fratbro!rafe keeps blasting music late at night .
youāre three redbulls deep, hair in a claw clip thatās hanging on for dear life, and knees curled up under your desk while you try to understand why microeconomics feels like it was written by a drunk cryptid.
same goddamn wall shaking volume.
the same exact future song thatās been you since orientation week.
you press your forehead against your desk.
āno fucking way,ā you mutter, eyes already twitching.
because of course rafe is throwing a solo listening party in his room again.
you know itās him, who else blasts throw away at this ungodly hour? didnāt help that his dorm room is right next to yours.
julia: can someone please tell rafe to shut the fuck upš
nate: bro i swear heās allergic to silence
you slam your laptop shut and march across the hall in your socks and knock on his door. hard.
no answer. just futureās voice growling about drinking like itās cinco de mayo.
you knock again, louder this time, borderline abusive. finally the music cuts and the door swings open like you summoned satan himself.
there stands rafe. shirtless. gray sweatpants. hair messy like he rolled out of bed straight into chaos
he blinks like heās surprised to see you.
āhey,ā he drawls, and of course heās holding a red solo cup. āwas just thinking about you.ā
āyeah, i bet,ā you deadpan. āturn the music down. iām trying to study.ā
he leans on the doorframe, grin spreading like he enjoys being hated.
āwhat, econ again? babe, you gotta let that go. that class is a scam.ā
āalright,ā he says. āhow about a deal?ā
you cross your arms. āwhat?ā
āquiet contest,ā he says like itās the most obvious thing in the world. āfirst one to make a noise loses. no talking. no music. no nothing. winner gets to decide what happens next.ā
you blink. āare you twelve?ā
āmaybe,ā he says, stepping aside.
you should say no. you really should. but then youāre in his roomāwhy are you in his room??āsitting on the edge of his mattress that still has frat letters on the pillowcases, and heās grabbing a sharpie and paper like itās middle school detention.
i have an exam at 8am. if i fail bc of you i will actually commit.
you roll your eyes so hard your soul leaves your body.
heās sitting cross legged in front of you now, shirtless and smug, biting the end of the pen like heās deep in thought.
his gaze flicks to your legs, then back up.
stop looking at me like that
you write, flipping the paper toward him.
he raises an eyebrow and writes:
like youāre about to ruin my gpa
his smirk stretches wide, and he leans in just a little.
you feel it in your stomach. stupid butterflies. stupid hormones.
because itās quiet, yeah, but your head is loud.
his knee brushes yours and itās like setting off fireworks in your brain.
wanna study here instead?
youāre glaring at him, but also considering it.
you take the sharpie write back:
but if i fail, youāre writing my makeup essay.
he grins, throws the speaker in the closet, and for once, rafe cameron shuts the hell up.
but the way he looks at you?
youāre never getting any studying done.
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