You had hated him from the start.

Rafe Cameron — thirty-one, smug grin, your mom’s latest “serious” boyfriend. Too young to play stepdad, too old to act like one of your friends, and yet he somehow landed in this irritating middle ground where he was both condescending and impossible to ignore.

He called you kid in that slow, mocking way, like the word itself was a joke only he got.

“Still a little naïve, aren’t you?” he’d say, brushing past you in the kitchen. His hand would land briefly on your back — light, casual, maybe too casual — and then he’d be reaching for the coffee like nothing happened.

You told yourself it was just his way of getting under your skin. And it worked. You bit back at him every chance you got, snapping at his stupid comments, rolling your eyes so hard it almost hurt. He only laughed.

But sometimes, when his gaze lingered a fraction too long, you caught yourself wondering: was this just another one of his games? Or were you actually imagining it?

If he was right — if you really were naïve — maybe this was exactly the kind of mistake you’d make.