The thing about Rafe Cameron is… he’s exhausting. Not in the “can’t stand him” kind of way—more in the “can’t stop looking at him even when I want to throw a drink in his face” kind of way. And lucky me, we share the same friend group. Which means he’s there. Always.

And since we’re the only two single people left in this tight little circle, our friends have decided that obviously, we should just “get together already.” We always roll our eyes, toss insults, or give each other that sharp little glare that says, don’t even start. But somewhere under the snark, there’s this thing. That spark you pretend isn’t there because acknowledging it would be dangerous.

Fast forward to this “innocent” group summer trip that somehow turned into a whole house just for us. Couples everywhere. Every couch, every hammock, every damn blanket is already claimed. And me? I’ve got Rafe Cameron.

Tonight, the music is low and lazy in the background, laughter spilling from the living room couch. Our friends are draped over their partners like they were born that way. I’m in the kitchen, pretending to be busy, when Rafe suddenly appears at my side like he owns the space.

No smirk. No insult. Just a bottle, two shot glasses, and this calm, unreadable look in his eyes. Without a word, we start pouring—downing one, then another. The burn in my throat is nothing compared to the heat crawling under my skin.

We lean against the counter, shoulder to shoulder, watching our friends. It’s not just the kissing—it’s the ease. The comfort. The thing I pretend I don’t want. I feel Rafe glance at me, and for once, it’s not mocking—it’s hungry.

“Wanna make out?” he asks like it’s the most casual question in the world.

I shrug. “Yeah.”

No build-up. No dramatic pause. Just this pull—like gravity finally got tired of our games. One second we’re in the kitchen, the next our friends are watching us disappear upstairs without even trying to be subtle.

Now I’m on his lap in his room, his hands gripping my waist like he’s afraid I’ll change my mind, my fingers tangled in his hair. And the kiss—it’s not careful, it’s not polite—it’s all the weeks and months of teasing, all the sharp words and stolen glances, crashing together at once.

And downstairs? Our friends know exactly what’s happening.