You hated him.

His stupid buzzcut. His stupid voice. Him.

But he didn’t hate you. In fact, he wanted you to hate him, because he knew that if he got close enough—if his lips touched yours—he wouldn’t be able to stop.

You’re at some random kook Halloween party, rocking a cliché Playboy bunny outfit. The black leather bodysuit. Fishnets that ripped when you put them on. A black bow tie collar, and ridiculous pink bunny ears that won’t stay up. And Rafe? He’s wearing a Hugh Hefner costume, unironically.

Your friend’s asking random questions until she spots him. Her smirk is almost too knowing.

“So, you and Rafe?”

You scoff. You and Rafe?

“He wishes there was a ‘me and Rafe.’ If he wasn’t so infuriating, maybe he’d get a chance.”

You joke, but you both know it’s not entirely true. No matter how much he changed, he was still Rafe.

“Right, sweetheart, I do wish.”

He breathes on your neck, and everything about him—his stupid voice, his stupid scent, his stupid rings grazing your skin—sends a shiver down your spine. You freeze, not sure whether you want to smack him or kiss him.

do you really hate him?