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muletia · 4 months ago

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-`♡´- 𝐰𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐨 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐮𝐬

orion pax x human!reader x d-16 and a sprinkle of platonic x elita <3 pocket spouse au

summary: finally, the time has come to meet your spouse! after joining the Pocket Spouse Program — an Earth-Cybertron friendship pact allowing humans to become partners to bots who wish to have their very own human to love, cherish, and treat as their soft, squishy spouses — you’ve been waiting for so long for your turn to come. and as it turns out, this long-awaited day is full of pleasant surprises <3

cw: fluff, canon divergence because tfo takes place bazilion years before humans, a little bit of jealousy and obsessive thoughts, possessiveness, implied polyamory, implied nsfw thoughts (nothing explicit thought)

word count: 3900

shot out to all the anons and non-anons who gave me a lot of great ideas for this au <3

Armed with a travel bag filled with the most useful items and a backpack stuffed with supplies, you stand before the capsule-shaped elevator. You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself before stepping into the tight, enclosed space, and enter, sealing your fate. The doors close behind you, and without giving you even a second to prepare, the elevator descends rapidly, taking you towards your new life but not granting enough time to fully shake off the old one.

Not that there was much to shake off, considering you had willingly made the decision to join the Pocket Spouse program. Nothing was holding you on Earth, least of all luck, so you decided to seek it elsewhere. And as it happened, you chose to start your search on a planet inhabited by sentient, enormous, transforming robots who, apparently, had quite the fascination with humans. An extreme new beginning, but after hearing only good things about the living conditions and the way humans were treated with care, you figured — why not, if it meant living in luxury?

Of course, you had considered various scenarios in case the rumors turned out to be a sham. You could end up with anyone. A fetishist, a collector of exotic pets, a hoarder of toys. That was the unknown, stressful factor that the speed of the elevator gave you no chance to tame. The decision of which robotic spouse you would be assigned to also did not belong to you, so all you could do was hope for a stroke of luck that you’d end up with someone normal.

You don’t even have time to take another deep, reassuring breath when the capsule comes to a sharp stop, and almost immediately its sliding doors open.

You’re greeted by a metallic face with distinctly feminine features. Beautiful in its strange, alien way, but also serious. One look is enough to tell you that you’re dealing with a bot who is strict and has no tolerance for nonsense, but your first impression naturally shifts when your eyes and her optics meet. Her metal face softens almost instantly, easing your stress just enough for you to regain feeling in your legs. You step out toward the bot, onto a small platform designed specifically for a species of your size, and with each step, the bot seems to grow to an unsettlingly immense scale.

The room is small — or at least it seems that way as you try to translate its dimensions into the standards of the giants who inhabit this planet — and carelessly sterile in dark gray tones. There’s no doubt it was put together in a rush, without much thought, simply to exist and serve its function. Its barrenness is unsettling. So much for a luxurious life of doing nothing?

The bot straightens and pulls a datapad closer as she finally speaks. “[Name] [Last Name], I presume?” You still can’t get over how easily the metal of her face bends and flexes when needed, as if it were made of rubber.

“Exactly.”

She nods her helm. “My name is Elita One. I am the head of this mining sector, and I also hold responsibility for every pocket spouse assigned here. And unless there is a change in management, you answer to me, you listen to me, and you bring all future requests or orders to me.”

Oh. So you got assigned to the working class. Fine, you’ll adjust as soon as you get proper living conditions. “Alright.” The lack of warmth in her demeanor discourages you from wanting to engage in any future interactions, but if she’s your only lifeline to protection from potential mistreatment, you’ll treat her words as gospel. “Nice to meet you.” You smile and extend a hand toward her. She stares at you hesitantly for a moment before finally reaching out a single digit to complete the greeting.

“Likewise.”

Elita doesn’t withdraw her servo, though; instead, she straightens it and clasps her digits together, gesturing for you to climb onto her palm. “For safety.”

“Oh. Thanks.” You accept the invitation, though a red flag starts waving in your mind. You don’t remain on her servo for long, as Elita smoothly and carefully transfers you onto her shoulder.

“I advise you to be careful,” she warns. “Miners rarely interact with pocket spouses, so they might try to touch you or snatch you up in their servos. Do not try to stand, do not lean over, and above all, do not excite them. A simple wave of your hand is enough to send them into a frenzy. Understood?”

Alright, now the stress is back. You hadn’t expected such strong reactions towards humans, especially since this trend od getting pocket spouses was no longer new. “Wait. I thought pocket spouses were already a well-established concept on your planet.”

“Not in these parts,” she sighs. “On the surface, the sight of humans may not cause much of a stir, but things are different down here. For us miners, pocket spouses are a rarity. Only the best can afford them.”

Oh, so even among a highly advanced race of sentient robots, there was still a harmful caste system in place. “Oh, I’m sorry,” you stammer, because what else is there to say in this situation? When she shoots you a sour glance, you decide to change the subject, hoping to save your image from seeming callous and naïve. You clear your throat. “So, I assume you already have your own pocket spouse?”

She gives you a pointed side-eye. She saw right through your plan.

“Of course, I do. Do I need to repeat myself about being careful, or is everything clear?”

“Clear as day.” You don’t need to see her faceplate to know that this human phrase is unfamiliar to her. Feeling her impatient side-eye on you, you awkwardly correct yourself, “Yes.”

“Good. If you have anything else you’d like to know, now is the time to ask. I assure you, you won’t have time later.”

“My spouse. What are they like?”

“Spouses,” she corrects nonchalantly, not even looking up from her datapad, throwing you completely off.

“Spouses? Do I get one for free?”

Elita does not appreciate your attempt at humor. She sends you a sharp look.

“In a manner of speaking. Officially, a pocket spouse is assigned to a single bot, but there are cases of sharing. Or, if by some miracle, a human ends up with a conjunx. But I haven’t heard of such cases.”

Conjunx? That’s a new word, and it means absolutely nothing to you, but you decide to store it in your memory for later, too distracted by the fact that you’ve been assigned to a pair.

“Okay, I definitely wasn’t expecting that.”

“Does that make you uncomfortable?”

“No. I think? I don’t know yet, you caught me off guard.” You take a deep breath. You’ll manage. Somehow. “So, my spouses. What are they like?”

Elita’s expression darkens, and that, in turn, unsettles you. That couldn’t be a good sign.

“What is it? Did I get assigned to some creeps?”

“Worse,” she huffs. “D-16 is a decent mech and an exemplary miner, and officially, he is your spouse. But Orion —” she grips the datapad tighter as if restraining herself from an outburst “—Orion is the most foolish, irresponsible, and reckless bot on all of Cybertron. And if you think I’m exaggerating, you’re gravely mistaken. He attracts trouble like a magnet and throws himself into it because he is incorrigible. I almost pity you, really, because you couldn’t have gotten a worse match. Even Darkwing would have been a better spouse.”

But… as if fighting her own thoughts, she adds, “For all their recklessness… they worked very hard to have you, and I know they will treat you well. Perhaps clumsily at first, but well. That doesn’t change the fact that Orion has an empty canister instead of a processor, so if he does something idiotic, and he will, you are to report it to me immediately.”

Galncing at the datapad, she adds "Do you want to know anything else? We don't have much time for idle chatter."

"Just one thing. You mentioned that there's already a human in this sector. Can you arrange for us to meet sometime soon? It’d be nice to have occasional contact with someone like me."

"We'll see what can be done," she replies warily, clearly displeased with the idea. Her answer makes it obvious that there's a high chance you’ll be left hanging rather than meeting your fellow human, but you’re not giving up that easily.

"Thanks," you say. Out of politeness, feeling an even stronger urge to stay on her good side.

"Shall we begin?"

You take a deep breath. You’re doing this. You’re meeting your extraterrestrial partners, cementing your future on this planet. Your hesitation lasts only a moment — just a brief weighing of pros and cons, an instant of fighting the urge to turn around and run back to the elevator. Less than a second is all it takes for you to give your answer.

"Yes, I want to meet them."

"Be careful," she warns sharply, one last time. "I've worked too hard for this job to lose it now because of human irresponsibility."

Elita takes a step forward, and you have to grab onto her helm to keep your balance, but thankfully, an exaggerated optic-roll is her only reaction to the excess contact. The next steps aren’t as shocking; by the third, you’ve adjusted to the rhythm of the giant leading you to a set of sliding doors, which she opens with a button on the side.

Your pocket spouses certainly know how to make… an intriguing first impression.

Caught off guard by the sudden opening of the doors, they literally tumble into the room and land on the floor, shooting you a lightning-fast glance before scrambling to their pedes at record speed, straightening up as if nothing happened. Their excited grins grow quickly and they’re clearly contagious, because you feel your own lips curling into a smile.

They look masculine and young, as much as you can say that about beings whose tissues don’t age. What grabs your attention most is the bot with yellow optics. You haven’t seen such a unique color among their kind before. Maybe you haven’t met many bots yet, but you could swear most had blue optics. Interesting... You make a mental note to compliment those bright, captivating optics later.

Your gazes meet, and the mech with the unusual, beautiful optics parts his lips slightly. You get the feeling he wants to say something, but excitement completely paralyzes him.

"Well, that was a stunning performance. Was eavesdropping worth it?"

"Ahem, no... we weren't eavesdropping," Orion defends himself, though his gaze remains fixed on you.

"Forgive us, Elita, you just caught us off guard when you opened the door so suddenly," D-16 adds, having suddenly regained control over his body.

They step closer, as if hypnotized, drawn to minimizing the distance, but Elita halts them with an outstretched arm. They stop, but their lovestruck expressions make it clear that their minds are already revolving solely around you.

"Ugh, pull yourselves together," Elita scolds. "You won’t lay so much as a digit on your pocket spouse until you’ve listened to the protocol, so focus."

"Mhm, yeah, yeah."

"Now do you understand what I was talking about earlier?" she directs at you. "I wish you Primus' patience with these two airheads."

"Oh, come on, they’re quite charming," you remark — but it turns out to be unnecessary, as the eruption of joy at hearing your voice is nearly impossible for even Elita to suppress.

Both of them surge forward, their excited cheers and cooing echoing through the empty room, bombarding you with loud adoration.

"Didn’t I just say something about getting them worked up?!" Elita hisses at you, but the sharp tone doesn’t sit well with your partners, their expressions suddenly sober as they feel the instinct to stand in your defense.

"Elita, leave them alone," Orion intervenes. "They’ve done nothing wrong."

"I knew this would happen," Elita sighs. "Enough. Let me recite the protocol so we can all go our separate ways, because I don’t have time to babysit all of you."

She looks at the two mechs before her to make sure they’re listening, but it quickly becomes evident they have no intention of cooperating today.

"Primus, focus! Do you think I have time to waste? Unlike you, empty cans, I have a ton of work to do and I'd like to finish it before my shift starts."

Still seeing their dazed, absentminded expressions, Elita decides to escalate.

"Do I have to take your pocket spouse away for you to finally pay attention?"

Orion snaps out of his trance first, alarmed at the idea of you being taken away.

"What? No, no! We’re listening now, boss."

"Next time, there won’t be a verbal warning. I’ll smack you both on the helms, and that’ll be the end of your pocket spouse respecting you."

Of course, a reprimanding servo-to-helm contact was unavoidable when it became clear they were drifting off again. But after the protocol was recited, a datapad signed, and you were informed that regular supplies of human fuel and clothing would be delivered to you, the long-awaited moment of your "eviction" from Elita’s shoulder finally arrived.

She steps closer to the two bots, who extend their servos with interlaced small digits toward you so you can transfer safely. Grabbing your bag, you carefully step from her shoulder onto their servo, at last entering physical contact with your spouses.

"You have a few clicks of free time before your shift starts," Elita informs them. "And if you’re even a nanoklik late, I swear you’ll be pulling overtime."

She gives you one last soft, almost sympathetic look, so out of place with her previous authoritative tone before leaving, closing the door behind her.

Two pairs of optics focus on you.

You gaze into them, sinking into the moment, finally understanding what Elita meant about their fascination with humans. Because looking into their dazzling optics, brimming with excitement and adoration, you find yourself experiencing that same fascination with their alien race, even though you’ve met other bots before.

You can truly call yourself a pocket spouse now, completely leaving your past life behind. And you sincerely hope this one will be better. That Orion and D-16 will make it so, though you have no guarantee.

"Hello," you say warmly.

"Hi," they reply almost simultaneously.

D-16 can’t hold back any longer. He extends his servo toward you, eager to finally acquaint himself with the texture of your body, but he hesitates the moment he feels you shiver ever so slightly, struck by your fear.

"Ah, I’m sorry, don’t be afraid," he says.

A bad start. A very bad start. He worries he’s already tainted your budding relationship, that his reckless excitement has scared you enough that you won’t give him a chance to open up. But you quickly soothe his fears.

"It’s okay, really. You can touch me if you want."

Their youthful, boyish excitement returns, softening their handsome metal faces — and your heart along with them.

"Just be careful," you remind them. "Humans are quite prone to accidental squishing."

"We’ll remember," D-16 promises. "We’d never hurt you. Right, Orion?"

"Of course. You’ll be completely safe with us."

"Alright, I believe you." Not entirely. You want to believe them. But if what Elita said was true, then they would stay true to their word if they worked so hard to be assigned a human. Only fools would deliberately destroy the fruits of their labor. "So? Do you want to touch your pocket spouse?"

Your pocket spouse. Your. Theirs. Theirs and only theirs.

It’s a dangerous thought for a miner, because the concept of ownership had been limited to just a recharge station and the locker next to it. Everything else was shared. Shared washracks, shared habsuites, shared berths for resting. There was no room for theirs.

But you were theirs. Truly, undeniably, and tangibly theirs. Only theirs. And they wanted it to stay that way. Theirs to touch, theirs to give attention to, theirs to talk to and compliment. Not for Jazz, not for Wheeljack, not for Sideswipe, and no longer for Elita. Theirs. It was beautiful and terrifying at the same time because you were burdening them with responsibilities they had never known before. Theirs. They couldn’t rely on anyone else anymore.

They exchange a brief, knowing glance. Theirs. They cannot ruin this. They cannot make mistakes. You have to like them, just as they instantly fell in love with you, and see them as good spouse material. They will show you that they can take care of you. Their pocket spouse. Theirs. Only theirs.

"What’s wrong? You don’t want to?" you ask teasingly, snapping them out of the traps of their own thoughts.

"Oh, Primus, of course we do. Very much. You have no idea how much," Orion confesses.

They were both brave, but it’s Orion who makes the first move. His servo finds your back, pressing against it with a single digit. Soft. Oh, so soft.

Once, he asked Elita what her pocket spouse felt like, and that was the answer he got. He didn’t understand it then. What was softness? What kind of sensation was it? What could he compare it to? But now… now he knew that softness was you, and you were softness. And if he could, he would never let you go.

"Wow, incredible. D, this is incredible, unlike anything else. You’re… extraordinary!"

He gently strokes your back, and you allow yourself to wrap your hand around his massive metal finger, which Orion welcomes with a beaming, delighted smile. How was it possible that your servo was even softer? Or maybe somewhere else, you were even softer still. He’d heard that humans and Cybertronians were compatible, and though he knows it’s not exactly proper to let his mind drift into impure, carnal territories so early in the relationship, cannot stop himself from dreaming of drowning in your softness. Wants to be surrounded by it. Wants to be suffocated by it. Wants to feel it after every shift, wake up in it and recharge.

Impatient with his partner’s sluggishness and selfishness, D-16 clicks his glossa.

"Move your digit, Pax, it’s my turn now."

It takes Orion a few nanokliks to pull himself away from his indecent thoughts. He doesn’t want to let you go, doesn’t want to be more than a few centimeters away from you ever again, but he knows D will smack him on the still-fresh sore spot left by Elita on his helm if he doesn’t pull his servo back. So he does. And immediately, he is consumed by an overwhelming sense of loneliness and emptiness, as if his life has suddenly become incomplete. He already wants to come back to you.

D-16’s reaction is similar. Awe at the new but pleasant texture manifests in his slightly parted intake and quick strokes across your back, searching for and discovering softness. Where your hand meets his digit, an incomparable warmth spreads, giving him a sense of completeness. You, him, and Orion. Three puzzle pieces that fit together perfectly, finally reunited after years of separation.

"I’m glad you like me," you laugh. "That’s a good start, huh?"

"It was good the moment we saw you," Orion says. "Really, we couldn’t have imagined a better pocket spouse."

"You’re too kind," you reply. You know they’re speaking from excitement, their minds weaving intricate visions and fantasies about life with a pocket spouse — visions that might not be so rosy in reality — but you don’t want to ruin it for them. Especially since you want to find a good life here, too. You want to be happy, regardless of the expectations they unknowingly place upon you. If they want to play house, you’ll join them. If they have a human fetish, you’ll indulge them in that too. "I think we’ll be happy together, won’t we? I’d like that."

"We will, for sure!" Orion assures enthusiastically.

"We know we’re just lousy miners, and you won’t have any luxuries," D-16 adds, earning a sharp elbow to the side from Orion. "I wasn’t finished, Pax." He elbows him back. "But we’ll do our best to make sure you have a good life with us. We’ll do everything for you. We’ll get… almost anything, but if you need something from the city, just say the word! Orion or I will get you food, clothes, whatever you need."

"Thanks, you’re sweet," you say, touched by their words. "I know I can’t do much, but maybe I can repay you somehow?"

"Just having you here is enough for now," D-16 says, smiling softly, enchanted by your question.

"Will you touch us again?" Orion asks, only to immediately receive a frustrated elbow. "What? They asked first."

D-16 pinches the bridge of his nose, unable to believe his partner’s tactlessness. Orion’s talent for making things worse had to affect you, it just had to. Just like every fragging time, it would fall on his shoulders to get them out of trouble, and in this case, to make sure you saw them as normal and worthy of being your spouses. They cannot mess this up. At any cost.

Which is why D is surprised when he hears your soft laughter. He lifts his servo from his faceplate and looks at you hopefully. So their relationship wasn’t ruined by Orion’s loose vocalizer?

"Of course. Come closer," you say, encouraging them further by crooking a finger.

Two massive faceplates move toward you simultaneously until they finally touch. They’re so close that you can stroke their cheeks, and so you do, slowly running your fingers over warm, living metal, drowning in their proximity. Orion and D-16 press into your hands, leaning into the comforting, though foreign, softness — now only theirs. Not for perching on Elita’s shoulder anymore. For them. Theirs to be petted, theirs to be embraced.

They could spend a lifetime in this room if it meant constant cheek-stroking and being spoiled by you. Oh, how they couldn’t wait for your shared life. Waking up with you. Coming back to their recharge stations after a hard day’s work, knowing someone was waiting for them. Spending time together. Telling you about Megatronus and Sentinel, showing off their merch, sharing every detail of their lives, and begging you to tell them about yours. About your planet, your interests, your human life — so they could make your life here as good as possible, desperately vying for your affection.

You will like them. You must. Because they already adored you, unconditionally devoted to their beloved pocket spouse. Theirs.

Relaxed and overwhelmed with contentment, they let their engines hum louder.

"Oh? You like this that much?" you ask, totaly not planning to exploit the bots’ ability to purr purely for your own selfish pleasure.

"Very much," Orion rumbles.

"You’re the best," D-16 adds.

For a moment, they open their optics, their gaze focused on you. And the trust flickering within them, the fervor of emotions burning away reason convinces you that you chose well by deciding to become a pocket spouse.

#transformers x reader #transformers one x reader #orion pax x reader #d 16 x reader #pocket spouse au

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vampiriito · 30 days ago

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Cherry bomb ᝰ.ᐟ

pairing: Drummer! Frat boy! Rafe x bitchy! reader who lowkey hates his band. . .

Part one |

–„IN WHICH your roommate starts dating the bassist of a rising college band, dragging you into a world of parties, late-night gigs, and too many eyes. One pair in particular: Rafe Cameron’s. He’s the drummer, the golden boy with a temper, and he acts like he can’t stand you—but you’ve caught him staring more times than you can count. When a rumor spins out of control, you're forced into a fake relationship to save face, and suddenly you’re spending too much time with someone who’s been quietly watching you for months. It’s supposed to be pretend—until the tension boils over, and the line between obsession and affection gets dangerously thin. He says you’re his muse. You’re starting to believe he means it.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──---

You

You hated going to a college mostly populated by rich kids. While they spent their semesters coasting on daddy’s money, bar-hopping between frat houses and racking up minor scandals, you were there for an actual future—one that wouldn’t be handed to you in a trust fund. And that was fine. Working wasn’t the issue. The customers were. Specifically, the endless swarm of entitled, bored, Starbucks-obsessed customers.

Saturdays were the worst. Weekend shifts at the campus café felt like serving lattes in the middle of a fashion show. Everyone was overdressed, overperfumed, and somehow still over you. Your hands moved mechanically, scribbling “Have a nice day” on yet another cup, slapping on a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes as a guy scoffed at the flower doodle you’d drawn. “Seriously? A flower?” he muttered, inspecting it like you’d handed him a biohazard. His gold card tapped the reader with a smug little beep—no tip, of course. You had to resist the urge to write fragile masculinity on his next drink.

You weren’t exactly known for your people skills. You were too blunt, too sharp around the edges, too unwilling to suck up to anyone wearing designer sneakers they didn’t pay for. But even you knew better than to start a fight with every customer. So you kept your mouth shut, jaw tight as you watched him walk out, phone pressed to his ear, already complaining about the customer service while barely clearing the door.

Moving on. You turned back toward the register just as a small group of girls approached the counter. Sorority types. All glossy hair, lip gloss, and TikTok energy. Some of them looked vaguely familiar—their kind always did. They weren’t shy about being regulars, though you’d never gotten the sense they came for the coffee. They came for the gossip. And occasionally to remind you that you didn’t belong here.

Their whispers and sideways glances weren’t subtle, and neither was the giddy smirk on the redhead’s face as she stepped forward. You braced yourself.

“Is it true?” she asked, before you even had the chance to launch into your usual robotic spiel.

You blinked, already annoyed. “Yep,” you deadpanned. “We just got the exotic limited edition cake pop. Big moment for humanity.” Your voice was flat, your smile faker than the lashes on her face.

They giggled like you were a clown hired for their personal entertainment. The redhead shook her head, waving a hand like you were old friends. “No, silly,” she said, leaning in closer over the counter like she was about to ask where to score molly. “The thing. You know... is it true?”

You stared at her for a beat, expression blank. “With the way my life’s been going lately, you could be talking about anything from getting evicted to getting hit by a sorority girl's leased Mercedes. You're gonna have to be more specific.”

She leaned in further, like this was juicy. “About you and Rafe.”

Your body stilled. One hand stayed hovering over the register button, the other still gripping the cup you were supposed to be filling. “What about me and Rafe?”

More giggles. Another girl chimed in from behind her, voice dripping with exaggerated innocence. “Are you guys, like... official now? Or is he still pretending it’s casual?”

The question hit you like a slap you didn’t see coming. “What the fuck are you talking about?” you asked before you could help yourself, voice just sharp enough to draw the attention of your coworker at the espresso machine.

The redhead’s brows shot up like you’d just admitted to murder. “Wait—oh my god. He didn’t tell you?” she whispered dramatically, like this was some twisted episode of Gossip Girl and not real life.

The others began giggling again, like this whole thing was just entertainment to them. You didn’t respond. Couldn’t. Your brain was already racing, trying to make sense of what you were hearing. Rafe Cameron had told people you were together? Dating?

You hadn’t even spoken to him in a week. At least not outside of that one text about a show lineup. You’d kissed—sure. But that was... what even was that? And most importantly..

What the fuck had he told them?

The cup in your hand finally cracked slightly under your grip. You quickly tossed it and reached for a new one before they noticed. “Oh my god,” one of them whispered again, voice gleeful. “You didn’t know.” No. You didn’t. But now? Now you had a reason to find out exactly what kind of fantasy Rafe fucking Cameron had been spinning behind your back.

Before you had the chance to untie your apron and storm out with the full intention of strangling Rafe Cameron with your own two hands for spreading delusional rumors that you were dating, one of the girls toward the back stepped forward with an almost sympathetic look. She hesitated like she didn’t want to be the messenger but couldn’t resist the drama, pulling out her pink iPhone and scrolling through something with her manicured thumb as the rest of the girls watched you like they were waiting for a reaction.

After a few seconds of tense silence, she turned the screen toward you.

The sound hit before the image did—bass-heavy party music, some indistinct shouting, and then Rafe’s voice, slurred and unmistakable. Loud. Cocky. Goddamn smug.

He was grinning like he had just gotten away with something unforgivable, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy in the low lighting of whatever beer-soaked house party he was at. He leaned into the camera like it owed him something.

“So sad you didn’t pick me for last night’s show…” someone offscreen whined—a girl, breathy and drunk. Her voice wasn’t totally clear over the blaring music, but the tone was obvious.

Rafe laughed, head tipping back, then looked straight into the camera, like he knew it would eventually find its way to you. “Who was the chick you chose anyway?” the girl asked again.

His smirk deepened, all teeth and zero shame. “Oh, you mean Cherry?” he said, voice thick with fake innocence. You could see it in his eyes—he was enjoying every fucking second of this. “I’m afraid she’s my girl.”

He didn’t stop there this time. He leaned a little closer, eyes gleaming with something more intimate, almost conspiratorial. “You should’ve seen her after soundcheck,” he went on, grin darkening into something filthier. “Cornered me behind the green room—had me up against the wall like she owned me. Said she needed to shut me up and kissed me like she meant it.”

Someone off-screen let out a shriek-laugh. Rafe ignored it, still focused on the camera like it was a live audience. “What can I say?” he added with a cocky shrug, “She’s intense when she wants to be. Best kiss I’ve ever had, not even kidding.”

He gave a lazy shrug, gaze flickering off to the side, then back to the camera. “Sorry ladies,” he added with that infuriating grin, “R.C. is off the market, sadly.”

Then, as if he hadn’t already humiliated you enough, he flexed his biceps into the frame like a jackass, adjusting his backwards snapback with that practiced frat boy flourish, sealing his fate as the most delusional man alive.

The video ended.

You stared at the frozen image of him mid-smirk for a second too long, then wordlessly handed the phone back, adjusting your glasses with the same motion you used when trying not to punch someone in the face.

Jaw clenched, temples pulsing, you blinked slowly as the realization fully settled in. Rafe Cameron had stood in front of a room full of people—while drunk, crossfaded, and dressed like an Abercrombie ad reject—and told everyone you were his girlfriend.

Lied. Casually. Like it was the truth. Like it had been the truth.

What the fuck was wrong with Rafe Cameron?

And more importantly—how the hell were you going to kill him without catching a charge?

“We all saw the kiss, sure. But we didn’t think he went for girls like… you,” said the blonde at the front, her voice all faux sweetness, but her smile dripping in condescension and overpriced Victoria’s Secret perfume. Her eyes trailed slowly, pointedly, over your uniform-clad form, the green apron, the coffee-stained sleeve, the messy low ponytail you barely had the energy to fix that morning. It was the kind of look meant to make someone feel lesser, but all it did was stoke the fire simmering beneath your already paper-thin patience.

“Right,” another one chimed in, twisting a straw between her acrylics. “You know Sofia?” Her tone was conversational, but her gaze flicked toward you like a blade. “His ex-girlfriend? She was, like, the daughter of a runaway model or something,” she added with a light, rehearsed laugh—like the idea of you being mentioned in the same breath as her was a punchline. She didn’t even look at you when she said it. She didn’t have to.

Your jaw clenched so hard your molars ached. Working with customers deserved the same kind of benefits they gave war veterans. And dealing with Rafe Cameron? That was psychological warfare on its own.

“Yeah,” another girl piped in, twirling a piece of hair around her finger as she chewed her gum slowly. “I remember their breakup was bad. Like, explosive. Wonder how she’s gonna take this whole…” she trailed off just long enough to be cruel before landing on the word like a slap, eyes narrowing at you, “…thing.”

There was a beat of silence, filled only by the soft hum of the espresso machine and the blood rushing to your head.

This wasn’t customer service anymore. This was target practice.

You leaned forward slightly, elbows bracing on the counter like you were just a little too calm. “You guys come here for the caffeine or the drama?” you asked sweetly, voice dipped in venom disguised as charm. “Because if it’s the second one, I’m afraid Rafe’s the one who made up the script.”

Their smiles flickered—just a twitch, but enough to make your lip curl in satisfaction.

Still, underneath it all, one thought blared louder than the rest: you were going to kill Rafe Cameron. Slowly. With absolutely no witnesses.

The rest of your shift blurred by, fueled entirely by the revenge fantasy slowly crystallizing in your mind. You weren’t daydreaming about first kisses or soft-eyed glances across the room—no, you were imagining your fingers curled in Rafe’s collar, shoving him into a wall and demanding he explain himself. You wanted chaos. Clarity. Consequences. You wanted to see his smug expression falter, wanted the satisfaction of his stupid little grin twitching with guilt. There was a heat curling in your chest—not the sweet kind, not affection—but something sharp and electric, like anger had replaced your bloodstream.

Every drink you made, every fake smile you threw at a customer, every time someone said the word “girlfriend” like it belonged to you—it all built, stacked like dry kindling under a match. You were going to burn him with this.

By the time you peeled off your apron and left—early, unapologetically, because there wasn’t a force on earth strong enough to make you listen to one more rich kid complain about the lack of coconut milk—you were practically vibrating with anticipation. Each step home was one closer to a confrontation you were almost eager for. You didn't just want to yell. You wanted to ruin his night.

Your fingers shook with adrenaline as you wrestled your keys into the lock, teeth clenched so tightly your jaw ached. The soft click of the door sounded too gentle for the storm brewing inside you, but it didn’t matter. Taylor was home. You could already hear it—muffled Taylor Swift lyrics spilling from her bedroom, her voice joining in without shame, like she didn’t have a care in the world. You should’ve turned straight to your room, but your body had its own plan.

Your steps were mechanical, purposeful. You didn’t hesitate. Not even when your heels protested after standing for nearly ten hours. You didn’t even pause to breathe as you crossed the apartment and leaned against her doorway like you had all the time in the world and none of the boiling fury you were carrying in your lungs.

The door was cracked open, her music louder now. She was sitting cross-legged at her vanity, lost in her routine—eyeshadow palette splayed out like it was sacred, her brows furrowed in concentration. You pushed the door open with a lazy hand, waiting.

She jumped, mirror catching your reflection just as the blending brush froze in her hand. “Jesus,” she snapped, pressing her palm over her heart. “Ever heard of knocking, Hannibal?”

You didn’t flinch. “Maybe don’t blast ‘Vigilante Shit’ like it’s your theme song and I won’t show up like a jump scare.”

Taylor rolled her eyes, turning back to her mirror with a smirk. “You’re lucky I didn’t throw this brush at you. It was twenty-eight dollars.”

She resumed her blending, like nothing was wrong. Like you hadn’t just walked in with fire in your eyes and your world flipped upside down.

But the shift was immediate when you spoke—flat, cold, quiet.

“Did you know?”

The pause that followed was deafening. Her hand stilled mid-blend, and her posture stiffened almost imperceptibly. But you saw it. Too fast. Too guilty. Her eyes met yours in the mirror.

“I thought you were gonna tell me,” she said carefully, pressing a hand to her chest again, this time with faux offense. “Being Rafe’s girlfriend is kind of a big deal, you know.”

You didn’t smile. You didn’t blink. “Don’t say that like it’s real.”

Her expression wavered, caught between guilt and a grin. “Okay, okay,” she said, waving the brush like she could swat the tension away. “But... I mean, if I were dating someone that hot and famous, I’d probably want to keep it lowkey too. Like, just for the mystery of it—”

“Taylor.”

She blinked, startled at your tone. Then she gave a short, breathy laugh and added with a smirk, “Wait, I am.”

She looked at you then, expecting a laugh, a smile, a shared joke. But all she got was silence—your arms crossed, eyes dead steady, expression unreadable.

And just like that, the humor dropped from her face entirely.

You shook your head, too exhausted to even begin explaining to Taylor that the whole thing was a hoax—or worse, to ask if she already knew. You didn’t want to hear her try to justify it, didn’t want her awkward sympathy or casual betrayal dressed up as concern. The disbelief, the rage, the humiliation—it was too fresh, too loud inside your skull to process anything else. So you just turned on your heel, letting silence speak for you.

A sudden rush of clarity cut through your fatigue like a shot of espresso straight to the bloodstream. That kind of wild-eyed second wind you only got after surviving a shift that nearly cracked your soul in half. The kind of resolve that turned your exhaustion into momentum, adrenaline spiked with rage. You tossed something over your shoulder—half a warning, half a promise—that she better wait for you to get ready, because you were driving her to Ethan’s fraternity party tonight.

“Wait, seriously?” she squealed behind you, already abandoning her mascara in favor of sprinting toward her heels. “Oh my God, this saves me fifty bucks—”

You were already in the hallway, lips curled in a wicked smirk. Like her parents weren’t disgustingly rich. Like she couldn’t afford a private driver if she asked nicely. But you didn’t call her out on it. Because you had bigger fish to fry tonight—and your favorite psychotic drummer was on the damn menu.

You had other motives tonight. And to Taylor’s dismay, sobriety wasn’t one of them.

The shower was fast but surgical. A ritual, really—steam and shampoo and violent internal monologues. You let the water scald your skin and didn’t flinch once, scrubbing off the workday and plotting every detail of your vengeance. It was a very specific kind of rage: not loud or messy, but cool, calculated, lined with glitter and perfume and cruelty. You dried off in five minutes flat, eyes already scanning your closet like a war general surveying a battlefield.

You knew exactly what you were going to wear. The black tank—the one with the little bow on the chest, the one that made his eyes drop every single time like clockwork. You drenched it in perfume, unapologetically. Let it cling just right. Paired it with your red leather skirt, the one that made you feel like a threat. Contacts went in. Hair straightened, swift and practiced. Makeup sharp enough to cut. Lip gloss just a shade too glossy. You didn’t want to look good. You wanted to look dangerous.

By the time you emerged from your room, keys in hand and heels clicking against the floor, you didn’t feel like someone recovering from a twelve-hour shift. You felt like a woman on a mission.

Which, in retrospect, should’ve been ridiculous. Petty. Maybe even a little unhinged. But you’d never claimed to be above chaos. And right now, chaos was all you had. Rafe Cameron had lied. He’d chosen to drag you into the spotlight like a trophy he never earned—and you weren’t just going to let him get away with it.

You were going to show up at that party. You were going to drink. You were going to look him in the eyes with a smile that meant trouble and ruin. And if you embarrassed the richest, most desperate asshole on campus in front of his own fan club?

All the better.

Of course you weren’t going to pass that up.

"Wow… the black leather boots?" Taylor’s voice rose from the couch like a siren of disbelief, eyes wide as you stepped into view. The laces hugged your calves like they had something to prove, and your usual beat-up sneakers and hoodie were nowhere in sight—replaced by something sleeker, darker, and so unapologetically intentional it was almost disarming.

“You wanna seduce Rafe?” she asked, half-joking, but her voice tilted with genuine curiosity, maybe even a little concern.

You didn’t even look away from the mirror. Your fingers were steady as they slid the second earring into place, the silver glinting against your skin like it belonged there, like it had something to say. You gave yourself one last glance—chin up, spine straight—and finally replied, voice smooth and eerily calm.

“No,” you said simply. “This isn’t for him. I just wanna look good.”

Casual. Unbothered. Like you hadn’t just spent the last hour assembling a war outfit with the kind of precision normally reserved for covert ops. Like you weren’t already picturing the exact angle of Rafe’s face when he saw you walk in—how his cocky little smirk would falter, even just for a second, how the room would shift.

But this wasn’t about him. Not exactly.

You were dressing for power. For control. For the kind of entrance that made people sit up a little straighter without knowing why. You weren’t showing up to throw a tantrum or plead for an explanation. You were going to show up looking like the version of yourself he didn’t deserve to touch—and then walk right past him like he was nothing more than a whisper in a loud room.

Taylor blinked at you like she didn’t recognize the person standing there. “Damn,” she muttered. “Remind me never to get on your bad side.”

You just smirked, finally turning away from the mirror, keys in hand. “Too late,” you said, heading for the door. And this time, Taylor didn’t even argue.

You didn’t speak much after that—just grabbed your bag, adjusted the strap of your top one last time, and gestured for Taylor to hurry up. She followed behind like a duckling, still marveling at your transformation like she was watching a Netflix documentary on revenge.

The drive to the fraternity house was laced with bass and headlights and tension. Taylor was rambling about how she hoped the jungle juice wasn’t as “grossly spiked” as last time and that maybe she’d get Ethan to finally commit to something more than a 2 a.m. ‘u up?’—but you weren’t really listening. You were focused on the road, eyes like razors, hands gripping the wheel a little tighter every time someone cut you off or the GPS glitched. The music pulsing through the speakers was angry and loud—something gritty and fast-paced, just enough to match the way your pulse refused to calm down.

“You okay?” Taylor asked at one point, eyes flicking over to you. “You’re, like… focused-focused.”

“I’m fine,” you said, which was your version of I’m plotting homicide but legally I can’t say that out loud.

She didn’t push it. Just hummed and turned the volume up a little, letting the conversation dissolve as the frat house came into view.

The lawn was already packed—bodies spilling over the porch, red solo cups dotting the space like landmines, someone yelling about losing a bet from a second-story window. It reeked of testosterone, weed, and overpriced cologne. You pulled up to the curb, parked, and sat there for a second, letting the engine tick down and your nerves settle into something closer to excitement.

Taylor glanced over, her hand already on the door handle. “So, like… what is the plan?”

You unbuckled your seatbelt, finally turning your full gaze toward her.

“The plan,” you said calmly, “is to find Rafe Cameron. And remind him that dating me would be the most dangerous mistake of his life.”

Taylor stared. “Okay, wow.”

You smiled, slow and sharp. “Go find Ethan. I’ll find Rafe.”

She nodded and got out, heels clicking against the pavement, disappearing into the crowd with all the ease of someone used to moving through chaos. You stepped out a second later, wind tugging at your hair, the night already warm and electric. You could feel the house breathing in the distance—music vibrating the wooden porch boards, laughter bouncing off the walls, the thrum of a party in full swing.

And somewhere inside, Rafe was waiting. Maybe drunk. Maybe smug. Definitely unaware of what was coming.

You walked up the path like you owned the place. Because tonight, you kind of did.

Your face contorted into something akin to disgust and boredom as you weaved through the crowd slowly. What was supposed to be a small, tight-knit hangout had exploded into a full-blown house party. And those were always messy. You wondered if these boys ever cleaned after themselves or if they hired some poor fifty-something woman to come in and scrape dried puke off the bathroom floor and gather used condoms from their bedsheets. Probably the latter.

Your boots clicked against the sticky floor as you moved deeper into the chaos, trying to ignore the stares and subtle points in your direction. They weren’t even subtle, really—half the girls in the room had their perfectly glossed lips wrapped around the word girlfriend like it was a scandal. Rafe always found you, no matter where you went. You didn’t know if he’d secretly planted a tracker in your purse or memorized your perfume well enough to sniff you out like some bloodhound, but he never made you look for him. He always found you first. Like he was waiting for it.

You found the table tucked in the corner of the living room, a cheap fold-out almost buckling under the weight of liquor bottles. Your eyes flicked over the choices, unimpressed, until they landed on one bottle shoved all the way to the back—cherry liquor. You narrowed your eyes. No frat boy stocked cherry liquor willingly. You picked it up, unscrewed the cap, and took a small sip straight from the bottle. It burned sweet, artificial, almost childish. You could practically see Rafe grinning when he bought it. Of course it was his.

You poured a generous amount into a red solo cup, smirking faintly to yourself. You’d come here with your car, sure. But you could always come back and pick it up tomorrow. Blacking out wasn’t the goal tonight, but you wouldn’t be mad if it happened.

You leaned against the edge of the table, sipping slow and deliberate like this was all a joke you were barely tolerating. The bass from the speakers thumped against your chest, and everyone around you looked like they belonged on reality TV. Somewhere in the corner, Taylor was already throwing back shots with Ethan and two girls who looked like they were planning to cry in the bathroom by midnight. You made a mental note to check on her later—maybe.

You couldn’t tell if people were whispering because of your outfit, the solo cup in your hand, or the fact that apparently you were the girlfriend of one of the most watched, wanted, and psycho-coded boys on this campus. Maybe all three.

And just like always—like clockwork—you felt it.

The buzz on your skin, the slight pull in the air, like a storm had walked into the room wearing cologne and a backwards cap. You didn’t have to turn around to know he’d entered. Rafe Cameron moved through crowds like he owned the ground under them, like every room tilted slightly when he stepped into it. And unfortunately, tonight, it tilted toward you.

You took another slow sip, lips quirking just a little as you felt the heat of his stare from somewhere behind you. Like he couldn’t help himself. Like he hadn’t been waiting for you to show. Like he wasn’t watching your every move like a man who’d just seen the sun for the first time and wanted to drag it out of the sky with his bare hands.

He always moved like he owned the ground beneath him. And unfortunately, tonight, it tilted toward you.

You didn’t turn around. Just raised your cup to your lips and took another slow sip, pretending not to notice the way the party seemed to subtly shift, like people instinctively cleared a path for him, or maybe moved out of the blast radius.

And then you heard him.

Low. Close.

“You’re drinking my liquor.”

You didn’t even flinch. Just exhaled softly through your nose and turned your head lazily, dragging your eyes to meet his like you had all the time in the world.

“I figured I was entitled,” you said, tone even and bored. “Since I’m apparently your girlfriend now.”

You let the word linger in the air, heavy and venom-laced. Around you, someone laughed too loudly. Music shifted into something bass-heavy and obnoxious.

Rafe’s jaw twitched.

You didn’t stop there.

“I mean—” you sipped again, letting it burn “—you made it Facebook-official at some house party, right? Told a room full of drunk girls I’m yours now?” You tilted your head. “That was cute.”

He looked at you like he couldn’t decide whether to grin or beg for forgiveness. Which pissed you off more than anything.

And you smiled. Cold and radiant.

Let the games begin.

Rafe stepped in closer, boots stopping just short of your own like he was toeing a line even he didn’t know the consequences of. That infuriating grin of his was already forming, slow and deliberate, like he had the audacity to find amusement in any of this. Like your anger was something he could play with, mold between his fingers and tuck behind his teeth.

“You saw that video, huh?” he asked, voice low and unbothered—smug, even. The cherry liquor scent still clung to your tongue, but the bitterness rising in your throat now had nothing to do with alcohol.

“Hard not to,” you replied, your voice tight. “Especially when a group of sorority girls played it for me like it was breaking news.”

His tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek as he nodded slowly, like he was trying to appear thoughtful, but you knew him too well for that. Rafe Cameron didn’t think—he reacted. Obsessively, impulsively. Like everything in his life was either a dare or a trap.

“I didn’t know it would get around like that,” he offered, which was a lie. A stupid one. Rafe knew exactly what he was doing. He lived for attention. He treated rumors like currency and you like his personal PR stunt.

You arched a brow. “So what—‘cherry’ was just the nickname you threw in to make it believable? Or was that some kind of romantic gesture?”

Rafe chuckled, low and dangerous. “What can i say? You taste like cherries and attitude. It stuck.”

Your expression didn’t waver, but something twisted in your stomach anyway. He had no right—no right to make that sound seductive, no right to make it feel personal. He leaned in just enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath near your ear, his tone shifting to something darker, heavier.

“Besides,” he murmured, “you didn’t exactly push me away that night, did you?”

You didn’t flinch, but your chest constricted slightly. He was talking about the kiss. The one from a week ago. The one you pretended didn’t happen. The one that lingered under your skin like a splinter you couldn’t dig out. The one he asked for.

He kept going, that voice of his wrapping around you like barbed wire laced in silk. “You kissed me back. With tongue. And noise. And your hands in my hair, like maybe you didn’t hate me as much as you want to.”

Despite the way he made it sound—and the way it almost made you feel—you scoffed, gaze falling to the swirling red liquor in your cup like it was more important than his entire existence. “It was a favor, Rafe,” you said finally, voice dipped in dry amusement, like you were already bored with the conversation. “That kiss? That was your stupid little tradition, not mine.”

You took a slow sip, savoring the bitter sweetness before letting your eyes cut back to his. “You picked me. Out of everyone in that crowd, you pointed at me and dragged me on stage like a prop. Sat me in your lap like I was decoration for your fucking drum throne. And I played along.” You laughed a little under your breath, not because it was funny, but because the memory made your skin itch.

“You leaned in at the end of the set and asked me to kiss you like it was part of the damn performance. And I did. Not because I wanted to. Not because I was caught up in the moment. But because you asked and I was being... I don’t know, nice? Consider it community service or something.”

Rafe’s jaw twitched. You could see the way his fists clenched at his sides, the way his brows pulled in slightly like he wasn’t sure if he was angry or hurt. “You think I just dragged you up there for show?” he asked finally, voice lower now. There wasn’t the usual smugness in it. Just tension. “You think I kiss people I don’t give a fuck about?”

“Yeah,” you said bluntly, lips quirking into a mock smile. “I think you do a lot of things you don’t actually mean. I think you play pretend so often you can’t tell what’s real anymore.”

He stepped forward once, and you didn’t flinch, but he hovered like he wanted to argue harder than his brain would let him. “I could’ve picked anyone that night. You know that, right?”

“Yeah, and you did,” you cut in, sharp and biting. “You picked the one girl who hates your guts. Real romantic.”

He blinked, like your words knocked the wind out of him for a second. “I picked you,” he said again, quieter this time. “Because I didn’t want anyone else touching me that night. Not like that. Not in that way. You think it was just for the crowd?”

Your laugh this time was colder. “Is that the speech you give all the girls you’ve lied to?”

He shook his head slowly, like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “I never told them we were dating,” he muttered, as if that made it better. “Just said you were mine.”

“Oh,” you replied, venom lining your voice like honey. “Well that clears it right up. You’re not insane, just possessive.”

You downed the rest of the cherry liquor and took a step back, away from him and the heat radiating off his skin like he was made of something unstable. “You made me the punchline of your favorite story, Rafe. And now you’re mad that I’m not flattered?”

He didn’t say anything. Just stared, as if he was seeing you clearly for the first time.

You shoved the empty cup into his chest. “Here. Why don’t you go tell the next girl you pick that she’s yours too. I’m sure she’ll eat that shit up.”

Before you had the chance to step away, Rafe grabbed your forearm—not rough, but firm enough to stop you mid-step. He clicked his tongue as he took the empty cup from your hand and set it on the dingy table beside him, his fingers dragging across the plastic with finality. For a second, he just stood there looking at you, jaw tight like he was running a thousand possibilities through his head. Then his brows raised slightly, a flicker of something sparking behind his eyes—like a lightbulb went off.

“Okay,” he said, voice calm, careful. “It was a favor. You made that crystal clear.”

He waited a beat, watching your face, then added, “And you asked me how it benefited me. Like, what I got out of you kissing me on stage.”

Your expression didn’t shift, but the way your jaw tensed told him you remembered. That you were still pissed.

“So... how about this,” he continued, that familiar Rafe edge slipping back into his tone—charming, smug, manipulative, but somehow still smooth. “We let people keep thinking we’re dating.”

You blinked. For a second, you just stared at him like he’d grown a second head. And then it hit you all at once—what he was actually saying. Your lips parted in disbelief before twisting into an incredulous smile, your eyes gleaming as a laugh escaped your throat. You didn’t hold it back either, nearly doubling over as you laughed at him.

“And why the hell,” you said through a breathy scoff, “would I ever do that?”

Rafe’s tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek, like he was preparing for the blowback. But still, he leaned in a little, voice dropping low so no one nearby could overhear. “Because Sofia saw the video.”

That name. You stilled.

“She saw it,” he repeated, eyes never leaving yours. “The one where I said you were my girl. The one where you kissed me on stage.”

Your spine straightened slightly, but you didn’t speak. He took your silence as a green light to keep going.

“She flipped. Blew up my phone. Showed up at that party on Benson screaming like she hadn’t been the one who walked out in the first place.” He rolled his eyes, rubbing a hand down his jaw like the memory alone exhausted him. “I haven’t seen her that worked up in months.”

You raised a brow. “And that’s... a good thing?”

“For me?” he smirked. “Yeah. Means she still gives a damn. And if pretending to be with you keeps getting under her skin, I’ll finally have the upper hand for once.”

Your laugh this time was humorless. “So you want me to be your fake girlfriend so you can win a pissing match with your ex?”

He had the audacity to grin. “Come on. You get to mess with me without consequences, people stop talking shit about you, and Sofia spirals. That’s a win-win-win.”

You stared at him, mouth slightly parted, both horrified and—against your better judgment—intrigued. “You’re unbelievable.”

“But you’re considering it,” he said smugly, like he could already tell by the way you hadn’t walked away.

Your silence betrayed you more than your words ever could.

“I’m not considering it,” you stated again, flatter this time, more to yourself than to him. “I was already put down today by the girls who showed me that video. Comparing me to your stupid, crazy, and awfully rich ex…”

You trailed off, the bitterness thick on your tongue. You hadn’t planned on admitting that. But the words came out anyway, heavy and sharp, and for once Rafe didn’t smirk. His grin dimmed slightly, the amusement in his face faltering. Just for a second. He tilted his head, studying you in a way that made you feel like he was trying to read deeper, like he hadn’t realized how far the fallout had hit until now.

“Yeah, well,” he muttered, voice low, “Sofia’s good at making people feel small. Doesn’t matter how rich you are. She does that shit to me all the time.”

You rolled your eyes. “Touching. So this is your revenge tour?”

He shrugged. “Something like that.”

Your arms crossed over your chest. “Why me?”

“Because,” he said, eyes flicking to your mouth and then back up again, “you don’t take my shit. You never have. That kiss didn’t make you swoon. You glared at me like you wanted to kill me after it. That’s rare.”

You scowled. “So I’m a challenge.”

“You’re real,” he said simply. “That’s the whole point.”

The word hung there between you two. Real. Like he hadn’t just dragged you into the campus rumor mill and claimed you as his for fun. Like he hadn’t been the very cause of your shit shift today.

You hated the way it made your stomach twist.

You exhaled, sharp and slow, and turned your gaze toward the party behind him, the sea of kids too drunk to care about anything but the next game of beer pong. Maybe pretending to date Rafe Cameron would be hell. But it would also be power. Over him. Over everyone who ever doubted you. And after the week you had, that almost sounded like peace.

Almost.

You looked him dead in the eye. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it my way. And I want it in writing.”

Rafe blinked. “Writing?”

“A contract,” you said, crossing your arms. “Rules. Boundaries. Clauses. Something legally binding.”

He tilted his head, clearly amused. “Legally binding? What, are we getting married too?”

You didn’t flinch. “I’m serious, Cameron.”

That cocky grin of his stretched wide across his face, dimples and all, like he was thoroughly enjoying every second of your madness. “Alright then, cherry. Hit me with your terms.”

You lifted a finger. “Rule number one: no touching unless I initiate it. That means no arm around the shoulder, no hand-holding, no weird possessive hand-on-the-back thing. Got it?”

He nodded slowly, like he was etching it into stone. “No touching unless it’s your idea. Tragic, but fine.”

“Rule two,” you said, holding up another finger, “no calling me baby, babe, sweetheart, or cherry in front of anyone else. You can call me by my actual name or nothing at all.”

His brows furrowed. “Wait, I can’t call you cherry? That’s practically your stage name at this point.”

You gave him a glare so sharp he put his hands up in mock surrender. “Okay, okay. Noted.”

“Rule three: no lies about how we met, how long we’ve been together, or what I like to eat for breakfast. We stick to facts unless we both agree on the story beforehand.”

He grinned. “You’re really planning this out like you’re running the CIA.”

“I’m not done,” you snapped. “Rule four: no real feelings. This isn’t friends with benefits. This isn’t enemies to lovers. This is fake. You don’t get to be jealous, you don’t get to flirt unless it’s for show, and you definitely don’t get to confuse anything I do as romantic.”

Rafe was silent for a beat, his smirk slipping slightly like that one hit deeper than he expected. But he quickly recovered, brushing imaginary dust off his hoodie.

“Got it. No catching feelings. No touching. No pet names. No rewriting history,” he recited like a checklist. “Anything else, Your Highness?”

You thought for a second. “Yeah. If your little ex doesn’t take the bait within two weeks, I’m out.”

His lips twitched at little ex. “Two weeks? That’s barely enough time to make her cry.”

“Then you better start acting,” you said, sticking out your hand.

Rafe looked at it for a long moment before reaching out to shake it. But instead of just grabbing it, he wrapped both of his hands around yours, holding on a second too long, thumb brushing your knuckles.

“I like this side of you,” he said softly, voice low. “All bossy and in control.”

You yanked your hand back. “Don’t make me add ‘no creepy comments’ to the contract.”

He chuckled, hands up again. “Alright, alright. I’ll draw it up tonight. We’ll make it official.”

You turned to walk away, muttering over your shoulder, “You better. I want signatures.”

Behind you, you could already hear his smug reply: “Should I sign in blood or cherry lip gloss?”

You didn’t answer.

You were too busy wondering what the hell you'd just gotten yourself into.

You weren’t entirely sure what came after this. You weaved through the crowd like a seasoned pro, dodging drunk bodies, spilled beer, and the occasional unsolicited grab like it was muscle memory by now. The plan was to corner Rafe Cameron, tear him a new one, maybe even throw a drink in his face for dramatics. But somewhere between the cherry liquor and his absurd suggestion, you found yourself agreeing to fake date him. With a contract. Like some deranged subplot out of To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before—except with more alcohol, unresolved rage, and a drummer who probably thought “emotional depth” was a brand of cologne.

You almost turned around right then—walked out the door, told Taylor to call her damn Uber, and burned the contract in some ceremonial rite of reclaiming your sanity.

But something held you in place.

Maybe it was the thrill. Maybe it was the faint high of chaos. Or maybe it was the quiet truth you hadn’t wanted to admit until now: your life was painfully, suffocatingly uneventful. You didn’t exactly scream “main character.” You screamed “background Starbucks employee.” Which, unfortunately, you were.

Taylor said as much the night she decided to date Ethan. She claimed your social life was practically an intervention case, and if she had to hook up with the band’s bassist just to drag you out of your hermit shell, then so be it. Apparently, you dating someone from the band was inevitable. “A ripple effect,” she called it. You called it offensive. She called it accurate.

So maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea after all. Maybe fake dating Rafe Cameron wasn’t just the perfect revenge—maybe it was a way to flip the whole narrative. Let the rumors swirl. Let Sofia spiral. Let every judgmental girl at your job choke on their designer perfume. Maybe they’d stop calling you “the girl in the apron” and start whispering her? like they were choking on disbelief.

You weren’t going to catch feelings. You were immune to charm, especially when it came in the form of an arrogant drummer with stalker tendencies, a God complex, and a deeply concerning attachment to snapbacks. But if he caught feelings—if he got a little too comfortable, a little too smug, a little too convinced he’d won you over—then maybe you’d get to be the one walking away with a smirk and a perfectly timed line that left him standing in a puddle of his own ego.

Which, yeah… was evil.

But evil had a face. And it wore a backwards snapback and called you cherry like it meant something.

So maybe you could play along.

Maybe you could hold his hand at a party. Let him whisper things in your ear that made people stare. Let him do that smug arm-around-your-shoulders thing like you were his. Let the lie sit sweet on your tongue like candy laced with arsenic. After all, if this was going to work, it had to be convincing. There had to be pictures. Appearances. Close proximity. Maybe even some PDA. Your stomach twisted at the thought, but it wasn’t nerves. It was anticipation. You could pull this off. You could give them all a show.

Besides, Rafe wanted to make Sofia jealous? Fine. You’d give her something to really lose her mind over. You’d make her regret ever letting him go. You’d become the girl people envied. The one who got picked from the crowd and stayed.

But only for a while.

Because this wasn’t real. And you weren’t stupid.

You weren’t the kind of girl who fell for the bad boy. You were the kind who knew better. Who saw the crash before the impact. Who already had the airbag inflated and the seatbelt latched.

Still, your phone buzzed with a new message.

Rafe Cameron: Tell ur roommate to take pictures of us tonight. Make it look real. You know, for Sofia’s sake.

You rolled your eyes so hard they nearly got stuck. The audacity. Like you were his assistant or something. Like this whole thing hadn’t been his idea.

Still, your thumbs moved before you could stop them.

You: I’ll only pose if you buy me a drink. And I get final say on the contract terms.

You stared at the message for a second before hitting send.

Not even two minutes later, he responded:

Rafe Cameron: Anything for my girl 😉

You scoffed, but your lips twitched in a reluctant smirk.

This was going to be a disaster.

But maybe, just maybe… it was going to be your kind of disaster. Just like every kind of disaster in your life.

Which, looking back, your life wasn’t technically uneventful—just quietly catastrophic. Like watching a car crash in slow motion through a fogged-up window. The damage never made headlines, but you felt it in the ache of your bones. Most of your heartbreaks didn’t come with closure or loud theatrics. They came silently, like paper cuts, small and sharp, and always in the same damn place.

Dating? A statistical anomaly in your history. Not even a full series of unfortunate events—more like a couple of poorly written episodes and an unaired pilot. And Rafe? Rafe Cameron? He wasn’t going to be another flop. As long as you kept your head above water and held the reins tight, he’d be your best fake decision yet. You weren’t interested in heartbreak, only strategy.

You lingered near the grand staircase, arms crossed loosely and lips pressed together like you were holding back a yawn, not an existential crisis. You were supposed to be exacting revenge tonight, not spiraling into social disassociation. But without that mission, without the adrenaline of confrontation, you were left standing around in leather boots and a top that screamed dangerous woman in a room full of girls in platform sandals and cropped jerseys.

He didn’t even check you out. The top he once claimed to have a thing for went ignored. The boots that were giving “dominatrix on a warpath” barely got a blink. And you looked like someone who walked out of a music video only to end up... here. At a frat house. In a room that smelled like stale beer, testosterone, and Axe body spray. You adjusted the strap of your purse with a sigh, scanning the sea of rich-kid debauchery. These parties were only fun if you were either emotionally numb or chemically altered. You were neither.

But frat parties did have their uses. They were built for mistakes and blurry snap stories. And your last mistake—unfortunately—was weaving through the crowd right now with a lopsided grin and two red cups like he invented hospitality.

Mikael.

Of course.

The human equivalent of a film school thesis project. All rings and chipped nail polish and artsy button-downs with designs that looked like they were stolen off a museum wall. He had a pearl necklace that he swore wasn’t performative, and an acoustic guitar he carried around like an emotional support animal. The whole male manipulator starter pack, with a dash of tragic backstory and a curated Lana Del Rey playlist he never actually listened to.

You did, though. You’d saved all summer for those concert tickets back in 2015, screamed every word like it was scripture. He just thought the lyrics sounded poetic in the background of his Instagram stories.

It ended badly.

For you.

He’d said you were “too much of a realist” for him. That he “needed to feel more inspired.” Which translated to: you didn’t feed his ego enough and you saw through his Pinterest-level sad boy persona. Then—plot twist—he started dating a girl who looked like she’d just learned what sarcasm was. Soft, simple, painfully agreeable. Nothing like you.

And maybe that’s what stung the most. Not the heartbreak. But the insult of being passed over for someone who was easier.

Your jaw tightened at the memory just as his eyes landed on you. He smiled. That self-satisfied, casual smile of someone who thought you were just going to act civil. Maybe even flirty. Maybe even nostalgic.

But what he didn’t know was that you were in a contractually obligated fake relationship now.

With Rafe Cameron.

And that made you someone new. Someone dangerous.

Someone with leverage.

You didn’t smile back. You just lifted the cup he handed you in a mock-toast, took a long sip, and watched his grin falter a bit.

Yeah. Let him wonder. Let everyone wonder. Because this was the new you: dressed to kill, no longer boring, and about to make the worst mistake of your life—but on your terms this time.

"Wow..." he broke the silence, his brows lifting with exaggerated awe, that same smile curling on his lips—sheepish and disarming, like he was flirting with a stranger and not the girl whose heart he'd bruised in stereo. "You look like you could ruin me," he said, voice dipping just slightly in that purposeful way, aiming for charm but landing somewhere between awkward and endearing. He gave a small laugh, scratched the back of his neck like it was muscle memory. "And I’d let you."

Classic Mikael.

You scoffed, your expression staying neutral but your eyes sharpening like a blade being unsheathed. "Think you had your chance," you replied coolly, shifting your weight to one leg and letting your gaze flit to the side, like you were already bored. Like the conversation was a rerun of a show you regretted watching the first time.

"Pretty sure you blew it when you dumped me via Spotify playlist," you added, voice edged with mockery. “Titled ‘songs that helped me realize we’ve grown apart.’ Real subtle.”

His grin faltered for a moment. Good.

"And then—just to really drive the knife in—you did it again. In person. At a frat party. Half-high, half-drunk, entirely pretentious." You tilted your head slightly, studying him like he was an art piece you’d seen before and no longer found impressive. “Quoted Bukowski like it was gonna soften the blow. It didn’t.”

He shifted uncomfortably, but tried to play it off with a small shrug and that same faux-charming grin he wore like armor. He looked like a caricature of who you used to fall for—button-down with paint smudges that were probably intentional, layered necklaces, rings on his fingers like personality traits. His hair was still pushed back in that effortless way that probably took fifteen minutes and a mirror with good lighting.

"You still listen to that playlist?" he asked, a poor attempt at teasing, but his voice wavered—just enough to make it obvious that he cared.

"Only when I want to feel secondhand embarrassment," you replied smoothly, taking another sip from your cup without breaking eye contact.

He let out a low chuckle, but it was awkward now. Forced. Like he suddenly realized the girl in front of him wasn’t the same one who used to play along with his pseudo-intellectual flirting or pretend his curated sadness made him deep. You were sharper now. Less patient. Maybe even a little dangerous.

Especially now that you were fake dating Rafe Cameron.

Mikael didn’t know that yet, of course. But when he did, you wanted him to remember this exact moment—when he realized the girl he once deemed not interesting enough had become the kind of person who could wreck him with a glance.

And maybe she would.

But only if she felt like it.

Right now, all you felt was that awful, twisting sensation in your stomach. Not butterflies—the word was too soft, too romantic. These fluttered with irritation, with a tight, nervous energy that settled low and uncomfortable, like a warning flare. Because as much as you wanted to make Mikael squirm—make him feel the humiliating aftershock of the breakup he orchestrated with curated sadness and aesthetic detachment—you couldn’t help but feel... flattered. Which annoyed you. And confused you. And made you want to hurl the drink in his face.

"Well…" he ventured again, sensing the moment slipping but refusing to let it go, "you didn’t unfollow me on Spotify."

You raised a brow.

"And so," he continued, shrugging with exaggerated awkwardness and nearly sloshing his drink onto his too-expensive boots, "here I am. Stomping over my pride and… trying again?" He laughed nervously at the end, his voice cracking ever so slightly like he hadn’t meant to ask it like a question—but it came out that way anyway. Weak. Uncertain. Hopeful in that annoying, boyish way.

You stared at him, grimace deepening as your fingers wrapped tighter around the red solo cup he offered, like holding it might steady you, like it could turn your irritation into something more concrete. It didn’t. Especially not when you caught the scent of it—peach iced tea, spiked with vodka. The same drink you used to sip on during basement hangs and low-stakes gallery shows where he introduced you like a footnote.

Of course he remembered. Of course he’d bring it.

Probably thought it would spark some wistful nostalgia. Make you soften a little. Classic male manipulator tactic—call back to the comfort, the intimacy, the good parts, like that would somehow erase the Spotify breakup or the pretentious goodbye monologue he delivered while reeking of weed and indifference.

“Trying what again?” you asked coolly, your eyes narrowing with faux curiosity. The kind of expression you wore like armor—disinterested, untouched. "Trying to hook up with someone you decided wasn’t exciting enough the first time?"

He winced, barely. But you caught it.

His fingers fidgeted around his cup. “I was wrong about that,” he said, more quietly now. “I didn’t know what I wanted.”

You gave him a pitying look, the kind that burned more than any insult could. “Yeah. You wanted the opposite of me. And now you don’t have it, so you’re crawling back.”

He looked like he wanted to argue. To say it wasn’t like that. But it was, and he knew it. So he just stood there, absorbing the silence, letting it dig into his skin.

You took a sip of the drink anyway. Just to prove you weren’t bothered. Just to remind yourself you had control now. And when the sharp, saccharine bite of it hit your tongue, you smiled. Not at him—never at him. At yourself.

Because this time, you weren’t the girl standing still while he walked away.

You were the one pretending to date Rafe Cameron, the most chaotic boy on campus, and whether that ended in disaster or not, at least it wouldn’t end quietly.

Let Mikael watch. Let him wonder. Let him regret.

You took another sip, slower this time. It wasn’t about the taste—it was about what it looked like. Calm. Unbothered. Above it all. Even if every nerve under your skin prickled with a discomfort you couldn’t quite name.

Mikael shifted beside you, clearly building up to something again. The way his body leaned slightly in, the way his eyes lingered on your mouth. He was still trying. Still testing the waters. “Listen,” he started, voice soft like that was going to work on you now, “I know I messed up. But if we could just—”

“She’s busy.”

The voice sliced through the static between you like a sharp gust of wind. Your head turned instinctively—though you didn’t really need to. You already knew. The weight of it had settled at your back before the words even left his mouth.

Rafe.

He stood just a little too close behind you, one hand slipping around the curve of your waist like it belonged there—like it had always been there. His grip was light, possessive in a way that made your skin flush, though you weren’t sure if it was from discomfort or something else entirely. His other hand held his own drink, untouched.

Mikael’s expression flickered—shock, irritation, maybe a hint of embarrassment. “Uh. Hey, man. We were just talking.”

Rafe smiled, all teeth. “Yeah, I heard. Thought I’d save her before your tragic little monologue got to its third act.” He didn’t look away from Mikael, but his thumb brushed lightly over your hipbone like punctuation.

You didn’t speak. Didn’t move. You didn’t need to. Your silence was the most powerful part of it.

“I don’t think I caught your name,” Rafe added casually, lifting his brows as if Mikael were just some forgettable extra in the background of his scene. “Wait—no, I did. You’re the one who made the sad breakup playlist, right?”

Mikael blinked, face reddening.

“Bold move,” Rafe mused, like he was genuinely impressed. “I mean, dumping someone at a party is bad enough, but doing it high and then leaving a curated tracklist? That’s, like, next-level narcissism. Props.”

You nearly choked on your drink. Rafe’s tone was smooth, too smooth, and yet under it was that telltale edge—mocking and cruel and a little too satisfied. Like he’d been waiting for this.

Mikael tried to recover. “Alright, man, I don’t know what your deal is, but—”

“My deal,” Rafe cut in, tilting his head as he tightened his grip just a little, “is her. We’re together.” His eyes didn’t leave Mikael’s. “So whatever you were trying to do? You can stop now.”

Silence.

You exhaled slowly, chest tight from holding in laughter—or maybe shock. Maybe both. And then, finally, you spoke again, looking at Mikael with a small, calculated smile. “Guess you should’ve unfollowed me on Spotify.”

Rafe’s smirk twitched wider.

Mikael took a step back, jaw tight. “Right,” he muttered. “Well. Good luck with that.”

He walked off without another word, disappearing into the crowd, and you watched him go with a strange mix of satisfaction and surrealism. It was messy. It was dramatic. It was fake.

But it felt like winning.

Rafe turned to you once Mikael was gone, that cocky smirk softening just a fraction. “You’re welcome,” he said, like this was his job now. Like keeping boys away from you was part of the contract.

You rolled your eyes, trying to ignore the heat still lingering where his hand had been. “Don’t get smug about it. That was just… convenient.”

He shrugged, shameless. “Still felt good. You looked like you needed saving.”

“I didn’t.”

“You kind of did.”

You looked at him then—really looked at him—and the faintest hint of something almost vulnerable passed between you. And then, just like that, it was gone.

“Thanks, I guess,” you muttered, turning back toward the noise and chaos of the party.

Rafe stayed beside you, close enough that you could feel his presence in every part of your body. Like a flame. Like a warning.

Fake or not, you were in deep now.

“Beneficial, right?” Rafe asked, his voice low and smug as he leaned against the railing of the stairs, one elbow hooked casually over the banister. His eyes flicked toward the crowd, but it was clear he hadn’t taken his attention off you for a second.

You side-eyed him, your gaze narrowed in subtle irritation. Were you supposed to be hanging off him now? Cling to his side and giggle for effect, really sell the story? He hadn’t touched you again since cutting Mikael off, but you felt the ghost of his hand still hovering near your waist. Instead, he stood beside you, cool and composed, his arms now folded lazily across his chest as he finally took a sip from his untouched drink.

“Maybe I wanted to reconcile with my evil, sad-boy ex,” you murmured, voice a little too light to be sincere. The sarcasm dripped from every syllable, sharp and cold. Your tone was detached, but the intent behind it wasn’t subtle. It was a jab. A quiet one, but a jab nonetheless.

Rafe snorted, lips twitching. “Mikael doesn’t look like he can spell reconcile, let alone survive it.”

You tilted your head slightly toward him, watching him through the corner of your eye. “And you’re such a great alternative?” you asked dryly. “Should I be swooning now? Or do I wait till you draft another fake contract and tell me where to sit and smile next?”

Rafe grinned like you amused him more than you infuriated him. “You said you wanted revenge, didn’t you?” he replied easily, his voice low enough to feel private. “You looked at me and agreed. This is just the part where it works.”

You took a slow breath and glanced back over the crowd, scanning the room like it had answers for your internal tug-of-war. The lights were too bright in some places, too dim in others. Laughter echoed from the kitchen. The bass thrummed through the floors. It was chaos, all of it—and yet Rafe was still and steady beside you, like the storm bent around him.

“You’re enjoying this too much,” you muttered.

“Obviously,” he said with zero shame. “My ex is losing her mind, your ex just got shut down so hard he’ll probably cry into his little sketchbook, and now people are staring at you like you’re the girl who finally got me to settle down.”

You made a noise that was somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “Settle down? You mean lie publicly?”

Rafe turned to look at you then, his expression unreadable for a second, something softer flickering there for a breath too long before he smirked again, shoving it away like it never happened. “Same thing, isn’t it?”

You shook your head, hiding your smile behind your cup. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re here with me.” His tone was light, but something heavy hung beneath it. Like a warning. Like a promise.

You didn’t reply. You just stood beside him, leaning a little closer—close enough for it to look like something. Close enough to let the night do its job.

If you were going to play the part, you were going to make it convincing. Even if it meant pretending you didn’t like the way his shoulder brushed yours a little more than you should.

"You're wearing the top," Rafe said, voice low and unhurried, like he was making an observation about the weather rather than zeroing in on the thing that had clearly been testing his restraint all night. His gaze raked over you with a smooth, casual shamelessness, the corner of his mouth twitching as his tongue swiped over his bottom lip. “Intentional?”

He turned slightly, back resting against the banister now, full attention on you. And not in the fake-boyfriend, sell-the-lie kind of way either. This felt... feral. Like he was breaking character, or maybe slipping into one that felt too natural.

“No,” you said flatly, holding his gaze without flinching, though it took effort. “It’s just my favorite top.” You gave a half-hearted shrug, as if the dip of the neckline and the ridiculous little bow were nothing. As if you hadn’t stood in front of your mirror for ten minutes deciding between this and something safer. As if you hadn’t been thinking about how he looked at you that night on stage.

But of course he was staring. His gaze lingered just a beat too long on the soft curve of your chest, where the fabric clung with precision, dipping low enough to leave less to the imagination than you were comfortable with. You fought the urge to roll your eyes—or sock him in the jaw.

“Oh, it’s definitely one of my favorites too,” he muttered, almost to himself, nodding vaguely like he’d spaced out completely. His teeth dug into his bottom lip as his eyes flicked back up to meet yours, slower this time. Less playful, more deliberate.

You arched a brow. “You wanna keep staring, or should I just send you a photo for later?”

His smirk deepened, like he liked the bite in your tone. “Bold of you to assume I don’t already have one.”

That made your jaw tighten, your heart stutter—and your fist curl slightly around your cup. You didn’t know what pissed you off more: the audacity of his words, or the sharp thrill of something else crawling up your spine.

“Watch it,” you warned, stepping in just half an inch closer, your voice sharp but low. “We may be fake dating, but there’s a limit.”

His smile didn’t waver. “Is there?”

You blinked at him, lips parting slightly—caught off guard by how quiet his tone had turned, how close his breath was now that you were facing each other in the shallow glow of the stairwell. His gaze had dropped again, but slower this time, and not just to your chest. Like he was trying to memorize all of it—your mouth, your expression, your presence.

He leaned in, just a little, enough to test the line. “Tell me where it is, and I won’t cross it.”

You held his stare, defiant but breathless. “You’re already halfway over.”

He smiled at that. Not a cocky one this time. Something darker. Quieter. Like he liked that idea too much.

And for a split second, you forgot you were supposed to hate him.

He laughed under his breath, the sound low and disbelieving, like he couldn’t help it. Like you’d said something that turned him on more than it should’ve. His drink hovered near his mouth, forgotten, the condensation sliding slowly down the side of the cup, dripping onto the sleeve rolled up over his forearm.

“Halfway over, huh?” he repeated, voice like smoke. “Then I might as well keep going.”

You didn’t move. You should’ve, maybe. Should’ve stepped back, shoved him, reminded him that this was fake—just some twisted plan to mess with his ex and buy you a moment of social relevance. But you stayed rooted, like your boots were bolted to the sticky floor.

He was looking at you like he wanted to ruin you in the way that made it hard to breathe. Not physically. Not yet. But emotionally. Deliberately. Like he wanted to crawl into the softest part of your brain and live there rent-free just to piss you off. And what was worse—you could feel it working.

You swallowed tightly, eyes darting to the bruise-colored lights reflecting off his jaw, the stubborn set of his mouth like he was waiting for you to push him away or pull him closer. Daring you.

“You fake-date like a creep,” you muttered finally, voice low and sharp and too close to breathless.

He smiled, slow and all teeth. “You like it, though.”

You snorted, stepping back—barely, just enough to gather air again, to think straight. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet here we are.” He tilted his head, watching you like you were a particularly addictive habit he couldn’t kick. “You, in that top. Me, behaving myself. Barely.”

You took a slow sip of your drink, just to give yourself something to do, something to keep your hands from shaking. “Maybe I should’ve picked someone else to fake date. Someone less… whatever the hell you are.”

His smirk softened—just slightly. “But you didn’t.”

You hated how true that was. And how much he knew it. Because even with all the annoying smirks and infuriating comebacks and heat he looked at you with like he already knew what you looked like beneath that top—there was something magnetic about him. Something that made you forget every other face in the room.

And that, right there, was the part that scared you most.

“And to not get your panties in a twist, it wasn’t you who picked me…” he started again, voice low and infuriatingly smug, like he couldn’t bear the silence for more than five seconds without filling it with his own voice. “It was me who picked you.”

You shot him a glare over the rim of your cup, your jaw tightening. “Don’t think for a second you have any effect on my panties whatsoever,” you muttered, more of an annoyed grumble than a comeback, but he caught it like it was gold.

Rafe grinned, slow and delighted, like you just handed him a gift. “Then what do I have an effect on?”

You didn’t hesitate. “Other than my upchuck reflex? Nothing.”

That only seemed to amuse him more. His head tilted slightly, tongue running over his bottom lip like he was holding back a laugh—or something worse. “Damn. You sure about that?”

Your brows twitched, your face passive but your stare sharp enough to draw blood. “Positive.”

He leaned in just slightly, his voice dipping like it wanted to crawl under your skin. “’Cause you wore that top, remember? And those boots. Kind of hard to believe I don’t have any effect on you when you’re dressed like that and talking to me instead of sad-boy Picasso back there.”

You didn’t flinch. “I dress for myself, not for some drummer with too much gel in his hair and a god complex.”

He chuckled lowly, unbothered by the insult, clearly thriving off the tension you kept feeding him. “Sure. But if I took a wild guess… you wanted me to notice. And now that I have, you’re pissed that it’s working.”

You narrowed your eyes, inching just close enough that he’d think you might do something reckless, like kiss him or slap him. “You have a gift for making everything about you, don’t you?”

He tilted his head, smiling in that lazy, dangerous way that made your stomach twist—because no matter how badly you wanted to deny it, he was getting to you. “Only when I’m right.”

You took a slow sip of your drink, eyes never leaving his. “Keep dreaming, Cameron. That’s the only place any of this is happening.”

But you didn’t step back. And neither did he.

And unfortunately for you, Rafe took it like a win—like everything you said only ever made him more sure of himself. His blue eyes tracked the movement of your mouth as you took a slow sip, and there was something in his gaze that made the air feel heavier. Hungrier.

“Oh, trust me, cherry…” he drawled, slow and syrupy, the nickname slipping out like honey laced with venom. His voice dipped dangerously low, teetering on the edge of honesty and something far filthier. “We do a lot of crazy shit in my dreams. Stuff sad-boy Picasso wouldn’t even dare to whisper to you.”

You blinked at him, face unreadable, but the corner of your mouth twitched—more in irritation than amusement.

Rafe leaned in a little, like he was letting you in on some unspeakable secret. “Like last week? You were wearing this little black skirt,” he murmured, nodding slightly toward your boots. “You know, the one with the slit you wore to Taylor’s pregame a while back?” His tongue flicked over his bottom lip before he grinned, teeth sharp. “Yeah. That one. You had your legs over my shoulders in the back of my car.”

You didn’t respond right away. Your grip on your cup tightened.

“Window fogged up, your lipstick smudged, that bratty little attitude wiped clean off your face for a good ten minutes,” he added with a shrug, as if he was just making casual conversation. “And the best part? You didn’t say a single sarcastic word. Just moaned a lot.”

“Must’ve been a fantasy,” you deadpanned, though your voice had an edge—something tight. Controlled.

He smirked wider. “Oh, it was. Every goddamn detail. The way you tugged on my hair, the way your thighs—”

You cut him off with a sharp glare that could’ve sliced through concrete. “If you finish that sentence, I’ll throw this drink in your face.”

He held up his hands in surrender, grinning like he won anyway. “Hey, you asked. I’m just giving you context. So you know exactly what you’re stomping around in my dreams wearing.”

You took a step closer, so close you could see the darker flecks in his irises and the cocky curve of his lips. “You’re disgusting.”

He didn’t flinch. “And you’re in my head. Constantly.”

You hated that the heat creeping up your neck wasn’t entirely from anger. “Dream all you want, Cameron,” you said, stepping in just enough to be a threat, your voice low and biting. “But next time you wake up with your hand down your pants, do us both a favor and don’t look me in the eye the next day.”

That made his grin falter—just slightly. Like he hadn't expected you to throw the punch that hard. But Rafe never stayed stunned for long. He recovered with a slow blink, his smile returning with more hunger this time, more grit than charm. Like he wanted to bottle that line and replay it later, under covers. Alone.

“Much hotter that way,” he murmured, a low shrug rolling through his shoulders like he didn’t just confirm the worst thing imaginable—that he liked this. The arguing. The disgust. The way you fought him like he was a bad habit you couldn’t quite kick. His eyes dropped briefly to your lips before snapping back to your glare like he’d made a choice and wasn’t ashamed of it.

You stared at him, half in disbelief, half horrified. “Do you have to make everything disgusting?” you snapped, exasperated, more breath than volume, brows furrowed tight as if that might shield you from how infuriatingly bold he was. “Like is that just… your thing now?”

Rafe tilted his head slightly, mock-considering the question, like he was taking inventory of all the ways he’d been horrible to you tonight—and still come out on top. “I think it’s only disgusting when you’re trying really hard not to enjoy it,” he said, and that time, his voice was silk stretched over a knife’s edge. “Which, by the way, you’re doing a terrible job at.”

You scoffed, full and bitter, tearing your gaze away from him before he said something worse—something that might make you react.

“You’re delusional,” you muttered.

He leaned in just enough for you to catch the faint smell of his cologne—clean, dark, and way too intentional for someone who pretended to be so careless. “And you’re not denying it,” he whispered.

You didn’t speak. Not because he was right. But because your body was betraying you, standing its ground like you weren’t already two seconds from either punching him or dragging him into the nearest dark hallway and kissing him until he shut up.

Rafe smirked wider, like he felt the shift too. Like he was betting you’d crack before he did. “Go on,” he said, voice like a dare. “Tell me more about how much you hate me.”

You turned your head slowly, eyes cutting to his. “I’ll save it for the contract,” you said, cool and curt.

The tension between you two boiled thick and fast, so sharp you could almost cut your lip on it. Every look Rafe gave you felt like a hand at the base of your throat, possessive and pulsing with something he hadn’t quite said out loud yet—but you were starting to feel it. The sexual undercurrent was suffocating, and it made your blood burn like a shot of something stronger than vodka.

Okay. This was either going to be the worst, most chaotic, self-sabotaging thing you’ve ever agreed to—or you were finally about to sleep with someone who could actually back the ego-stuffed claims he made. Unlike Mikael, who performed like a poetry major and cried after sex once.

Jesus Christ. What the fuck were you saying?

It hadn’t even officially started yet, this stupid fake dating arrangement, and already your brain was calculating the logistics of hate-fucking Rafe Cameron out of sheer spite. You clenched your jaw, glancing to the side to check out of the moment, only for your breath to hitch in your throat.

Because there she was.

Sofia.

Weaving through the crowd with the calculated strut of someone who knew exactly how she looked, flanked by her two rich-girl clones. She moved like a panther, all silk and teeth, and her eyes were already scanning for him. Her prey.

And behind her—of fucking course—Mikael. This party just kept dealing hits like a rigged slot machine.

“Kiss me,” you muttered, annoyed as ever, but your voice held something frantic beneath the bite.

Rafe blinked, confused, eyes narrowing. “What?”

“Kiss me, dumbass,” you snapped, not looking at him as you readjusted your purse on your shoulder like this was some tactical mission and not a potential mental breakdown.

He stared at you for a beat like you’d just grown a second head. “You’re serious?” he asked, incredulous. “Now? Here? You just called me disgusting like thirty seconds ago.”

“Do you need a fucking script or something? Just do it.”

“No,” he said, tone bordering on teasing, but his hands were twitching at his sides like he was debating grabbing you by the waist already. “You don’t get to just order me around and then act like I’m some human prop.”

You turned, eyes sharp and narrowed. “This is your dumbass plan, remember? You begged me to pretend to date you, so commit, Romeo.”

“First of all, I didn’t beg,” he muttered, stepping a little closer. “Second, you can’t just say ‘kiss me’ like I’m some backup dancer in your Mean Girls revenge arc—”

“Sofia is right fucking there,” you hissed, pointing subtly past his shoulder.

He turned just enough to see her. And his entire expression changed. Gone was the half-mocking amusement—replaced by something darker, sharper. Possessive.

Then his eyes flicked back to yours. “Okay,” he said lowly, voice quieter now. “But you’re not allowed to hit me after.”

And before you could even roll your eyes, he leaned in.

It should’ve been quick. A peck. A tactical strike.

But it wasn’t.

His hand found your waist like it belonged there, fingers pressing into the soft curve of your side with a tension he couldn’t mask anymore. His mouth met yours like he’d been starving for it—like it had haunted him in the silence between nights. He kissed you with none of the restraint you expected and all of the hunger he’d been disguising behind every cocky remark and smug insult. It was filthy, practiced, needy.

Your back hit the stair rail before you realized he’d even moved you. His other hand slid to the base of your neck, holding you there like the kiss had to anchor him to the moment or he’d lose his goddamn mind. His lips moved against yours in a way that made your knees buckle slightly—and that smug bastard felt it, deepening the kiss with a low noise in his throat that bordered on sinful.

When he pulled back, breath shallow, lips swollen, and pupils blown wide, he didn’t speak.

He just looked at you like he couldn’t believe that happened.

“Holy shit,” he muttered, stunned for a half-second before the cocky veneer tried to return. “You sure this is fake?”

You stared up at him, dazed, annoyed, and vibrating with the urge to slap him or kiss him again.

Maybe both. Definitely both.

"Funny…" you murmured, voice low with that signature edge of yours, the kind that made people second-guess if you were flirting or seconds away from throwing hands. Your expression twitched—not quite a smile, not quite a scowl—as your hands braced against Rafe’s shoulders. You rose up on your tiptoes, straining to see past him, scanning the crowd for any sign of Sofia.

But of course he didn’t move. His body was a wall, anchored in place like he belonged there. Like he’d decided he’d be your shield whether you wanted it or not.

Rafe hummed, entirely too pleased with himself, his attention nowhere near the direction of your stare. Instead, he dipped his head, brushing the tip of his nose along the curve of your jaw, so lightly it was like a secret. The kind you feel before you hear. The kind you never admit made you feel anything.

"What the hell are you doing?" you hissed, jaw tight, your words pushed through clenched teeth.

"Leaning into the role," he murmured, voice low enough to send a shiver down your spine. "Fake boyfriend, remember? Public affection sells the illusion."

His hands—once casually resting on your hips—tightened just enough to be felt. Not possessive, but grounding. Intentional.

"And the nose thing?" you shot back, trying not to react to how close he still was. "Is that part of the script too? Or are you just trying to sniff me like a weirdo?"

He grinned against your cheek like he couldn’t help himself. "You smell like cherry and trouble. What do you want from me?"

You rolled your eyes, pressing a hand to his chest to push him back just an inch, needing space to breathe—but not pushing hard enough to really make him move. Because for all your irritation, your body wasn’t exactly screaming no.

"You’re such a creep," you muttered, but your voice betrayed you—it wasn’t venomous, just winded. Like you couldn’t decide whether to kiss him again or slap him.

Rafe tilted his head, eyes glinting. "You’re the one who kissed me, remember? I’m just playing the part. Thought this was about revenge."

You met his gaze, your annoyance and arousal blurring into something dangerously close to real tension. "It was. Until you started enjoying it."

"I’ve been enjoying it since the second I met you," he admitted, and this time—there was no smirk. Just that sharp, honest kind of look that could cut through steel.

Your brain stalled for a second, caught in the aftershock of what he'd just said. The honesty of it. The goddamn seriousness of it. You were used to Rafe being annoying, cocky, antagonistic—but not this. Not the version of him that looked at you like you were a confession he'd been holding in too long. And it was messing with your head.

Still, you kept your hand on his chest like it was the only thing tethering you to common sense. And Rafe, of course, mistook that moment of stunned silence for permission.

Or maybe he didn’t mistake anything. Maybe he was just done pretending he didn’t want to touch you.

He leaned in again, slower this time. Like he wanted you to feel the anticipation before you felt him. His lips brushed against the corner of your mouth—soft and fleeting, not quite a kiss but close enough to spike your pulse. Then he pressed another at the edge of your cheekbone, featherlight. A third followed near your jaw, the skin there warm from your own rising temperature.

"This part sells the lie too," he murmured against your skin, voice thick and low. Each kiss was deliberate, paced like he was tasting the tension on your skin and savoring it.

"You're not helping your case," you breathed out, trying to sound annoyed but it came out more like a warning. Or a plea. You didn’t even know anymore.

He smiled into the space beneath your ear, where his lips paused next. "Sure I am," he whispered, the edge of his mouth skimming your neck, his breath warm and maddening. "You said you wanted her to see. She’s looking now."

You stiffened slightly, turning your head just enough to glimpse over his shoulder. And there Sofia was—watching, jaw tight, eyes narrowed like she wanted to walk straight through the crowd and claw your face off.

Good. Let her.

You tilted your chin ever so slightly, exposing your neck just a little more, just enough for Rafe to take the cue. His lips dragged against your pulse point, a touch of heat in the softness, and you felt your breath catch. Damn him. He was supposed to be faking it, but it didn’t feel fake. It felt like he’d been waiting for this.

And the worst part? You didn’t stop him.

How could you stop him? He wasn’t horrible at what he was doing—God, no. Quite the opposite, actually. He was devastatingly good at it. Like he knew the exact pressure to apply, the exact spots that would make your breath stutter and your stomach flip. And worst of all, he wasn’t being cocky about it. Not in the usual way. There was something quieter in how he kissed you—something desperate that made it harder to chalk this up as just another one of his games.

He wasn't being forceful, either. His mouth moved slowly, almost reverently along your neck, the kisses deepening just slightly, lips parting every so often to let his breath wash over your skin in warm bursts. It was sensual enough to make you swallow hard, to gather the pieces of your composure like they weren’t already scattered across the sticky frat house floor. You were touch-starved, sure, but this wasn’t just scratching the itch. This was setting the whole thing on fire.

"You're so petty..." you mumbled, trying—failing—to lace your voice with annoyance. But it came out too soft, too breathy, especially with the way your fingers threaded through the hair at the base of his neck, tugging just enough to feel him twitch against you. The strands were soft, curling a little with sweat under his backwards snapback, and he made a sound—a low, broken thing you felt more than heard.

“You think this is petty?” he muttered, voice wrecked and almost disbelieving, like you’d just accused him of something laughably beneath him. His lips hovered just below your ear now, his breath shaky. “I’ve wanted to do this since you walked into the set wearing that fucking top.”

You froze, your body betraying you again with a tiny shiver that ran up your spine. He felt it. Of course he did.

“I dreamt about this,” he whispered, mouth ghosting over the curve of your neck again. “Like—fuck—a lot. Don’t flatter yourself, though. It wasn’t sweet. It never is.”

His hands at your waist tightened almost imperceptibly, fingertips digging in just a little like he needed to ground himself. Like if he didn’t hold onto you, he’d lose his grip completely. His forehead dropped to your shoulder for a moment, just to breathe, before he kissed the line where your neck met your collarbone—open-mouthed and warm, too intimate for the lie you were supposed to be selling.

You should’ve pulled back. Slapped him. Said something scathing. But your hand was still in his hair and he was still kissing you like it meant something. Like he meant something.

And you hated the way that thought didn’t make you recoil. It made you want to lean in. Just one second longer. Just until Sofia looked pissed enough. Just until Rafe whispered something else disgusting in that wrecked, reverent voice.

“You seriously dreamt about this?” you asked, half-mocking, trying to wedge some distance between the way your pulse jumped and the way his mouth was still dragging across your skin like he owned it.

“Don’t act surprised,” he muttered, voice low, lips brushing your jaw as he spoke. “You’ve got that kind of face that shows up in a guy’s head whether he wants it to or not.”

“Oh, poor you,” you snapped, sarcasm thick, but it melted into something shakier when his lips pressed under your ear again. “Must be so hard, dreaming about girls who hate your guts.”

“You don’t hate me.” He didn’t even flinch, didn’t even hesitate, just kissed the corner of your mouth and hovered there, his breath mingling with yours. “If you did, you wouldn’t be letting me touch you like this.”

You grit your teeth, refusing to admit how right he was. “This is acting, Cameron. Remember? Selling the lie?”

His mouth trailed to your cheek, soft and slow, like he was deliberately ignoring your words. “Sure,” he said against your skin. “Then you’d better sell it harder, because Sofia’s still looking.”

You turned your head slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse—yep, she was watching. Her expression unreadable, but her body language loud. You hated that you liked the idea of her stewing over this. Hated that you liked the way Rafe was looking at you more.

“God, you’re so smug,” you muttered, but you didn’t pull away.

He grinned against your cheek, mouth curling wicked. “You love it. Admit it.”

“What I love is that this will ruin her night,” you said, eyes flicking toward Sofia again. “That’s all.”

“Oh, yeah?” he breathed, kissing just beneath your jaw, his voice unraveling more with every inch of skin. “That why you’re shaking, cherry?”

You tensed, annoyed at the way your body betrayed you yet again. “I’m cold.”

He hummed in amusement, hands sliding just slightly over the curve of your hips like he didn’t believe a word. “You’re burning up.”

“From rage, Rafe.”

“Then let me help you get it out of your system,” he murmured, finally dipping his head enough to kiss you again—this time on the mouth, softer than you expected. More needy than it should’ve been. His lips moved against yours like he forgot it was fake. Like he didn’t care if you tore him apart after.

And you let him. Maybe because you were too tired to argue anymore. Or maybe because your fists were still tangled in his shirt and he tasted better than he had any right to.

Either way, neither of you moved. Not until the crowd blurred and your chest tightened from the lie feeling more real than you ever meant it to.

Your teeth sank into his bottom lip with enough pressure to make him jolt—a sharp inhale, a stifled curse curling in his throat as copper tang bloomed between your mouths. You meant to punish him. To make him feel the sting of every smug comment and every smirk that had pushed you to this moment. But Rafe didn’t flinch away.

No. He groaned.

Low and guttural, a sound that vibrated in his chest as his hands tightened around your waist. The grip was rough, possessive, like your bite had only ignited something worse inside him. His mouth crashed back onto yours, harder this time, tongue sweeping against yours with a desperation that betrayed every sarcastic remark he’d ever made. His body moved like he wasn’t kissing you for show anymore—like he’d been starving for this and your little act of violence only made him hungrier.

“You’re insane,” you gasped between kisses, your voice caught somewhere between disbelief and breathlessness.

“And you’re driving me fucking crazy,” he muttered against your lips, before moving lower—mouth dragging across your jaw with the same feverish intent. “Do it again.”

“What?”

“Bite me again.”

You would’ve rolled your eyes if your knees weren’t currently seconds from buckling. “You’re unbelievable—”

He kissed you again mid-sentence, swallowing your annoyance, hands gripping the backs of your thighs just enough to lift you slightly onto the railing behind. You grabbed his shoulders instinctively, fingers digging into the hem of his shirt like you were anchoring yourself. But it didn’t stop him. His lips found the underside of your jaw again, then your neck—his breath hot, kisses messy and impatient now.

“Keep selling it, right?” he rasped between kisses, voice unraveling. “She’s watching.”

“She better be fucking crying,” you managed, barely recognizing your own voice—low, hoarse, threaded with a shakiness you didn’t want to acknowledge.

Rafe just hummed, tongue grazing your collarbone as he spoke. “She’s watching me lose my mind over you.”

That made you falter. Just for a second.

Because his voice didn’t sound like it was part of the act anymore.

And neither did the way he whispered your name, half against your skin, half into the space between you—as if it slipped from him without meaning to. Like he’d been holding it back and it clawed its way out.

“I hate you,” you breathed shakily, gripping the front of his hoodie like it would keep your balance, like it would stop your body from reacting.

“I know,” he whispered back, his mouth brushing yours again, more tender this time. “I fucking love it.”

"She’s walking over," you muttered, half in warning, half in disbelief. Your breath hitched when Rafe didn’t stop.

He didn’t even pause.

Instead, his mouth dragged along the corner of yours again, lingering like he was tasting something he didn’t want to forget. His grip tightened on the underside of your thighs, fingertips brushing dangerously high beneath your skirt. The kind of touch that skirted the edge of decency, one that made your breath stutter even as your brain screamed at you to stay composed.

But Rafe looked completely unbothered—worse, he looked addicted.

His lips chased yours like he needed them, like the moment he let you go he might spiral into withdrawal. “She’s not close enough yet,” he murmured against your mouth, voice husky, almost frantic. “Just one more, cherry…”

You barely had time to react before he kissed you again—slower this time, but deeper. His mouth moved like he was committing it to memory, tongue brushing yours like he could memorize the shape of your sigh. His desperation was seeping through every move—more than show, more than strategy. It felt like a quiet unraveling.

“Rafe—” you started, voice caught somewhere between command and caution, but he just swallowed it, his lips ghosting over yours like he couldn’t bear to stop.

Then—

“Ahem,” a voice cut through the noise behind him.

Rafe stilled, reluctantly. His mouth was still brushing yours when he opened his eyes and muttered, “Fucking finally,” under his breath like he wasn’t the one that just kissed you like a man possessed.

Sofia stood a few steps behind him, arms crossed, eyebrows raised with a carefully measured expression that didn’t quite mask the flicker of jealousy in her eyes. She glanced at you, then at the way Rafe’s hands still rested firmly on your thighs, the hem of your skirt slightly bunched where he’d pushed it up.

You could feel his pulse thudding under your palms.

He didn’t move away.

Didn’t straighten your skirt.

Didn’t even pretend to act guilty.

“Didn’t realize you had company,” Sofia said, her tone sugary sweet and completely fake.

Rafe tilted his head slowly over his shoulder, still not letting go of you, his voice cool and unbothered. “Didn’t realize you still cared.”

“Quite the scene you’re making on the staircase,” Sofia said, smirking with a brightness that didn’t reach her eyes. It was the kind of smile that was practiced—tight at the corners, deliberately casual, like she was playing the part of the amused ex. Like she wasn’t clenching her jaw behind it.

You blinked, looking between them, fingers twitching awkwardly where they rested on Rafe’s shoulders. The weight of her attention made you self-conscious, and you suddenly became acutely aware of just how disheveled the both of you looked. His hat was pushed back, his hair a mess where your hands had been tangled in it. And his mouth—his stupid, smug mouth—was smeared in your sparkly lip gloss like a signature he hadn’t bothered to wipe off.

You grimaced and reached up hesitantly, swiping your thumb across his bottom lip. His eyes followed the movement, dark and lazy, like he was still in a daze from the way you tasted.

“You missed a spot,” you murmured dryly, trying to make it sound indifferent, but the tension in your hand betrayed you. Your gaze flicked to Sofia’s, her smile now twisting with something sharp. Calculating.

Rafe didn’t even flinch. He leaned into your touch like it was a reflex, catching your wrist with two fingers and holding it there for a beat too long—like he wanted her to see it. Like he wanted her to feel it.

“She always does that,” he said, voice low, looking over his shoulder at Sofia. “Gets annoyed about the mess and then cleans me up herself. Can’t help herself.”

You shot him a sharp glare, but the smirk on his face only deepened. He was being insufferable on purpose. And it was working. Your jaw tensed, trying not to react, but the urge to shove him off the stairs and into the crowd below was becoming dangerously tempting.

Sofia tilted her head, eyes narrowing slightly. “Cute. Didn’t know you were into charity work,” she said, this time to you, her tone dipped in passive aggression.

Your lips parted in a scoff, but Rafe beat you to it.

“Funny, I don’t remember asking for your opinion,” he replied smoothly, gaze flat now, his grip on your thigh just a little firmer—like a silent reminder that she was the one interrupting, not the one in control.

Sofia gave a breathy laugh, but her eyes lingered on where his hand disappeared beneath your skirt before she straightened her posture. “Well, don’t let me interrupt your little softcore porno. Just figured I’d say hi.”

She turned on her heel with a flick of her hair, walking off with a sway in her hips that made it obvious she wanted to seem unaffected.

Rafe watched her go for a second before muttering, “She’s definitely pissed.”

You pulled your hand from his grasp, raising an eyebrow. “And that’s a win for you?”

He finally looked at you again, and his grin returned—slow, dangerous, and way too proud. “Nah. The win was getting you to kiss me like that in the first place.”

author's note: hey ya'll!!!! i couldn't help but make them kiss, their dynamic is so juicy. they're like so attracted to each other and i can't wait for them to get to the point where they have to admit they like each other. until then we can enjoy the arguing and sexual tension. follow me on here, and don't forget to comment and reblog this since my blog is like losing its reach for some reason due to the new policy with the mature content. don't be shy to send asks, i love interacting with you guys and hearing your ideas. Join the tag-list, and please tell me if it works and you guys are getting the notifications for my chapters!😊❤️

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