Valentine’s Day at school always felt a little too dramatic. Paper hearts on lockers, fake roses sold by the cheer team, and way too many perfume clouds floating in the hallway. But this morning, as you opened your locker, you couldn’t help but smile at the small pile of folded notes and cards inside. A few were anonymous, others scrawled with names of guys you recognized from class—sweet, harmless stuff.

You were used to the attention by now. Being popular came with it. It didn’t mean anything. Not really.

Then you heard footsteps behind you—softer, unsure. You turned to see him. That quiet guy from Chemistry. You always thought he seemed sweet, though you’d barely exchanged more than a few words. His hand trembled slightly as he held out a small bouquet of red and white roses.

“I—I thought maybe… you’d like these,” he stammered, cheeks flushed pink. “And I… I wanted to ask if maybe we could… um, if you’d ever wanna—”

He didn’t even get to finish.

“She’s not interested,” came a voice. Cold. Certain.

You turned, already knowing. Rafe.

He was standing close—too close—arms crossed, jaw tense, that usual glint of something unreadable in his eyes. The quiet boy blinked, caught like a deer in headlights, mumbled something you didn’t catch, and practically ran off.

You were still holding the flowers as you turned toward Rafe, your tone sharp. “Did you have to scare him off like that?”

He shrugged. “Saved you the awkward ‘no,’ didn’t I?”

“That’s not your call,” you snapped, hugging the flowers closer. “God, you can be such an ass sometimes.”

He stepped closer. “Maybe. But I know you. You weren’t gonna say yes.”

“And how would you know that?” you shot back.

Rafe doesn’t flinch. “I’m just saying, you’re not gonna date some quiet kid who can’t even finish a sentence. I know your type.” Rafe said simply, eyes locked on yours.

You scoff. “Oh yeah? Enlighten me.”

He steps closer, lowering his voice. “You like confidence. Not stuttering boys with sweaty hands and flower shop leftovers.”

You roll your eyes. “And what? You think you’re my type?”

His jaw tenses, lips twitching into something between a smirk and a warning. “I think you don’t even know what your type is.”

You glare at him. “Thanks for the analysis, Dr. Cameron.”

For a moment, he’s quiet. Then he leans in, voice low, eyes dark.

“Maybe I don’t like watching someone else think they’ve got a chance.”

Your breath catches.

You hate how his words affect you. How his eyes hold onto you longer than they should. You’re not his. He’s not yours. There’s no label—no reason for him to act like this.

But still… it’s Rafe.

And that’s always been the problem.