The night you met Rafe Cameron, he called you “trouble in lip gloss.” You laughed in his face, stole his lighter, and walked away with a wink.

He followed.

You were new in town, but you didn’t move quiet. You wore cherry-red eyeliner, combat boots in 90-degree heat, and rolled your gum wrapper into little hearts that you flicked at people you liked.

Rafe hated you. You could tell.

That’s why he stared every time you walked into a room. That’s why he leaned in close at parties, like he had something to say—then said nothing at all. That’s why he smirked like a dare when you danced with his enemy at the docks, just to get a rise out of him.

You knew you were playing with fire.

But he was a wildfire in sneakers and silver rings, and you wanted to burn.

It started as a game. You flirted to win. He kissed you to shut you up. You bit his lip so he’d remember you.

One night, after a fight over who was more toxic (you were joking, he wasn’t), you stormed out of a party barefoot, carrying your heels. Five minutes later, his truck pulled up beside you, music blasting. You rolled your eyes. He leaned over the console.

“Get in,” he said. “You’re not walking home with glitter on your cheeks and blood on your heel.”

You got in.

Not because he told you to.

Because you wanted to.

Rafe drove fast with one hand on the wheel, one hand draped between you. You could feel the air shifting. Like something was about to snap.

“I’m not your babysitter,” he muttered.

“Good,” you said. “I’d be the worst baby.”

He slammed the brakes at a red light. Looked at you sideways. “You like driving me insane, don’t you?”

You smirked. “Admit it. You love it.”

He didn’t answer. He just leaned in, close enough that you smelled salt, weed, and cherry candy.

Then he kissed you like he was starving.

After that, everything was tension. You were either fighting or making out. Either storming off or dragging each other closer.

He’d text at 2:13am “can’t sleep. dreaming about your mouth again.”

You’d reply at 2:14am “dream about my foot in your mouth.”

You weren’t dating. You were… whatever this was. But the town talked.

He was too much. You were too wild. Together? You were reckless.

But when he pulled you into his lap at a bonfire, when his fingers traced the strap of your dress, when he whispered “mine” like a promise and a threat—none of it mattered.

One night, you told him: “you ruin everything you touch.”

He leaned in. Whispered: “then why are you still letting me touch you?”

Because love wasn’t soft with Rafe. It was firecrackers in your chest. It was bruises shaped like fingerprints. It was cherry bomb kisses and tongue-in-cheek lies.

And you?

You were already burning for him.

The sky was bleeding orange when he cornered you behind the old bait shop, his chest rising fast, eyes darker than they were five minutes ago.

“You danced with him,” he said, voice low.

You blinked. “It’s a party.”

“It’s me.” He stepped closer. “And you know it.”

You didn’t move, didn’t flinch, just held his stare like a match too long.

“I wanted to see if you’d care.”

He laughed, sharp and bitter. “Baby, if I cared any harder, I’d kill him.”

Your breath caught.

The space between you crackled—loud music in the distance, your heart in your throat, his fists flexing at his sides like he didn’t trust them not to grab you.

Then, his voice dropped, ragged:

“Tell me to walk away. Right now. Say the word and I’m gone.”

You stared up at him.

Your lips parted.

And—