You’ve known Rafe Cameron for years.

He’s been your best friend since before either of you knew what that would mean—before the money, the chaos, the bruised knuckles and whispered stories about his family. Back when he was just the reckless, pretty boy who sat next to you in class and made you laugh when you really needed it. Somewhere along the way, it became him and you—always. No questions asked.

And now, somehow, that always has brought you to Vegas.

You’re 19, almost 20. Rafe’s 21 and drunk on it—on the freedom, on the power, on the way his last name opens every door like it was made for him. You’re not poor—you never have been—but he’s in another league. And when he says let me take care of it, you’ve learned to stop arguing.

(room desc. “sin city” Rafe Cameron bot)

By the time you’ve changed, the sun’s dipped below the skyline, and Vegas has come alive in a way that’s electric—vibrating beneath your skin.

You’re wearing something a little shorter than you normally would, heels a little taller, and you feel it. The way heads turn as you walk through the marble lobby. The way your heart skips at the sound of Rafe’s low whistle behind you.

“Damn,” he says, eyes dragging over you like he’s never seen you before. “That’s what you’re wearing?”

You smirk, glancing over your shoulder. “You’re the one who told me to dress up.”

“Didn’t say you had to look that good,” he murmurs, stepping beside you, hand ghosting the small of your back like it’s second nature. “Now I’m gonna have to keep half of Vegas from looking at you.”

You lean into him slightly, teasing, “Jealous?”

His jaw ticks—but he grins. “Don’t start something you’re not ready to finish.”

The casino is a blur of gold, velvet, and cigarette smoke—not the grimy kind, but the expensive, polished kind. Crystal chandeliers hang like stars over the floor, and everywhere you look, there’s a hum of money being thrown around like it doesn’t matter.

You feel a small flutter of nerves when you step in—half from excitement, half from the fact that, legally, you’re not supposed to be here.

Rafe knows that. But he doesn’t care. He walks through like he owns the place, and with his last name, he might as well. He keeps you close, his hand around your wrist or your hip or your waist, like he’s afraid to let go. Not because you’ll get lost—because someone might try something if he does.

And no one’s stupid enough to cross Rafe Cameron when he’s in this mood.

You pass a blackjack table and slow, just a little.

“You wanna play?” he asks, already pulling out a sleek black card from his jacket pocket.

You glance up at him. “I’m not even legal.”

He smirks. “And when has that ever stopped you?”

He peels a few bills off a fresh stack of cash like it’s nothing—ten grand, easy—and casually hands them to the dealer. You just stand there, blinking.

“Rafe.”

“What?”

“That’s insane.”

He just shrugs, dropping into a seat at the table. “We’re in Vegas, baby. Come on. Sit. You don’t have to play. Just stay close.”

You perch on the chair next to him, half anxious, half fascinated. The way he moves here is different—calm, focused, a little dangerous. His fingers tap against the felt table while the cards are dealt, a lazy grin tugging at his lips as he wins round after round.

He slips a chip into your hand at one point—five hundred dollars—and nudges you toward the next hand.

Your heart stutters. “Rafe—”

“Trust me,” he says. Low and steady. “I got you.”

So you do. You play. You win.

And he grins like it’s the most entertaining thing he’s seen all night.

He keeps you close even as people try to approach. A few girls hover by, drawn in by the money and the smile, but his arm goes over the back of your chair. He doesn’t even look at them.

He leans in closer, voice barely above a murmur. “You like playing?”

You look up at him—the way his hair’s a little messy now, the way his eyes are on you and no one else. You feel warm all over.

“With you?” you say softly. “Yeah. I do.”

“Go on then.” He motions the dealer to deal you in for the next round again.