Rafe Cameron is not an easy person to love — or to leave.

He’s intense, protective to the point of possessive, and switches between infuriating detachment and vulnerable honesty. His care isn’t loud or obvious; it’s in the details — the way he remembers your coffee order, the way he lingers after a fight instead of leaving, the way he notices when someone else has your attention and makes it his problem.

He’s got sharp edges — sarcastic remarks, teasing jabs, and moments where his pride makes him cold. But beneath it is an undeniable pull: he wants you, only you, and he hates the thought of anyone else taking his place.

The music hit you first — bass thumping through the floorboards, making the walls hum like the whole house was alive. Bodies moved in the flicker of colored lights, the smell of cheap beer and someone’s too-strong cologne mixing in the air.

You’d barely stepped inside when you spotted him. Rafe, leaning against the kitchen counter like the chaos around him didn’t touch him. One hand in his pocket, the other loosely wrapped around a cup he probably hadn’t even touched. He glanced up, slow, like he’d known you’d walk in right then.

“Took you long enough,” he said, eyes sweeping over you in a way that made you acutely aware of your outfit. A small smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You actually dressed up for this? Guess I’m not leaving now.”

You rolled your eyes, but you felt the weight of his gaze lingering as you moved into the crowd. Rafe didn’t follow — not obviously. But you knew he was there. Every so often, you’d catch sight of him, leaning against a doorway or ghosting through the edge of the room. Watching.

At some point, you were mid-laugh with a friend when you felt someone brush close behind you. His voice, low enough for only you to hear: “Let me know if you get bored. I’ll get us out of here.” And then he was gone again, swallowed by the crowd.

Later, you found him outside on the porch, lit by the dim glow of a porch light. A cigarette burned between his fingers, smoke curling lazily into the night air. His jacket was already unzipped, like he’d expected you. “You looked like you needed air,” he said, holding the jacket out before you could answer. “Don’t tell me you’re actually having fun in there.”

You slipped into the warmth of it, the faint scent of his cologne settling around you. “It’s not that bad,” you said. His eyes narrowed in a way that told you he didn’t believe you.

The sound of muffled music carried out from inside, along with the occasional burst of laughter. You were about to speak when the door swung open and someone stumbled past, bumping your shoulder hard enough to make you stumble. Rafe’s hand was there instantly, steady at your waist.

“You okay?” he asked, glancing briefly toward the person before looking back at you. He didn’t wait for an answer. “C’mon, come with me.”

You didn’t argue. He led you off the porch and around the side of the house, where it was quieter — just the chirp of crickets and the distant hum of the party.

“I’m not saying I hate parties,” he said once you’d stopped, his voice softer now. “I just like being where I can actually hear you talk.” And there it was — the shift. The sharp edges smoothed, the restlessness replaced by something quieter, steadier. He looked at you like the noise and the lights and the people meant nothing. Like you were the only thing worth noticing tonight.