Rafe Cameron Imagines

I Guess I'm Stuck Forever By The Glue🤍

The day started slow.

Not the lazy kind of slow, like sleeping in and breakfast in bed. No — it was one of those quiet days. One where everything felt a little too still, like the world was on mute and time had just... stopped.

You were curled up on the couch in Rafe's hoodie, knees tucked to your chest, scrolling aimlessly through your phone. He was at the kitchen counter, pretending to read something on his laptop but mostly just glancing at you every few minutes when he thought you weren't looking.

You were.

You always were.

And even in the silence, even with no music and no background noise and no words being said, there was something loud about being in the same room as him.

The kind of loud that settles in your chest and makes you feel too much, too fast, too deep.

"I was thinking," he said suddenly, not looking up.

"That's dangerous," you replied instantly.

He snorted. "Shut up."

You grinned into the pillow beside you.

"No, but seriously," he continued, leaning back in his chair, hands running through his hair. "Do you ever... think about how weird this is?"

"What? That you're dating the coolest person in the universe?" you teased. "Tragic."

He rolled his eyes but smiled. "No. Like... this. Us. It shouldn't have happened, right? If you really think about it?"

You sat up slowly. "You regretting it already?"

His head snapped toward you. "What? No. Jesus — no."

"Then what are you saying?"

He shrugged. "I'm saying I didn't expect it. Any of it. I didn't expect to like you this much. I didn't expect to feel this safe with someone. Or to let someone see the real me and not run for the hills."

You blinked.

Then laughed softly. "You're kind of stuck with me, you know."

"I know," he said. "And I'm not mad about it."

—

The next day, you were both driving nowhere in particular.

Just windows down, sun in your face, his hand on your thigh. Your feet were on the dashboard (he'd scolded you for it once and never again). You were halfway to nowhere and didn't care.

"I don't like it when you leave," he said suddenly.

You turned to him. "I was gone for like four hours."

"Still," he mumbled. "Feels too long."

"You're clingy."

"I am."

"Obsessed."

"Yup."

You leaned over the console, kissing his cheek. "I kinda like it."

He glanced at you, cheeks a little pink. "Good. Because I can't stop."

There was a pause. Then he added, "It's like... you walked into my life and now everything before that feels like noise."

You looked at him.

"Rafe."

"I'm being serious," he said. "You make everything better. You calm me down. You make things brighter. And even when shit's bad, even when I'm bad... you don't leave."

You didn't know what to say.

So you didn't say anything. You just reached over, slid your fingers into his, and squeezed his hand.

He looked over at you. "You're it for me. You know that, right?"

You nodded. "You're it for me too."

—

That night, lying in bed, forehead against his chest, your hands tracing lazy shapes across his ribs, you whispered, "Do you ever feel like... we're just stuck?"

"Stuck?" he echoed.

"Like... it's not even a choice anymore. It's just—us. Forever."

He didn't answer right away. Just pressed a kiss to your hair, warm and sure.

"I guess I'm stuck forever by the glue," he said quietly.

You smiled.

"Me too."

And in the silence, your legs tangled with his, your fingers looped together, it felt like the only place in the world that mattered.