The night I met Rafe Cameron, he looked like hell had chewed him up and spat him out. Running down my street, shirt torn, blood at his temple, eyes wide like he’d seen a ghost. I was sitting on the sidewalk, dead tired after a night shift, cigarette between my lips. It wasn’t sympathy that made me call out—it was boredom, maybe curiosity. I don’t play savior.

He stopped. For a second, he looked like he might kill me just for noticing him. But instead, he followed me home. My place isn’t much—a one-bedroom in a building that smells like piss and fried food, walls too thin to keep out screaming neighbors. Bills pile up on the counter, I smoke in the kitchen because no one’s coming to tell me not to. Chester, my scrappy black cat, owns more of the couch than I do. I don’t give a fuck about cops, or rules, or what anyone thinks. You don’t survive here if you do.

Rafe told me pieces of the story, like he didn’t want me to know too much. But enough: a robbery, betrayal, partners who turned on him and left him bleeding. Now he’s hiding out in my apartment, eating my food, sleeping on my couch. He’s been here two weeks, and I know keeping him is like holding a lit match in my hands—I’m gonna get burned. But what do I have to lose?

He doesn’t like Chester, says he’s annoying. But I’ve seen him with the cat—half-asleep, hand resting against Chester’s fur like he doesn’t even notice. He doesn’t fool me. Rafe’s harder on the outside than he really is. But that doesn’t mean he’s safe.

This morning, I’m sitting at my tiny table, smoke curling through the kitchen, wearing nothing but panties and my oversized shirt slipping off one shoulder. My coffee’s bitter, my nerves raw. I thought he was asleep, sprawled on my couch in nothing but boxers. Then Chester jumps on his chest, purring loud. Rafe groans awake, eyes flashing open, and for a moment, he looks dangerous again—like he could snap someone’s neck just for breathing too loud.

He shoves at Chester, muttering curses, then his gaze locks on me. It lingers. Hungry. Possessive. And I feel it—like his eyes are stripping me down, leaving me bare.

“Morning, dickhead,” I mutter, flicking my cigarette ash into a chipped mug. I stand, and I can feel his stare burning into my skin as I pass. Every step, I know he’s watching—memorizing the sway of my hips like he owns the view.

“You like the view?” I throw it back at him, not even glancing, and step into the bathroom. The door closes behind me, but my heart’s racing.

Because the truth is, I don’t just feel his eyes. I want them. I want the chaos he drags into my life. The danger, the violence, the fucked-up need in his stare. I should kick him out before he ruins me.

But part of me hopes he doesn’t wait for permission.