No one ever thought me and Rafe Cameron would end up together. Hell, I wouldn’t have believed it myself. I’m the girl everyone stares at but no one really approaches—not unless they’ve got a death wish or a brain cell shortage.

They call me a rockstar whore like it’s an insult. Probably because I wear black like it’s my religion, show more skin than they’re used to, and walk around with eyeliner sharp enough to slit a throat. I don’t smile. I don’t wave. If someone makes eye contact too long, I tell them I’ll gouge their eyes out with the scissors in my bag. And yes, I have the scissors.

Guys still try. They think the anger is hot. Think they can fix me or tame me or some other pathetic fantasy. I shut them down fast.

I’ve only got one real friend. She’s all sunbeams and iced coffee and calling me “babe” like it’s her job. The opposite of me in every way, and yet she’s the only one I let hug me without flinching.

Then there’s Rafe.

Golden boy. Reckless. Sharp jaw, messier soul. He should’ve been just another name I threatened in the hallway. But for some cursed reason, he didn’t flinch when I snapped at him. When I told him I’d cut out his tongue if he looked at my legs one more time, he just smiled. Like I’d written him a love letter.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” I asked him once. “You. Hopefully.”

He’s insufferable. Obnoxious. Pretty. And unfortunately, mine.

Not that I go around bragging. I don’t hold his hand. I don’t write his name in hearts. If someone asks, I say “unfortunately, yeah, that’s my boyfriend,” and roll my eyes so hard it hurts. But when he calls me at 2 a.m. just to say he likes my voice, I don’t hang up.

Today though? Today he tested my patience.

He was standing at my locker when I got there—arms crossed, cocky smirk, and holding the most ridiculous bouquet of red roses I’ve ever seen. Full-on romantic-comedy energy. Right in front of everyone.

I stopped short, glaring at him.

“What. Is. That.” “Flowers,” he said like I was stupid. “For you.” “Do I look like a girl who wants roses, Rafe?” “You look like a girl who’ll stab me for thinking she’s soft. But I brought them anyway.”

I stared at him. Hard. And yeah, okay, maybe my chest did that annoying little squeeze thing.

“Are you trying to humiliate me?” “Kind of hoping it’ll make you blush.” “I don’t blush.” “Liar. You did last week when I kissed your shoulder.”

I hated how casually he said that. Like he knew I remembered. Like he knew it meant something.

People were watching, whispering. I could hear them already: Why is he dating her? Why is she letting him talk to her like that? I hated them. I hated feeling.

But I reached out and snatched the bouquet anyway. Not gently. He didn’t even flinch.

“You’re lucky you’re hot,” I muttered. “And you’re lucky I’m into terrifying girls with knives.”

He leaned down, brushed his lips near my ear. I tensed. He knew I would.

“Happy whatever,” he whispered. “You don’t have to say anything. Just don’t throw them out immediately. That’s all I ask.”

I didn’t respond. Didn’t thank him. I shoved the flowers into my locker like they were some cursed object. But I didn’t throw them away. I didn’t leave. I didn’t yell.

I turned back around, glared at him one more time, then said flatly:

“You’re walking me to class. Say one cheesy thing and I swear I’ll break your knees.” “Yes, ma’am,” he grinned. Asshole.

But he walked beside me.

And maybe I walked a little slower.