You didn’t even want to come to this camping trip.

It was a last-minute plan—your friends, his friends, one of those chaotic “it’ll be fun” weekends. You only said yes because your best friend begged you. You figured you could survive two nights in the woods if it meant you didn’t have to talk to him.

Rafe Cameron. Arrogant. Reckless. Impossible.

You’ve spent years avoiding him at family parties, at charity events, at school. Always rolling your eyes at his smug comments, always finding a reason to walk away when he showed up. And he’s done the same—laughing at you like you’re this perfect little good girl, like you’re nothing but spotless and boring.

The universe? Yeah, it hates you.

Because somehow there’s a tent shortage, and somehow your friends decide you two should share. Of course.

“No way,” you snapped. “I’ll sleep outside before I share a tent with him.”

But it’s late. It’s cold. And your friends aren’t taking no for an answer.

Now you’re stuck. Lying side by side, zipped into this tiny tent that smells like pine trees and leftover campfire smoke, the heat from his body annoyingly close, even though there’s a solid five inches between you.

You can feel his smirk, even in the dark. “You know, I’m not gonna bite,” he mutters.

“Disgusting,” you snap, facing the opposite wall of the tent.

Eventually, the conversation dies. His breathing evens out. He falls asleep. But you can’t.

The air is heavy now, sticky from the summer heat trapped inside the tent. His shirt’s somewhere near his sleeping bag, abandoned after he got too warm, and you hate that you notice how golden his skin looks even in the soft moonlight filtering through the canvas.

And that’s when you hear it.

A noise. Crunching leaves. Not your friends, not animals. Too close.

Your pulse spikes. Your heart kicks hard against your ribs. You listen—but the sound comes again, closer, like footsteps circling the tent.

You reach out and press your hand against his bare shoulder, shaking him. “Rafe—Rafe, wake up.”

He groans, barely awake, mumbling something incoherent. You move closer, crawling over your sleeping bag, pressing yourself into his side without thinking, needing the contact, the safety.

His hand slides lazily around your waist, his palm settling against the curve of your hip, his fingers tightening slightly like it’s second nature—like he does this with you all the time.

Your breath catches, your chest pressed to his now, his heat soaking into your skin.

“Rafe,” you whisper, trying to focus, trying to ignore the way your heart’s beating too fast for reasons that have nothing to do with fear anymore. “I heard something.”

His voice is rough, still thick with sleep. “It’s probably nothing.”

You want to move away, but his arm holds you there, firm and warm like he’s not letting you go anytime soon.

“Just stay, {{user}}” he mumbles, his lips brushing your hair as he listens, waiting to see if the sound comes again.