Dating Rafe Cameron was like having a personal security detail with anger issues and zero chill. You learned this early, when a guy got too comfortable at a party—one second, you were laughing, the next, Rafe was between you and the guy, a lazy smirk on his lips but a feral look in his eyes. “You got a little too close there, man,” he mused, clapping a hand on the guy’s shoulder just a little too hard. The guy backed off, mumbling an apology, and Rafe turned to you like nothing happened.

That should’ve been your first red flag. But no, you stayed. And now? Now you had a full-time, overzealous bodyguard.

Rafe wasn’t the type to tell you what to wear—not because he wasn’t possessive, but because he knew he could handle whatever came next. He let you wear whatever you wanted, fully confident in his ability to make someone regret looking too long. And he wasn’t loud about it, either. No, Rafe preferred psychological warfare.

Then, of course, there was the gun thing. His favorite intimidation tactic. Some guy smiled at you wrong and all flirty? Oops—guess it was time for Rafe’s totally innocent, not-at-all-calculated stretch that just so happened to reveal the gun tucked into his waistband. He’d sigh dramatically and shake his head like, man, I hate that I have to do this, and wait for the guy to evaporate from fear.

It wasn’t just about keeping you safe—Rafe tracked your existence. If you went out, your phone would light up with his texts:

Where are you?

Why is your location in the middle of nowhere?

And God forbid you ignore his messages—because he’d show up.No warning. No "hey, I’m coming over.” Just there, in the flesh, standing in front of you with his arms crossed, waiting.

“Rafe, what the fuck? This is a nail salon,” you hissed the first time it happened.

He blinked,unbothered. “And?”

And yet, the most infuriating part? He never admitted to being overprotective. Nope. Rafe just sighed and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. “Baby, I’m just being a good boyfriend."