24

The pounding in Stella's skull was the first thing she noticed. The kind of ache that felt like her brain had been run over, thrown in the ocean, and dragged back out. Her mouth was dry, her limbs heavy. She shifted slightly and felt warmth—an arm wrapped around her waist. Strong. Steady. Not hers.

Her eyes shot open.

She tried to sit up, but the sudden motion made the room tilt. Her stomach turned. The hangover hit in full force, and she dropped back onto the pillow, groaning.

Then she realized—she was completely naked. Panic surged through her chest like ice water. She turned her head slowly, heart in her throat, and there he was.

Rafe Cameron.

Asleep. Peaceful. One arm slung casually over her waist, his chest rising and falling in rhythm. His face looked younger somehow when he slept, like the chaos he wore like armor had slipped off overnight.

Stella's breath caught. No. No. No. Her birthday party had been wild, sure—but this? She racked her brain, trying to piece together memories through the haze of tequila shots, music, flashing lights...

She couldn't remember. Not clearly. Just glimpses. Rafe in the kitchen. His hand brushing hers when he handed her a drink. The way he looked at her when she laughed. The way she looked at him.

"Shit," she whispered, untangling herself from his arms as carefully and quickly as her hangover allowed.

But the movement stirred him.

Rafe blinked awake slowly, the blue of his eyes sharp even in the dim light of the room. He looked at her for a second, like he was still half-dreaming. Then he stretched and sat up, completely unbothered by his lack of clothes.

"You're up," he said, voice raspy and low. "How's the birthday girl feeling?"

Stella stood by the edge of the bed, wrapped in a blanket she'd yanked around herself. "What the hell happened last night, Rafe?"

He ran a hand through his messy hair and yawned. "We... You really don't remember?"

Her stomach sank. "I—I don't know. Not really."

He tilted his head slightly, watching her with something between curiosity and calm. "You weren't that drunk. You knew what you were doing."

She blinked, trying to gauge if he was lying—but his voice wasn't smug, and there was no trace of mockery in his expression. Just honesty.

"I didn't pressure you," he added gently, reading the flicker of doubt on her face.

"I didn't think you did," she muttered, her voice small. "I just... I don't do this. I don't sleep with guys. Especially not... you."

Rafe raised a brow, standing up slowly. "Especially not me?"

"You know what I mean," she snapped, but there wasn't much bite in her voice.

The air between them shifted—electric and complicated. "I didn't plan this either. But it happened. And it wasn't bad, was it?"

Stella looked away, her cheeks heating despite everything. "I don't know."

"You're lying," he said, but not unkindly.

She didn't answer. Her head was still spinning, but not entirely from the hangover now. The worst part was that she did remember flashes—his hands on her hips, his mouth against her neck, the way he whispered her name like it meant something.

And she hadn't hated it. That scared her more than anything.

"Why me, Rafe?" she finally asked, eyes searching his. "What was this?"

He shrugged, but his expression softened. "I don't know. You're not like the others. You see me, even when you hate me."

"I don't hate you," she said before she could stop herself.

He smirked slightly. "I know."

A long pause settled between them. Stella didn't move. Neither did he.

She should have been running for the door. Calling Sarah. Scrubbing this whole night from her memory. But instead, she just stood there, heart racing and mind a mess, staring at the boy who shouldn't have felt safe—but somehow did.

"I'm not saying this has to mean something," Rafe said finally. "But I liked being with you. And if you want to pretend it didn't happen, I'll let it go."

Stella bit her lip. "I don't know what I want."

Rafe stepped closer, close enough for her to feel the warmth of his skin. "Then let's figure it out. Slowly."

She looked up at him, unsure of everything except one thing—she wasn't ready to walk away just yet.

"I'm gonna take a shower," she said, clearing her throat and breaking the moment.

"Yeah. Sure," Rafe said, looking away to give her space.

She turned toward the door, but the second she took her first step, she winced—just slightly, but enough. Her legs ached, a soreness she hadn't fully processed until that moment, radiating up through her thighs. She paused, sucking in a sharp breath.

Behind her, Rafe grinned—slow, lazy, unmistakably proud.

Stella didn't have to look at him to know he'd noticed.

"Legs okay?" he asked, voice low and a little too pleased with himself.

"Shut up," she muttered without turning around, trying to walk a little more normally and failing.

He laughed under his breath.

She rolled her eyes and mumbling something under her breath as she disappeared into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her.

But the smirk on Rafe's face didn't fade.

Not even a little.

The warm water hadn't even started running when Stella opened the bathroom cabinet and realized—no towel.

"Of course," she muttered under her breath, mentally cursing her past self for not thinking that far ahead. She hesitated, staring at her reflection in the mirror. Her hair was a mess, her makeup smudged beneath her eyes like war paint, and Rafe's T-shirt that she found on the floor hung crooked off one shoulder.

She slipped it off and rummaged through the cabinet under the sink until she found a pair of plain black panties and an old bra she'd forgotten about—lacy, worn, but still decent enough. She threw them on quickly, barely registering how exposed she felt as she cracked open the bathroom door and peeked out into her room.

Quiet.

Good.

She padded softly across the hall, arms folded tightly over her chest—but stopped in her tracks the moment she stepped into the room.

Rafe was standing by her dresser.

In nothing but his black boxer briefs.

His back was to her at first, broad and tan, a little scratched up. But when he turned, holding something in his hand, her breath caught in her throat.

Polaroids.

The little stack she thought she'd hidden behind a pile of old books, tucked far enough back that no one—especially not him—would find them.

"Rafe—" she started, but her voice cracked.

He glanced up at her, caught, but not exactly sorry.

"You kept these ones aswell?" he asked, flipping through them. "These are from, what... the beach bonfire? And that Fourth of July party last year?"

Her face burned. "Those weren't... I didn't even know I still had those."

"Bullshit," he said with a faint smirk, holding one up—a blurry photo of the two of them, her with her mouth wide open mid-laugh, him looking at her instead of the camera. "You could've thrown them away."

"I forgot about them," she lied.

He gave her a look that said he didn't buy it for a second.

Stella shifted, suddenly aware of how little she was wearing. "Can you not go through my stuff?"

"I wasn't trying to snoop," he said, softer now. "I was looking for my shirt. Found something else instead."

She moved to the edge of the bed, grabbing the towel from the closet with a quick motion and wrapping it around herself, trying to put some space—and fabric—between them.

Rafe didn't press. He set the photos down carefully on the dresser, then looked at her again. "You really forgot, huh?"

"Forgot what?"

"How close we used to be. Before everything got messy."

Stella's lips parted slightly. She remembered. She just didn't let herself think about it. The parties, the jokes, the way he used to lean on her shoulder when he was drunk and didn't care who saw. Before things got dark. Before she stopped trusting what he showed the world.

"I didn't forget," she admitted, voice quieter than she intended. "I just stopped letting myself care."

Rafe gave a slow nod, something like understanding flickering in his eyes. "Well... too late for that now, right?"

She didn't answer.

The tension between them wasn't sharp anymore—it was thick, slow-burning, the kind that settles under your skin and doesn't leave easily.

"I'm gonna shower," she said finally, pulling the towel tighter around herself.

Rafe stepped aside, giving her space—but not without letting his eyes linger just a second longer than they needed to.

As she slipped back into the bathroom, she couldn't help but glance back once.

He was still looking at that photo.

Still looking at her.

The water was hot—almost too hot—but Stella didn't turn it down.

She stood under the stream, arms wrapped around herself, her forehead resting against the cool tile as the water ran down her body. It should've helped her feel clean, clear. Instead, everything felt heavier.

Rafe Cameron.

His name echoed in her mind like a heartbeat. She could still feel his touch on her skin, the weight of his arm around her when she woke up, the way he looked at her—not with smugness, but something quieter. Real.

And she hated how part of her had wanted to stay in that bed. Just a few more minutes. Just to feel safe, even if it didn't make sense.

Why him?

Of all the people she could've hooked up with, why did it have to be the most complicated person she knew? The one with chaos stitched into his DNA. The one everyone warned her about. The one she herself had warned others about.

And yet,

There was a part of her—a small, traitorous part—that liked waking up next to him. That felt seen in a way she hadn't in a long time. That remembered the old Rafe. The one who used to make her laugh. The one who stood too close, just to get under her skin. The one who, when he wasn't posturing or spiraling, was just a boy trying to figure himself out.

She pressed her eyes shut, water trailing down her cheeks like tears she didn't want to cry.

This doesn't have to mean anything, Rafe had said.

But it did. To her, it already did.

She was terrified of what people would say. Of what Sarah would say. Of how this would ripple through her friend group like a bomb dropped in the middle of everything she'd built.

But the worst part?

She was more afraid of what would happen if she walked away.

What if Rafe wasn't just some mistake? What if he was something else entirely—something she didn't want to admit she wanted?

Stella pulled in a shaky breath, rubbing her hands down her face. She needed time. Space. Distance.

But his shirt was still on the floor of her room. His laugh was still in her ears. And his scent was still on her skin, even as the water tried to wash it away.

She wasn't sure if she wanted to scrub him off—or hold onto him tighter.

And that was the most dangerous part of all.

Stella stepped out of the bathroom wrapped in steam, her skin pink from the heat, her mind still spinning. She toweled off slowly, trying not to rush, but her heart thumped in that quiet, restless way that comes after a night that meant too much and a morning trying to pretend it didn't.

Once dry, she pulled on a pair of light denim shorts and a white ribbed tank top—simple, safe. She twisted her still-damp hair into a low bun, brushed her teeth, and forced herself to look in the mirror.

She looked... clean, almost normal.

But nothing felt normal.

With a deep breath, she made her way downstairs, barefoot, heart thudding louder with each step.

The sound of soft voices and laughter drifted up from the living room. She rounded the corner and stepped into the room.

Kelce was sprawled on the floor with his back against the couch, tossing a chip in the air and catching it in his mouth with lazy accuracy. Rafe sat next to him, legs stretched out, the picture of calm confidence in a gray hoodie and joggers—fresh, like he hadn't just rocked her entire world a few hours ago.

Those were Christopher's clothes.

And there, curled up on the couch, was Sarah—completely knocked out, her head resting on Topper's shoulder, his arm draped casually around her like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Stella blinked.

"Morning, sunshine," Kelce grinned when he spotted her. "Look who finally decided to rejoin the living."

Rafe looked up then, his eyes meeting hers. There was no smirk this time—just that subtle, unreadable expression he wore when something mattered and he didn't want to show it too soon.

"Hey," he said simply.

"Hey," she replied, her voice barely above a murmur.

She tried to act like nothing had happened. Like her legs didn't still ache from the night before. Like Rafe hadn't seen her completely undone, wrapped in his sheets and nothing else. Like she hadn't caught him looking at photos she didn't even know she'd kept.

But it was there—in the way his eyes lingered a beat too long, and in the way she couldn't bring herself to look away.

Kelce, oblivious to the tension, popped another chip. "There's pancakes, by the way. And maybe half a bottle of vodka in the orange juice..."

Stella offered a weak smile. "Thanks."

She stepped further into the room, her eyes flicking to Sarah. "She okay?"

Topper glanced at her, clearly trying to play it cool, but there was something gentle in the way he glanced at Sarah. "She passed out after talking my ear off for an hour. Let her sleep."

Stella nodded, unsure whether to be surprised—or mildly concerned.

Then she sat on the arm of the couch, folding her arms and trying to act casual.

"Hell of a party," Kelce said, smirking. "You remember much?"

Stella's stomach flipped, but before she could answer, Rafe jumped in.

"Enough," he said calmly, but with an edge that silenced Kelce fast.

Stella glanced at him, and their eyes met again. A silent message passed between them—I've got you.

And for the first time that morning, she felt the smallest, quietest sense of peace.

It didn't mean things weren't messy. They were.

But maybe... she didn't have to face that mess alone.