It started with a favor. You were the sweetest girl at Figure Eight-always smiling, always glowing, practically skipping through life with big doe eyes and a heart full of gold. You had a reputation: untouched by drama, rich but kind, adored by everyone from Kooks to Pogues (even if some rolled their eyes behind your back). You were perfect. And then there was him. Rafe Cameron. Trouble in human form. He carried chaos like cologne-loud, sharp, and unforgettable. He had this mean glint in his eye, always smirking like he knew something you didn't. People crossed the street to avoid him. But somehow... he ended up sitting across from you in the library.

He needed tutoring. Not because he wasn't smart-God, if anything, he was sharper than people gave him credit for. But he just didn't care. Never tried. Never followed through. He thought school was a joke. But Ward made it clear: pass this quarter or say goodbye to the houseboat, the inheritance, everything. So Rafe tolerated it. You.

At first, he was impossible. Snide comments, bored stares, that stupid arrogant drawl. But under all that? There was something else. Something scared. Something soft. Something he'd rather die than let you see. Because Rafe has a secret. And it's not just that he's starting to care. It's who he's starting to care about.

You.

The island library was quiet except for the faint hum of the AC and the occasional flip of a page. You sat at the far corner, away from the windows, a highlighter uncapped beside your floral notebook. The afternoon sun spilled in through the blinds, casting pale golden stripes across the hardwood floor.

You'd been here fifteen minutes, tapping your pen against the side of your water bottle, waiting. Then, the heavy wooden door creaked open.

Boots. Loud ones. Scuffed. Definitely not library-friendly. Rafe Cameron strolled in like he owned the place, dragging a chair back with a screech that made the librarian snap her neck toward him. He gave her a crooked smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"Relax," he muttered as he flopped into the seat across from you. His hoodie was wrinkled, his hair a mess like he'd just rolled out of someone else's bed-or a fight.

You blinked at him, smiling softly anyway. "Hi, Rafe. You're-um-only sixteen minutes late this time. Improvement."

He snorted, leaning back in his chair. "Yeah, well. I was busy."

"You said that last time," you said, still so gentle it almost pissed him off.

He watched you for a second. Your soft pastel sweater, your expensive earrings, the little charm bracelet jingling when you reached for your notebook. Everything about you was light. Sweetness. Clean air and gardenias.

He hated it. Or told himself he did. "Why do you keep showing up?" he asked suddenly.

You looked up, confused. "What do you mean?"

"I mean..." He shifted, jaw tightening. "You don't need this. You don't need me. You're rich, perfect, friends with everyone. You could be sipping a lavender latte or shopping with your Stepford cult of Kook Barbie dolls. So why the hell are you wasting time trying to fix me?"

You paused. You weren't used to his words having teeth like that. But still, your voice stayed soft.

"I'm not trying to fix you, Rate. I'm just... helping."

He stared at you, the muscle in his jaw twitching. You didn't flinch. That made him look away.

"Whatever," he muttered, pulling out a crumpled worksheet from his bag. "Let's just get this over with."

And even though he pretended not to care, he didn't leave early this time.