THE LAST ONE ❥ rafe cameron

𓆉 SEVEN

𓆉𓂃 ོ𓂃

Ward had told Rafe to not come home. He told him to not come home. Brielle had no way back to her house other than to walk, since she hadn't taken neither her bike or her car to his place. She tried calling Rafe a few times as she walked, quick, from his place to hers. He didn't pick up any of the times, the call just going to voicemail after a few rings.

She really hoped he was at her house already, or at the very least, on the way. She turned on her street when she saw a figure under the streetlight. The top of his head was illuminated.

The tension she was anxiously holding in her chest subsided, seeing his silhouette in the streetlight, his hands buried in the pockets of his Levi's. He was slowly walking in circles around the streetlight post, a sadness in the way he was walking.

"Rafe..." she breathed out, making a beeline for him.

He looked up, apprehension in his facial expressions as she got closer. His red, puffy eyes, his disheveled hair, and the way he was biting the inside of his cheeks to try to contain the tears that filled in his eyes at the sight of her.

The sight of her, of the look in her eyes, as suddenly, he felt like a lost cause. Because he could tell, she knew. She knew. That damn look on her face.

"You know," he said, his voice breaking as she reached out for his arm, but he stepped back. He shook his head softly. "Y-You... you know."

"Are you okay?" she asked, reaching for him again, quicker than he was to step back. She wrapped both of her arms around his waist this time, not letting him move as she held her cheek to his chest. She could hear his heart beating rapidly.

Was he anxious or was he on something? She hated that she had to wonder.

"I..." he started, but his chin just wobbled. "You know."

She just grabbed his hand, guiding him the rest of the short walk to her house. He was silent, following behind slowly as she walked in front of him. When they got there, no one was home. Her father was on call at the hospital, her mother's restaurant wasn't closed yet, and knowing her grandparents, they were probably at the restaurant either just sitting around until her mom was ready to go or helping out.

They moved wordlessly through her house and up to her room, not words exchanged as she pulled some of his own clothes he had left at her place out of her drawers for him to change into and then changing into a fresh pair of sleeping clothes herself.

He stood in the middle of her room, unmoving, his head turned downward. She had to grab his hand again to pull him towards the bed with her. She couldn't quite pinpoint whether he felt guilty or if he was in shock, but either way, the way he was so quiet unnerved her.

A lot about that night unnerved her.

As they situated themselves under her covers, she laid on her back, half against the bed half propped against her headboard, and he laid on his stomach to the side of her, resting his head on the upper part of her chest. She leant her cheek against his forehead.

It felt like they were laying in silence for eternity, before she finally kissed his forehead and then asked, "How long?"

He tensed. There was a pause. He hesitated. "How long what?"

Was he really going to play dumb after saying that he knew she knew? 

"How long have you been struggling?" she asked in a whisper.

Struggling. The way she said it, the way she worded it. The word struggling instead of the word using. No accusation in her voice, no anger, and no hatred. Only... a sad understanding, a loving worry. All things he didn't get from his father. All things he wanted from his father.