Rafe Cameron was reckless. A bully, a bastard. A walking storm with blue eyes that cut through you like broken glass. The boy who’d fuck a girl in his car, then text another to come over before the first one even zipped her dress. The boy who’d laugh as he sniffed coke off a bathroom sink, then split someone’s lip for bumping into him.

They called him so many things.

Male whore. Psycho. Murderer. Handsome. Junkie.

But none of those words felt real when you watched him from your window. When the house lights were off, and it was just you folding your laundry — and him, a silhouette, shirtless and angry at the world.

You were the opposite of him. Soft. Careful. Still saving your first drink, your first kiss, your virginity — the way your mom told you, the way you promised yourself.

While you were hunched over your textbooks, Rafe was licking vodka from between a girl’s breasts. While you folded laundry, he broke beds. You laid out your clothes for the next morning; he laid out lines of coke. You tucked yourself into clean sheets; he counted fresh bruises.

The difference felt like a canyon. Or maybe it was just two windows across from each other.

⸻

That night was supposed to be simple. You were sitting at your desk, highlighter uncapped, hair tied up. The window was open because your room felt too warm.

And then someone stumbled through.

At first, your heart stopped. Then you saw him: Rafe, pupils blown, breath like gasoline and vodka.

“Wrong window,” you whispered.

He blinked, his mouth twitching, and let out a low laugh. “Shit.”

You helped him climb back into his own room, your hands shaking. You should have gone back to your desk.

But he grabbed your wrist before you slipped away.

“Stay,” he mumbled. Voice softer than you’d ever heard. “Just for a minute.”

⸻

Minutes blurred.

You ended up lying beside him on his bed, his arms heavy around you, his breath warm on your neck. Your heart was pounding so hard you were sure he could feel it.

You told yourself you’d leave as soon as he fell asleep. But you didn’t.

You stayed. And for the first time in your life, you liked being reckless.

⸻

After that, he didn’t disappear. When he got drunk, your window wasn’t an accident anymore.

He’d climb through, smelling of sweat and smoke, eyes tired in a way that hurt to look at. He’d pull you close. His body curved around yours, heat soaking into your bones. He didn’t ask you for anything else. Just to stay. To hold.

He didn’t touch you the way he touched those other girls. Didn’t pull you under him, didn’t kiss your neck until you forgot your name. Instead, he’d wrap himself around you, bury his face in your hair, and hold on like you were the only steady thing in his spinning world.

It became your secret mistake. A small rebellion in your perfect, careful life. Something you could never tell your mother.

⸻

One night, he was quieter than usual. His fingertips traced your arm, back and forth.

“Did you ever drink?” he asked, voice rough and low.

You shook your head.

“Kissed? Touched?” he pressed.

You swallowed. “No.”

He chuckled, but it wasn’t cruel. It was soft, almost sad.

“You’re such an innocent baby,” he teased, his breath warm on your skin. His arm tightened around your waist, pulling you closer. His face buried in your neck like he needed to breathe you in.

And the worst part? You liked how it felt to be his. Even if it was only for the nights.