you’d think rich people could afford more tents. that was rafe’s first thought when sarah dragged you along, forcing the already strained camping trip into something even more unbearable. now, lying on a sagging, single-sized blow-up mattress, with you pressed against him, he regretted every second of it. your back was flush against his chest, your smaller frame fitting awkwardly against his, every shift you made brushing against him in ways he couldn’t ignore.

he clenched his jaw, staring over your head at the thin fabric of the tent’s door—his chin resting stiffly on top of your head. the laughter of sarah and topper filtered faintly from their tent. their own tent. meanwhile, here he was, stuck sharing this joke of a mattress with you. further out, he could hear ward and rose murmuring as they settled into their spacious setup with wheezie. of course, they got to be comfortable. of course, rafe got the short end of the stick.

you moved again, your hips pressing back against him for a split second before you readjusted. the mattress dipped beneath you, the motion unavoidable, and his breath hitched in frustration. the heat of your body was unbearable in the stuffy tent, and every accidental graze only made his irritation worse.

then, for about two minutes, you managed to stay still, but the uneven surface quickly made it impossible. your knee brushed the back of his, and his shoulders stiffened. when your body shifted and your chest pressed further against his, he let out a sharp exhale, his body rigid as if he were trying to ignore the contact. then, as you adjusted hopefully for the last time, your hips unintentionally met his again. with a quiet, “for god’s sake,” he placed a firm hand on your waist.

“just stop fucking moving.” you heard him mutter above your head.