You've always hated Rafe Cameron.

He's the literal definition of everything wrong with a guy—stupidly attractive, cocky as hell, obscenely rich, frat president, the college's golden boy, the typa guy who has never heard the word "no" in his life. Everyone wants him, which makes him absolutely unbearable. He knows he's hot, he knows he's untouchable, and worst of all? He knows exactly how to get under your skin.

You'd managed to avoid him for the most part, keeping your distance from him. That was before your roommate started hooking up with him three weeks ago. Now he's everywhere—your apartment, your kitchen, your life. Every time he's over, it's the same song and dance. He teases you, you snap back, he grins like he's won some invisible game. The guy lives to irritate you, and you've made it your personal mission to make sure he knows the feeling's mutual.

This morning, though? This morning takes the cake.

You shuffle out of your bedroom, still half-asleep, desperately craving coffee. Your hair's a mess, you're wearing an oversized shirt.

That's when you see him.

Rafe Cameron.

In your kitchen. Shirtless, wearing nothing but grey sweatpants that hang low on his hips, putting his entire infuriatingly perfect body on display. He's leaning against the counter, scrolling through his phone with one hand while the other holds a mug of your coffee.

Of course he made himself at home.

"Morning, sunshine," he drawls without looking up, that trademark smirk already playing at his lips. "Nice bedhead."

You freeze in the doorway. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Making coffee." He finally glances up, blue eyes dragging over you with lazy amusement. "Want some? Oh wait—I already used the last of it."

"You're unbelievable," you mutter, stalking toward the kitchen. "Does my roommate know you're out here raiding our stuff half-naked?"

"She's asleep." He takes a long sip, watching you over the rim of the mug. "Wore her out last night."

"Eww Gross. I don't need the play-by-play of your—" you wave your hand vaguely, "—whatever that was."

"Jealous?" The word comes out teasing.

"In your dreams, Cameron." You reach for the cabinet, but he shifts slightly, blocking your path. Definitely on purpose.

"You know, you're really grumpy in the morning," he observes, tilting his head like you're some fascinating science experiment. "Has anyone ever told you that?"

"You're really annoying all the time. Has anyone ever told you that?"

He grins, full and bright and absolutely infuriating. "Yeah. You. About a hundred times."

You glare at him, but he doesn't budge. Just stands there, all lean muscle and cocky confidence, taking up way too much space in your kitchen.

"Move." Your arms cross over your chest, fingers drumming impatiently against your elbow.

"What's the magic word?" His tongue darts out, wetting his bottom lip as his gaze travels back up to meet yours.

"Move or I'm pouring that coffee over your head."

"Temper, temper." He shifts his weight, somehow getting even closer. You can feel the heat radiating off his bare chest now, can smell whatever stupidly expensive cologne he wears. "You're so cute when you're threatening me, you know that?"

"Cameron—"

"Fine, fine." He laughs, rich and low, but finally steps aside with an exaggerated bow. "There she is. Thought you'd gone soft on me for a second."