Rafe Cameron Imagines

Late-Night Kitchen Adventures🤍

It was well past midnight, the kind of hour where the world seemed to quiet down and the air was thick with stillness. You and Rafe had spent the evening binge-watching random movies in your living room, but after hours of laughing, teasing, and half-paying attention to the screen, you were both wide awake with no intention of sleeping. The empty house felt like your playground, your parents gone for the weekend and trusting you to be responsible. That, of course, was a mistake.

"You know what I want?" Rafe said, breaking the comfortable silence as the credits of the last movie rolled.

You looked over at him from your spot on the couch. His legs were stretched out across the cushions, and his head was tilted back lazily. He had that mischievous glint in his eye that always spelled trouble.

"What?" you asked, already a little suspicious.

"Pancakes," he said, sitting up suddenly and grinning like he'd just come up with the most brilliant idea in the world.

"Pancakes?" you repeated, raising an eyebrow. "Rafe, it's midnight."

"Exactly," he said with a grin. "Midnight pancakes hit different. Come on, let's make some."

You groaned, leaning back against the cushions. "You know we could just wait until the morning, right? Pancakes are literally a breakfast food."

He was already standing, holding out a hand to you. "Where's the fun in that? Midnight pancakes are spontaneous. Besides, I need your help—I'm not exactly a five-star chef."

Reluctantly, you let him pull you off the couch. "Alright, fine. But if you set my kitchen on fire, you're the one explaining it to my parents."

He smirked, leading you toward the kitchen. "Noted. Let's get cooking, chef."

The kitchen was dark except for the soft glow of the under-cabinet lights. You grabbed a mixing bowl while Rafe started rifling through the pantry for ingredients.

"Do you even know how to make pancakes?" you asked, watching as he held up random items and frowned.

"Uh, flour... eggs... milk... sugar?" He looked over at you, shrugging. "How hard can it be?"

You laughed, taking the flour out of his hands. "Okay, first of all, we're following an actual recipe. Second of all, maybe let me do the measuring."

"Bossy," he teased, leaning against the counter with an exaggerated pout.

"I just don't trust you with math," you shot back, smirking as you started measuring out the ingredients.

Rafe stuck his tongue out at you but stayed close, leaning over your shoulder to watch as you mixed everything together. At one point, he grabbed a spoon and swiped some of the batter to taste.

"Rafe!" you scolded, swatting at his hand.

"What?" he said, grinning. "It's good! You're a natural."

"You're going to eat all the batter before we even cook it," you said, shaking your head.

As you heated up the stove, Rafe took charge of the first pancake. "Watch and learn," he said, pouring the batter onto the pan in a messy circle.

You snorted. "That's the ugliest pancake I've ever seen."

"It's abstract," he said, flipping it with way too much confidence—only for the pancake to fold in half and stick to itself.

You burst out laughing as Rafe groaned dramatically. "Okay, maybe you should stick to pouring," you said, nudging him aside so you could take over.

"Fine," he grumbled, crossing his arms. "But don't expect me to help with cleanup."

Between your pancake-making skills and Rafe's ridiculous commentary, the kitchen was soon filled with the smell of golden batter and the sound of your laughter. By the time you had a plate stacked high with pancakes, you were both covered in a fine layer of flour, and Rafe had somehow managed to smear syrup on his arm.

"You're a disaster," you said, handing him a plate.

He grinned, taking a huge bite of his pancake. "But I'm your disaster."

You rolled your eyes but couldn't help the smile tugging at your lips. The two of you sat at the counter, eating pancakes in the middle of the night like it was the most normal thing in the world.

"These are actually really good," Rafe said through a mouthful of food.

"Of course they are," you said, pretending to look offended. "I told you I know what I'm doing."

Rafe reached over, smearing a bit of syrup on your cheek with his finger. "You're cute when you're smug."

"Rafe!" you yelped, grabbing a napkin to wipe your face. "You're the worst."

He laughed, leaning closer to press a quick kiss to your temple. "And you love me anyway."

You rolled your eyes, but your heart felt full. Nights like this—where nothing really went according to plan but everything felt perfect anyway—were your favorite.

As you finished the last bite of your pancake, you glanced over at him and smiled. "You know what?"

"What?" he asked, leaning his elbow on the counter to look at you.

"You're not the worst," you said, teasing. "You're just my worst."

Rafe laughed, shaking his head. "I'll take it."

"Good. Because you're cleaning up this mess," you said, standing up and motioning to the flour-covered counter.

"Oh, no," he said, grabbing your wrist and pulling you back toward him. "You're helping. You're my partner in crime, remember?"

You sighed dramatically but let him pull you close. "Fine. But next time, I'm picking the midnight snack."

"Deal," he said, wrapping his arms around you. "But I have to warn you—I have high standards for spontaneous adventures."

"And I have high standards for boyfriends," you replied with a smirk.

Rafe laughed, kissing your forehead. "Lucky for both of us, we're pretty perfect together."

And as the rain started to patter softly against the kitchen window, you couldn't help but feel grateful for moments like these—messy, spontaneous, and full of love.