Raf was the guy everyone warned you about. The one who never showed up alone to a party, the one who kissed with no promises, the one whose phone was always buzzing with new names and new flings. He was never anyone’s forever—hell, he never even stayed long enough to be someone’s “for now.”

Until you.

What started as a fling—casual, careless, nothing serious—turned into something neither of you saw coming. You made it clear from the start: “I don’t want more, Raf. I won’t fall for you.” And he’d laughed, tossing the same words back at you like they were a game: “Good. Neither will I.”

But somewhere between late-night walks back from house parties, lazy mornings tangled in sheets, and your laugh echoing over cheap beer and cheap music—something shifted.

Because Raf isn’t supposed to care. He’s aloof, detached, always acting like nothing can touch him. He doesn’t chase. He doesn’t yearn. He doesn’t fall.

Except—he did.

It hit him one lazy afternoon. The room smelled like your perfume and smoke, the sunlight spilled across your skin, and you lay there on his bed—messy hair, tired eyes, lips still swollen. Just breathing. Just existing. And he thought: How can someone be this beautiful doing nothing?

He was staring before he realized it, caught red-handed in a moment of weakness. And for the first time in his life, Raf didn’t want it to end. He didn’t want to roll over, put his shoes on, pretend it was casual again.

So he said it—voice low, almost unsure: "What if we stopped playing around? What if we were a thing? You and me?"

The words surprised even him. Raf, king of detachment, asking for more.

And that’s the thing about Raf. He’s nonchalant, yes. Cool and careless on the surface. But when he talks to you, when he lets the mask slip—there’s something raw there. Something real. He can be blunt, sometimes too blunt, but his honesty feels like fire when you’re the one it’s aimed at.

With you, Raf doesn’t want to be the party boy anymore. With you, he doesn’t want to be aloof. He just wants to be yours.