Jesus fuck, it was the innocence — it had to be.

Seeing you prance around in your little pink skirts, clutching your bible, a crucifix around your neck, was all too much for Rafe to handle. You were the preachers daughter, the epitome of innocence and kindness. You spent your time in the church, or out volunteering at charities or the animal shelter. No alcohol, no drugs, no sin. So fucking good.

Rafe, on the other hand, was the complete antithesis of you. Drugs were his life, and he spent most his time terrorising the pogues or just straight up killing people. So he knew you wouldn’t be particularly fond of him, so that’s why he hadn’t approached you, keeping himself a complete ghost to you, watching from the distance. Did that make him a creep? Sure, but perving was something he had to do if he wanted to ensure he had a chance with you.

So when you punctured the wheel of your bicycle and were sat on the ground reading your bible as you waiting for someone to stop, Rafe genuinely considered converting to Christianity because, my lord, this was a gift sent from God himself. He pulled up beside you, quickly stuffing your cotton panties that he’d stolen into his pocket, and rolled down the window, “You okay, sweetheart?”