Rafe Cameron Imagines

I'm Always Okay🤍

It started small.

Rafe was quieter than usual. Not silent — not the kind of quiet where you'd instantly know something was wrong — but the kind of quiet that lived under his skin. The kind where his shoulders stayed a little higher. His laugh didn't reach all the way up to his eyes. The kind where he still texted you goodnight, but didn't say much else.

You didn't ask at first.

Not because you didn't care — but because you knew him. Knew how he worked. Knew that if you asked too soon, he'd shut the door and bolt the lock before you even got a chance to say I'm here.

So you waited.

Until Saturday night.

When he came over without warning, stood in your doorway, and just looked at you.

"Hey," you said softly.

"Hey."

He didn't move to come in.

"Rafe?" you said, brows furrowed. "What's going on?"

"Can I stay here tonight?" he asked, eyes tired. "I don't wanna go home."

You opened the door all the way. "Yeah. Of course."

—

He didn't tell you what happened that night. Just changed into one of the t-shirts he kept at your place and crawled into your bed like he was running from something.

You didn't press.

You just curled up beside him, hand resting on his chest, feeling the way his heart skipped sometimes when he tried to calm down. His breathing wasn't even. His jaw was tight. But his fingers tangled with yours like a reflex.

You whispered, "Do you wanna talk?"

He shook his head.

So you kissed his shoulder and said nothing else.

—

The next morning, he was up before you.

In the kitchen. Making coffee. Shirt wrinkled. Eyes half-lost in thought.

You walked up behind him, wrapped your arms around his middle, rested your face between his shoulder blades.

He didn't say anything at first.

Then he murmured, "He called me a mistake."

Your stomach dropped. "Ward?"

Rafe nodded.

You pulled away just enough to look at him. "Why?"

"Because I told him I didn't want to do the shit he wanted me to do," he muttered. "Because I said no. That's all it takes with him."

You searched his face. "What else did he say?"

Rafe looked down. "Does it matter?"

"Yes."

He paused. Then finally said, "He said I was soft. Weak. A disappointment. That he should've expected this from me."

Your chest ached.

You reached up, cupped his jaw, made him look at you. "None of that is true."

"I know," he said too quickly.

You frowned. "No you don't. You're just saying that."

"I'm always okay," he said with a tight shrug. "That's what I do, right? I shake it off. I keep going. I don't make it anyone's problem."

"Except it is your problem," you said, voice shaking. "And I'm your person. So it's mine now, too."

He looked at you like he didn't know what to do with that.

Like no one had ever said that to him before.

"I don't know how to let someone carry it with me," he admitted.

"You don't have to know how," you whispered. "You just have to let me try."

—

Later, lying on the couch, you rested your head in his lap while he absentmindedly played with your fingers.

He was quiet again.

But this time, not in that far-away, heavy kind of quiet.

Just thoughtful.

Present.

Safe.

He finally said, "I didn't come over last night because I needed to get away. I came because I needed to be somewhere that felt like love."

You looked up at him, eyes burning.

"I didn't know that until I got here," he added. "But it hit me the second you opened the door."

You sat up, leaned into him, kissed his cheek. "Then keep coming here. Whenever. Always."

He nodded.

Then smiled, barely.

"I'm still not okay," he said.

You kissed his hand. "I know. But you don't have to be."

He exhaled, slow and deep. "I hate that he still has that kind of hold on me."

"He won't forever."

"You promise?"

You wrapped your arms around him again. "I do. Because I'll keep reminding you of who you are until it drowns his voice out completely."

He didn't cry.

But he did hold you tighter than usual. Didn't let go for a long, long time.

And that night, when you were curled up in bed again, lights off, silence humming between you, he whispered against your hair:

"I'm always okay... until I don't have to be."

And for once, he meant it.