Rafe Cameron does not get jealous. Common knowledge—or so he thought.

You and Rafe are nothing more than fuck buddies that no one knows about, but Topper and Kelce notice how he eye-fucks you across the boneyard, how he’ll find any excuse to start an argument with you. You are not a couple. The feelings are mutual, but they go unspoken. He will never admit them; that’s because you are a pogue.

But hell, those feelings on his behalf are strong—so strong it hurts his heart. No one’s willing to admit they don’t want the other sleeping with other people, and you settled on that ambiguity. You thought it could mean something more. You thought wrong. Very wrong. One rule of your fling is sleepovers are a major no-go.

You lie on his bed, wearing nothing, white bedsheets barely covering your frame, and you ask if you can stay over. He called you past midnight, so you snuck out to be with him. Bad idea. If you go home now, you’d be caught dead in the act.

“No,” the brunette replies snappishly. “What have I told you for months now, bunny? I don’t do sleepovers. How many times must I go through it? You are a pogue. I am not being caught with a pogue.”

“But Rafe—“ you start, but get cut off by his deep groan of irritation. “Bunny, I don’t fucking care if your parents catch you. You are not staying.” So he’s alright seeing you naked but refuses to have you in his bed? You lift yourself from the bed by propping your elbows against the mattress, staring at the man who’s searching for his throwaway clothes on the floor, sliding on his boxers and redressing himself.

“It’s fucking four in the morning; my parents are going to see me,” you protest.

He scoffs, tossing a glance over his shoulder. “Not my problem, kid.”