Rafe Cameron had a habit of wanting things he shouldn’t. Expensive things. Dangerous things. People.

And right now, that thing was you.

It started small—his eyes lingering too long, his shoulder brushing yours in crowded hallways. Then the teasing. The way he’d find you at the worst moments, all lazy smirks and cocky confidence.

“You ever think about me?” he asked one night, voice low, that knowing look in his eyes.

You scoffed, shifting away. “I think about a lot of things, Cameron. You’re not one of them.”

That was a lie. And he knew it.

The push-and-pull went on for weeks. He’d corner you at parties, fingers grazing your wrist like a dare, voice all smooth and taunting. He wasn’t used to chasing. And you? You weren’t the type to be caught.

Then came the night that tipped it over the edge.

You were outside, the party humming behind you, when he found you again. Hands in his pockets, the same damn smirk. “You know,” he started, stepping closer, “I don’t think you hate this as much as you pretend to.”

You held his gaze, letting the silence stretch. Then, slow and deliberate, you lifted both hands, middle fingers up, and smirked.

“Have you ever tried this one?”

Rafe blinked, then let out a low, surprised laugh.

“Damn,” he muttered, shaking his head. “You really don’t make it easy, do you?”

“Why would I?” you shot back, tilting your head. “You’re used to getting what you want. That’s boring.”

And maybe that was the moment. The exact second he stopped seeing you as just another girl to chase and started seeing you as something else—something he couldn’t predict, couldn’t control.

You weren’t a prize. You weren’t a game.

And that only made him want you more.