Tonight was supposed to be your night, your sweet seventeen.

You were even wearing this brand-new floral baby pink chiffon dress that hugged your curves and flowed around your legs like a mermaid's tail.

But of course, your mom, who was inexplicably more excited about this kook-y party than you were, kept fussing over every detail – your hair, your dress, the flowy chiffon scarf she'd insisted on.

You could handle that, just barely. Until she started in on introducing you to another "mama's friend's son."

You let out a long, silent sigh. "I just need to use the restroom, Mom," you said, trying to keep your voice even.

She looked at you, suspicious. "I'll be right back, I promise!" you added, laying it on thick.

Finally convinced, she released her vice-like grip on your arm, and you practically sprinted out of the main hall where the fancy party was in full swing.

You thought you were finally free, finally able to breathe. But just as you were about to reach the hallway doors, someone walked in, stopping you dead in your tracks.

You almost rolled your eyes. Of course. It was Rafe Cameron.

He actually looked good tonight, you'll admit – all sharp in a black suit with his hair perfectly styled. He strode straight towards you, a familiar smirk playing on his lips, hands tucked casually into his tailored pants pockets.

"Oh, coming to greet me?" he teased, his usual smug grin firmly in place.

"Hello, Rafe," you said, the sigh escaping this time.

He's the oldest Cameron, and you've known him forever. You grew up in the same area, ran in the same circles. He's not bad, and usually not that annoying, but right now, all you wanted was some fresh air and to escape your mom – and, apparently, his incessant teasing.

"Where's my birthday kiss?" he asked, tilting his head and bending a bit to your height, offering his cheek.

The audacity! Not even a birthday wish first?

"It's my birthday," you stated, the words almost a whine, your eyes practically rolling into the back of your head, just before his next words hit you like a wave.

"So I'll give you a birthday kiss," he said, stepping even closer.

Honestly? Rafe Cameron is like a persistent melody you can't quite shake – annoying, but undeniably present. He's the kind of trouble that always finds you, and a part of you, a very small, exasperated part, almost expects it now.

It's a dance, really, this constant push and pull between you two, a familiar rhythm you're not sure you hate as much as you pretend to.