#ymut

Say his name louder

Arranged Relationship with Rafe Cameron

I was done. Absolutely done.

Rafe Cameron was going to be the bane of my existence for as long as this stupid arrangement lasted. It sat on my shoulders like a weight I could never shrug off, a constant reminder that I wasn’t in control of my own life. My dad and Ward had decided it would be “charming” to set up a fake dating scenario for the sake of appearances, and the word kept replaying in my head like a bad joke. Charming. Like I was a prop. Like Rafe wasn’t the kind of psycho who smiled while he was picking you apart piece by piece.

They called it a meticulously crafted image. A plan. An arrangement for the cameras, the parties, the headlines. For donors and business partners and holiday cards. And somehow, in that polished, perfect little fantasy, I had ended up trapped squarely in the middle of it.

I had tried, over and over, to rid myself of him. Little schemes, careful excuses, “misunderstandings” that I hoped would blow up big enough to make them change their minds. I tried ignoring his texts, disappearing at parties, flirting too obviously with other guys. I even tried the subtle art of being just unpleasant enough that any sane person would back off. But Rafe wasn’t sane, and he definitely wasn’t normal. He kept bouncing back, like some twisted rubber band that snapped harder every time I stretched it.

He’d show up with that smug grin, hands in his pockets, eyes half-lidded like he knew something I didn’t. That infuriating calm, that slow, assessing stare, like he was already three moves ahead of me. Like he enjoyed it when I squirmed. Somehow, he always knew exactly how to worm his way back into every corner of my life, as if he’d mapped out every possible exit and sealed them shut.

And now here I was. Lying stiffly in Rafe Cameron’s massive, perfectly made bed while he was in the shower.

The mattress was so soft it felt like it wanted to swallow me, but my muscles were tight, my shoulders tense, my legs pressed straight instead of relaxed. The sheets smelled like detergent and something darker underneath, crisp cotton and that expensive cologne he wore. It clung to the air, a sharp, clean smell that mixed with the humid warmth rolling out of the bathroom. The steam seeped under the door and thickened the room, making the air feel heavier in my lungs.

My heart beat a little too fast, each thud loud and insistent in my ears. I could hear the water running, the steady rush of it against tile, and I focused on that sound just to keep from spiraling. I stared at the ceiling, at the faint shadows cast by the recessed lighting, counting my breaths and trying to convince myself I was still in control.

Then the water stopped.

There was a brief silence, followed by the soft metallic click of the shower door opening. A tiny shiver ran through me. I hated that. I hated that my body reacted even when my brain was screaming at it to stay still, stay cold, stay detached. My fingers curled around the edge of the comforter, nails digging into the fabric as I forced my eyelids to lower.

I shut my eyes tightly, exaggerating the heaviness of sleep. I let my breathing slow to a lazy rhythm, each inhale drawn out, each exhale soft and even. My chest rose and fell in what I hoped looked convincingly comfortable, like I belonged here. Like this was normal.

He padded out of the bathroom, his footsteps quiet but somehow loud to me in the thick silence. The faint squeak of damp skin against the polished floor reached my ears, followed by the small rustle of a towel being adjusted.

I could feel him in the room, his presence thick and invasive, even before he moved. Rafe always felt like that. Like a pressure in the air. Like a storm hovering just a little too close.

He walked to his dresser, and I listened to the sound of drawers opening and closing, wood on wood, the soft clink of metal. Hangers scraped against the bar in his closet, fabric slid past fabric in smooth, practiced motions. Everything he did always had this odd, controlled efficiency to it, like even getting dressed was part of some performance he’d mastered.

My stomach twisted with a mix of nerves and defiance. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be lying in his bed, pretending this was fine, pretending I was compliant. The thought of our parents’ relieved smiles, their smug satisfaction at how “well” things were working out, flared in my mind and sparked something reckless in my chest.

I waited, counting a few more seconds, letting the tension coil tighter inside me. Then, carefully, I let my voice slip out. Just a soft, sleepy mumble, blurred at the edges.

“Mm… JJ… keep going…” I groaned lazily, letting the words drag a little, like they were pulling me out of some dream.

The name tasted familiar and forbidden on my tongue, like something sweet I wasn’t supposed to touch. JJ. A safe chaos, a different kind of wild. Saying his name in Rafe’s bed felt like striking a match in a room filled with gas.

There was a pause.

The quiet hit harder this time. The sound of hangers stopped. The room seemed to hold its breath with me. My skin prickled, every hair on my arms lifting as the silence stretched just a second too long.

Then a hand gripped my shoulder.

His fingers clamped down with enough force to make my body go rigid. Heat pulsed under his grip, the weight of his palm firm and possessive. A dull ache started to bloom where his thumb pressed into my skin, and my heart kicked up, hammering against my ribs so fast it almost hurt.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Rafe’s voice cut through the air, low and dangerous, every word coated in that cold amusement that made my chest tighten. There was a scoff folded into it, that familiar, grating sound that always made me want to throw something at his perfect, infuriating face.

I opened my eyes slowly, letting my lashes flutter like it took effort. He was leaning over me now, towel slung low on his hips, a few beads of water still clinging to his collarbone and sliding slowly down his chest. His jaw was tight, the muscle there flexing, and his eyes flashed with something I couldn’t quite place. Irritation, definitely. Curiosity. Maybe a hint of enjoyment.

It was always hard to tell with him. He liked blurring those lines.

I blinked up at him, summoning my best imitation of groggy innocence, the one I’d perfected for nosy relatives and suspicious teachers.

“Hmm… what’s wrong?” I murmured, letting my voice come out thick and soft, like I was still halfway inside some hazy, pleasant dream.

His fingers tightened fractionally on my shoulder.

“Say his name.” He leaned in closer, his shadow falling over my face, his eyes locked on mine, dark and sharp. “Louder.” His lips curved, but it wasn’t a nice smile. “Let’s see how brave you are, then.”

My pulse was racing now, blood rushing in my ears so loud it almost drowned him out. Part of me wanted to look away, to yank my shoulder out of his grip, to tell him to go to hell. Another part of me, the part that was tired of feeling powerless, lifted my chin the tiniest bit in stubborn defiance.

I smirked faintly, hiding my exasperation under the “sleepy” act that was already starting to crack.

“Oh, you mean… JJ?” I dragged the syllables out, soft but deliberate, letting them drip off my tongue and hang in the air between us.

His eyes narrowed, then flicked over my face like he was cataloging every twitch, every breath.

Rafe’s lip quirked, that half-smile that made him look impossibly infuriating and, against my better judgment, impossibly attractive at the same time. It was the kind of smile that said he’d already decided how this was going to end.

“Mm, not bad,” he murmured.

He straightened up and started to circle the bed, slow and unhurried, like a predator taking his time. The mattress dipped slightly as his weight shifted near the edge, the faint creak of the frame following his movements. My skin felt too tight for my body, awareness prickling along the back of my neck as I tracked him with my peripheral vision.

“But I don’t think you’re scared enough yet,” he added, voice low and almost playful. “I like my girls… honest. Full commitment.” His gaze cut back to me, steady, unblinking. “You’re faking it, yeah? Too easy.”

Heat crept into my face, not from embarrassment but from sheer frustration. I groaned inwardly, pressing my face briefly into the pillow to hide the twitch in my expression. Of course he’d turn this around, twist it into something he could poke at, dissect, own.

And still, buried under all that anger and dread, there was a small, infuriating spark. A part of me that was almost thrilled that he cared enough to confront me, that I could actually get to him. I hated that part of myself more than I hated him.

“You’re impossible,” I muttered, my voice muffled by the fabric.

The cotton was cool against my cheek, and for a second I wished I could just sink into it and disappear. “Absolutely impossible.”

He leaned closer, the mattress dipping beside my hip. The heat of his body radiated against my side, creeping through the thin barrier of the sheets. I could feel his breath near my ear when he spoke, warm and steady, sending an unwanted shiver skating down my spine.

“And yet, here you are,” he said, tone teasing but threaded with something heavier. Possession. Certainty. “Right where you’re supposed to be.”

His fingers brushed against my arm, gentle now, a stark contrast to the earlier grip on my shoulder. “You can’t quit me, can you?” His voice dropped lower, wrapping around me. “Admit it.”

I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry. The urge to shove him away warred with the urge to roll my eyes and laugh it off like none of this bothered me. I forced my shoulders into a casual shrug that felt anything but casual.

“Maybe I like making your life difficult,” I said, keeping my tone light, almost bored.

He hummed softly, the sound vibrating in the small space between us.

“Mm.” His hand slid up, brushing a stray strand of hair away from my face with infuriating tenderness. His fingers lingered for a second at my temple, and his eyes gleamed, amused and intent. “I think you like the challenge more than you’re willing to admit.”

His gaze sharpened, pinning me in place. “And don’t even think about playing innocent with me.”

The worst part was that he wasn’t entirely wrong. Not about the challenge. There was something twistedly satisfying about pushing him, poking holes in his perfect, composed surface and watching the cracks form. It made me feel less like a pawn and more like a problem he hadn’t fully solved.

I rolled onto my back, pulling the sheet up with me, finally meeting his eyes head on. Frustration pulsed in my chest, thick and familiar, tangled with something I didn’t want to name. Exasperation. And just a little bit of reluctant captivation.

“You’re insufferable,” I muttered.

My lips betrayed me and twitched at the corners, the hint of a smile I refused to give him fully.

“Insufferable?” he echoed, feigning offense. “I prefer… intoxicating.”

He leaned in, close enough that I could see the faint stubble on his jaw and the tiny scar near his lower lip. Close enough that the warmth of his breath brushed my skin, curling under my nose with that same cologne that seemed to cling to everything in this room.

“And don’t think this little game you’re playing with JJ will make me back down,” he murmured.

His eyes darkened, the playfulness dimming for a moment and revealing something colder underneath. Obsession. Determination. Something that made my stomach flip in a way that wasn’t entirely fear, but wasn’t comfort either.

“I’m Rafe Cameron.” His voice was quiet, but every word landed heavy. “I don’t lose. Ever.”

I exhaled slowly, forcing my features into an exaggerated pout, like this was all just some inconvenient drama instead of a slow tightening trap.

“Maybe that’s the problem,” I said.

His grin widened, sharp and victorious, like I’d just confirmed something he already knew.

“No,” he replied, eyes gleaming. “That’s the fun part.”

The room felt smaller suddenly, the edges closing in around the two of us. His scent in the air, his heat against my side, the echo of our parents’ expectations hanging like a ghost in the background. All of it pressed down on me, but some stubborn, reckless part of me refused to back down.