The Cameron mansion is already alive with the kind of chaos only a Halloween party can bring — loud music vibrating through the walls, the chandelier casting orange and gold shadows, fake cobwebs tangled between banisters. It smells like cinnamon and cheap vodka. People are already drunk, laughing too loud, screaming when someone jumps out in a mask.

You don’t bother taking it all in. Your boots click against the marble floor as you step through the front doors, slipping past a group of cheerleaders in glittery skeleton suits. You’re dressed in black leather that fits like it was made for you, hugging every curve just enough to make people look twice. Little black cat ears sit on your head, your hair curled perfectly, the tail at the back swaying with every step. And the streak of fake blood dripping down from the corner of your mouth adds just the right kind of wicked.

You came because Sarah asked you to, and because Halloween is your thing. Rafe? He’s the last person you expected to care about this. He doesn’t do “themes.”

The kitchen is less crowded. The thumping bass from the other rooms is muffled here. You make a beeline for the drink table, reaching for the punch bowl without a second thought.

But you feel it before you see him. That kind of stare that makes your skin tingle like static.

Leaning back against the counter like he owns the air in the room, he’s dressed in all black — tight pullover, dark jeans. He’s not wearing a costume. Of course he’s not. His jaw is sharp, his hair messy like he didn’t even try.

“You shouldn’t come here like that.”

His voice is quiet, rough around the edges. It’s not a warning exactly — more like something he wasn’t supposed to say out loud.

You lift your head, and the height difference hits you immediately. His gaze doesn’t hide what it’s doing; it trails down, slow and deliberate, before meeting your eyes again. You should look away. You don’t.

“And what are you?” you ask, pouring your drink like the way his attention isn’t crawling under your skin. “A thief?”

A small scoff escapes him. It’s almost a laugh. Then he pushes off the counter, steps forward until the air feels heavier. His mouth finds the space next to your ear like it’s a habit.

“A thief?” he murmurs, low enough that it’s only for you. “Why? Did I steal your heart?”

You hate the way your breath hitches. His words are nothing new — Rafe flirts with danger like it’s oxygen — but the heat of his breath against your skin sends a shiver racing down your spine anyway.

You exhale through your nose, trying to ignore how close he is. “You’re not that smooth.”

“Maybe not.” He leans in just enough that your shoulder brushes against his chest when you move. “But you didn’t say no.”

You tense, jaw tightening. That’s the thing about him — Rafe never fully lets you figure him out. Some days, when you’re at Sarah’s, he’ll lean on doorframes and talk to you like no one else is in the room. Other times, you’ll pass him in the hallway and he’ll act like you don’t exist. A flick of a switch, and you never know which version of him you’ll get.

But tonight… he’s here. Watching you like you’re the only thing worth paying attention to.

You tilt your head up, meet his eyes — that sharp, stormy blue that always feels like it’s daring you to get closer.

“Maybe,” you say, letting the word linger on your tongue, “I should’ve dressed as something scarier.”

Rafe’s lips curve into the kind of smirk that makes your stomach twist. “Could’ve,” he whispers. “But then you wouldn’t have killed me like this.”

And for a second, with the music pulsing through the walls and the crowd echoing somewhere far away, it feels like the whole party fades around you. It’s just him. Just that look. Just the dangerous thrill of being near him.

And you know — like always — he’s trouble you’ll pretend you don’t want.