It started because rent was ridiculous.

You needed a roommate. Fast. And Rafe Cameron — yes, that Rafe — just happened to be looking for a place after his dad cut him off again.

“Chill,” he said with that cocky little smirk, tossing a duffel bag over his shoulder. “I’m housebroken. Mostly.”

You stared. “If you leave protein powder on the counter or hog the bathroom, I will kill you.”

He winked. “Can’t wait.”

The first few weeks were bearable.

He left his boots in the hallway. You blasted music when you cooked. You stole his hoodie once when your laundry was still wet, and he didn’t mention it—but you caught him smirking when you wore it again.

It was weirdly domestic. Too domestic.

He made coffee in the morning. Black. Strong. You liked it with too much cream, and he teased you relentlessly.

“Are you drinking coffee or melted ice cream?”

You shot back, “Are you always this obnoxious at 7 a.m.?”

He just grinned.

Then came the night everything shifted.

A thunderstorm rolled in. Power flickered, then cut out. You were curled on the couch with a blanket, phone dying, nerves buzzing from the thunder.

Rafe appeared in the doorway. “You good?”

“Storm’s just… not my thing.”

He hesitated, then walked over. Sat beside you.

“I don’t like storms either,” he said after a beat. “Used to scare me as a kid. Thought they’d rip the roof off.”

You looked at him—really looked at him. His jaw was tight. Hands flexing.

“Still scare you?”

He glanced at you, honest and raw. “Sometimes.”

You didn’t say anything. Just offered him the other end of the blanket.

He took it.

Neither of you moved for the rest of the night.

Moments you didn’t expect. Softness buried under sarcasm. Late-night takeout on the floor. Him fixing the leaky faucet and acting like it wasn’t a big deal. You patching up his busted knuckles without asking what happened.

Until one night, he stumbled in, eyes bloodshot, voice quiet.

You ever think maybe we were meant to find each other like this?” he asked, slumping beside you on the couch.