rafe always brings you fruit in the mornings.
dripping peaches, split open with his pocket knife, the blade still warm from the heat of his skin. he presses a slice to your lips, juice trickling down your chin, and laughs when you gasp at the sweetness. his laugh is lazy, sun-drenched, slipping through his teeth like molasses.
“you like that, don’t you, baby?” he thumbs the juice from your mouth, licking it from his hand. “sweet girl. my girl.”
you don’t remember how you got here. not anymore at least.
one day, you were someone else, living a normal life with normal things—grocery lists, alarm clocks, bus rides. and then there was rafe, golden and grinning, spinning you around on some villa balcony, promising you forever with a cigarette hanging from his lips.
“y’know you don’t need to go back,” he told you, brushing a lemon-scented kiss against your cheek. “stay with me.“
now, your world is just rafe and the sea. sun-bleached afternoons by the pool, the glint of his watch as he reaches for another glass of champagne. he doesn’t work, doesn’t worry. he just drinks, kisses, pulls you into the water with him, soaking your dress as he presses against you.
but sometimes, when the sun is setting and the air turns thick, you think about leaving. about running. about what exists beyond the cliffs and the winding roads, beyond rafe’s golden hands and honeyed words.
and you wonder if he’d let you.
then he catches you staring at the horizon, fingers curling possessively around your wrist.
“where’d you go, huh?” his voice is soft, teasing, but his grip is iron. “thinkin’ about something?”
you shake your head, offering him a smile, and he presses a kiss to your palm.
“good girl,” he murmurs. “no need to think about anything but this.”
the sea glitters behind him, endless and inviting. but rafe always shines brighter.
