FRIENDS WITH TENSION

He always does this. Always.

You don’t know why he insists on picking fights with the Pogues—maybe it’s boredom, maybe it’s pride, or maybe it’s just that self-destructive streak in him that he refuses to acknowledge. Whatever the reason, the outcome is always the same: fists flying, blood spilling, someone landing in the hospital.

Thankfully, this time, it wasn’t Rafe.

Like clockwork, you had dragged him back to his house on Figure Eight, his arm slung over your shoulder as he stumbled through the front door, bruised and bloodied but still wearing that damn smirk like he’d won something.

Now, perched on the bathroom counter, you hold his face steady between your hands, your fingers gentle despite the scowl on your lips. He stands between your legs, his body warm, the scent of salt, sweat, and whiskey clinging to his skin. You press a damp cloth against a fresh cut on his cheek, and he hisses but doesn’t pull away.

Rafe Cameron—the untouchable, unshakable golden boy—reduced to this.

He won’t say it, but you know. You know he appreciates this. The way you put up with him when no one else will. The way you take care of him, even when he doesn’t deserve it. Even when you scold him like you’re doing now, your voice edged with frustration but laced with something else—something softer.

He grumbles in protest, his fingers toying absentmindedly with the loose yarn of your sweater, his gaze heavy-lidded, unfocused. He’s had a drink or two—maybe more—and yet, it’s not the alcohol that has his pupils blown wide.

It’s you.

"I can handle myself, you know," he mutters, though there’s no real conviction behind it.

You sigh, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead, your touch lingering despite yourself. "Yeah, Cameron. You really proved that tonight."