She never thought she’d catch him like this but here he was, Rafe Cameron, scrolling through her followers at three fucking a.m. Like seriously, who the hell does that? Most people sleep, dream, maybe scroll through memes quietly, but Rafe? Nope. He had to check her shit like a damn detective. She had been lying in bed, phone buzzing, half asleep, wondering why the fuck someone would care about her account that much. She had always liked keeping her life to herself, posting only when she felt like it, not giving a damn about clout or followers, yet here he was, creeping through every like, every comment, probably judging some random weirdo who dared follow her.

He was obsessive, she could tell. Not in a creepy way, though, well maybe a little, but mostly in a Rafe kind of way that made you question why your heart was racing even while you were pissed. He paused on some random dude who had liked her picture from last week and she swore she heard him mutter some low ass shit like what the fuck, seriously? She laughed quietly, shaking her head, trying not to wake her roommates, but the sound came out as a breathless snort. This was fucking insane. She had friends, sure, but she’d never imagined Rafe giving a shit about them at this hour.

She remembered when they met, him smirking in that asshole way, hair falling over his eyes, charm on full blast, and she’d thought he was just another hot guy who had no idea how to be normal. But no, he was complicated, messy, a little dangerous, and now apparently a nocturnal follower stalker. Her phone buzzed again, him liking a story she had posted hours ago. She cursed under her breath, trying to decide if she should confront him or let it slide, because fuck, it was kind of flattering even though she would never admit it out loud.

Her mind raced. What if he kept doing this every night? Did he not have a life? Was this just the Rafe Cameron way of showing he cared or was it some weird obsession that would eventually lead to disaster? She shook her head, pulling the blanket tighter, muttering fuck this shit, and yet part of her wanted to peek over his shoulder, to see the smug look on his face when he finally realized he was caught.

The thing was, she liked it. Liked it more than she wanted to admit. She wasn’t naïve, she knew his type, the kind of guy who was trouble wrapped in too-good-to-be-true, wrapped in reckless charm. She had always been drawn to him, the chaos in his laugh, the way he made her feel like the only person in the room, even if he was just scrolling through followers at three a.m. checking up on her like she was some precious fucking secret he needed to guard.

Hours passed and the city outside was quiet, but inside her room, her mind was spinning. She imagined him in his hoodie, phone in hand, scrolling through every single account that dared interact with her, muttering a bunch of curse words under his breath like some possessive motherfucker. She wanted to scream, laugh, and run to him all at once. She hated that he had this effect on her, that even when she was pissed, even when she knew it was intrusive, it also made her heart race, made her feel alive in some weird, fucked up way.

By the time she fell asleep, she could still hear his name in her head, Rafe Cameron, obsessive, careless, perfect asshole, and she knew tomorrow she’d tease him, maybe punch his arm, maybe kiss him just to see that smug little grin spread across his face. He would deny everything, swear he wasn’t doing anything, but she knew. She fucking knew. And somehow that made everything a little more thrilling, a little more dangerous, a little more them.

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