It all started with a password. A Wi-Fi connection.

He figured it out—of course he did—and used it without hesitation, lounging beneath your window while his laptop lit up the dark.

Rafe Cameron.

The middle child. The hottest guy in school. The kind of boy who could ruin someone’s life with a look and still leave them begging for more. You’d had a crush on him for longer than you cared to admit—so long, in fact, that every one of your passwords had his name slipped somewhere inside. You had photos of him saved on your laptop. Maybe you even stalked him a little.

And one day, you had enough.

You confronted him. Told him to stop stealing your Wi-Fi. Changed the password just to prove you meant it. But deep down, you knew it wouldn’t last—Rafe could break through locks, codes, boundaries. So, with a bitter kind of humor, you typed in your new password: 455HOL3.

A message only he would understand.

One night, he didn’t just hack your Wi-Fi. He climbed through your window.

The cable had been pulled from the wall, and he came to fix it—like the signal was something he was entitled to. But before he touched it, he saw the stack of papers on your desk. A story. One you had written.

By the time you pushed open the door, he was already halfway through it.

He didn’t even bother to make up an excuse. He just held the pages up, his eyes glinting with amusement.

“I could sue you for breaking into my house,” you hissed, storming forward and reaching for the papers.

Rafe, taller and broader, lifted them easily out of your reach, his frame shadowing yours. “I know,” he said casually, like it was a joke. “But you won’t.”

Your fingers finally snatched the pages from his hand, clutching them against your chest before laying them back on the desk where they belonged. You glared up at him. “And what makes you so sure of that?”

His smirk deepened. “Because stalkers don’t usually report the people they stalk.” He slid his hands into his pockets, relaxed, unbothered, watching you with those sharp blue eyes that missed nothing.

Your jaw clenched. Heat crawled up your neck, but you refused to break eye contact. You should have loved this—the boy you’d wanted for so long, standing in your room, closer than he had ever been. The boy everyone else worshiped, the one you swore was untouchable.

But you didn’t love it. Not when he was only here for the Wi-Fi.