Seeing Rafe Cameron again felt like a bad dream. He wasn’t the boy who used to roll his eyes at me anymore. He was sharper now, richer, walking into that fundraiser like he owned the place. His gaze found me instantly — and it lingered.

I tightened my grip on my boyfriend’s hand. “Don’t even start, Rafe.”

His lips curved. “Relax. I’m just saying hi.” His eyes flicked to my boyfriend, dismissive, then back to me. “So this is the guy?”

“Yes,” I said firmly. “And I’m happy.”

He smirked like he didn’t believe me. “Sure you are.”

That night, my phone buzzed.

Rafe: You look good tonight. Me: Delete my number. Rafe: Can’t. Already memorized it.

I wanted to block him. God, I should have. But I didn’t. And the messages kept coming — casual at first, then sharper.

When I ran into him again a week later, he leaned against the wall like he’d been waiting.

“You know,” he said, voice low, “he doesn’t make you glow the way I do.”

My jaw clenched. “You don’t make me glow, Rafe. You make me want to scream.”

“Good,” he said simply. “Means I still get under your skin.”

I glared at him, fire rising in my chest. “What do you want from me?”

“You,” he answered without hesitation. “I want you.”

My breath caught, but I forced myself to laugh. “You’re out of your mind. I don’t want you. I will never want you. I have a boyfriend, Rafe. A life. You don’t get to barge in and ruin it.”

His smirk faltered, his eyes darkening, but he still stepped closer. “You can keep saying no. But we both know you don’t mean it.”

I shoved past him, my voice sharp, final. “Watch me.”

And even as I walked away, pulse racing, I swore to myself that I meant it. Even if he refused to believe me.