romance in my head, reality on pause🤍

🤍romance in my head, reality on pause my loves 🤍

Requests are open

18+

EGO – (Completed)

ONLY YOU – (Completed)

LOCKED IN DESIRE - (it’s currently 4 parts but I would like to still continue it)

SUNSET ON THE RANCH – (Completed)

CALLOUSED HANDS, QUIET LOVE – (Completed)

CRAZY TIGHTS, LOVE EM ALRIGHT – (Completed)

FUNNY LOVE – (Completed)

LAP OF LUXURY – (Completed)

NOT SO LONELY – (Completed)

A WORLD BUILT FOR YOU – (Completed)

HE DIDN’T MEAN TO – (Completed)

OUR SONG – (Completed)

ICE CREAM HEIST – (Completed)

I DON’T PLAY ABOUT YOU – (Completed)

Would love to be mutuals with you guys 🤗🤍

1. 2. 3. 4.

The fog hangs thick over the streets, curling around your boots as you walk fast, head high. You can feel the cool night against your skin, but it’s nothing compared to the heat that blooms in your stomach every time you remember his words, his breath, the press of his hand through your glove.

You think you’ve escaped.

You haven’t.

Rafe Cameron’s shadow falls over yours before you even see him. One long stride and he’s beside you, cigarette smoke curling around your face, coat collar up, eyes dark and predatory.

“Leaving so soon, my lady?” His voice cuts through the night, smooth, dangerous.

“I have matters to attend to, Professor,” you snap, keeping your tone steady, though your pulse is betraying you.

He laughs low, almost a growl. “Ah… but I think I have matters to attend to. Your matters.”

You stop. He stops. He’s close. Too close, the scent of smoke and leather and something intoxicating hitting your senses.

“You think you can walk away from me?” His hand lifts—slow, deliberate—and gently, impossibly, slides over your shoulder, guiding you to stop. “Ma’am… I don’t think that’s wise.”

You tilt your chin, fearless. “And why is that, Professor Cameron?”

His smirk curls. “Because I am a man who gets what he wants. And you… are not someone I can ignore.”

Your stomach clenches. Every instinct is screaming at you to push back, but your body—your body—is responding in ways you refuse to admit. You keep your head high. “I am not for the taking,” you say firmly, eyes locked on his.

He chuckles, dark and low. “Oh, I don’t take, my lady… I claim. And I claim only what refuses to be taken.”

He bends slightly, brushing the edge of your glove between his fingers, then presses it to his lips in a slow, deliberate kiss. Not playful. Not polite. Possessive. A mark.

You pull your hand back sharply, breath hitching, anger and something else twisting together. “Enough, sir.”

“Ah, but it is never enough when it comes to you,” he murmurs, voice low, rough. His thumb brushes your wrist, tracing along the glove’s seam, sending shivers up your arm.

You bite back a gasp. Your spine straightens, but your pulse betrays you.

“Do you always do this with women?” you ask, voice cool.

“No,” he says, stepping closer, closing the distance until the heat of his coat presses against yours. “Only the ones worth… this much trouble.” He gestures between you with a subtle tilt of his head, eyes darkening. “And I assure you, my lady, trouble is precisely what I intend.”

Your breath catches. He leans even closer, so close your cheek brushes his coat. His lips move to your ear, brushing it lightly with a whisper:

“Every glance, every step, every word… I will not let you go so easily.”

The sound of it—soft, dangerous, intimate—sends a jolt straight to your core. Heat pools low, tension coils tightly in your stomach. Your body reacts in ways you are determined to ignore, but your mind is screaming at you not to admit it.

You straighten, lifting your chin with defiance, voice steady: “Then you’ll be disappointed, sir. I do not yield.”

He smiles, low and knowing, dark eyes glinting. “No? We shall see, my lady. We shall see.”

He takes a step back, just enough to give you space—but not enough to escape his presence. Cigarette smoke drifts around him as he lifts his gaze to the street, alert, commanding. Men glance his way, bowing slightly in respect. Rafe Cameron doesn’t ask for obedience—it is given because everyone knows he takes nothing less.

And yet… tonight, you are the only one he notices.

“You may leave… for now,” he murmurs, one last smirk curling his lips. “But know this: I will find you again, my lady. And when I do… you will remember this night.”

You glance over your shoulder as you walk away, back straight, head high, pretending you are unaffected—but your heart beats too fast, and your pulse is still thrumming with his presence, the promise of him, the tension coiled like a spring between you two.

And he watches, cigarette glowing, fingers brushing ash, eyes following your every step, a predator fully aware of the hunt he’s begun.

1. 2. 3.

The streets are darker now, fog thickening between the lamps, curling like smoke around the edges of the city. You push open the door to the bar, the warm scent of whiskey and pipe smoke hitting you like a wave. Conversation dips briefly as men look up from their drinks.

You are the only woman there, and the murmurs are immediate. Eyes roam, whispers flit: Who is she? Where did she come from?

You set your satchel down, brushing a curl of hair from your face, head high. Even if you’re exhausted, even if your chest still burns from being denied earlier that day, you carry yourself like you belong.

And then he enters.

Rafe Cameron.

The moment he steps through the door, the room changes. Men straighten, conversations die in mid-laugh. A single nod from him, sharp and deliberate, and a gentleman hushes, lowering his gaze. The bartender pauses mid-pour, careful not to spill. This is a man who doesn’t need to speak to command attention, but he does anyway—every movement deliberate, every glance calculated, every word a test of obedience.

And then his eyes find you.

A slow smirk curves on his lips as he takes in the sight of you—standing alone, head high, spine straight, gloves dangling from one hand like a challenge.

He makes his way toward you, deliberate, casual, but every step screams ownership. Men part like waves.

“Ma’am,” he says, stopping a foot away, voice low, silky, dangerous. “May I… have the pleasure of your company?”

You raise a brow, never blinking. “I think you’ll find, Professor Cameron, I do not require company.”

“Ah,” he murmurs, flicking ash from his cigarette onto the floor. “But I insist.”

Your satchel slips slightly from your hand, and before you can reach it, his long fingers are around it, steadying it. He bends, picking up a book, then another, and brings your hand toward his lips.

Your glove is still half on—he slides his fingers through it with that teasing, calculated ease, presses his lips to it in a kiss. Light. A mockery of politeness, but you feel it through your skin anyway.

“My lady,” he murmurs, gaze darkening, smoldering. “You are far too dangerous to be left unguarded.”

You snatch your hand back, heart racing, chest tight. “Dangerous? I think you’ve got that backwards, sir.”

He chuckles low, the sound rumbling like velvet and smoke. “Perhaps. But I am very much enjoying the company of someone so… unafraid.”

You feel it then—a flutter you can’t quite hide. His eyes linger too long. His hand brushes yours again as he hands back your books. The air between you hums, thick with unspoken things.

You turn away, intending to walk to the bar, but he is at your side in a single stride.

“May I?” he asks, nodding to the seat beside you.

You hesitate… then slide over, still upright, still controlled, though your stomach twists at the nearness, the scent of smoke and leather, the weight of him beside you.

Rafe leans slightly closer, letting his voice drop just enough that only you can hear. “My lady… you carry yourself like fire. Dangerous fire. And I… I very much like to watch flames burn.”

You swallow, feeling heat you cannot—will not—admit to. Your pulse races, chest tightens. Butterflies and something darker coil together in your stomach. Your fingers tighten around your glass.

“I am not… here for your amusement,” you say carefully, keeping your tone clipped, eyes steady.

He tilts his head, a wicked grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “No… but perhaps I am here for yours.”

He brushes a strand of hair from your face, fingers lingering too long, and lowers his mouth to your ear. His warm breath grazes your skin.

“My lady… one day, I’ll claim more than just your attention. Mark my words.”

You shiver. Not from cold. Not entirely. Your teeth clench as a wave of desire ripples through you, raw and unbidden. Your body reacts without permission, but you do not—will not—give in.

You straighten, lifting your chin. “And you, sir, will find I am not so easily claimed.”

He smiles again, low and knowing. “I enjoy a challenge, my lady.”

The tension hums, electric, thick between you, until—finally—you set your glass down. “I think I’ve had enough for tonight, Professor Cameron.”

“And so soon?” he murmurs, rising. “But we were just beginning, weren’t we?”

You offer him nothing but a tilt of your head and gather your things. As you move toward the door, he steps slightly ahead, just enough to guide, not block—yet close enough to make your heart pound.

He leans slightly, voice soft, almost a whisper, meant only for you:

“Do not think this ends tonight, my lady… not while I am breathing.”

1. 2. 3. 4.

It’s a crisp autumn afternoon, the sort of day where the chill bites through your coat and the fog rolls low along the cobblestone streets. Gas lamps flicker against the dim light, and the distant sound of a carriage bell echoes like a heartbeat. Leaves skitter across the pavement as people hurry by, collars turned up, scarves tight, wishing the chill would leave them alone.

You’re walking fast, clutching your satchel, when someone bumps into you. Books tumble onto the street.

“Watch where you’re going,” a deep voice says curtly, the man already moving past like you’re invisible.

You straighten instantly, fury snapping through your veins. “Excuse me? I don’t know who you think you are, sir, but you owe me an apology. And you will pick up my things. Now.”

He freezes mid-step. Turns. Slowly. And the street seems to hush around him—well, around you.

Rafe Cameron. You know the name, even if only from whispers around town. He’s tall, lean, the kind of man whose posture makes people step aside without meaning to. His dark coat is cut sharp, his trousers tailored. Smoke curls lazily from the cigarette dangling between his fingers. The sharp line of his jaw. The cruel curl of his lips. The sort of man who looks at the world like it owes him something—and perhaps, for once, he might be right.

And yet… you don’t flinch.

He studies you, quiet for a long moment. The set of your jaw. The way your spine is straight. The defiance in your eyes.

“Well,” he murmurs finally, voice low, slow, dangerous, “that’s… new.”

Before you can say anything, he kneels. Not so quickly as to scare you, but deliberate, precise. He begins gathering your books. Each one, slow, like he’s savoring the motion.

You slide your hand toward your glove, preparing to put it on, and he—without warning—slips his fingers through it, taking it gently in his own.

Your breath catches.

He lifts your gloved hand to his lips and brushes it with the faintest kiss. Not polite. Not a joke. A claim.

“Here you are, my lady,” he says, eyes flicking up to meet yours, smoldering with amusement. “My apologies.”

You yank your hand back, chest rising with indignation, grab your books, and turn away.

He doesn’t move. Just stands there, watching as you walk off. For twenty seconds, maybe longer, the street and the crowd blur. Every instinct he’s never admitted to flares to life—curiosity, irritation, fascination.

And then, suddenly, he’s following.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” he calls, slow, deliberate, each word meant to make you pause. “I believe I might be owed your name.”

You stop. Slowly. Not turning around, just… stop.

“I don’t give my name to strangers,” you say, voice sharp.

“Then I suppose,” he says, smoke curling up from his fingers as he takes a drag, “I must become less of a stranger. For a time, at least.”

You glance over your shoulder. His coat flaps slightly in the wind. The cigarette between his fingers glows faintly, smoke trailing upward. Eyes dark, calculating, just dangerous enough to make your pulse skip.

“…Do I even want that?” you murmur.

His smirk is slow. The kind of smirk that promises trouble.

“You will want it,” he replies, voice low. “…Eventually.”

I Don’t Play About You

“telling my bf I found his best friend on Hinge”

Your phone is hidden on the counter, recording quietly.

Text on the screen reads:

telling my bf I found his best friend on hinge

Rafe’s at the sink, drying his hands, posture tense like he’s already irritated about something. You clear your throat.

“Rafe?”

“What,” he says, not looking at you.

“I saw something weird today.”

That makes him glance up, eyes sharp. “Weird how.”

You hesitate just long enough. “I think I saw Topper on Hinge.”

He turns around fully. Looks at you once.

“…Okay.”

That’s it. No anger. No shock.

You frown. “That’s all you’re gonna say?”

Rafe shrugs. “He’s single. I don’t care.”

That throws you off. “You’re not mad?”

He takes a step closer, gaze narrowing. “Why would I be.”

You shift your weight. “I mean… it’s still weird.”

His head tilts slightly. Then his expression changes—like something clicks into place.

“Why were you on Hinge.”

Your stomach drops. “I wasn’t—”

“Don’t,” he cuts in immediately. Calm. Cold. “You don’t ‘see’ Hinge profiles by accident.”

“It was just my friends—”

“I don’t care,” he snaps. “Did you download it.”

Silence.

Rafe lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Unbelievable.”

“You’re more mad about that than him?” you try.

He looks at you like you’re missing the entire point.

“I don’t give a fuck about Topper,” he says flatly. “He doesn’t matter.”

Then he steps closer, close enough that you feel his presence completely.

“You do.”

His voice drops. Controlled. Dangerous.

“You don’t need to be on apps. You don’t need to look. You don’t need anyone else’s attention.”

“I wasn’t talking to anyone—”

“That’s not the point,” he interrupts. “You’re my everything. I don’t share.” The way he said it was almost like it disgusted him to even think about it.

Your heart is pounding now.

You finally flip the phone around. “It’s a prank. Look.”

He glances at the screen, sees the recording, the caption. His expression doesn’t soften.

He takes the phone from your hand, ends the video, sets it aside.

“Don’t do that again,” he says. Not asking.

You nod. “Okay.”

For a moment, it’s quiet. Then suddenly—he grabs you.

Pulls you into him hard, one arm tight around your waist, the other threading into your hair as he kisses you deeply, intensely, like he’s staking a claim. The kiss is firm, demanding, leaving no room for doubt.

His mouth trails from your lips to your jaw, then to your neck, kissing there slowly, deliberately. His breath is warm against your skin.

“Mine,” he murmurs, low and possessive.

He presses his face into your hair, inhaling deeply, eyes closing for a brief second like that’s what settles him. Like that’s what reminds him you’re here. With him.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours.

“I don’t play about you,” he says quietly.

Your phone buzzes on the counter—notifications flooding in.

Top comment:

the way he did NOT care about topper at all 😭

Ice Cream Heist

It was a quiet evening, the kind where you thought everyone was settled and the only sounds were the faint hum of the fridge and the distant streetlights outside.

You had just gone to grab something from the kitchen when you realized… the living room was too quiet. Way too quiet.

Meanwhile, in the other room, Rafe crouched low behind the couch, holding your almost-four-year-old daughter in his arms. Her eyes were sparkling, trying hard not to giggle.

“Shhh,” he whispered, voice low but trembling with excitement. “Mommy can’t know… we’re sneaking out.”

“I’m excited!” she whispered back, barely able to contain herself. “Ice cream! Ice cream!”

Rafe chuckled quietly, careful not to laugh too loudly. He leaned down and kissed the top of her hair. “I know, pumpkin. I know. Just a little adventure… and then we’ll be back before she notices.”

You stepped closer, opening the door to the hallway. “Rafe? Pumpkin?”

Rafe froze. He could feel her little body stiffen in his arms. “Uh… nothing, nothing at all,” he muttered, ducking lower.

“Nothing?” you asked suspiciously, arms crossed. “Why is it so quiet?”

He swallowed. “I… I was… uh… just teaching her how to hide behind the couch?” He motioned vaguely to the furniture, voice cracking slightly.

Your eyebrow raised. “Really?”

Rafe nodded too quickly. “Yep! Totally! Nothing suspicious happening here!”

Your daughter snickered softly, and Rafe gave her a warning glare, whispering, “Quiet! Mom will catch us!”

You looked between them and tried not to smile, but curiosity got the better of you. “Hmm… something tells me this isn’t a normal hiding game.”

Rafe glanced down at his daughter. “Uh… maybe we’re… rehearsing a secret mission?” he said, voice full of mock seriousness.

She leaned into him, whispering: “Daddy’s taking me to get ice cream.”

Rafe gasped dramatically, eyes wide, and gently shushed her. “Pumpkin! That’s top secret!”

You laughed despite yourself, shaking your head. “You two are impossible. I know exactly what you’re doing.”

Rafe’s shoulders slumped, but he whispered back with a grin, “Then you’ll ruin the fun!” He grabbed her little hand and tiptoed toward the front door, ducking behind corners like secret agents.

You followed them slowly, arms crossed but grinning. “Ohhh, so this is the great ice cream heist?”

“Shhh!” Rafe hissed, trying not to crack a smile. “If Mommy finds out, it’s over!”

Your daughter squealed softly, clutching his hand. “We’re sneaky!”

Rafe chuckled, feeling his heart melt at how small and excited she looked. “The sneakiest, pumpkin. You ready for the mission?”

“Ready!” she whispered, bouncing lightly in his arms.

He opened the door just enough to slip out and peek down the hallway, then lowered her down. The two of them tiptoed like shadows, giggling quietly.

From the doorway, you couldn’t help but laugh, shaking your head. “Go on… enjoy your mission, you little troublemakers. But don’t be long—dessert waits for everyone!”

Rafe looked back over his shoulder at you, grinning. “Yes, ma’am! Mission accepted!”

And with that, he and your little girl vanished into the night, tiny feet padding along the sidewalk, hearts full of mischief and chocolate-fueled excitement.

OUR SONG

The living room was quiet, save for the soft hum of the evening outside. But inside, there was another sound—tiny footsteps padding across the carpet, carrying the most important little presence in your life: your daughter. She was almost four now, with bright, curious eyes that sparkled whenever her dad was around.

“Daddy!” she squealed the second she saw him sitting on the couch, guitar in hand. Her little hands clapped together, the sound echoing like music in the room.

Rafe looked up from tuning his guitar and his whole face lit up. “Hey, pumpkin,” he said, voice low and warm, carrying that soft, protective tone he always had for her. “You ready to sing?”

Her grin was unstoppable. “Only if you sing, Daddy. Only you can!”

You watched from the corner, heart swelling. It was moments like this—pure, simple, unconditional love—that made everything in life feel right. She was so tiny, so full of energy and excitement, and she idolized her dad in a way that was utterly unshakable.

Rafe patted the couch beside him, and she scrambled up, sitting criss-crossed in front of him. He strummed a soft chord on the guitar, testing the strings, before he began softly, “If you ever find yourself stuck in the middle of the sea…”

“Daddy!” she interrupted, clapping her hands. “Count on me!”

Rafe chuckled, eyes softening, and picked up the song properly, voice low and smooth:

“‘If you ever find yourself stuck in the middle of the sea, I’ll sail the world to find you…’”

And just like that, she joined in, her little voice higher, bright, a perfect imperfect echo of her dad’s. She sang every word she could remember, skipping a few lines but making up her own when she forgot.

You leaned back, letting the moment wash over you. Rafe’s voice was always warm and grounding, and the way your daughter’s tiny hands occasionally reached up to touch his guitar strings made it obvious who her first love was. Her dad.

By the chorus, Rafe’s deep, smooth tone and her tiny, excited notes had blended into a melody that could melt anyone’s heart:

“You can count on me like one, two, three… I’ll be there…”

She leaned against his chest as she sang, giggling when he ruffled her hair mid-line, her little legs swinging happily. Rafe lowered his head, resting it lightly against hers, murmuring, “That’s my girl… my little songbird.”

She looked up at him, eyes wide. “I love singing with you, Daddy. I don’t want anyone else.”

Rafe’s throat tightened, and for a moment, his hands stilled on the guitar. He swallowed hard, voice thick with emotion. “You don’t have to… I’m always right here. Always.”

You couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips, watching him. The way he loved her was quiet, deep, utterly unwavering. And the way she trusted him, adored him, followed him with her little heart… it was magic.

The song ended with her clinging to him, laughter spilling like music across the room. Rafe gently lifted her onto his lap, wrapping his arms around her tiny body, rocking slightly. “You’re my favorite duet, you know that?” he whispered.

“I’m your favorite too!” she said, hugging him back as if she could never let go.

“Always,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to the top of her head. “Always my little girl.”

And as the evening settled into a quiet glow, Rafe strumming soft chords, the two of them sat together, singing softly, laughing, and creating a memory neither time nor age could ever touch. It was theirs—pure, unconditional, and full of love.

He Didn’t Mean To

The living room was warm in that lazy, late-afternoon way, sunlight spilling through the tall windows and settling across the rug. The TV was on but muted, some sports channel neither of you were really watching. You were sitting cross-legged on the floor, your daughter between you and Rafe, her little legs wobbling as she tried to stand.

Rafe had her under the arms, holding her upright, laughing every time she bounced. “Look at her,” he said, pride thick in his voice. “She’s strong. I swear, she’s already got better balance than I did at—”

“She’s literally standing because you’re holding her,” you teased, smiling up at him.

He snorted. “Let me have this.”

She babbled loudly, arms flailing, and both of you laughed. Rafe leaned forward, talking to you now, eyes on your face instead of hers. “I was thinking maybe we should move the couch back a bit. Gives her more room when she starts—”

He gestured without thinking.

Just a small movement. A reflex. A second of forgetting what was in his hands.

Your daughter slipped.

Her knees hit the rug with a soft thump, followed immediately by a startled, sharp cry that ripped straight through your chest. Everything froze for half a second before instinct took over. You were moving before you even realized it, scooping her up, pulling her tight to you, one hand immediately cradling the back of her head.

“Hey—hey—shh, shh,” you whispered frantically, kissing her forehead, her temple, her cheeks. “Mama’s here. Mama’s got you. It’s okay.”

Rafe didn’t move.

His hands were still lifted in the air, fingers curled like they were still holding her. His face drained of color as realization slammed into him.

“Oh my God,” he breathed. “I— I didn’t even—”

You shot him a look.

Not yelling. Not screaming.

A death stare—sharp, furious, protective in a way that made his chest seize. The kind that said that was my baby.

He flinched.

You didn’t say anything. You were too busy checking her—her knees, her arms, her head—your hands shaking as you searched for any sign of real injury. You kissed her over and over, rocking her as her cries softened into whimpers.

“It’s okay,” you murmured. “You’re okay, baby. Shh.”

Rafe slowly sank down onto the floor, like his legs couldn’t hold him anymore. “I’m so sorry,” he said, voice cracking. “I swear I didn’t realize I moved. I just— I forgot.”

You kept shushing her, jaw tight, until her crying finally eased. When you looked at him, his eyes were glassy, terrified, full of a guilt so heavy it looked like it might crush him. He reached out hesitantly, unsure if he was allowed.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again—this time to her. “Daddy didn’t mean it. I promise.”

“She’s okay,” you said finally, your voice low but firm. “But you scared me.”

That broke him more than anger ever could. “I scared myself,” he admitted.

The rest of the night passed quietly. Bath time was gentle. Bedtime slower than usual. Rafe hovered nearby, watching every movement, flinching every time she wobbled, like he was afraid the world might hurt her again if he looked away.

When she was finally asleep in her crib, warm and safe, Rafe lingered. He stared at her for a long moment before following you out. The door barely clicked shut before he collapsed against the wall, sliding down until he was sitting on the floor, face buried in his hands.

“I hurt her,” he choked.

You knelt in front of him immediately. “You scared her,” you said gently. “There’s a difference.”

He shook his head, tears slipping through his fingers. “She trusted me. She was in my hands and I dropped her. What kind of father does that?”

“A human one,” you whispered.

“I keep seeing it,” he said, voice breaking. “Her falling. The sound she made.”

You pulled his hands away, forcing him to look at you. “She’s safe,” you said firmly. “She’s sleeping. And tomorrow she’s still going to reach for you like nothing happened.”

He sobbed then—quiet, broken cries against your shoulder as you held him. “I love her so much,” he said. “I didn’t know it could hurt like this.”

Later, when the house had gone still and dark, Rafe crawled into bed with you without a word. He folded into your arms, head resting against your chest, one arm wrapped tightly around your waist like he needed to anchor himself. You ran your fingers through his hair, slow and steady.

He held the baby monitor in his hand, the soft green light glowing. Through it, you could hear her—tiny breaths, small sounds in her sleep. Rafe pressed his ear to your chest, listening to your heartbeat, the same rhythm that had once soothed her before she was ever born.

“She’s so small,” he whispered, eyes fixed on the screen. “I can’t believe I almost—”

You cupped his face gently. “She’s safe,” you said again.

He watched her sleep, her chest rising and falling, her lashes resting against her cheeks. His expression softened into something achingly tender—love wrapped in guilt and awe.

“I’ll never forget again,” he murmured. “Never.”

You held him as his breathing finally slowed, matching yours, his grip tightening just a little around the monitor. The last thing he did before sleep took him was look at his baby girl one more time, peaceful and dreaming.

A World Built For You

Y/N sat on the couch, the plush cushions swallowing her slight frame, her gaze fixed on the black TV in front of her. Not off, just black, unlit, an empty screen reflecting nothing but the quiet of the house. She hadn’t even realized how long she had been staring at it. The villa was pristine, every corner immaculate, every room tailored to her comfort, but the perfection only made the emptiness louder. The gym, the pool, the movie theater, the salon, the endless stretch of marble floors-it all existed for her. All of it for her. And still, she felt… alone.

The faint echo of the front door closing made her glance up, though not fully. She knew when Rafe came home from work-he had a way of moving through the villa that was impossible to ignore. He didn’t announce himself with fanfare, didn’t need to. His presence filled the house before he even stepped into the living room.

“Hey,” his voice was low, almost soft, carrying just enough weight to make her heart lift, a small pulse of warmth threading through her chest.

She didn’t move, didn’t answer. She wasn’t hiding, she just… stayed, letting him come closer. She could feel him before she saw him, the faint scent of his cologne, the subtle shift in the air as he leaned against the couch, his shoulder brushing hers. His hand, larger than hers, rested briefly on the back of the couch, just above her head. He didn’t touch her yet, but the air between them was thick with something inevitable, possessive, quiet but undeniable.

“You’ve been staring at a black screen for how long?” he asked, teasing just slightly, though his eyes never left hers. He was more observing than questioning, almost reverent in the way he looked at her.

Y/N shrugged without looking at him. “Doesn’t matter,” she murmured.

Rafe’s hand found hers then, brushing her fingers lightly, tracing a path down her arm, making her chest tighten without warning. She flinched slightly, though not entirely away. She knew the way he touched wasn’t casual. Every movement was calculated, familiar, a silent claim. His thumb brushed the back of her hand, slow and deliberate, as if memorizing her, as if he already knew every contour he could touch, every pulse he could feel.

“You don’t have to go out, you know,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost a whisper against the stillness of the house. “I’ve built it all… for you. Everything you could ever want, I made it here. All of it, so you never have to step foot outside if you don’t want to.”

Y/N’s throat tightened. She had felt it-the weight of his love, his obsession-but hearing it out loud, so unflinching, made it real in a way she hadn’t allowed herself to admit. She felt trapped, yes, but the trap was velvet soft, wrapped in silk, lined with intention and care. Every gym, every pool, the salon, the movie theater, even the underground garage with cars she would never touch-every detail was about her, for her, around her.

“I…” she started, then stopped, unsure how to voice the tangle of emotions inside her. Comfort, awe, fear, warmth- all crashing at once.

He leaned closer then, his chest brushing hers, the proximity sending shivers down her spine. His hand slid into her hair, fingertips threading through the strands at the nape of her neck. The gesture was gentle, almost casual, but underneath it all was that intensity, the one she had felt in the small looks, the quiet touches, the way he held himself around her. She could feel it now in full force, like gravity pulling her in, binding her to him in a way that felt permanent, inevitable.

“You’ve been alone too much,” he murmured, just above her ear. “This house, all of it, I wanted it for you, for us. But I don’t like seeing you sit here, untouched, unclaimed.”

Her breath hitched. The words weren’t aggressive; they didn’t need to be. He didn’t yell, didn’t demand. His possessiveness was embedded in everything—his eyes, the brush of his hand, the way his chest leaned against hers as if nothing else in the world mattered but keeping her here, keeping her close.

She shifted slightly, leaning into him despite herself. Her hand came up to rest on the back of his head, fingers tangling in his dark hair. She felt the pulse of him there, strong and steady, and she let herself feel it-the warmth, the safety, the subtle pressure of his claim. His lips brushed the top of her head, almost accidentally, almost tender, but in a way that made her heart clench.

“You’re mine,” he whispered, almost to himself, almost reverent, the words threading into the silence of the room. Not demanding. Not threatening. Just… fact. Unyielding. Certain.

Y/N’s eyes closed. She didn’t need to argue. She didn’t need to move away. The house, his love, his obsession-it was all encompassing, suffocating, comforting. He had built a world around her, wrapped her in it, and now he was here to remind her that nothing, not even the black emptiness of the TV, could touch her when he was home.

She let herself sink into him, into the heat of his chest, the possessive weight of his hands in her hair, the quiet devotion that was as intoxicating as it was overwhelming. The villa could be infinite, could hold every luxury imaginable, but it was him-him, here, now that made it feel like home.

Not So Lonely

The engine hums low under you, headlights slicing through the dark road as Rafe drives one-handed, the other draped lazily out the window. You’re scrolling on your phone, half-listening to the playlist- until Akon’s “Lonely” comes on.

“NO WAY,” Rafe blurts, volume already going up.

“Rafe—” you start, but it’s too late.

He clears his throat dramatically, sits up straighter like he’s about to perform at Madison Square Garden, and then-

Lap of Luxury

No one knew what to make of them. Rafe Cameron the man who made headlines for his reckless business deals, his late-night parties, and his penchant for chaos had somehow ended up with her. The office whispers were endless. Everyone expected scandal, a firestorm, a public meltdown. What they didn’t expect was the way she moved, serene and untouchable, like she didn’t belong in the same world as him, and yet completely, undeniably did.

That day, the conference room was buzzing with coworkers, papers scattered across the polished table, laptops open, everyone trying to focus. And there she was, sitting on his lap. Her posture perfect, her back straight, heels barely touching the floor. She was soft-spoken, elegant in a way that made it seem effortless. Her hair fell just so, the faintest hint of her perfume drifting around them, and she was explaining the work calmly, gesturing toward the documents with delicate precision.