grand theft marine vehicle. You deserve a medal.”
He narrows his eyes at you. “You’re being real mean for someone who loves me.”
“I never said I didn’t love you,” you shoot back.
“Oh? Then what is this? Huh?” He gestures wildly between the two of you. “Because to me, this looks a lot like a relationship where I do dumb shit and you pretend like you hate me but still secretly wanna kiss me!”
You scoff. “You’re insane.”
“You’re insane! You keep saying no but you kiss me like you mean yes! Like, just admit it! You’re obsessed with me!”
You roll your eyes so hard you practically see last week. “I’m not obsessed with you, Rafe.”
“You are. You’re obsessed with me. You’re obsessed with this.” He steps closer, smirking like the cocky little demon he is. “The drama. The passion. The criminally attractive boyfriend—”
“—guy who may or may not have minor impulse control issues and definitely a big heart underneath it all—”
“—and who, despite all odds, has been in therapy for—”
“Oh my God, if you say therapy one more time—”
“I’ve been going every week! Every week! Do you know how hard it is to talk about my feelings without punching a wall first?”
“Maybe try admitting that you missed me.”
Mid-sentence. Mid-insult. Mid-whatever the hell this argument was even about anymore.
Your hands are in his hair, his name half-formed on your tongue, your mouth crashing into his like it’s second nature. Like it’s always been this way. Like arguing with Rafe Cameron is just foreplay for whatever this is.
He makes a noise — a surprised one — then sinks into it with a grin so wide you can feel it against your lips.
His hands settle on your waist, pulling you closer, like he’s scared you’ll remember this isn’t supposed to mean anything. Like he’s daring you to keep pretending.
You pull back first. Barely.
“I didn’t mean to do that,” you say breathlessly.
He’s still smiling. “I know. That’s what made it so good.”
You glare at him. “Don’t you dare say anything smug.”
He tilts his head, grin growing wider. “I was gonna say thank you. But now I kinda wanna write a poem.”
He leans in, pressing the softest kiss to your cheek now, suddenly so gentle it almost hurts. “You kissed me,” he murmurs, like it’s proof of something holy. “In the middle of yelling at me.”
“Best accident of my life.”
You roll your eyes — again — and push his chest lightly. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You’re beautiful,” he replies, stupidly sincere.
You pause. Just for a second. Just long enough to look at him. Really look at him.
Wind in his hair. Cut on his cheek that you know came from another one of his dumb fights. That same hopeless look in his eyes like he’s already yours and doesn’t even care that he’s losing.
You shake your head. “Still not your girlfriend.”
“Sure,” he says, still smiling. “But you kissed me mid-argument. That’s gotta mean something.”
You start walking back to your car.
He follows — of course he does — hands in his pockets, whistling like he didn’t just almost cry from joy.
He doesn’t stop smiling for the rest of the week.
