Chapter 15 The Caretaking
the caretaking [trope]
a romantically charged act of nurturing, often occurring when one character is rendered temporarily helpless by illness, injury, or their own lack of common sense; the caretaking usually culminates in a heartfelt confession or a poorly timed sneeze that ruins the mood but wins hearts anyway
“Dale a tu… something something, Macarena,” I sing, swaying my hips and bringing my hand to rest dramatically on one side.
I cast a quick look at Rafael, who’s trailing a few steps behind me.
Shadows dance over his sharp features, softening them just enough to remind me of how utterly unfair it is that someone can look this good and take this long to kiss me.
“Wait,” I say, stumbling slightly but catching myself. “Why aren’t you dancing the Macarena?”
Tone dripping with amusement, he says, “That would be because I’m not drunk.”
“I’m not drunk, either,” I insist, wobbling just slightly as I toss my hair back.
“Is that so?”
“Yes—” My protest is cut short as my foot catches on an uneven patch of sidewalk. The world tilts, and before I can do much about it, I land ass-first in a low bush. Twigs poke at my back, and the leaves crumple noisily under me.
“You were saying?” Rafael asks as he extends a hand toward me.
“Okay, so maybe I’m drunk,” I admit, grabbing hold of his hand. He pulls me up with ease, and we stand close, his steady hands brushing stray leaves from my dress.
“We’re almost home. Can you make it?”
I glance around at the quiet street, with the distant hum of the occasional car and the soft rustle of wind in the trees wrapping around us. Actually, we’re only halfway there, and though it’s an objectively short walk, it feels like an eternity.
“I’m tired, and my heels hurt,” I grumble, shifting my weight from one foot to the other.
He points down. “You’re not wearing heels.”
“Oh.” I stare at the worn sneakers I laced up earlier in the night. “Then I’m just tired.”
“All right.” He steps closer, and his hand presses lightly against my back. “Arms around my neck.”
I gasp. “Are you going to pick me up?”
“Yes, Freckles. Now, arms.”
I comply, and his other hand slides under my knees. He lifts me like I weigh nothing at all until I’m snug against his chest, my head resting on his shoulder.
“Okay?” he asks, his breath warm against my temple.
I nod, settling in as he walks. His steps are measured and steady, and with his cologne—warm and woodsy—and his steady heartbeat, it’s the most comforting combination.
And God, is he pretty up close. He was always pretty, even back in high school when most boys were gross and awkward.
With that lazy smirk that got him out of detentions, the way he’d lean back in his chair like he owned the room, boots propped on the desk.
The rumpled uniform shirt he never bothered to button properly, and the chain around his neck he wasn’t supposed to wear.
He wasn’t the sweet, safe kind of handsome—he was the kind that made you want to break rules.
But now? His jawline is sharper, his brows fuller, his lips…
his lips. He’s more than just pretty—he’s perfect.
The corners of his mouth curl up. “Hi.”
“I don’t care what everyone says. You are so pretty.”
He hums. “Did someone say I’m not pretty? ’Cause they’re lying.”
“No.” I fidget with the collar of his sweater, relaxed and warm in his arms. “It’s just… it makes no sense. People should know you’re good. Nobody this pretty is bad—ever.”
“Makes sense to me.”
Of course it does. Rafael is too pretty, on the inside and the outside, to be anything but good. Anyone who doesn’t see it is just… stupid.
“Theo thinks you’re the murderer,” I say. Something tells me I shouldn’t say this to him, but I guess whiskey makes me honest.
“He does, huh?” He chuckles. “Well, if I were, I’d probably kill him for saying that.”
I trace the black lines at the base of his neck. “The chief of police might think so too.”
That gets his attention, because he looks down at me, his face inches away from mine. “Do you, Scarlett?”
“No,” I spit out, as if the thought alone is insulting.
“That’s all that matters.”
I bask in the joy of being so relevant to this man, but I know he’s not saying the whole truth. It bothers him that everyone thinks ill of him. “You know,” I say, still staring at his mouth, “I like this.”
“Hate to break it to you, but everyone loves drinking until they’re hungover.”
“No, not drinking.” I wave a lazy finger between us. “This.”
His hand, holding the spot behind my knee, tightens slightly. The motion is so subtle that I shouldn’t notice, but I do, and it makes my stomach flip.
“I like it, too. Very much.”
“What you said about pushing people away—maybe I do that. Maybe I’ve done it with you, because I’m scared.”
“I know,” he says simply, looking ahead. “You’re afraid I’ll disappoint you.”
I fidget with the top button of his shirt. “No. I mean, yes, but no. Everyone eventually disappoints you. People change, sometimes without meaning to.”
He keeps walking as he waits for my next slurred words.
“I’m not afraid you’ll disappoint me. You’re sweet, Rafael. You’re caring, thoughtful, charming.”
He slows to a stop under a tree, its sprawling branches casting dappled shadows on the ground. “Really? Keep going.”
“If you think you need to prove something to me, you’re wrong. I already know who you are. I’ve known it for as long as I’ve known you.”
His smile is so soft I want to reach out and touch his lips.
“So you’ve changed your mind about love?”
“I don’t know.” Heat rushes to my cheeks. “Maybe the issue isn’t that I’m not destined for romance. Maybe I was just meant for you.”
“Ah.” He nods, pleased. “The drunk confession. Really, a staple of the genre.”
I scoff. “What? I’m not saying this ’cause I’m drunk.”
“Really? You genuinely believe you were just waiting for me?”
I think about it for a long moment. “Yes, Rafael Gray. I was waiting for you. And you took your sweet time to come back.”
Head shaking, he grins. “I got here as quickly as I could, Freckles.”
We watch each other, and in the pause that follows, I think this would really be the perfect moment for him to kiss me.
But he must disagree, because after staring at my lips for a while, he says, “You know, I told your dad that night…” He clears his throat.
“I told him I liked his daughter and one day I’d come back for her. ”
He what? “Wh-what did he say?”
“That I should be the best version of myself when I did.”
My mouth lifts, even as my chest aches. I know if Dad was here, he’d give us his blessing—not that we’d need it. But this feels like the closest thing to him approving.
“Is that what you were doing all this time away?” I tease.
“Yes, actually. It turns out it takes a while to become someone worthy of being yours.”
Stomach, meet butterflies.
“See?” he whispers, as if sharing a secret. “You’re doing just fine with this romance thing.”
I huff out a chuckle, but it’s short-lived. “People can just be taken away from you, Rafael.” I exhale. “That’s what I’m scared of. That love always ends with heartbreak. Just like life always ends with death.”
“Maybe.” We’ve reached the front of my house, so I wiggle, expecting him to set me down. Instead, he keeps a firm hold on me. “Yet you can’t help but live, Scarlett. Can you?”