ᯓ★ You were Rafe Cameron’s girlfriend, which to most girls sounded like a dream.

He was handsome as hell, bought expensive gifts like it was nothing, took you out every weekend, and was definitely the kind of boyfriend no one stopped talking about.

And in bed?

Yeah—he knew exactly what he was doing.

But you?

You were stubborn.

You refused to accept his gifts without giving him something back, no matter how ridiculous the price difference was. So you’d hand him little presents of your own—cheap bracelets, random shirts, keychains, things that definitely did not match the watches and bags he bought you.

He kept every single one.

Mostly because he loved you.

And because he’d rather die than hurt your feelings by throwing them out.

When you got a job bartending at a coastside bar, he hated the idea immediately.

Said he could buy you anything you wanted. Asked why the hell you needed to work at all.

But you wanted your own money, your own routine, your own life outside of being his girlfriend.

So he gave in.

Mostly because everyone knew you were the one person who could boss him around and get away with it.

On days he worked, he’d pick you up after shift.

On weekends, he’d sit and wait for you to finish—especially on night shifts.

And tonight?

Tonight was one of the bad ones.

The guy at the bar picked the absolute worst night to flirt with you.

Mostly because Rafe was sitting only a few stools away, watching the whole thing.

The customer kept brushing your hand whenever he passed cash over, leaning too close each time he ordered.

“You look real gorgeous for a bartender,” he said with a grin.

You gave the same polite smile you gave everyone.

From the corner of your eye, you saw Rafe tighten.

Still seated.

One hand around his glass so hard you were surprised it hadn’t cracked yet. You shot him a glare. Don’t.

He leaned back, trying to act casual, muttering a quiet “S’all good” when you passed him.

But then the guy scribbled his number on a napkin, folded it, slid it over with a tip, then flashed a stupid little call me gesture.

You stared at it.

Then slid it back.

“I think my boyfriend wouldn’t appreciate that,” you said flatly. “Thanks for the tip, though.”

The guy laughed.

“Oh c’mon, he isn’t here, is he?”

“He is, actually.”

“Really?” he said, looking around with a smirk. “Where, huh?”

A low voice cut in from beside him.

“Right here.”

Rafe was still sitting down.

One arm draped over the bar stool, the other still gripping his glass, eyes lifted toward the guy with a slow smirk that looked more dangerous than friendly.

“Keep flirtin’ with my girl, though,” he added lazily. “You seem real smart.”