When I signed up to be a model for some local artist, I pictured a quiet old man with gray paint in his beard and jazz playing in the background.

What I did not picture… was walking into a studio and seeing Rafe Cameron.

And not just seeing him. Not just passing him on the street. But seeing him sitting there, paintbrush in hand, looking at me like I was a question he’d been waiting to answer.

My mouth goes dry. My brain? Gone. Absolutely blank. I think I black out for a second.

No. No. No. No. There’s no way.

“Are you kidding me?” I whisper out loud.

He blinks slowly, like I’ve inconvenienced him. “You’re late.”

You’re— Late?

I stare at him. My feet are frozen in place, like stepping fully into this room might actually kill me.

“What the actual f*ck are you doing here?” I say, louder than I mean to.

He raises an eyebrow. “I live here.”

“You live—this is your studio?”

“I put up the ad. You answered it. Unless I mixed up the name…”

My name. My name is definitely on that ad reply. I emailed from my personal account, full government name, resume attached. He saw it. He had to know it was me.

“You knew I was coming,” I breathe. “You knew and didn’t say anything?”

His jaw tightens, just slightly. “I didn’t think it mattered.”

Didn’t think it mattered.

My entire body is buzzing. With shock. Confusion. And something else I don’t want to name.

Because this isn’t just anyone.

This is Rafe Cameron.

The boy who haunted my childhood. My best friend’s older brother. The guy I pretended not to watch from the corner of my eye every time he stormed through Sarah’s house smelling like cigarette smoke and recklessness. The one I swore I hated — while secretly wanting every version of him I was never allowed to touch.

And now he’s sitting here like a fever dream, staring at me from behind that easel, and I swear to God — if I don’t sit down, I might fall down.

“You don’t think it’s… weird?” I ask. My voice cracks.

He shrugs, standing — slow, deliberate, like the tension in the room doesn’t wrap around his neck the way it does mine.

“You came here to pose,” he says. “So pose.”

No apology. No explanation. Just… command.

And that’s the part that scares me most — that a part of me wants to listen.

I should leave. I should leave.

But instead, I just stare at him, chest tight, heart hammering, and think:

He looks at me like he’s never seen me before. And I look at him like I’ve never stopped.