You met him in the dark.

Red lights. Loud music. The air thick with smoke and sweat. You’d gone out looking for a distraction, something to numb the ache in your chest — and you found him.

Leaning against the wall like he owned the place, drink in hand, head tilted, eyes locked on you like he already knew how the night would end.

Rafe Cameron.

Trouble wrapped in designer and danger. Smelled like cologne, weed, and heat. Spoke like a dare. Looked like heartbreak.

“Dance with me,” he said.

You didn’t even hesitate.

He pulled you in close — one hand on your lower back, the other gripping your waist like you’d try to run. And maybe you should’ve.

But God, he felt good.

His breath hit your neck as the bass throbbed through the floor, your bodies moving like you’d done this a thousand times before.

“You shouldn’t be near me,” he murmured.

“Then why won’t you let go?” you whispered back.

His lips ghosted your ear. “Because I like the way you burn.”

You ended up in his car.

Windows fogged. Fingers tugging at clothes. Music still playing — Chase Atlantic’s “Swim” bleeding through the speakers as he kissed you like a sin he never planned to repent for.

You tasted like trouble. He tasted like addiction.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” you whispered.

He smirked, dragging his thumb across your bottom lip.

“I already have.”

Weeks passed.

It wasn’t love. It was obsession. You weren’t dating. You were possessed. He’d text you at 2am: “Come over.” You’d always go. He’d say “I don’t do feelings.” Then look at you like you were his entire world.

You knew he’d break your heart. You knew he’d leave you wrecked.

But when he touched you?

Everything else disappeared.