𝐏𝐎𝐋𝐀𝐑𝐎𝐈𝐃𝐒 𝐀𝐓 𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐒𝐄𝐓 ― rafe cameron

είκοσιπέντε ; 25

song of the chapter:
APESHIT ; the carters

Sitting on the back porch, surrounded by girls who claimed they were her friends, Margarita felt like a ghost in the middle of a crowd. Their laughter was hollow, their smiles shallow, and though they chattered away, she could tell none of them really cared enough to see the girl behind the mask she wore. She picked at the label of her beer, forcing herself to laugh at the right moments, nodding along to stories she didn't care about. The night felt empty, the air heavy with the scent of smoke and spilled liquor, and the chatter of those around her only amplified the silence in her head.

But then, through the noise, she heard it—a whisper, subtle and insistent, curling around her like a tendril of smoke. The basement. Someone had mentioned it, and the word sent a shiver down her spine. She knew what was down there, in the hidden corners of kook parties like these. Coke. Lines of powder laid out on the cold concrete, a quick escape from reality.

Her heart raced, a mix of excitement and dread thrumming through her veins. She glanced around, the urge clawing at her insides. This was what she needed. Just a little something to take the edge off, to silence the screaming thoughts in her head. She excused herself hastily, her voice too high, too eager, as she muttered something about needing a moment.

She weaved her way through the crowded house, her pulse pounding louder with each step she took towards the basement door. Her breath hitched as she gripped the handle, her fingers trembling. A part of her screamed to turn back, to leave this all behind. But the other part, the part that craved oblivion, pushed her forward.

The stairs creaked beneath her weight as she descended, the cool air of the basement wrapping around her like a promise. The room was dimly lit, a hazy cloud of smoke hanging in the air. There were groups of people clustered together, some laughing, some quiet, but all focused on one thing. The table in the center of the room, lines of white powder glinting under the dim light.

Her eyes locked onto it, her throat dry, her mouth watering with anticipation. As she moved closer, she felt eyes on her, someone noticing her presence in the midst of the haze. She didn't care. She needed this. She needed to feel something, anything, other than the crushing weight of everything that had been spiraling out of control.

But then, just as she was about to reach for it, to lose herself in the numbness she craved, a voice cut through the fog in her mind, and the hair on the back of her neck stood up.

"Look who it is," someone drawled, and she looked up, her green eyes meeting his blue ones.

Rafe.

He was standing across the room, leaning against the wall with a drink in his hand, his gaze locked onto hers. His expression was unreadable, a flicker of something dark in his eyes as he watched her. He was the last person she wanted to see, and yet, the sight of him sent a jolt through her, something sharp and electric.

Margarita's heart dropped, her hand freezing in mid-air as if caught in the act. She swallowed hard, her mind racing. How long had he been watching her? Had he followed her down here? She couldn't tell, and she hated how vulnerable she felt under his gaze, like he could see right through her.

Rafe's eyes never left hers as he pushed off the wall, his movements slow and deliberate as he crossed the room towards her. She felt rooted to the spot, her breath catching in her throat as he came closer, the air between them charged with something she couldn't name.

"Margarita," he said softly, his voice low but cutting through the haze of her mind like a blade. "What are you doing?"

She blinked, trying to shake off the fog that had settled over her. "What does it look like I'm doing?" Her voice was defiant, but even she could hear the tremor in it.