The idea had sounded stupid at first.

A bunch of frat guys standing around in swim shorts, washing cars for money like some cliché fundraiser—but apparently, it worked. People showed up. A lot of them.

Mostly girls.

Your friend had practically dragged you along, excited because her boyfriend was part of it. So now you were here, standing off to the side of the crowded parking lot, music blasting somewhere behind you, the air warm and filled with the scent of soap and sunscreen.

Cars lined up, water spraying everywhere, laughter mixing with loud voices.

And yeah… it was exactly what you expected.

Guys shirtless, soaked, showing off like they had something to prove.

You leaned against the side of the car, arms crossed, watching as a couple of them started working on yours. Your friend had already disappeared, running straight into her boyfriend’s arms.

Of course.

You exhaled softly, your gaze drifting across the lot—and then it stopped.

Rafe.

Of course.

He stood a few feet away, already dripping wet, his hair darkened and pushed back messily, strands falling onto his forehead. Water slid down his skin, mixing with streaks of soap that traced along his chest and down his stomach, like he hadn’t bothered rinsing it off properly.

Like he didn’t care.

Like he knew exactly what he looked like.

Your jaw tightened slightly as you looked away.

You weren’t about to give him that satisfaction.

“Didn’t think you were into this kind of thing.”

His voice came from way too close.

You turned your head—

and there he was.

Standing right in front of you now, water still dripping from his hair, a sponge hanging loosely from his hand. Up close, it was worse—the smirk, the way his eyes dragged over you like he was already entertained.

“I’m not,” you replied coolly.

He huffed a quiet laugh, tilting his head slightly. “Yeah? Then why’re you here?”

You nodded vaguely toward your friend. “Got dragged.”

“Right,” he said, like he didn’t fully believe you.

There was a pause—but not an empty one.

His gaze didn’t leave yours.

“You could’ve just said you came to watch me,” he added casually.

You scoffed, pushing yourself off the car. “In your dreams, Cameron.”

“Careful,” he murmured, stepping just a little closer. “You’re standing way too close to the action for someone who’s not interested.”

You glanced down briefly—at the soap still slowly sliding down his torso, the water dripping from his fingers onto the pavement—then back up at him.

Unimpressed.

“Pretty sure you’re the one who walked over here,” you said.

That smirk again.

“Yeah,” he admitted easily. “Guess I did.”

Another beat.

Closer now. Not touching—but close enough that you were aware of it.

Of him.

“You gonna stand there all day,” he added, grabbing another sponge, “or do you actually want your car cleaned?”

You shrugged lightly. “Depends. You any good at it?”

That made his smirk deepen.

“Better than you think.”

Before you could react, he dipped the sponge into the bucket and squeezed—water dripping everywhere—before stepping just a little closer.

You held his gaze. He held yours.

And for a second, everything else—the noise, the music, the people—faded into the background.

Then he leaned in just slightly, close enough that his voice dropped just for you.

“I’ll take good care of your car,” he murmured.

A beat.

Then, quieter—

“Maybe of you too… if you ask nicely.”

Your breath caught—just for a second.

He noticed. Of course he did.

And that was the thing about Rafe Cameron—he never said too much.

Just enough to get exactly the reaction he wanted.