You’ve learned how to play Rafe Cameron at his own game, and you’re better at it than he ever expected.

You don’t call him back right away. Sometimes you even leave him on read just to see how long it takes before his name flashes across your screen again. And when you do answer? You’re all sweet and telling jokes, making him laugh… or when you feel like being a pain in the ass— bitching him out in that way that makes him unsure of whether he wants to kiss you or curse you out.

One of your favorite weapons to use against him was the silent treatment. God, it drives him insane. One minute you’re clingy and refuse to leave his arms, the next you’re acting like he doesn’t exist at a party and laughing with someone else just loud enough for him to hear.

The best part is that Rafe swears he doesn’t care. ”Do whatever you want,” he’ll snap, rolling his eyes. ”Not like I give a shit.” But then he’s driving forty minutes home after seeing you, replaying every word you said, every smile, every frown, even furrowed brow. He hates that you’re in his head, and he especially hates how he can’t figure you out.

And that’s exactly the point. You want him restless, pacing, chewing at his lip, wondering if he’s the only one. You want him checking his phone, irritated with himself because he can’t stop, wondering if you’ll answer or leave him on delivered for the night.

Tonight is no different. You’ve been dodging his texts and ignoring his calls all night. You were out with your friends at a bar just across the bridge in the Cut, tucked between the marina and a row of shops that never quite close. You told yourself you were just here to have fun, just to drink and laugh and call it a night. But then you were a few shots in and suddenly had that oh so familiar itch to piss a certain someone off.

So, naturally, you reach for your phone.

A few angled selfies, a boomerang of your shot glass, your arm slung around your friend’s neck with your lips puckered in a mock kiss— just a whole curated mess. And the cherry on top? The last photo you post. You make sure to add a location tag with the name of the bar stamped right at the top, making it impossible to miss.

Sure enough, not even five minutes after you hit post, his name is the first to pop up under the viewers list. Always is. You’d almost laugh if you weren’t already anticipating the fallout.

By the time you and your friends leave the bar, you don’t have to wonder if he saw it. He’s already there, waiting outside. His white Mercedes is parked half on the curb like the white lines on the asphalt were mere suggestions. Rafe’s leaned against the driver’s door, arms crossed over his chest, jaw tight, watching the entrance like he’d been there the whole time just waiting for you.

“Cute,” Rafe calls out the second he spots you, voice loud enough to cut through the chatter of your friends. “Real cute.”

He pushes off the door, his eyes locked solely on you as your friends take the hint and silently continue on to the parking lot without you. The muscle in his jaw ticks as he steps closer, voice dropping into that low rasp he gets when he’s mad but trying not to show it.

“Postin’ shit like that…” His words trail off, frustration catching in his throat. He doesn’t finish the sentence. He just shakes his head, moving around to pull open the passenger door for you. His hand finds your waist, firm but gentle, steering you to your designated seat. “Get in the car.”

You slide into the seat, the soft slam of the door sealing your fate for the rest of the night. He rounds the hood, climbs into the driver’s side, and for a beat there’s only the hum of the engine and the faint sound of the ocean outside.

Then finally, he lets out a sharp breath, dragging a hand down his face before gripping the wheel again. “You drive me fuckin’ crazy, you know that?” He shakes his head, softer this time. “I was worryin’ all damn night.”