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growing up, rafe cameron was always around. he was my older brother logan's best friend, practically family the way he'd show up unannounced and make himself at home. i spent most of my childhood watching him drift in and out of our house, like he belonged there just as much as anyone else. whether it was lounging on the couch, rifling through the kitchen for a snack, or crashing in the guest room, he had this effortless presence that filled up the space. there was something about the way he moved—too confident for someone his age, but it made him hard to ignore.
but confidence wasn't all rafe had. he had a temper too, even as a kid. i remember when he was ten, he shoved logan to the ground for cutting in line. my brother didn't cry or yell—he just stood up, dusted himself off, and said, "you could've just asked me to move, you know." something about the way logan stayed calm instead of fighting back must've stuck with rafe, because they'd been friends ever since.
at fourteen, rafe threw his first punch over something stupid—a cheap shot during a soccer game. a kid on the other team elbowed him in the ribs, and when the ref didn't call it, rafe snapped. the kid taunted him, called him a pussy, and that was all it took. he had a black eye for days, but he didn't seem to care. by eighteen, everyone knew who he was. he had a reputation, and it wasn't a good one. rafe cameron was the guy who'd pick a fight over the smallest thing, someone who'd snap just because someone looked at him the wrong way.
logan stayed out of rafe's mess. always. he didn't throw punches, didn't mouth off, didn't let rafe drag him into trouble. rafe gave him hell for it, always teasing him about it. "if you worked on it," rafe would say, "you'd have a nasty right hook." logan just laughed it off every time, saying he had better things to do. and he did. my brother was the good one. the one who people respected for the right reasons.
rafe, on the other hand? people didn't respect him. they feared him.
they talked about him like he was a storm waiting to roll in—unpredictable, destructive. but i didn't see him like that. i don't know if there's something wrong with me or if i've spent too much of my life standing in the corners of rooms and studying people. whatever the reason, i saw something in rafe that no one else seemed to notice, not even logan.
i noticed the little things. the way his voice softened when no one else was around, a quietness that was rare for him. the wild gestures of his hands, as if his words couldn't quite contain everything he wanted to say. the way he'd casually say, "hey, y/n," whenever we passed in the hallway, that lopsided grin always genuine, never forced. and how he'd go out of his way to open a door for me or step in to grab something i couldn't reach, never making a big deal of it.
rafe was also fiercely protective of me, though he'd never admit it. he wouldn't let me see him fight—ever. the stories came from other people, the rumors spreading faster than the bruises healed on his knuckles. it wasn't a coincidence, either.
