I always thought Rafe Cameron was the type of guy who thrived on chaos — the sharp suits, late nights, messy edges. And in some ways, he was. But what I never expected was how much the small, simple things he did would make me melt.

It started with something stupid: he fixed the cabinet door in my kitchen without me even asking. Just walked in, shirt sleeves rolled up, tools in hand, muttering under his breath about how I shouldn’t “have to live with broken hinges.”

I leaned against the counter, arms folded, watching him. “Didn’t know you were such a handyman.”

He shot me a look, tightening the screw. “Didn’t know you were helpless.”

“Not helpless,” I teased. “Just smart enough to let you do the work.”

The corner of his mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile. “Uh-huh. That’s what we’re calling it?”

Watching him focus, brows furrowed, shoulders tense, I swear I’d never seen anything sexier.

From there, it was the little things — unloading the dishwasher before I woke up, making sure my car had gas, carrying in groceries with a dramatic sigh.

And every time, it chipped away at the image of Rafe as just Sarah’s reckless brother. He wasn’t reckless here. With me, he was steady. Reliable.

But it wasn’t just about responsibility. It was how he listened when I talked, how he remembered things I barely realized I’d said. A new book I wanted. My favorite coffee order. The way I hated being left in the dark.

And God, the way he’d assemble IKEA furniture like it was nothing, his hands sure and steady, smirking when I’d sit on the half-built chair just to annoy him.

“Really?” he’d sigh, eyes narrowing.

“What?” I’d grin, swinging my legs. “I’m testing it out.”

“Careful, princess,” he’d say, voice low, “it’s not ready yet. Don’t want you getting hurt.”

I’d roll my eyes, but my heart would always race at the warning hidden in his tone.

That was the thing about Rafe. Everyone else saw the sharp edges, the troublemaker. But with me, it was the little things. The dishes, the late-night talks, the quiet moments where he wasn’t Rafe Cameron the chaos — he was just mine.

And somewhere between his smirk over a screwdriver and the way he kissed me after a long day, I realized: the small things weren’t small at all. They were everything.