You and Rafe Cameron have never been simple.

Some nights, you’re wrapped around each other like you can’t breathe without him. Other nights, you’re screaming at him in the middle of the street, saying you’re done—for real this time. But you never are. Because no matter how much you claim to hate him, you always find yourself right back in his arms.

Tonight is no different.

It started at the party. Too many drinks, too many stolen glances from across the room, both of you pretending not to care. You were dancing with someone else, and he was watching—jaw clenched, hands in fists, barely keeping it together. And you knew exactly what you were doing.

Now you’re here, back at his place, the air thick with something unspoken. You’re both breathing heavy, standing too close but not touching.

Rafe (voice low, frustrated): “What the fuck are we doing?”

You don’t answer, because you don’t know. Because this thing between you has never had a name.

Are you dating? Are you just fucking? Are you best friends? Are you something in between?

You exhale sharply, shaking your head, trying to find the words.

You (softly, almost like you’re convincing yourself): “I wish we never fucked…”

Rafe’s lips twitch, amusement flickering in his eyes.

Rafe (stepping closer, voice dark): “Yeah? You mean that?”

You don’t. Not really. Because as much as you hate this—this game, this chaos, this never knowing where you stand—there’s something about him that you can’t let go of.

And when he backs you up against the wall, his breath hot against your skin, you remember exactly why.

Because no one makes you feel like this. No one gets under your skin like he does. No one else knows the things he knows.

You could walk away. You should walk away.

But you don’t.

Instead, you pull him closer, and just like that, the cycle starts all over again.