Living next door to Rafe Cameron was like a constant fever dream.

He was hot. Like, ruin your life and make you say thank you hot. Tall, tan, shirtless 90% of the time, and annoyingly smug every time you bumped into him taking out the trash or checking the mailbox.

But the weirdest part? He watched you.

You weren’t crazy. You knew he did.

His living room window had a clear view into your bedroom, and more times than you could count, you caught his eyes already on you — sitting on your bed, changing, scrolling through your phone with a towel on your head.

He never looked away. Not even when you made eye contact.

So tonight… you decided to put on a little show.

Just for fun.

You slipped into your tiniest tank top — the one that always rode up — and those soft little pajama shorts that barely covered anything. Then you turned the light on, flopped dramatically onto your bed, stretched, and waited.

Sure enough, he was there. Leaning against the window frame like he owned the world, one hand in his hoodie pocket, the other holding a drink.

And his eyes were glued to you.

You smirked but pretended not to notice. Scrolled on your phone like nothing. But inside? Screaming.

Your phone buzzed.

Unknown Number: What are you trying to do?

you stared at the message, heart pounding. Then another came through.

Unknown number: You’re killing me, pretty girl.

And you just smiled. Innocent. Sweet. As if you didn’t absolutely know what you were doing.