Rafe Cameron was never husband material. Fuck, he wasn't even boyfriend material. Rafe is jealous, possessive, and when he says he'd kill for you – he would. He smokes cigarettes himself, and won't let you stand near him, but he holds you through your belt loops. But somewhere along the line, he was soft, he'd cover you with a blanket when you fell asleep, and sometimes he'd even buy you flowers (sometimes.) Teenage girls drooled over him, and fuck, older women too. Bros the type.

You, on the other hand, were his opposite. You were the sweet one who always sat on his lap in public, his arms wrapped around your waist. The small one whose hand was half his size. The delicate one who squealed when he suddenly picked you up. The short one who always had to look from below at him, and to kiss you, Rafe had to bend down and pick you up. You were his calling card. When he was known for being a psychopath, you were the one who warmed his image. You said hello to old people, helped kids tie their shoes, and spent hours with stray cats.

Rafe lies on his bed, and you lie on your stomach next to him. You were usually at his house. He watches TikTok, his fingers occasionally running down your back or the back of your thighs. Suddenly, he comes across one of your posts: the song 'Pop Like This.' His eyes widen when he sees you in a bikini. Out of curiosity, he scrolls through the comments section and feels like throwing up when he reads these disgusting comments from old guys.

"Nice ass, little one," he says with a smirk, reaching out to pat your ass. You look at him, confused, but then you see the video on his phone.

"But fuck, don't post that shit. I don't want my girl's ass all over TikTok," he continues.