Rafe Cameron Imagines

Kissing Boys in Cars🤍

You always knew it would end like this.

Maybe not the exact way it did — not the headlights bouncing off your face while you sat in the passenger seat of his truck, not the heat in your chest or the ache in your throat — but you knew it wouldn't be clean. Not with Rafe.

Because it never was.

It had always been something with you two. Something unspoken. Stupid grins across the room at parties. Arguments that sounded like flirting and flirting that turned into fights. Too many drinks. Too many nights where you almost said it — almost leaned in — almost kissed him.

Almost.

Until now.

—

The truck was parked on the side of the road near the water. The windows were cracked, the music low, the silence heavy.

Rafe was leaning back against the driver's seat, knuckles white around the steering wheel, jaw clenched like he couldn't trust what might come out of his mouth.

"You gonna say anything?" you asked, voice sharper than you meant.

He looked over at you. "What do you want me to say?"

"I don't know. Something. Anything."

He scoffed. "Since when do we talk like that?"

You turned away, fingers tapping against your thigh. "Right. Forgot you'd rather bottle everything and then explode."

"Careful," he muttered.

You looked back at him. "No. You don't get to be pissed at me. You started this."

"I didn't start shit," he snapped. "We've been like this forever. You're the one who played games."

"You kissed me."

"You kissed me back."

Silence.

The kind that hurt your ribs.

You looked down. "I shouldn't have."

"That's not what you said when it happened."

You met his eyes. "And what would you know about what I meant? You only ever care when it's too late."

He stared at you like he was trying to read your mind — like if he looked hard enough, he'd find the part of you that still wanted him.

You wanted him to stop.

You wanted him to kiss you again.

He leaned in. Slowly.

You should've pulled away. You didn't.

His mouth found yours like it was muscle memory. Your hands curled into his hoodie. His fingers grazed your jaw. It was desperate. Familiar. A kiss that had been coming for years and still landed like a car crash.

And when you pulled back — breathless, hearts pounding — everything felt worse.

You stared at him.

"I can't do this," you whispered.

"Yes, you can," he said, voice quiet.

"No, Rafe. You think this is love? This back-and-forth? This... secret little game we've been playing?" You shook your head. "It's not enough."

He blinked, and for a second, you saw it. The crack. The part of him that wanted to say please don't go.

But he didn't.

He just looked away.

"You're good at kissing boys in cars," he muttered.

You reached for the door handle. "Yeah. And you're good at making people feel like they're not worth staying for."

That one landed.

You stepped out into the night, heart full and shattered, not sure which way hurt more.

And Rafe?

He stayed parked there in the dark, watching you walk away.

Saying nothing.

Doing nothing.

Letting you go.

Because even with all that almost-love between you, it wasn't enough to fix how wrong it had turned.