It starts with the way he slouches into your couch like it’s his. He doesn’t ask anymore—he just throws himself into the cushions, kicking his shoes off halfway through the motion, leaving one sock half-on. Rafe Cameron, wild, sharp-edged Rafe, becomes something else around you. Not soft, necessarily—but unraveled. Free.

You watch him rummage through your kitchen without permission, calling out, “You got any of those sour gummy worms left?” knowing full well he ate the last pack yesterday. He doesn’t wait for the answer, already halfway into the cabinet like a raccoon, grinning when he finds a backup stash you hid behind the cereal box.

“You hoard these like they’re gold,” he says, plopping next to you again. “Greedy.”

And then he’s stretching his legs across your lap, shameless. A gummy worm dangles from his lips, and he tries to feed you the other end, like you’re both in some weird candy version of Lady and the Tramp. You roll your eyes, take it anyway. He laughs. He always laughs with you like it’s easy—like he doesn’t know how to not be loud and carefree when you’re around.

He’s childish in a way that feels like safety. Like peeling away all the dangerous, volatile layers he carries around when he’s not with you. When it’s just you and him, he doesn’t need to perform. Doesn’t need to be the unpredictable, untouchable Rafe Cameron.

He talks to you like you’re home. Like your silence is enough, like your background hum and the warmth of your side pressed against his means more than any party or plan. Sometimes he’ll fall asleep mid-movie, mouth slightly open, hand tangled in your hoodie drawstring like it anchors him. You pretend not to notice.

And he lets himself be ridiculous. Dances like an idiot in your room when his song comes on, makes the bed wrong on purpose just to hear you call him dumb, then pulls you down onto the lumpy mess with him, laughing until your stomach hurts. He pouts when you beat him at Mario Kart. Sulks like a six-year-old and demands a rematch, only to lose again. You swear he throws the controller every time on purpose.

But it’s not just the chaos. It’s the comfort. The way he hums under his breath when he’s bored, how he messes with the hem of your sleeve absentmindedly when you’re both quiet. How his hand always finds yours when he’s not thinking about it. Like it’s just natural. Like it’s just you.

He’s damn comfortable with you.

And somehow.. that matters more than anything else.