Six years. That’s how long it’s been since you left this house, this family—him.

Six years of peace. Of quiet mornings and clean slates. No more reassuring smiles from Rose. No more cold silence from Ward. And best of all, no more Rafe Cameron—you dear stepbrother—breathing down your neck like you were his personal curse.

You left at thirteen. He was sixteen. And you hated each other. Not the childish kind of hate. The real kind. Deep, ugly, venomous. The kind that made people scream in kitchens, slam doors, break things just to feel something. You swore you’d never speak to him again. And thank God, you didn’t.

Boarding school saved you. Six years of distance. Of freedom. Of becoming someone who didn’t flinch at cold stares across the dinner table.

But now you’re back.

Back under their roof. Back in the house where everything still smells like money and tension. Back in his orbit.

You’re standing in the foyer when you hear footsteps upstairs. Heavy. Familiar. A pause, then the quiet creak of the staircase.

And then you see him.

Rafe Cameron.

Older. Taller. Shirt hanging loose over his shoulders. Hair buzzed. Jaw sharper. Arms—what the fuck.

Muscled, veined, tan. His face is all shadow and sharp lines and that same unreadable stare he’s always had. But this time, his blue eyes catch on you. And don’t move.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t smirk. Just stands there, gripping the bannister like he’s trying to remember how to breathe.

And you? You’re not thirteen anymore.

You’re stunning. You know it. You’re glowing, golden, legs for days, lips glossed, curves no longer hidden under too-big t-shirts and teenage insecurity. You’ve grown into everything he never thought you’d become.

And suddenly, he knows it. The silence between you crackles like a lit fuse.

You tilt your head, lips curling. “Hi, Rafe.”

His jaw ticks. You let him look. No shame in your game.

Then you tilt your head, slow and smug, and say, “Miss me?”

Oh yeah.

This summer’s going to be fun.