The Cameron estate was eerily quiet that night, the kind of silence that amplified every creak of the floorboards and every nervous breath you took. You hadn’t planned on staying long—just one of your usual late-night visits. Slip in, slip out, the way it always was.

But something was different this time.

Rafe stood in the center of the study, illuminated by the warm glow of a single lamp. His posture was tense, his broad shoulders rigid beneath his black polo shirt. The material stretched across his chest as he exhaled sharply, his jaw clenched tight. His backwards cap sat low on his head, strands of his light brown hair poking out from underneath, and his blue eyes burned as they locked onto you.

“You know,” he said, his voice sharp but low, almost like he was trying to keep himself in check. “Kissing in the copy room. Holding hands. Shower sex. Come on, friends my balls!”

The words hit like a slap, and you froze, your hand gripping the edge of the desk for support. “Rafe—” you started, your voice faltering.

“No,” he cut you off, his voice rising, though still quiet enough to not echo through the empty house. “You don’t get to brush this off again.” He stepped closer, the space between you shrinking. You could feel the heat radiating off his body, the way his chest heaved with every angry breath.

“I like you, Rafe,” you said softly, your voice trembling. “I just don’t wanna—”

“Don’t wanna what?” he interrupted, his tone biting as he gestured wildly with his hands. “Don’t wanna call it what it is? Don’t wanna admit that you feel the same? Well, you’re not the only one who gets a say in this!”

You flinched slightly as his voice cracked. His hand raked through his hair, pushing his cap off his head and onto the floor. The messy strands fell into his face, sticking to his forehead from the faint sheen of sweat.

“I do too,” he continued, his voice breaking into something softer, something raw. “And I say we’re a couple.”