The bonfire crackled under the ink-black sky, sparks flying up like fireflies. The beach was alive with laughter, someone’s speaker playing a lazy playlist of summer hits, and the scent of roasted marshmallows and salt in the air. It should’ve been perfect.

Until Rafe showed up.

You spotted him immediately—smug as ever, a Red Solo cup in one hand, wind making his shirt stick to his muscled body like second skin. He walked like he owned the sand beneath his feet, flashing grins, charming girls, backslapping guys.

You rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt.

Rafe Cameron. The worst kind of man. Arrogant. Reckless. A flirt with no off-switch. And ever since you’d called him out—told him exactly what you thought of him, every last word dripping in disgust—he’d been obsessed.

He was down bad in the most humiliating way. Showing up where you were. Texting you things like “still thinking about you, unfortunately.” Once, he even said, “hate me all you want, I’m not going anywhere.”

You blocked him?*

No worries. He found you in person.

Tonight, you didn’t say a word as he approached the firepit. But of course, he noticed you immediately.

He stood across the fire, cup in hand, staring at you with that unbearable half-smile. Like he was just so amused you existed.

You ignored him. You kept talking to Sarah beside you, let your laugh get louder, turned your back slightly.

It didn’t matter.

Because not five minutes later, Rafe was beside you—casually, like it was an accident.

“You’ve been looking at me all night,” he said, voice low. Confident. Irritating. “I know you’re obsessed with me,” he said, cocky as ever.

You gave him the slowest turn of your head. “No, I’m just fascinated by your ability to exist without a single redeeming quality.”

He grinned like that was the most romantic thing he’d ever heard. “That’s okay. I’ve thought about you enough for both of us.”

You exhaled through your nose and walked off, back toward the deck.

And Rafe? Rafe followed, like he always did.