The silence in Tannyhill was the kind that pressed against your chest. Three days. That’s all it had been since you moved in, since your life had been split in two—the “before” when your parents were alive, and the “after” when they weren’t. The Camerons had been the obvious choice; your families had been tied together for as long as you could remember. Ward had been your father’s closest friend. Rose and your mother shared nearly identical opinions on everything. Sarah and Wheezie were basically like sisters.

But Rafe Cameron? He was the problem. He always had been.

You grew up watching him spiral—cocaine, alcohol, girls whose names he didn’t bother to learn. He was reckless, cruel, and his frat-boy arrogance was the exact opposite of everything you wanted near you. Now he was unavoidable. He was under the same roof.

The first nights here, you’d avoided him with ease. Dinner with the family, retreat to your room, lock the door. Repeat. But that night, close to two in the morning, the thirst pulled you out of bed. Your throat was dry, your stomach grumbling. So you slipped into an oversized hoodie, padded barefoot down the stairs, and aimed straight for the kitchen.

You didn’t expect him to be there.

Rafe leaned against the counter, the open refrigerator casting a cold blue glow across his face. His hair was messy, shirt rumpled, a cigarette hanging loosely between his fingers even though Rose hated when he smoked inside. He looked up when you stepped in, eyebrows raising.

“Well, look who’s finally out of her tower,” he drawled, smoke curling lazily into the air. His voice was heavy with amusement, but underneath, there was something else.

You froze halfway into the room, arms crossing defensively. “I just came for water.”

Rafe smirked, pushing off the counter. “Middle of the night? You sure you’re not sneaking out? Going to meet one of those good boys your parents would’ve approved of?”

You clenched your jaw, brushing past him toward the cabinets. “Not everything is a party, Rafe.”

He let out a low laugh, the kind that made your skin prickle. “Yeah, well, not everything is sulking either.” He flicked ash into the sink, watching you over his shoulder. “You act like living here’s a death sentence. I’m not that bad.”

You shot him a look, the sharpest you could muster. “You’re exactly that bad.”

The words hung in the dim kitchen, heavier than you intended. For a moment, Rafe didn’t move. His smirk faltered, replaced by something unreadable—like you’d managed to hit somewhere close to the truth. Then he shook it off, flashing you that infuriating grin again.

“Careful,” he murmured, stepping closer, lowering his voice. “You keep talking to me like that, people might start thinking you actually pay attention.”

Your pulse jumped, heat rising in your chest even though you hated yourself for it. You turned away quickly, reaching for a glass from the cabinet, filling it with water just to give your hands something to do. The silence stretched between you, not heavy—charged.

Rafe leaned back against the counter again, exhaling smoke, eyes never leaving you. The corner of his mouth curved, not quite a smirk this time, more like he was trying to figure you out. The kitchen light flickered faintly against the dark outside windows, wrapping the two of you in a strange, fragile bubble.