The blue glow of your laptop lit the dark room, soft enough to feel comforting, lonely enough to make you click the Start button on Omegle without thinking twice.

Talk to strangers.

You figured you’d see the usual — bored teenagers, creepy men, someone playing guitar, someone skipping you mid-sentence.

You didn’t expect him.

The camera loaded, pixelated for a moment… then focused.

A boy leaned back on a leather couch, hood up, curls brushing his forehead. Blue eyes, sharp even through a screen, studying you instead of his reflection like most guys did. Jawline cut and tense, like he didn’t smile often. He looked expensive. Dangerous. Bored.

And then he spoke.

“…You’re not skipping me?”

You blinked. “Were you expecting me to?”

His mouth pulled into a smirk, slow and amused. “Most girls do when they realize I’m not gonna pretend to play guitar or ask for their Snapchat in five seconds.”

“Oh,” you said, matching his dry tone. “So should I skip you later? For balance?”

He huffed a laugh — not loud, more like he wasn’t used to laughing at all. He adjusted the camera a bit and leaned closer, elbows on knees.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

You hesitated. “Why do you want to know?”

He didn’t get annoyed. If anything, he looked interested. “You look like someone I’ll want to remember.”

The confidence made your cheeks warm in a way you hated and liked at the same time.

“What’s yours then?”

“Rafe,” he answered immediately. “Rafe Cameron.”

You didn’t recognize the last name at first — until something clicked. One of the Kooks. Money. Controversy. Reputation.

Maybe you should’ve disconnected.

But you didn’t.

“So,” he asked, gaze never leaving the screen, “what are you doing on here? You don’t seem like someone who needs strangers to talk to.”

“I could say the same about you,” you shot back.

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing, like no one had ever challenged him before. “I don’t need anyone. I just… couldn’t sleep.”

That honesty surprised you.

Silence stretched — but it wasn’t awkward. It was charged.

Then he leaned back again, stretching out on the couch like he owned the whole world. “You’re way too calm,” he said. “Most girls get flustered by now.”

“Maybe you’re not as intimidating as you think.”

For a moment, the smirk disappeared — replaced by something darker, focused, almost hungry.

“Don’t challenge me, angel.”

The nickname hit harder because it wasn’t flirty — it sounded like a warning.

Before you could respond, a voice from off-screen called his name. A guy — laughing, telling him to come back to the party.

Rafe didn’t move.

“Give me a sec,” he told him, eyes still on you. “I’m busy.”

Your stomach flipped.

The voice insisted again. Rafe sighed, annoyed, then looked at you — really looked.

“Don’t disconnect,” he said. Not a request. A command softened just enough to sound like he cared. “I’ll be back.”

Then he reached forward and muted his mic — but didn’t turn off the camera. Didn’t skip you. Just walked away, hoodie and all, like he trusted you to wait.

And the crazy part?

You already knew you would.