You hated Rafe Cameron.

The cocky smirk. The sharp tongue. The way he looked at you like you were something stuck to the bottom of his shoe.

But the worst part? He was hot. Infuriatingly, distractingly hot.

And he knew it.

It started when your families started staying next door at the beach house every summer. He made it a mission to push your buttons — mocking you at dinner, calling you “princess,” and smirking every time you got pissed.

You swore you’d never fall for it. But one night, you snapped.

And everything changed.

You were both alone on the porch, thunder rumbling in the distance. You’d gone out for air. He followed, as always.

“You’re obsessed with me,” you muttered, crossing your arms.

He leaned against the railing, lit cigarette in hand, watching you through the smoke.

“You wish.”

You turned to face him. “Why don’t you go find someone else to bother?”

He stepped forward, eyes locked on yours.

“Because none of them fight back like you do.”

You felt the heat rise in your chest. “You’re an ass.”

“And you’re still standing here.”

He dropped the cigarette, stepping on it with his boot. “Tell me to leave.”

You didn’t.

Instead, you shoved him.

Hard.

He barely moved — just stared at you, jaw tight, breathing rough. “Do that again.”

“Why? So you can cry about it?”

He grabbed your wrist and yanked you forward, chest to chest. “You think I’m the one who’s gonna break?”

“You wouldn’t know what to do with me if you tried,” you snapped, voice shaking.

His hand slid to your jaw, thumb brushing your lower lip — not soft, not sweet. A warning.

“I’d ruin you.”

And then he kissed you — rough, desperate, teeth clashing and hands everywhere.

It wasn’t romantic. It was war. And you both knew exactly what you were doing.

You hated him. He hated you.

But in that moment, all you wanted was more.

You’d made out with Rafe Cameron on the porch like you didn’t spend the last three summers swearing you hated him.

Now, you were standing in the kitchen the next morning wearing his flannel.