Rafe Cameron Imagines

This Is What It Feels Like🤍

The sunset stretched out in front of you like a painting someone smudged with their fingertips — streaks of orange and pink blending into blue, soft and slow. The porch was quiet, just the hum of the wind through the trees and the occasional creak of the old wooden swing you and Rafe were sitting on.

His arm was slung across the back of the bench behind you. Yours were tucked into your sleeves. Legs tucked under you. Head leaned against the wooden frame. You hadn't said much in the past few minutes — just sitting there, breathing the same air.

It was the kind of silence that didn't ask to be filled.

And then he said it.

"I love you."

You didn't move at first. You weren't sure you'd heard him right. But he wasn't looking at you for a reaction — he was still watching the sky, still so casual and quiet, like he hadn't just cracked open the earth underneath your feet.

You sat up a little. "What?"

Rafe finally turned his head, meeting your eyes. "I said I love you."

Your breath caught. Not in a sweet way. Not in a movie-scene way. In the way that felt like something gripped your chest and held it too tight.

You blinked. "You can't just say that."

His face didn't change. "Why not?"

"Because—" You stood up suddenly, too fast. "You don't say that unless you mean something by it."

"I do mean something by it," he said, standing too, careful not to crowd you. "I meant exactly what I said."

Your mouth opened, then closed. You shook your head. "You don't understand."

"Then tell me," he said gently.

You looked away, eyes on the horizon. The sun was almost gone now, sinking low like it didn't want to witness this.

"I just got out of a three-year relationship with someone who only said 'I love you' when he wanted to shut me up," you said, voice flat. "Or when he wanted me to stay. Or when he wanted to make me feel guilty."

Rafe's face softened, but he didn't interrupt.

"You don't know what that does to a person," you kept going. "To hear those words used like weapons. To be manipulated with something that's supposed to feel safe."

He took a small step closer. "I'm not him."

"I know," you said quickly. "I know. That's not the point. The point is—I don't know what love feels like. I don't know how to hear that and not flinch. I don't know how to trust it."

Rafe was quiet for a beat.

Then, soft and steady: "Okay."

You looked at him. "Okay?"

"I didn't say it so you'd say it back," he said. "I didn't say it to trap you. I said it because it's the truth. And I'm gonna keep saying it. Not to fix you. Not to pressure you. Just to remind you that love doesn't have to hurt."

You stared at him. Your lips parted like you wanted to say something, but no words came.

"I know you've only seen the wrong kind," Rafe said, stepping closer, hands tucked into his hoodie. "But I'm not going anywhere. You don't have to figure it all out right now. You don't even have to believe me. But one day... you'll feel it. And when you do, I hope it feels like this."

He nodded toward the swing.

"Like this porch. This air. This quiet. Like someone choosing you without needing anything back."

You finally sat down again, slowly.

He sat beside you, careful. Close, but not touching.

You leaned your head against his shoulder a few minutes later — not because you had to. But because it felt right.

"I don't know what love feels like," you whispered.

And he reached over, linked his pinky with yours.

"Then I'll show you," he said. "Every day."

And you let yourself believe him.
For the first time, just a little.

Because maybe...
this is what it feels like.