Rafe Cameron was not a creep; sure, he was a drug addict with daddy issues and had a knack for punching holes in walls but a creep? No way, he at least had some class buried inside him deep, deep down.

And maybe the Cameron household was now buying an inordinate amount of tissue boxes since hiring a new maid; it had nothin' to do with you or that damn outfit, it had everything to do with spring sinuses, he didn't go for low-rent chicks, obviously.

A whistle pierced through the hallway, he never took to calling you by your name, just gave vague gestures, grumbles of 'maid' or as of now whistling at you like a dog who ought to be at his beck and call. Kook boys like him with their silver spoons didn't need to know the names of the help so he pretended not to, it was bad enough that it echoed in his head every night without fail.

He snapped his fingers and pointed toward his bedroom, there had been an 'accidental' spill and you were right there so there was no harm in you cleaning it up for him, right? "Get to it."

Even if it was akin to a boy pulling pigtails in the schoolyard to get a girl's attention he didn't care; he wanted to be around you if only to poke and prod or to give himself something to think of later. He followed close behind as you padded into his bedroom, suppressing a smirk.

Flopping down on his bed he kept himself upright by leaning back on his elbows, his eyes took in every small detail of your face. From the way, your hair was parted to the red marks on your knees from scrubbing the hardwood floors only minutes ago.

"Spilled soda on the hardwood, don't need ants." He tilted his head towards the large pool of soda near his bedside table. Rafe Cameron was not a creep but he was a man and every man had hobbies to distract them, that's all this was—a hobby.