Euro Trip - Blog Posts

i’ll do a proper reblog as soon as i finish work but HOLY SHIT HOW I’VE MISSED THEM 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺 euro trip never fails to make my stomach do backflips!!! rafe and dream girl just have unforgettable chemistry, and the way you WRITE THEM??? RI I SWEAR IT MAKES MY HEART ACHE BECAUSE IT’S SO BEAUTIFUL!!! the name rafael has truly never been the same since euro trip!!! and your take on how to lose a guy in 10 days for THEM??? AND RAFE DOESN’T FALTER EVER. (EXCEPT FOR WHEN SHE SAID YES-I DIED) HE RINGS THE DOORBELL, HE GIVES HER MOM THE FLOWERS, HE WANTS TO LISTEN TO HER MUSIC, HE WILL TAKE HER TO EAT ANYWHERE SHE WANTS, HE COMPLIMENTS HER ALL THE TIME BECAUSE IT’S JUST SECOND NATURE TO HIM BY NOW. “Not to mention, you look like a bunch of inappropriate words in that dress,” he adds, teasing a wink. “Shit I definitely couldn’t say in front of your mom.” STOP, THIS IS SUCH A RAFAEL THING TO SAY I ADORE HIM I ADORE THEM I ADORE YOU, RI. pls truly never stop writing, you’re the best of the best.

How (not) to lose a guy in 10 days 1 date

a/n: warning unedited!!!!! just in such a silly goofy mood tonight

“Here’s an idea,” Topper whispers, raising his eyebrows meaningfully. “Say yes.”

You make a face. “Serious suggestions only, please.”

“Does it look like I’m trying to be funny?” He scoffs, folding his arms behind his head.

There’s a pause as he pushes back into his seat, rough fingers intertwining in tandem with your stomach. “Just hear me out.”

You aren’t sure you want to. The only thing worse than having a crush on your best friend is having him set you up with someone else.

Especially when said someone else is the one guy at Kildare Academy that you love to hate. You frown warningly. “Don’t make me regret it.”

Topper rolls his eyes, untangling his held hands so he can lean forward again. Though you’ve managed to secure a highly coveted, private study room within the Academy library, he appears to be under the impression that the football team may be listening at the door for gossip.

All things considered, this isn’t too high a leap. (Rafe Cameron’s been appointed the captain this year, and Topper swears locker room talk’s never been sweeter.)

“Relax,” Topper mutters, lowering his voice further. “Here’s what you do — you say yes, and then be the worst date ever.”

A beat. The frown on your face may acquiesce by a margin, but the knots in your gut hear the words say yes and tighten. “Be the worst date ever?”

“Yeah,” Topper nods in affirmation, beginning to list things off. “Make him wait, don’t offer to pay, be super fussy, only talk about yourself… that kind of shit.”

“Oh,” you say, brow furrowing thoughtfully, “Right.”

As much as you’d hate to admit it, his idea does make logical sense. Everything about Rafe Cameron, from the stupid, tongue-in-cheek comments he makes to the blasé way he appears to treat other women, gives you this funny, heart lurching feeling that this thing he has for you is about winning. Not about having, let alone loving; Rafe Cameron is in this for the chase, so what happens when this game of look-but-don’t-touch becomes too easy for his taste?

So, okay, maybe Topper’s onto something. He’s been on enough first dates to have a reputable number of red flags in his repertoire, and maybe they just might work against Rafe.

He allows you a contemplative pause before continuing. “Just… basically, just be the exact opposite of the person he expects you to be.”

“And who’s the person he expects me to be?” you ask, raising your eyebrows.

“This perfect fucking dream girl who gets Taylor Swift songs written about her,” Topper replies, not missing a beat. It’s as though he’s reciting something he’s heard verbatim, and the thought of this has your poor heartstrings all muddled.

“Don’t even,” you mutter awkwardly, feeling your cheeks warm. There’s something about the term dream girl that singes your pulse like a shockwave; makes you feel this terrifying mess of unnameable emotions.

Complimented, for example. More pleased than the armour of austerity your skin reflects when you’re around him.

“Not to mention,” Topper continues, not acknowledging your embarrassment. You know that it’s probably subtle enough for him to be blind to it, but a tiny part of you can’t help but think that Rafe would’ve noticed.

Rafe always notices. “If I’m the reason he gets a date with you, I’ll be fucking in.”

You crinkle your nose in disgust. “What’s so great about being in with Rafe Cameron?”

“Dude.” Topper sends you a look. “Are we even going to the same school?”

“He’s a total tool,” you argue, folding your arms across your chest.

“A total tool that everyone worships,” Topper corrects, crossing his own in tandem. “And if he worships me, that means everyone’ll worship me.”

You scoff incredulously, clearly unconvinced. “There’s no way Rafael’s approval has that much social currency.”

Topper raises his eyebrows, cocking his head to one side. “You know that the fact that you’re his girl is the only reason guys don’t try anything with you, right?”

“I’m not his girl,” you mutter weakly, far weaker than you’re hoping to sound. The dream girl heat roars back through your cheeks until you’re sure that you have a temperature.

Love-sick, or something. You add, “Guys don’t trying anything with me because they aren’t interested.”

“Are you kidding?” Topper asks, sounding mildly exasperated. “You’re totally hot. You have to know that.”

You balk. There’s a pause as your wide eyes move over his features, searching for more than just platonic nonchalance. “I — what?”

“We’re getting off topic,” Topper dismisses easily, not even half as flustered as you are by the turn in conversation. “Say yes. That’s all I’m saying. Say yes, and then make him regret ever asking.”

—

Rafe’s leaning against the locker door adjacent to yours when you turn the corner.

With his arms folded across his chest the way they are—rolled sleeves of his uniform shirt and all—there’s a devastating amount of bicep on display. And he’s grinning. He has too many button undone. If you squint, you can find the sun-bleached locks of hair on his head that are ashen blonde.

You always end up taking in far more details than you can handle. But where your inventory of his appearance is something of a transaction, his of you is like being in an art museum.

His grin widens as you near, blue eyes falling over your pretty features. “Missed you today, sweetheart.”

“I saw you fourth period, Rafael,” you say, frowning bemusedly.

Rafe nods faux-sombrely. “I know right?”

You roll your eyes, reaching forward to jiggle your locker door open. There’s a formidable amount of Rafe dominating your peripheral vision, and everything from his body heat to the spice in his cologne is distracting.

“Is there anything you need?” you ask, sending him a wayward glance.

“Oh.” His grin grows in all its handsome, boyish glory. “Not really. Just admiring the scenery.”

The sun shines over the neat library of textbooks tucked within your locker. As you retrieve the ones you need for the weekend, the glossy covers cast a glow over your still-there frown.

“You’re not,” you mutter. “You’re staring.”

“Exactly.”

“At me.”

Rafe shuffles forward a touch so his biceps hit the locker hinge. He’s so close now that the gleaming hardcover illuminates the smatter of freckles on his nose. “Admiring the scenery,” Rafe agrees.

You falter.

Like… you? You’re the scenery?

More pause as you attempt to steel yourself, something terrifying and messy wreaking havoc in your chest.

You’re definitely overcompensating when you scoff and say, “You’re so full of it, you know that?”

“What’s it?” Rafe asks, edging your locker door closed with his bicep. Closer now, close enough for the closeness to make his brain short-circuit. “Feelings for you?”

You balk, the tips of your ears warming. “Not exactly what I meant.”

“Love for you?” Rafe supplies unhelpfully.

“Rafe,” you chastise, frowning.

“Y/n,” Rafe teases, bumping your shoulder with his playfully. “C’mon. I just wanted to come by and say hi.”

“Right.” You slot the textbooks into your tote bag and turn around, beginning to walk away from him. “Hi.”

“Hey — wait,” he adds quickly, pushing off the adjacent locker to fall into your step. “You doing anything fun this weekend?”

“Oh, um,” remember what Topper said, “not really.”

“Yeah?” Rafe grins confidently, messing with his sweater-mussed hair. “Now you are.”

You slow to a halt, eyeing him warily. The inch of space between you halves as you angle your figure toward his, and you think you’re able to catch the tiniest specks of green in his irises. Buttery yellow too, especially where the sun shines over them. It’s kind of pretty. You blink. “And what exactly is it that I’m doing?”

“Going to that Japanese place that just opened up downtown,” Rafe answers easily. “With me. Tomorrow night.”

“Oh,” you say, nodding once. “Okay.”

Rafe’s turn to balk. The confidence in his gaze falters as his eyes widen, lips parting slightly as he looks over your features. “Uh… okay?”

“Okay,” you repeat, turning away from him to continue walking. “What time r’you picking me up?”

“I — shit, really?” Rafe asks, stumbling forward in surprise.

You nod again, hiding the amused smile that’s threatening to grace your features. You’d never dare admit it out loud, but it’s kind of cute seeing him all flustered. It does something soft and messy to your chest; reminds you that he’s only human.

That maybe something about his feelings for you are genuine. You say, “Unless you don’t want to?”

“No, yeah, shit, I do,” he hurries, shaking his head in an attempt to regain his composure. “I’m not dreaming, yeah? This is for real?”

“This is for real,” you affirm. Something heavy and cloying settles in your gut as you say it.

It’s almost for real, your guilty brain placates. It’s not stringing him along if this thing he has for you is about the chase.

Rafe steps into your path from his spot on your left, ducking his head an inch to look over your features. There’s something sweet about the way his blue eyes cascade over the planes of your face, falling from your pretty eyelashes to the cheeks below them, the kiss of your lips. He’s looking for something. The cement-like something in your stomach thickens.

“No way,” he murmurs, almost absentmindedly. He lifts his hand to caress your jaw, rough thumb swiping over your soft skin. “Okay, yeah. You’re definitely real.”

“Of course I am,” you say weakly, caught off guard by his closeness.

His thumb stills, but doesn’t drop. “Gotta make sure.”

You swallow slightly. “Why?”

“Because you said yes.” Rafe shakes his head, like he still doesn’t believe it. “There’s no version of this where you ever say yes.”

—

“That’s fucking perfect,” Topper says.

“Nah, shit’s overkill,” Kelce disagrees. “The outfit’s still gotta look first date believable.”

You frown at your reflection in the full length mirror, toying with the fraying hem of your shorts. “A dress?”

“Not a nice one, though,” Topper says, furrowing his brow thoughtfully. “How about that black one you wore religiously in junior year? The linen’s gotta be fucking faded by now.”

“Bro — yes,” Kelce nods. “That’s perfect. D’you still have it?”

You direct your camera toward your wardrobe, shuffling through the array of dresses on wooden hangers. Pushed against a dim wall with one of the straps hanging off, the midi in question hides behind newer dresses. As you attempt to tug it free, the sound of crunching tires coasts through your open window.

You freeze. There’s a beat, hidden within the depths of your walk-in, where Topper and Kelce see more white than iris as your eyes widen. You stumble back into daylight just as Rafe’s pick-up slows to a halt, his blaring ignition fading into the wind chimes hanging above your porch.

“Shit,” you curse, throwing your phone onto your bed screen down. “Guys. He’s totally here. Shit.”

“Dude,” Topper and Kelce placate in unison, speaking to your white ceiling. “Relax.”

“You know what you have to do,” Topper adds. “And it starts with making him wait.”

You grimace, pulling the linen dress on hastily. “What if he rings the doorbell?”

“He won’t,” Topper assures, shaking his head. “Dude. The worst he’s gonna do is like… honk, or some shit. He’ll probably just flick you a text that he’s here and chill in his car until —”

Ding.

The grimace on your features goes from pained to something a little anxious. Forget butterflies—gentle creatures, as if anything about your feelings isn’t all chaos—there’s a beehive that’s wreaking havoc in your stomach. The heart that’s meant to be in your ribcage is all melted.

This date isn’t for real. Why the fuck are you so nervous?

“— uh,” there’s a tentative edge to his voice, now, “who was that?”

You bring your phone back to eye-level, half checking yourself out and half glaring at Topper Thornton. “Who the fuck do you think it was, genius?”

Another ding. Kelce wolf whistles. “No fucking way he got out of his car.”

You frown. “Why?”

“Bro,” Kelce chides, sending you a look. “Guys don’t do that shit. I mean… fuck, I knew he had a thing for you, but no way he’s down bad enough to pick you up at your door on the first date. What if your fucking dad opens it? What if your mom invites him in? Gotta hand it to him… shit’s brave, even for a straight guy with a public Taylor Swift obsession.”

“Rafael has a Taylor Swift obsession?” you ask slowly, frowning less now. The revelation moves through you like a shock of electricity; quick and surprising until you’re feeling a little weak in the knees.

Pliable, almost. Like you and him and a common interest has this not-for-real date looking more and more like something genuine.

“Yeah?” He says it like it’s common knowledge. “How the fuck did you not know that already?”

You’re formulating an indignant response to his question when the sound of the front door opening cuts you off. And then, “Oh, hi Mrs Y/l/n, is Y/n in?” before your mother’s “Rafe!” has you well and truly hanging up.

You race down the stairs with sandals held by the straps just before she has a chance to ask why he’s here.

“Rafael,” you greet quickly, hopping down the last few steps whilst simultaneously slipping them on. “Hi.”

There’s no way that the two minutes he stood on your front porch counts as the “making him wait” from Topper’s first date disaster handbook, but at least the tired linen of your midi is far more casual than his crisp blue button-up.

Except, he totally still looks like his brain’s short circuiting as he stands there and stares. He holds a modest-looking bouquet of sunflowers to his chest, its lovely ochre glow speckling light in his irises like freckles. And there’s this look on his face, this genuine, reverential look as he takes you in; it has you breaking eye-contact before you expose yourself, makes your insides feel like a big, goopy mess.

A pause before Rafe’s shaking his head. You’re almost envious of how quickly he’s able to regain his composure. “Pinch me,” he says, grinning handsomely.

Your stomach flips. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up to expose strong forearms, and his hair’s a little damp where it flops over his forehead. You wonder whether he showered right before he drove over here. And then, your mind strays to cool water cascading down his chiseled abdomen. Your brain’s short circuiting now. You blink.

“You shouldn’t have got me flowers,” you say lamely.

“I know right?” Rafe agrees. “Should’ve got you something bigger. A ring.”

Your mother gasps, her wide-eyes panning to you with a quickness.

“Mom, he’s kidding,” you assure hastily, and then you pause, brow furrowing a little. “I think.”

“I’m not,” Rafe supplies.

“Yes, you are,” you say sternly, sending him a look. “Keep the flowers, Rafael.”

Rafe pouts jokingly, turning to your mother and offering them to her, instead. “For you, Mrs Y/l/n?”

“Well that’s very gentlemanly of you,” your mother says, raising her eyebrows at you. She accepts them just as you begin walking toward the front door, keenly avoiding eye contact.

“Yeah, because Rafael’s known for how well he treats women,” you mutter grimly, pushing Rafe over the threshold and away from an inevitable interrogation. “Bye mom.”

“Home by 9, Rafe!” your mother calls after you, sunflowers at her hip.

Rafe, thoroughly enjoying your soft hands pressed into his back, turns his head and send her a reassuring wave. “You got it!”

Once you’re at his pick-up truck, he’s quick to break free in order to open the door for you.

And though the you part of your brain wants to argue against the action, Topper’s voice in your head—oh, and don’t forget, act like it’s your prerogative to be treated like a total princess—has you accepting it without question.

“That’s cute,” is all you say, sidling into the front seat like you own it.

Rafe has a hand on the hood of his car, the other resting over the passenger’s side window. His eyes move over your figure with that same, heart-squeezing reverence distilled within them, his tongue pressed to his cheek as he leans in to grin at you.

“Me opening the door for you?” Rafe asks.

You nod. “Bare minimum, but cute.”

“Fuck.” Rafe stumbles back, doing that infatuated, clutching-his-chest move that reminds you of Matthew McConaughey. “You knowing your self worth makes you hotter, somehow. As if that’s fucking possible.”

You don’t want to believe him, but rolling your eye’s is definitely overcompensation. “Right.”

“Not to mention, you look like a bunch of inappropriate words in that dress,” he adds, teasing a wink. “Shit I definitely couldn’t say in front of your mom.”

You frown down at the faded linen, smoothing out the creases puckering at your waistline. “It’s super old.”

“It’s super hot,” Rafe corrects.

“Rafael,” you reproach, frowning. “Do you want to go on this date or not?”

“Yeah—fuck, sorry, you’re crazy beautiful, okay?” he backtracks, raising his arms in surrender. And there’s that devastating grin on his face, again, ever-present as he jogs around the hood of his car. (Clumsily, of course, with his eyes on you from side-view mirror to side-view mirror. You aren’t sure whether this makes you want to murder him, or kiss that annoying smile right off his features.)

“Like, making me say stupid shit beautiful,” he adds. “Launch a thousand ships beautiful. Shakespeare beautiful. Taylor Swift beautiful.”

The bees in your stomach travel to your pulse, rendering it a hopeless, scrambling mess. “Speaking of,” you say, deciding not to address any of his compliments. “Can I connect to Bluetooth?”

“For sure,” Rafe says agreeably, getting into his seat and reaching forward. With forearm extended and large fingers fiddling with the stereo, there’s more of him in your periphery than there was a second ago. A lot more of him—from that heady cologne to the signet ring shaped sunspot on your shoulder.

Once he’s scrolled through the settings and found the pairing option, he turns to you expectantly. The sunlight streaming through the window behind him makes his hair look all pale and fluffy.

“Because I’m not interested in listening to your music,” you hedge.

“Fair enough.”

“Or knowing what’s in any of your playlists,” you add, growing a little exasperated. Is there nothing in this world capable of causing this guy perturbation?

“Bit of Frank Ocean,” Rafe says then, as if you’d asked him a question as opposed to dismissed him. “Taylor Swift, too—I know you’ve always liked her stuff.”

You falter, lips parting in surprise. “Really?”

“Of course.” Rafe’s smile is softer, now. The kind that says isn’t it obvious? without being overtly indignant. “They’re in most of them.”

“Oh,” you say weakly, taking pause in an attempt to regather your composure. This feels like stuffing an un-rolled sleeping bag back into its cover without folding it. “Doesn’t matter. Still don’t wanna listen.”

“Neither,” Rafe agrees. “I’d much rather listen to your music.”

Unbelievable. You try not to grimace as you say, “It’ll be the same as yours, though, apparently.”

“I know,” Rafe says matter-of-factly. “I have a whole playlist dedicated to you.”

The way he shrugs makes this revelation feel like common knowledge. Like the fact that Rafe fucking Cameron has expertly created the modern version of a mixtape for you is a given. Your pulse crackles alive, again.

“No you don’t,” you say quietly.

Rafe grins sheepishly, sliding his phone out of his front pocket. “I thought you knew. The whole football team’s heard it, your boys included.”

“No,” you repeat, eyes widening in disbelief. “I was sure they made that up.”

“Easy to make,” Rafe explains. “Difficult to make up.”

Easy to make? The idea that associating you with the sonnet-like lyrics Taylor Swift thinks up has your poor heart a mess. You say, “We’re not listening to it.”

“Good.” Rafe buckles in and switches on his ignition. “Yours’ll be better.”

“You don’t know that,” you defend, folding your arms across your chest.

“Yeah I do.”

“How so?”

“Sweetheart,” Rafe says, almost absentmindedly, placing his arm behind your headrest as he reverses. “Because everything about you is better than everything about me.”

—

You wait until the food that you ordered is on the table to say it.

“I don’t even like Japanese.”

And it physically pains you to do so.

As a matter of fact, everything about guileless Rafe and his immunity to Topper approved icks is proving far too painful for your guilt-ridden heart to handle.

Because nothing—nothing—you say or do affects him. The fact that you’re wearing an old dress to a new establishment, the fact that you’re acting as though you deserve the princess treatment regardless. (Rafe seems to be under the impression that you do. He’s been nothing but a gentleman since your front porch rendezvous.)

The fact that you haven’t said thank you, haven’t asked about him, haven’t acted in any way interested. The fact that you’re being totally fussy about dinner. If Rafe was a normal guy, he’d have run for a hills by now.

Except that he isn’t one. Within his chest cavity, there’s a locket with your photo in it instead of a beating heart.

He says, “No biggie. We can go somewhere else?”

“I — huh?” you balk, taken aback. “You’re kidding, right? What about all of this food?”

“What about it?” Rafe shrugs. “I’ll tell the waiter to pack it up. Or keep it for himself, whatever. What d’you feel like eating instead?”

Shit. He’s totally unfazed. There’s something about his nonchalance that makes your heart do a funny little flip. “Nothing,” you answer, trying to buy time.

“Nothing?” Rafe echoes, brow furrowing with concern. “You have to eat, dream girl.”

“Not hungry anymore,” you lie.

“We’ll wait till you are, then,” Rafe decides, reaching forward to give your hand a quick squeeze. “I’m easy either way.”

“But,” you falter, the heat of his palm jolting through you like electricity, “aren’t you hungry?”

“It’s really hard to focus on anything other than how pretty you look right now,” Rafe says honestly, grinning.

You groan, sliding your hand out from under his all sweet and nervous. “Rafael.”

“Y/n,” Rafe teases, his tone full of mirth. “Okay. Before we got here, you were telling me about that movie you watch every year.”

“10 things I hate about you?” you ask, smiling despite yourself. “No way you actually care about that.”

Rafe doesn’t miss a beat. “I care about you.”

A pause. Your eyes skate over his features with a slowness that makes them soften. “How?”

“How?” Rafe echoes, frowning bemusedly.

“You barely know me, Rafael,” you say quietly, timidly. The fight in you long gone, you’re beginning to accept that this thing is for real.

It’s terrifying.

You can deny it, avoid it, throw ick’s at it in an attempt to stall it, but you’re finally beginning to realise that the one thing that you can’t do is run from it forever.

“That’s not how it feels,” Rafe murmurs. He has this way of sounding sure of himself even when he’s speaking softly.

“You’re enjoying this date, huh?” you ask after a beat.

“So much,” Rafe says, still hushed, “that I won’t rest until you enjoy it, too.”

The thaw in your heart freezes. Something about the sureness of his words — the I won’t rest followed by steely determination, makes this feel like a competition, all over again.

Like this thing is about him winning.

You can’t let yourself enjoy this.

And so, after much deliberation, the pair of you decide on an Italian place for dinner. Except—pasta totally makes you bloated, so burger replace fetuccine alfredo. You hate burgers. Rafe suggests pad thai and curry for dinner. The cycle repeats until you’re sick of it and he isn’t; when he drops you home at 9pm, it’s with a stomach full of takeaways and a overwhelming feeling in your ribcage.

He almost kisses you on your porch steps. He almost gets another date. Almost, almost, almost… and when you’re calling Topper and Kelce to debrief them on the details, the sentence “He isn’t that bad, really,” almost slips out of your mouth and threatens to expose its success.

14/08/2022: MISS LURKYMURKER!!!!!!!! there is no way this isn’t a dream!!!! euro tripe rafe is back on this stupid little app and I AM BEAMING!!!! you are one of my favorite authors of all time and i will follow you to the grave. i read euro trip and then college trip and then managed to just drown in all your work at the beginning of this year (i used to be too shy to get off anon but i’ve been here for a while) and the thing is: i don’t even like rafe 😭😭😭 i came across your blog because i saw another author i really liked saying incredible things about you and just had to give your rafe a chance. AND I AM SO GLAD I DID!!! the way you write him in your universes is just so lovely i couldn’t help but fall in love???? all thanks to your beautiful brain and writing (i’ll be a mess when s3 comes out and euro trip rafe just isn’t there on my screen. life is so unfair.) ANYWAYS!!! all of this to say, i breathe and live for euro trip, the story has a very special place in my heart and SEEING YOU WRITE FOR THEM AGAIN- AM I DREAMING? i’m just crazy happy. here’s me just, idk even know… crying over them??? a super classy review (me when i lie) of this beautiful little nugget you decided to bless us with!!!

“Because you’d meant it. You’d asked him how he was, and you’d wanted to know he’d be okay. Rafe didn’t know whether he deserved that. He didn’t know whether he ever would.

And so, he’d run away.” sometimes i forget how insecure he’s always been :((((

“Rafe swallows. His mind fails to stray from the first voice he heard; the heart-squeezing pressure it places on his chest.” THE HEART-SQUEEZING PRESSURE IT PLACES ON HIS CHEST. dude!!!!! your writing!!!!! i visualize and i feel everything!!!!! how do you do this idk but WOW.

“The way his name falls from your lips is a sharp knife to his chest. And then you ask, “How are you?” and it plunges, twists, cuts deeper.” she’s being so kind and it just makes him hurt a little more my heart can’t survive this.

“Some space from Rafe should come as a welcome relief.

Except that it doesn’t.

All it tells you is that he isn’t himself, at a moment; a large part of him is hurting, and a small part of you wants to fix that.” THE FACT THAT THIS PRE EURO TRIP!!!!! THEY WERE JUST BABIES, THEIR FEELINGS WERE STILL SO VERY MESSY AND CONFUSING I LOVE THEM!!! SHE WANTS TO FIX IT ☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️

and then he bumps her chin!!!!! because of course physical touch is rafe’s thing, i missed him so much!!!!

“you pause, you trail off, you soften your expression and watch Rafe’s falter,” i love the way they are not exactly mirroring each other but it’s more of a action-reaction kind of thing, you know? soulmates since forever!!!!!

“And perhaps that’s why this hurts so much; why the comfort of your presence is crushing pressure to his chest. Because letting himself yearn for you — want you, hope to have you, one day — means letting himself love, feel love, feel it all.

Including that which he lost.” i am in so much pain right now.

“Why?” He teases; he’ll break if he answers honestly, he isn’t sure he’ll survive it. Bad, he thinks, I’m doing fucking bad and you’re going to make it worse before you can make it better,” BAD, HE THINKS, I’M DOING FUCKING BAD AND YOU’RE GOING TO MAKE IT WORSE BEFORE YOU CAN MAKE IT BETTER!!!!!!!!!! favorite fucking line!!!!!! just crush my heart.

“He swallows. He tries to find something else to say; something stupid and meaningless that’ll push you away.

He can’t.” of course he can’t!!!!!!!! he’s always been so honest with her!!!! and especially now that he’s so vulnerable, his mom’s death is still so recent… he can’t!!!!!! ☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️

“He resists the urge to reach out and brush his fingers over your skin, ensure that you’re real, you’re here, you’re worried about him.” god he’s always been so in love i almost forgot he’s just so drawn to her, like a magnet. i can feel how strong the urge to reach out to her is for him!!!!!!!!! i love the way you write i really do i am in love!!!!!

“You’re here. You were here three months ago, when the wound was still fresh, and it may not be close to healed, yet, but you’ll still be here when it is.” ❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹

“A friend,” Rafe affirms with a nod. “A friend who I make out with sometimes?”

“And there he is,” Topper says then, throwing an arm over your shoulder as he brings up your rear. “Knew all it’d take was a conversation with you.” A FRIEND WHO I MAKE OUT WITH SOMETIMES QUESTION MARK… I HATE HIM, I HAVE SO MANY BUTTERFLIES ON MY STOMACH RIGHT NOW!!!!!! and really love that we get a little bit of playfulness here because he never lets himself crack open too much!!!! I’M IN LOVE WITH HIM and i love topper’s comment.

“Thank you. Seriously,” his breath is spicy mint, faint raspberry.

“I didn’t do anything,” you answer meekly, folding your arms across your chest. Your forearms brush his as you do so, warm sunshine with rippling muscles.

“You did,” he says, disarmingly sober. “You always do.” these tiny little interactions pre-euro trip make me swoon!!!!!! they kill me from the inside out!!!! it’s all so delicate and intimate and it’s just too much and not enough and it’s everything!!!!! SHE DOESN’T EVEN REALIZE HOW IMPORTANT SHE IS TO HIM!!!!! JUST HER PRESENCE WAS ENOUGH!!!!!!! my favorite interactive in this part.

“But I want to sit with you,” Rafe grins easily, nudging your shoulder with his.” 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺 he’s adorable and i’m devastated he isn’t real.

so beautifully written as always!!!! you never miss!!!!

Euro trip blurb: august

Synopsis: Rafe remembers when wanting was enough. (For him, it was enough, to live for the hope of it all)

Warnings: mentions of a parent death, cursing, angst, fuckboy Rafe in full force

a/n: I think this is one of the earliest blurbs I’ve written! Set in the summer before junior year, right after Lillian passed. I remember mentioning that Rafe spent a lot of time avoiding Y/n during the aftermath, because a part of him knew that letting her in would mean letting everything else in too. Here’s some perspective!

“I can’t decide,” the girl whines, the space between her collarbones forming an osculate as she sighs. She angles her body toward Rafe’s expectantly, fresh sunlight bathing her skin burnt amber, faint tones of sepia. “You pick,” she decides, handing him the two spoons in her hand. “Raspberry sorbet or matcha?”

Rafe Cameron doesn’t bother. He places them into the container in front of him untouched, neat movements juxtaposing the sloven way he pulls her close. His lips are firm, impatient enough to leave her breathless; the careless kind of ardency she may define as yearning.

She’d be wrong.

Rafe hasn’t let himself feel anything since his mother’s death. When he bruises her with kisses, tastes the sea-salt, honeysuckle on her skin, it’s because he’s running away.

“Raspberry,” he says when he pulls away, giving her waist an absent squeeze. There’s a barely there imprint of cherry chapstick on his lips, brilliant red that swirls hints of sweet sorbet.

She nods her approval, turning toward the counter to place her order. And when Rafe does the same, when he reaches around her and pays (with clean wad of cash, leaving a tip that’s almost outrageous — even for him), he feels overwhelmingly as though he’s just going through the motions.

Summer’s been hard.

His mother passed away three months ago, today, and all he’s done since then is avoid, avoid, avoid. His father, his younger sisters, his responsibilities, the majority of his friends; all the things he loves, all the things he deserves — you.

Most especially, Rafe’s avoiding you.

Because when he’d walked into class two days after her funeral, red-rimmed pupils with pockets of insomnia beneath the lids, you’d looked up at him and asked, “Hey, how are you doing?”

And you’d done it in that soft, aching voice you never used; it was gentle, genuine, and it’d broken Rafe’s heart cleanly in two.

Because you’d meant it. You’d asked him how he was, and you’d wanted to know he’d be okay. Rafe didn’t know whether he deserved that. He didn’t know whether he ever would.

And so, he’d run away.

Weeks and weeks of missed periods, of stumbling into Noah White’s house dangerously half-cut, and then, at the helm of another cruel summer, opportunistic hook-ups with every girl in his class.

Except you.

“…and then, Lacy said her older brother can totally hook us up!”

Rafe blinks.

“So?” The girl adds, bringing a spoonful of ice-cream to her mouth. “You in?”

“Huh?” Rafe asks then, rubbing the back of his neck distractedly. Endless hours in the sun have lightened the tips of his hair; he’s let them grow out, tease through the frayed edges of his baseball cap.

“Lacy’s?” The girl repeats, brow furrowing a little. “The party? Are you even listening?”

“Oh,” Rafe falters, he shakes his head, he expertly avoids eye contact, “yeah, sure Liz.”

“Yay!” The girl named Liz exclaims, nudging his shoulder approvingly. The movement times perfectly with three sets of footsteps; the bell above Daily Scoop jingles, and in walks warmth, perplexing familiarity.

“Bring Noah,” Liz adds, though Rafe isn’t really listening. His heartbeat quickens. He feels the surface of his palms grow clammy.

“…it’ll be fun, I promise,” continues a voice, glowing and gentle and overwhelmingly soft. “Besides, they’re playing 10 things I hate about you, and you guys know how much I love Heath Ledger —”

“Dude,” groans a deeper voice in response; Topper, maybe Kelce, Rafe doesn’t really care, “you’ve made us watch that film like, a million fucking times already.”

“So? You don’t hear me complaining every time you guys rope me into spending my Sunday playing nine-holes —”

“Except that golf is actually fu— oh, shit, Cameron, is that you?”

Rafe swallows. His mind fails to stray from the first voice he heard; the heart-squeezing pressure it places on his chest.

“Oh, uh, hey,” he answers, turning toward the source of the commotion slowly. He hopes that his expression reads blithe disinterest, that being here with Liz gives you the wrong impression.

It doesn’t.

“Rafael,” you say slowly, taking him in. You haven’t seen much of him over the past three months; his hair is longer, his skin warmer, sunburnt. His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. His pert nose holds a smattering of brown freckles.

The way his name falls from your lips is a sharp knife to his chest. And then you ask, “How are you?” and it plunges, twists, cuts deeper.

Rafe needs it to stop.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says with a grin, swivelling his cap so it sits backwards on his head. He abandons his table with Liz to head over, all charm and smooth confidence, expertly hidden grief.

“Hey,” you repeat, raising your eyebrows in surprise.

Perhaps you didn’t expect him to approach you so easily. He’s been avoiding you like the plague since his mother’s funeral, and you know it shouldn’t bother you as much as it does. You’re the one who’s always complaining about his annoying grin, his annoying comments, his annoyingly relentless presence and the way he refuses to let up — aren’t you? Some space from Rafe should come as a welcome relief.

Except that it doesn’t.

All it tells you is that he isn’t himself, at a moment; a large part of him is hurting, and a small part of you wants to fix that.

“I’m good,” he answers with a grin, bumping your chin playfully. It’s a tendril of soft touch, but it’s heat enough to set nerve-endings aflame. “Better now that you’re here.”

You frown then, surveying him through narrowed eyes. “You know that’s not what I meant,” you mutter, a crease forming between your eyebrows. “I mean with…” you pause, you trail off, you soften your expression and watch Rafe’s falter, “…everything. Your mom. How are you doing?”

Rafe flinches, almost. The last few words are a barely there whisper, impossibly gentle, as though you care about his answer.

About him.

And perhaps that’s why this hurts so much; why the comfort of your presence is crushing pressure to his chest. Because letting himself yearn for you — want you, hope to have you, one day — means letting himself love, feel love, feel it all.

Including that which he lost.

Because, really, who on Earth’s capable of loving him as unconditionally as his mother did?

“Why?” He teases; he’ll break if he answers honestly, he isn’t sure he’ll survive it. Bad, he thinks, I’m doing fucking bad and you’re going to make it worse before you can make it better, and so, he adds, “You gonna cheer me up with a kiss?”

“Rafael,” you sigh, taking a tentative step forward. There’s half an inch between you, now, faint bergamot mingling with spicy cologne, musk. “Why are you being like this?”

It isn’t the response he expected, and the revelation burns his throat dry, coats his waterline with unshed tears. He swallows. He tries to find something else to say; something stupid and meaningless that’ll push you away.

He can’t.

“I don’t know,” his voice breaks, and he tries not to wince as he clears his throat. Topper and Kelce have long abandoned their posts on either side of you, burying themselves with a menu they’ve already perused a million times . “I’m… it doesn’t matter. Surviving. I’m surviving.”

“Well,” you start, chewing on your bottom lip gingerly. Rafe’s eyes fall to their raw surface, the contour of your jaw, your soft neck. He resists the urge to reach out and brush his fingers over your skin, ensure that you’re real, you’re here, you’re worried about him. “You’ve just… I don’t know. I never got to give you my condolences. I’m sorry, Rafael, I can’t even imagine how…”

You trail off, exhaling slowly. “…I’m here. If you want to talk —”

“— or not talk?” Rafe questions, but he’s grin now, crescent moon curve to his lips that meets the corners of his eyes. It’s the first time in a long while he’s let himself really smile.

You’re here. You were here three months ago, when the wound was still fresh, and it may not be close to healed, yet, but you’ll still be here when it is.

Rafe doesn’t know when the months slipped by; somewhere between his mother’s death, and now, he lost himself within loss, within mourning, endless grief. He doesn’t know when he stopped hoping for, wanting love; when he stopped living for the hope of it all.

He realises now that it doesn’t matter. Lillian Cameron wouldn’t have wanted her son to just give up.

“Will you just —” you pause, pinching the bridge of your nose frustratedly, “— I’m here, okay? As a friend.”

“A friend,” Rafe affirms with a nod. “A friend who I make out with sometimes?”

“And there he is,” Topper says then, throwing an arm over your shoulder as he brings up your rear. “Knew all it’d take was a conversation with you.”

“Shut up,” you mutter, fixing him a stern glare.

“He’s right, though,” he agrees with a wink, and then he pauses, dipping his head until he’s at eye level. This close, you can see specks of green within his blue irises. The tip of his pert nose is sunburnt. And when he adds, “Thank you. Seriously,” his breath is spicy mint, faint raspberry.

“I didn’t do anything,” you answer meekly, folding your arms across your chest. Your forearms brush his as you do so, warm sunshine with rippling muscles.

“You did,” he says, disarmingly sober. “You always do.”

His gaze lingers as he turns back around, and you try not to focus on the way your stomach flips, the way your breath catches at his words.

He’s returning to a table with Liz, you remind yourself, no doubt the millionth girl he’s taken out, kissed on the beach, this summer. You’re not special. He may look at you like you’re the only girl in the world, but you can’t be — not to a douchebag like him.

So, you don’t let his words get to you.

And when you decide to try out two new flavours (mint chocolate chip and raspberry sorbet — a combination that causes Topper to gag, violently), you try not to think about the fact that they taste like Rafe’s breath on your skin.

—

“I can’t believe you actually roped us into this crap,” Topper grumbles, nudging his way through the crowd with you and Kelce close behind. He halts nears an unoccupied patch of grass, crisp blades dried out by the unforgiving, Carolina heat.

“You guys are going to love it,” you insist, unrolling your plaid picnic blanket. The projector is a perfect distance away, cotton candy clouds overlaying large screen.

“Yeah, yeah,” Kelce scowls, setting down several snacks before getting comfortable. “You fucking owe us.”

You send him a saccharine sweet smile, stretching yourself out on the picnic blanket before reaching for a bag of Skittles. The air is thick with the scent of foxglove and forget-me-nots; it’s sticky humidity and cicadas, salty heat that reminds you of the beach.

“Come on,” you press, propping yourself up onto your elbows. You pop several Skittles into your mouth, chewing thoughtfully before continuing, “You haven’t even given it a chance. Just — just wait until the movie starts, alright? And then —”

“Wait a minute,” Topper interrupts; clearly, he wasn’t listening in the first place, “is that fucking —”

“Space for two more?”

You freezd. You recognise that voice; so well, in fact, that you know that the question is directed only at you.

“Uh,” you turn and lift your head, met with Rafe’s figure crouching down beside you. The burnt orange sunset lightens his irises; they look softer, somehow, more genuine than they did. “Why?”

Rafe raises his eyebrows. “For me and Noah?”

“Can’t you guys, like,” you gesticulate awkwardly, floundering, “I don’t know, sit somewhere else?”

“But I want to sit with you,” Rafe grins easily, nudging your shoulder with his.

You frown. “This isn’t what I meant,” you say, eyes darting toward Noah furtively. “When I said I’m here, I didn’t mean you could crash every hang out I plan with Top and Kelce —”

“Sweetheart,” Rafe says then, and he’s almost laughing — how dare he? What about this is funny? “I wasn’t trying to crash your…”

He trails off slowly, trying to find the right words to say. He isn’t sure how he’s able to convey how much your Daily Scoop-side rendezvous meant to him; how very much you’ve helped him feel like himself again.

He feels like an idiot for ever avoiding you. He wants you — needs you to know that.

“…thank you,” he finishes, exhaling slowly. “For… for before, just — thank you, okay?”

For being you. It prompted him to cancel his plans with Liz, just in case, prompted him to drag Noah to the drive-in, just because. Reminded him how it felt to live for the hope of it all.

You may not have been his to lose, but Rafe Cameron held onto the promise of a future where you were.

—

tags: (just some besties) @notdisneychannel @r0und3bitch @destourtereaux @itsalexwin @flossiewrites :)