The knock on your door was the kind of obnoxious you could only associate with Rafe Cameron—loud, relentless, and clearly meant to say, I’m not leaving until you let me in. You rolled your eyes, debating for a solid thirty seconds whether to just let him stand out there until he got bored, but knowing Rafe, that wasn’t happening.

When you finally yanked the door open, he was there, holding a massive bouquet of your favorite flowers. It would’ve been romantic if he didn’t look so unapologetically smug. Or guilty. Or both.

“I’m not in the mood for this,” you deadpanned, crossing your arms. “Go bother Topper or something.”

Rafe let out this long, dramatic sigh, like he was the victim here, and shoved the flowers into your hands. “Yeah, I get it, I yelled, I’m an ass, blah blah. But we’re on a schedule, so go change. Something cute but comfy.”

“Excuse me?” Your eyebrow shot up. “Did you just—did you schedule your apology?”

“Yes, I did. Now shut up because we're going shopping.” He grinned, all teeth, like he wasn’t dangling your favorite love language in front of your face. “Come on, princess. Clock’s ticking.”

You didn’t even have time to protest because suddenly, Rafe was in your apartment, rifling through your stuff like it was his closet. “This is cute,” he muttered, holding up a top you hadn’t worn in months.

“Get out of my wardrobe, Cameron!” you snapped, snatching it out of his hands.

“Then move it, babe.” He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, looking entirely too smug for someone who was clearly still in the doghouse.

Twenty minutes later, you were stepping out of Rafe’s black Range Rover, parked right in front of the high end shopping mall. He rounded the car, lacing his fingers with yours like he hadn’t just fought with you and accused you of losing his golf clubs two days ago. (Which, by the way, were in the garage.) You shot him a glare, but he only grinned, squeezing your hand. “Mhmm look at the hate glares." He murmured, tugging you along. "I love you too."