ᯓ★ You had been talking to this guy from Instagram named Rafe Cameron for months now.

And honestly?

He was the exact type you’d probably built in your head.

Blonde hair, blue eyes, broad shoulders, fit in that effortless way rich guys always seemed to be, and the kind of face that made you stare a second too long before pretending you weren’t.

He looked expensive.

Not that you cared about the money.

…Okay, maybe the private boats and golf course pictures didn’t hurt.

He was twenty-one. You were nineteen.

And when he replied to your story that first time? You nearly dropped your phone.

You remembered staring at the screen with your heart pounding, rereading the message three times before answering like you hadn’t been hoping he’d notice you for weeks.

After that, it was constant.

Late-night texts. Random selfies. Voice notes that made your stomach flip.

Video calls where you’d pretend to look casual while secretly fixing your hair every two minutes.

Sometimes he’d smirk at the camera in that lazy way and you’d forget what you were saying entirely.

You initiated the flirting first.

Then maybe a nude or two.

Then more.

And he always knew exactly what to say back.

The only problem?

He lived in North Carolina. And you were all the way in Miami.

So most nights you were left wondering if he talked to other girls too.

If there were prettier girls closer to him. If you were just another username on his phone.

But every time you started doubting it—

He’d call. Text first. Send you some random picture of his day. Stay up talking until you fell asleep.

And somehow, half a year passed like that. Then the message came.

He was coming to Miami for a week because of one of his dad’s business deals.

You literally squealed so loud your mom yelled from the other room to keep it down.

You rolled your eyes and texted back immediately.

When?

His answer?

Next week.

.✦ ݁˖ —

The day finally came.

You woke up way too early, adrenaline already buzzing through you.

Curlers in your hair.

Closet destroyed.

Shoes kicked everywhere.

Half your makeup bag dumped across the sink.

Because apparently looking normal was impossible when meeting the hottest guy you’d ever spoken to.

He’d made all the plans, of course.

When he sent the restaurant name, you looked it up immediately and almost choked.

An expensive beachfront place with candlelit tables and ocean views.

The kind of place where rich people probably ate lunch casually.

Which instantly made you panic. You changed outfits six times.

Finally settled on a white dress with a brown fur coat to throw over it.

Did your hair in a glossy blowout. Put on every nice piece of jewelry you owned. Spent way too long on your makeup. Then sprayed your most expensive perfume twice. Maybe three times.

When you looked in the mirror— You actually felt beautiful. Nervous. But beautiful.

You grabbed your purse and headed out, hearing your mom mutter something about “kids these days” as you rushed past.

You waved goodbye and caught a taxi to the restaurant.

The ride felt too long. Your knee bounced the whole way there.

You kept checking your lipstick in the reflection of the window.

Then finally— You arrived. The place was stunning.

Elegant lighting, soft music, ocean just beyond the windows, everything polished and expensive.

Definitely somewhere rich people treated like a normal Tuesday.

You smoothed down your dress, inhaled once, then walked to the hostess stand.

“A reservation for Rafe Cameron?”

The hostess smiled politely, glancing at the list.

Then looked back up at you. “Of course,” she said. “He’s already here.”

She led you through the dining room. And then you saw him.

Rafe sat near the windows overlooking the water. Crisp button-down rolled at the forearms, collar open just enough, expensive watch catching the low light.

His hair was neatly pushed back, still a little loose in front like he’d run a hand through it. Tan skin, broad shoulders, jaw sharp under the restaurant glow

And when he looked up—

Those blue eyes landed right on you.