Rafe Cameron Imagines (for horny bitches)

roommates pt. 1

Y/N

Rafe's alarm pulls you out of sleep in the morning. It starts as a small beeping that you think is in your head. But then it gets louder and louder. You groan. It's blaring. Surely, he has to wake up and hear it within the next minute.

But he doesn't.

"Fuck." You whip your blanket off and throw yourself out of your warm enclosure. The floor is cool against your bare feet. The sun may be up, but it's Saturday, and you weren't done sleeping.

You knock on his door, but there's no response.

"Hey," you say. Still, nothing.

You turn the knob. The door opens. You keep your eyes closed, positive that if you look, you'll see two naked bodies twisted in the sheets.

But half of his bed is empty. It's just him, and his lower region is covered in his bedsheet. His duvet has fallen to the floor in a heap.

When you told your friends you were moving out of your parents' to rent a room, they asked you where you could possibly move to—who you could possibly move in with.

But you didn't tell them. "Someone from an online ad," you said.

"Rafe." The alarm is screaming now. "Rafe!"

After a deep breath, you look at the buttons again. You press the one that says STOP. The noise cuts off right away, and it feels like when dust settles around the room. You look back at Rafe, who hasn't even flinched. Lucky him.

Unlike you, he has to wake up and go to work. His dad will kill him if he doesn't.

He came in late and drunk last night with a girl. You had to listen to them have sex, but both of them must have fallen asleep in the midst because there were small moans and then nothing.

"Rafe." You shake his shoulder. "Hey, Rafe. Wake up."

This time, he makes a noise. Thank God. You were starting to think he'd actually drank himself into a coma. Or death.

"Rafe, your alarm," you say. "You have to go to work." He moves a little but his eyes don't open. "Rafe. Come on."

This was so not on your "roommate resumé."

When you first moved in, you figured he was the kind of guy to trash the place like a frat house—he is that age, after all. But so far, he's been surprisingly neat. The only "messy" thing he does is show up drunk with a date every once in a while and have loud sex.

"Rafe, wake up," you whine. You shake him hard enough so his head moves back and forth. There's an ache behind your eyes. Even the thought of falling back into your warm bed is torture.

"Mm?" His brow furrows. He's close to the surface. You remind him again that he has to get up for work, hoping he comes to.

One of his eyes opens, just barely. He squints at you like you're holding a harsh light right in his face; that little sliver of blue.

"You're late, come on." You nudge him with your knee.

He checks the time, one eye still open. "My alarm didn't go off."

"It did. It woke me up. Now get up."

He swings his legs over the side of the bed. His back is hunched, and he rubs his face with both hands. He isn't wearing any underwear, and the sheet is just barely still covering his area. And he acts like it's no big deal that you're there.

He checks behind him, a tired, groggy look on his face. "Where's, uh..."

"She left. I don't know when." Of course he doesn't remember her name. He probably never even knew it.