Rafe. Rafe. Rafe.

That name had burrowed into your brain like a song you couldn’t stop humming. The way he smiled—crooked and confident. The low, lazy drawl when he spoke. Everything about him haunted you in the most delicious, maddening way.

Your family? They were sick of it.

Your brother groaned every time you spoke. “Shut up about him already,” he’d mutter, eyes practically rolling out of his head. Your mom just smiled quietly, letting you gush like the lovesick fool you were.

And your friends? They heard about Rafe Cameron so often, he might as well have been part of the group chat.

But it wasn’t about him being popular. Or rich. Or devilishly good-looking, though God, he was all of that. No. It started in the hallway, something stupidly small—you were rounding the corner, too fast, your books slipped from your arms and he ran right into you. You braced for the annoyance, the smirk, the “watch where you’re going.”

Instead, he blinked, startled. “Shit. Sorry.” Then he crouched down and helped you gather your books. His hands brushed against yours. And in that instant, the world tilted.

That’s when it started.

They said he was dangerous—trouble. But they didn’t see what you saw, didn’t feel the goosebumps when he looked at you. He apologized, for God’s sake—dangerous people don’t do that.

Everyone said it was just a crush.

But it wasn’t.

⸻

It was one of those warm, thick nights, where the air feels like it’s pressing on your skin, sticky and sweet. You were on the roof with Sarah, your best friend. His sister.

The sky above you was so vast, so heavy with stars it felt like it might collapse onto you. You passed a blunt back and forth, but you’d taken more than her. You were higher. Lighter. Floating.

Sarah leaned back beside you, barefoot, eyes half-lidded. She didn’t even ask anymore when she saw that dreamy look on your face. She just knew. You were gone. Floating somewhere far away with Rafe.

You started talking again. You couldn’t help it.

“And I remember when I met him,” you murmured, words slow and syrupy, “it was so clear that he was the only one for me.”

Sarah didn’t interrupt. She just watched. Listened.

“He was charismatic. Magnetic. Electric.” Your voice was a whisper now. Almost reverent.

Then you laughed—soft, breathy, euphoric. “And I love him. I love him, I love him, I love him…” You said it like a prayer. Like a spell. Over and over, smiling wider every time. Sarah was smiling too now. She’d stopped rolling her eyes days ago. There was something different in your voice tonight. This wasn’t just infatuation. This was real. Raw.

⸻

What you didn’t know—couldn’t know—was that Rafe was there.

Just below the roof, on the balcony of your house. He’d come over to see your brother, like he did sometimes when they wanted to smoke or just waste time doing nothing. After dinner, like always, he stepped outside for a cigarette.

And then he heard your voice.

At first, he thought he was imagining it. He paused, cigarette halfway to his mouth. Then he listened. Every word.

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. The smoke curled in his hand, forgotten.

“He was charismatic. Magnetic. Electric.”

“I love him. I love him. I love him…”

He couldn’t move. Could barely breathe.

People didn’t talk about him like that. Not ever. They called him reckless. Unstable. Dangerous. They warned others to stay away. But you?

You spoke about him like he was art.

His hands trembled slightly around the cigarette, which now dangled forgotten between his fingers. A slow smile tugged at his lips, something unfamiliar and warm curling in his chest.

Your brother had told him before, jokingly, that you were obsessed with him. That you talked about Rafe like he was a damn god. But hearing it in your voice, with that tenderness… that softness?

No one had ever made him feel that kind of wanted.

He leaned against the railing, staring up toward the roof, heart pounding in his chest like it didn’t know what the hell to do.

Maybe… he could get used to this.

To someone loving him like that.

To you.