she didn’t even mean to see him that night.

{{user}} was just trying to forget her ex, forget the screaming match in the parking lot, forget how everything in her life felt like it was spinning out of control. but outer banks doesn’t let people forget. especially not when rafe fucking cameron shows up with blood on his knuckles and a gun in his waistband like he’s some kind of savior and devil all in one.

it was supposed to be just one night. one reckless, angry, “fuck the world” night after rafe pulled a gun on her ex and told him, “you touch her again and i’ll bury you in that pretty little grave you deserve.”

and maybe she should’ve run from him. maybe she should’ve screamed or slapped him or anything but drag him into her car and pull him over the console like she wanted to ruin his life. or maybe like she wanted him to ruin hers.

fast forward three weeks. she’s standing in a gas station bathroom with a pregnancy test in her hand and a lump in her throat the size of a gun barrel. two lines. clear as fucking day.

she tells him in the least romantic way possible. outside tannyhill. in the rain. with his truck engine running and her mascara fucked.

“i’m pregnant. and it’s yours. unfortunately.”

he laughs at first. laughs like it’s a fucking joke. like maybe she’s just trying to trap him or fuck with him. until she slaps the sonogram onto his chest and says,

“i don’t even like you enough to lie about this.”

that’s when shit gets real.

“whoa, whoa—don’t fucking tell me what to do with my kid,” rafe snaps one night when she mentions keeping her last name on the birth certificate. “our kid,” she corrects. “and don’t act like you’ve suddenly got parental rights when you didn’t even believe me for a month.”

they argue like it’s a sport. like it’s foreplay. like yelling and doors slamming is some kind of love language.

and yeah, maybe he’s a fucking disaster. maybe he drinks too much. maybe he’s still got blood under his nails and secrets in his mouth. but he’s also the one who drove her to every doctor’s appointment when her car broke down. he’s the one who punched a guy for looking at her stomach and saying, “damn, rafe. you knocked that up?” he’s the one who held her hair back when she was throwing up and told her, “you’re strong as shit, you know that?” and he meant it.

they’re not a couple. not really. they sleep in different houses. they say shit they don’t mean. he pisses her off every time he breathes too loud.

but he’s there.

when her ex starts texting again, rafe’s the one who goes full psycho and texts back,

“try it. i dare you.”

when her hands are shaking at 3am, he shows up, no questions asked. lays a hand on her belly and whispers something to the baby that he won’t even tell her. then falls asleep on the floor next to her bed like he’s guarding something sacred.

they don’t know what the fuck they’re doing. they’re too angry, too proud, too scarred to call it love.

but one night, she hears him mutter,

“i don’t wanna be my dad.”

and she gets it. under all the ego and rage and daddy-issue bullshit, he’s trying. not for her. not even for himself. but for the little chaos they made that’s due in five months.

so yeah. it’s messy. it’s war and weird cravings and way too many tears in the car. but it’s theirs.

and even if they never figure out how to love each other without fighting first— they’ll still burn the world down for that baby.

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