❝ rafe cameron ❞

He doesn’t get it.

Rafe doesn’t understand why he doesn’t hate you—a Pogue. A shy one at that.

“It’s freezing,” he says bluntly as he drapes his fuzzy grey North Face jacket over your shoulders. His expression was ever so stoic, yet his tone was a tad softer than usual; a tone reserved for you. “You’ll catch a cold.”

The Boneyard’s teeming, the party on full blast.

He tugs the lapels of the jacket, making sure you’re warming up. He’d never admit that you’re his soft spot, though. Never.