GOOD GRACES ☕️ ─── I.
SHARPEST TOOL

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The morning rush at The Bean Box was a flurry of espresso shots, steaming milk, and the faint scent of caramel syrup that clung to the air like a second skin. Rebeca Martinez moved with practiced ease behind the counter, her hands a blur as she frothed milk and scribbled hasty drink orders on cups.

"Grande caramel macchiato for Lisa!" she called out, placing the cup on the counter with a bright smile that barely concealed her exhaustion. The bell above the door jingled as another customer entered, and Rebeca steeled herself for the never-ending line that was her life between 7 and 9 a.m.

She didn't mind the job—it kept her busy, paid the bills, and gave her a sense of routine in the chaos of her self-imposed fresh start. After leaving California, she hadn't had the luxury of being picky about employment. The Bean Box wasn't glamorous, but it was hers, at least for now.

And then he walked in.

She noticed him immediately. It was impossible not to. Tall, lean, with sun-bleached hair that looked like it had been kissed by the ocean and eyes that seemed darker than they should be. He strolled in like he owned the place, which, given his aura of arrogance, didn't feel like much of a stretch.

Great, she thought. Another Outer Banks Kook slumming it at the café for a morning caffeine fix.

He stepped up to the counter, his expression unreadable, his hands tucked casually into the pockets of a worn hoodie that somehow looked designer. Rebeca didn't flinch under his gaze, even as she felt him appraise her with the same carelessness someone might use to evaluate a menu.

"Espresso," he said finally. His voice was low, smooth, but with an edge that hinted at mischief. "No cream. No sugar."

Rebeca arched an eyebrow. Typical.
"Got it," she replied. She reached for a cup, ready to jot down the order.

"Don't screw it up," he added, leaning just slightly on the counter, his smirk sharp enough to cut.

Rebeca froze for a half-second, processing his words. Then, with deliberate slowness, she met his gaze, letting her pen hover mid-air.

"No promises," she shot back, her tone light but pointed.

The smirk widened, as though he found her answer amusing. "Fair enough."

She turned away quickly, hiding the faint heat that crept up her neck. Something about his confidence—it wasn't the kind that made her roll her eyes. It was worse. It made her curious.

As the espresso machine whirred to life, Rebeca caught herself glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. He was still leaning against the counter, watching her with an intensity that was unsettling and, annoyingly, intriguing.

"You always this demanding about your coffee?" she asked over her shoulder, hoping to diffuse the tension with sarcasm.

"Only when it matters," he replied smoothly. "Which, I'd argue, is always."

She laughed under her breath. "Big priorities."

The machine beeped, and she pulled the shot with precision, sliding the cup across the counter toward him. "There you go. Try not to overanalyze it."

Rafe took the cup, his fingers brushing hers for a split second—long enough to send a jolt up her arm. She pulled her hand back quickly, pretending not to notice.
He lifted the espresso to his lips, his eyes never leaving hers as he took a slow sip. A flicker of approval crossed his face, but he didn't say anything. Instead, he gave her one last look, the kind that felt like a challenge, before turning and walking out the door.

The bell jingled behind him, leaving Rebeca staring after him, unsure whether she wanted him to come back or hoped she'd never see him again.

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Two days later, he was back.

Rebeca spotted him the moment he stepped inside, his presence commanding attention even though he didn't do anything to demand it. He wore the same effortless expression, the same hoodie—though this time it was paired with a ball cap that shaded his face just enough to make him look mysterious.

"Espresso," he said as he reached the counter, the faintest hint of a smile playing on his lips. "No cream. No sugar."

"Still this picky?" she asked, grabbing a cup and scribbling his order without looking up.

"Still this sarcastic?" he shot back.

She fought the urge to smile. "Always."

He chuckled, the sound low and warm. "Rafe," he said, extending a hand as if they were in some formal meeting. "Rafe Cameron."

She glanced at his outstretched hand, hesitating just long enough to make him squirm. Then she took it, her grip firm. "Rebeca. With one 'C.'"

He tilted his head, his smirk widening. "Fancy. Does that make you more interesting?"

"Probably not," she quipped, pulling her hand back. "But I'm the one with control over your coffee, so tread carefully."

"Fair point." He watched her return to the machine, his gaze steady. "Rebeca, huh? It suits you."

She didn't turn around, but she couldn't help the small smile tugging at her lips. "Yeah, well, don't wear it out."

As the espresso machine hissed, he leaned closer, lowering his voice. "I don't think I could if I tried."

As she worked the machine, she felt his eyes on her again, and it took everything in her not to fumble. She hated how self-conscious he made her feel, how his mere presence seemed to turn her into someone hyperaware of her own movements.
Her heart stuttered, but she kept her expression neutral, sliding his cup across the counter. "There you go, Rafe. Try not to get too attached."

"So, do you ever smile, or is sarcasm your full-time gig?" he asked after a moment, his voice cutting through the hiss of the steam wand.

"I smile when there's something worth smiling about," she quipped, glancing up at him briefly.

"And serving me doesn't count?"

"Not even close."

This time, he laughed, the sound low and unexpectedly genuine. Rebeca blinked.

"You're not from around here," he observed as she placed his cup on the counter.

It wasn't a question, but she answered anyway. "What gave it away?"

"Everything," he said, taking the cup. He hesitated, his fingers brushing the edge of the counter. "Don't get me wrong. You fit in just fine. But you're definitely not an Outer Banks native. You're too..." He trailed off, as though searching for the right word.

"Too what?" Rebeca pressed, crossing her arms and leaning against the counter, daring him to finish his thought.

"Complicated," he said finally, his smirk back in full force.

She laughed, the sound sharp and genuine. "Complicated? From someone who orders an espresso like it's a life-or-death decision?"

"Touché," Rafe admitted, lifting his cup in mock salute. "But let's just say I've got a good eye for people. It's a talent."

Rebeca rolled her eyes. "Let me guess. You think you're some kind of mystery-solving savant?"

"Something like that." He leaned closer, just enough to make her heart skip. "But you're not that hard to figure out, Rebeca."
His smirk widened, but he didn't press further. Instead, he straightened up, tipping his cup toward her. "Good espresso. Better barista."

Before she could come up with a retort, he turned and walked out, leaving her once again staring after him.

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By the fourth time he showed up that week, Rebeca had to admit she wasn't just noticing him anymore—she was anticipating him. Not that she'd ever admit it, even to herself.

Rafe Cameron wasn't the kind of guy she usually paid attention to. Sure, he was attractive—annoyingly so—but he also radiated trouble in a way that set off alarm bells in her brain. She knew his type: cocky, privileged, the golden boy with a dark streak. And yet, every time he walked through the door, something about him pulled her in.

"Espresso, no cream, no sugar," he said with his usual smirk, sliding into his spot at the counter as though it had been reserved for him.

"Let me guess," Rebeca replied without looking up. "You're going to tell me not to screw it up again?"

"Not today," he said, tilting his head. "I think you've earned my trust."

She snorted, shaking her head as she started the machine. "Wow. High praise. Should I frame that?"

"Don't push your luck," he teased, leaning on the counter as he watched her work.

As she pulled the shot, she felt his gaze lingering on her again. It wasn't the leering kind of stare she hated. It was softer, almost contemplative, like he was trying to figure her out.

"So," he said after a moment, "what's your story, Rebeca? What brings you to this tiny corner of the world?"

She stiffened, her hands stilling on the cup. She hated that question, hated how it always felt like an intrusion into parts of her life she wasn't ready to share.

"Coffee," she said finally, sliding the cup toward him.

"Coffee?" he repeated, his tone skeptical.

"Yep. Love the stuff," she said, forcing a smile. "Couldn't get enough of it. Decided to make it my life."

He raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced, but he didn't push. "Alright. Coffee it is."

For a moment, silence hung between them, punctuated only by the soft hum of the café. Then, to her surprise, he shifted the conversation.

"What about you?" she asked, surprising herself as much as him.

"Me?"

"Yeah. You waltz in here like you own the place, but I don't see you working. What's your deal, Mr. Mysterious?"

Rafe chuckled, shaking his head. "Mr. Mysterious? I kind of like that."

"Don't get used to it," she said, but her lips twitched with the beginnings of a smile.

"Let's just say I have a lot on my plate," he replied vaguely, taking a sip of his drink.

"That's not an answer," she pointed out.

"It's the only one you're getting."

"Complicated," she said, throwing his own word back at him.

"Exactly."

He held her gaze for a moment longer, something unreadable flickering in his dark eyes. Then, with a nod, he pushed away from the counter and headed for the door.

"See you tomorrow, Rebeca," he called over his shoulder.

The bell jingled as he left, and Rebeca realized she was smiling.

The days turned into weeks, and Rafe's visits became a fixture of her mornings. He always ordered the same thing, always sat at the counter, and always found a way to needle her with his sarcastic charm.
But beneath the banter, Rebeca began to see cracks in his carefully constructed facade. He was good at playing the part of the untouchable bad boy, but there were moments—small, fleeting moments—when his armor slipped.

Like the time he'd come in looking unusually tired, his hoodie pulled up as though to shield himself from the world. He hadn't made a joke that day, and when she'd handed him his espresso, he'd mumbled a quiet "Thanks" before retreating to a corner table.
Or the time he'd mentioned his father in passing, his tone light but his jaw tightening ever so slightly.

Rebeca didn't pry. She figured he'd tell her more when he was ready—or maybe he wouldn't. Either way, she was content to let their strange, sarcastic dance continue.

Because for all his mystery and his arrogance, Rafe Cameron was becoming a part of her routine.

And that scared her more than she cared to admit.

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The next few days passed in the usual blur of coffee orders and espresso shots. Rebeca's mornings were filled with the familiar sound of the milk steamer and the rhythmic tapping of her fingers against the counter, and yet, something was different. Every time she looked up from behind the espresso machine, Rafe was there—leaning against the counter with that same lazy, confident smirk on his face, like he owned the place. And she couldn't stop noticing him.
Today was no different. The moment he walked in, Rebeca felt the shift in the air. The bell above the door jingled, and there he was again, looking like trouble wrapped in a hoodie and faded jeans. His presence was magnetic, as it always was, but today, she could almost feel the tension that seemed to coil tighter around him. His eyes were a little darker, his smile a little less carefree.

He walked up to the counter, but this time, he didn't lean over it. Instead, he stood up straight, crossing his arms with a hint of discomfort—or maybe it was something else. She couldn't quite place it, but she could sense that something was different.

"Espresso. No cream. No sugar," he said, his voice still smooth but with an edge to it, like he was holding something back.

"Got it," Rebeca replied, making sure to keep her tone light. She didn't want to pry, didn't want to be the one to break the unspoken truce that had formed between them over the last few weeks.

But as she made his drink, she couldn't help herself. "You're... quiet today."

Rafe didn't respond immediately. He just watched her with that intensity that seemed to pierce right through her. It wasn't the playful glint he usually wore, but something heavier, something more personal.

"Busy day," he said after a long pause, the words coming out with a certain finality, as though he didn't want to go further.

Rebeca placed the cup in front of him, her fingers brushing his ever so briefly. She pulled back quickly, but not before she caught the flicker of something unreadable in his gaze.

"You okay?" she asked before she could stop herself.

He didn't answer right away. Instead, he took a slow sip of his espresso, his eyes never leaving hers. The silence between them stretched on, thick and unspoken.

"I'm fine," he said eventually, his voice oddly quiet, almost like he was reassuring himself more than her.

Rebeca wasn't convinced. She could see it in the way his shoulders were tense, the way he wasn't his usual cocky self. For the first time since she'd met him, Rafe Cameron seemed like he had something weighing on him.
But before she could say anything more, a loud voice from behind the counter called her name, pulling her attention away from him.

"Rebeca, could you—" Her coworker, Casey, started to ask something, but then she caught sight of Rafe standing at the counter, and her eyes widened. "Oh, hey, it's you," she said, a bit too brightly.

Rebeca shot Casey a warning glance, but Rafe just smirked, clearly enjoying the effect he had on her coworker.

"Guess I'm famous," he said with an exaggerated shrug.

Casey blushed, her cheeks turning pink, and quickly turned back to the task at hand. Rebeca suppressed an eye roll, but she couldn't help but feel a pang of irritation. Not because she cared about Casey's infatuation with Rafe, but because the whole exchange was so... predictable.
Rafe was always the guy who liked to be the center of attention, always playing the mysterious, untouchable role to perfection. But lately, there was something off about him. And she wasn't sure if it was just because she'd started noticing him more or if he had genuinely shifted in some way.

She watched him for a moment longer as he finished his espresso. His lips curled upward at the edges, but it didn't reach his eyes. He was pretending—pretending to be the charming, cocky Kook he always was—but there was something underneath that wasn't as easy to brush off.

"Anything else?" she asked, her voice quieter now, more tentative than usual.

Rafe looked at her for a moment, his eyes searching hers in that way that always made her feel exposed, like he could see right through her. He opened his mouth, like he was going to say something, but then closed it again, as though reconsidering.

"Nah," he said finally, his tone back to its usual nonchalance. "I'll take a rain check on that."

Rebeca nodded, unsure whether she should feel relieved or more confused than ever. The way he was acting today was a stark contrast to the usual playful banter that had become their unspoken routine.

Rafe grabbed his empty cup and turned to leave, but before he got to the door, he paused. He looked over his shoulder, catching her eye, his expression unreadable.

"You're not like the others, Rebeca," he said, his voice low.

She wasn't sure if she was supposed to say something back, but before she could form a response, he was gone, slipping out the door like he always did, leaving her standing there with a strange, hollow feeling in her chest.

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The next few days, Rafe didn't come in.

Rebeca tried not to notice the way her stomach dropped every time the bell above the door jingled, but she couldn't help it. He'd become a part of her mornings in a way she hadn't expected, and his absence left a hole she wasn't sure how to fill.

"Hey, Rebeca, you okay?" Casey asked one morning as Rebeca fiddled with the espresso machine, trying to hide her irritation.

"I'm fine," she muttered, but it was clear from her tone that she wasn't.

It had been three days since Rafe's last visit, and she couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. She didn't know why she cared. It wasn't like they were friends. They were barely acquaintances, their interactions limited to banter and sarcasm. And yet, she found herself wondering what had happened to him, why he had disappeared without a word.

But then, just as she was about to resign herself to the fact that Rafe Cameron had probably just gotten bored with their little routine, the door chimed again.

And there he was.

Rafe stepped inside like he owned the place, his expression carefully guarded, but his eyes betrayed him. They were a little tired, a little lost. He was wearing a baseball cap again, but it couldn't quite hide the fact that he looked... different.

"Espresso, please," he said, his voice softer than usual.

Rebeca nodded and got to work, but she couldn't help the feeling that something had shifted between them. There was no smirk this time, no playful jabs. Just Rafe, standing in front of her, like he was waiting for something—waiting for her to say something, do something, anything.

She finished making his espresso and slid it toward him. "Here you go. Same old, same old."

He took the cup but didn't immediately leave. Instead, he lingered, looking at her with an intensity that made her pulse race.

"I'm sorry," he said suddenly, the words catching her off guard.

Rebeca blinked. "For what?"

He shrugged, his usual bravado gone. "For being a pain in the ass. For not showing up. For being... complicated."

Rebeca stared at him, unsure of how to respond. This wasn't the Rafe she knew. This wasn't the guy who flirted and joked his way through every interaction. This was someone else entirely—someone who, for the first time, seemed to care.

"I didn't think you'd notice," he added quietly, as if to himself.

"Of course I noticed," Rebeca said before she could stop herself. "You're hard to ignore."

The words hung in the air between them, charged with an energy neither of them was quite ready to confront, but neither of them looked away.
And in that moment, for the briefest of seconds, everything between them felt like it was on the verge of changing.

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Rebeca always thought of herself as observant. It came with the territory of being a barista—watching people rush through their mornings, catching snippets of conversations, reading their moods through how they held their coffee cups. It was a skill, one that helped her navigate the world around her.

And it was that same skill that made her notice, almost immediately, that something was very wrong with Rafe Cameron the moment he walked into the café that day.

It wasn't just his usual brooding energy, the sharp edges of his arrogance that softened when he leaned on the counter to tease her. No, this was different. He looked... rough. His hoodie was rumpled like he'd slept in it, and his baseball cap sat crooked on his head. His eyes, always dark and sharp, were bloodshot, surrounded by deep shadows. His hands were shoved deep into his pockets, and his whole frame seemed tense, as though it was taking all his energy just to stay upright.

The bell above the door jingled softly as he stepped inside, and for a moment, Rebeca thought he wasn't even going to come to the counter. He paused by the door, his head ducked down like he didn't want to be seen. But then, as if pulled by an invisible string, he made his way to her station.

"Espresso," he muttered, his voice hoarse.

Rebeca frowned. "No sarcastic comments today? No telling me not to screw it up?"

He didn't reply, just stood there with his eyes cast downward. That was when she noticed his hands—slightly trembling, the tips of his fingers tapping rhythmically against his thigh like he couldn't stop himself.

Her chest tightened. She wasn't sure what she was seeing, but whatever it was, it wasn't good.

"Rafe," she said carefully, her voice low so only he could hear. "Are you okay?"

He glanced up at her, just for a second, and the look in his eyes was enough to make her breath catch. He looked... wrecked. Like he was barely holding himself together.

"I'm fine," he said, his tone clipped. But the way he gripped the edge of the counter said otherwise.

Rebeca hesitated. She didn't want to push, didn't want to overstep. But something about the way he was acting set off alarm bells in her head.

"Hang on," she said, turning away from the machine.

"Rebeca, I'm fine," Rafe repeated, more forcefully this time.

"No, you're not," she shot back, her tone firmer than she'd intended. "Sit down. I'll bring it to you."

He blinked, clearly not expecting her to challenge him. For a moment, she thought he might argue, but instead, he nodded silently and shuffled over to his usual spot at the counter.

Rebeca took her time making his espresso, using the opportunity to think. She didn't know much about Rafe's life outside of the café, but she wasn't stupid. She'd heard things—rumors about the Camerons, about their money, their reputation, the way Rafe seemed to drift through life like a storm cloud, leaving chaos in his wake.

She carried the cup over to him, setting it down gently in front of him. But instead of walking away, she leaned on the counter across from him, watching as he wrapped his hands around the small porcelain mug, his fingers still trembling.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked softly.

He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "What, you're my therapist now?"

"No," she said calmly, refusing to rise to the bait. "But you look like hell, Rafe. And I know it's not just because you didn't get enough sleep."

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, she thought he was going to shut her out completely. But then, something shifted. He sighed, running a hand through his hair before pulling his cap off and tossing it onto the counter.

"I'm... trying to quit," he admitted finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Quit what?" she asked, though a part of her already knew the answer.

"Coke," he said bluntly, the word heavy in the air between them. "And everything else, really."

Rebeca's stomach sank. She'd heard the whispers, of course—Rafe Cameron, the golden boy with a dark side. But hearing him admit it out loud was something else entirely.

"How long?" she asked, keeping her tone steady.

"Four days," he said, his voice laced with exhaustion. "Four days of feeling like my body's trying to tear itself apart."

Rebeca nodded slowly, trying to process what he was telling her. She'd never been in his position, but she'd known people who had. She knew how hard it was to claw your way out of something like that, how much it took just to survive the first few days.

"I'm proud of you," she said quietly, surprising even herself.

Rafe looked up at her, his expression incredulous. "You're what?"

"I said I'm proud of you," she repeated, meeting his gaze head-on. "Four days is a big deal. I know it doesn't feel like it right now, but it is."

He scoffed, but there was no real venom in it. "Yeah, well, it doesn't feel like anything except hell."

Rebeca leaned in closer, lowering her voice. "Have you eaten today?"

Rafe shook his head, and Rebeca sighed, her heart aching for him. "Wait here," she said, disappearing into the back.

A few minutes later, she returned with a plate of toast and a banana—simple, but enough to take the edge off. She set it in front of him without a word.

Rafe stared at the plate for a long moment before picking up a slice of toast and taking a hesitant bite.

"Thanks," he muttered, not meeting her eyes.

"You don't have to thank me," she said gently. "Just... take care of yourself, okay?"

For the first time that day, Rafe smiled. It was small and fleeting, but it was real.

"Guess you're not as scary as you look," he said, his voice lighter now.

"Don't push it," Rebeca shot back, but her lips quirked upward despite herself.

As he ate, the tension between them eased, and for the first time, Rebeca felt like she was seeing the real Rafe—not the cocky facade he put on for the world, but the person underneath, raw and vulnerable and trying his best to piece himself back together.

And as much as she hated to admit it, she wanted to be there to help him do it.

━━━━━ author's note !
first chapter out !! IK IK i said it was a cute little thing and our boy rafe is already suffering 😭 but i swear it will get better  !! (don't come at me pls)
on a more lighter note, i love the dynamic between rebeca and rafe and i can't wait to write more about them 🤭
let me know what you think and give a little star 🌟 if you like!

and goodnight to rafe cameron season 4 and him only