♡ 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐥 𝒆𝒚𝒆𝒔 .

His head tilts slightly, sunglasses low on his nose, his thumb tapping rhythmically against the wheel of the golf cart.

Your stomach flips, that warm feeling spreading as you try to collect yourself, suddenly aware of every step you take. His eyebrows lift, noticing the soft sway in your hips and the way your smile refuses to settle.

“There she is,” he says, the smile reaching his eyes. You try to bite back a grin and play it off, but it only makes it worse, because you’re clearly not as composed as you think you are.

By the time you reach the cart, he is already leaning forward, his elbow braced on his knee to get a better look, not wanting to miss a thing.

“Hey, baby,” he says teasingly. “You have fun?”

“Mhmm,” you hum, nodding a little too eagerly.

His gaze flicks down briefly as he taps the seat next to him. He holds out his hand for you, gold watch glimmering in the sunlight, helping you inside. The second you’re beside him, his hand comes up, cupping your face, and you lean into it naturally as his lips press against yours.

He groans against your lips, smiling against your mouth as the sweetness of your lip gloss mixes with the champagne still lingering on your tongue. His thumb rubs gently against your cheek, soaking in the moment with you.

“You a little gone, sweetheart?” He murmurs, his voice softer now, lips brushing against yours.

“No—Me?” You ask, your response not nearly convincing enough, and it only makes him laugh quietly under his breath.

“Just thought I’d ask,” he feigns genuine curiosity, leaning back, his arm coming to rest along the back of your seat.

He grips the steering wheel again, his forearm flexing with the movement, his bicep shifting under the sleeve of his golf shirt. Your eyes drift away for a moment, that same stupid, traitorous smile giving you away again, because he looks too damn good like this. It’s unfair.

The cart hums to life beneath you as he pulls away from the clubhouse, one hand still resting loosely behind you.

“I’m fine,” you insist, feeling him eyeing you in your peripheral. He studies you for a moment, seeing your reaction, hoping to get a little more if it has you giggling like that. Then his tongue drags slowly over his bottom lip when your eyes meet his again.

“Thirsty?” He chuckles, nodding to the cup holders, something bright and citrusy, condensation dripping down the side.

“Might have had a little too much fun,” you mumble under your breath, and he snorts at the understatement.

“Well, just in case,” he smiles. “Brought you some water too, pretty. And… your golf shoes.” Your eyes fall to your lap, shoes still hooked around your finger. “Toss ‘em back there.”

“Thank you, baby,” you say, leaning closer to toss your heels in the back basket. His arm tightens around you at the contact, pulling you closer, pressing a kiss on your forehead. “M’sorry.”

Rafe pulls back and looks down at you, searching for your eyes. “What are you sorry about?” He asks, the question genuine, like maybe he said the wrong thing.

“I asked you to teach me and—well,” you giggle, your hand coming up to squeeze his bicep when he takes a sharp turn, your head falling onto his shoulder a little heavier than usual.

He rolls up beside the tee box fast, cutting off the engine before turning to look at you. “I just wanted to spend the day with you, baby. I don’t care if you had a few. I’m just teasin’ you, honey. It isn’t like we can’t come again—you’re not gettin’ rid of me.”

“Okay,” you giggle.

“That smile,” he mumbles, pressing his sunglasses up on his nose a little. “That’s all that matters, aight?”

His gaze drops from your face to the line of your neck, following the way the little black golf dress fits you like it was made for you, skimming your waist, hugging your hips, and showing just enough skin to make his hand tighten slightly around the wheel.

“And you… you look so damn good,” he says, softer this time. Your nose scrunches as you smile bashfully. “Missed you.”

“Missed you too,” you murmur.

“You ready for this?” He asks, nodding toward the course ahead, a stretch of green and crisp white flags, golf carts zipping around with regulars and pros. “Or do you wanna go home and hang out by the pool instead?” His tone lifts slightly like he is already thinking about it.

“No, I’m ready,” you answer quickly, remembering how happy he was when you first asked.

“Yeah?” He asks, his brow lifting slightly as he reaches for his drink. “You sure? I mean… I wouldn’t exactly be mad about going home.”

“Later,” you giggle, watching him smile against the rim of his glass before he glances at you and gives you a small wink.

He gets out first, his shoes hitting the grass as he adjusts his hat, his fingers hooking the brim and flipping it around so it sits backward on his head. He moves around the cart while you do the same, stretching out his arms and rolling his shoulders, and for a second you just stand there watching him.

Butterflies stir in your stomach as you take him in, tall and strong, sun-kissed under the afternoon light, his blue eyes scanning down the fairway to check on the group ahead.

He glances over at you and catches you staring just as you tug on your golf shoes, teetering slightly as you hop on one foot, grabbing the cart for balance.

“C’mere, baby,” he murmurs, beckoning you closer as he drops down onto one knee in front of you.

He looks up at you as he reaches for your shoe. “What club do you think we’re using, sunshine?” He drawls, tying one before moving to the other.

“Um…” you say, a little flustered as he stands again, close enough that your chest brushes his. “Nine?” The answer comes out more like a question, and he smiles.

“Mhmm…” He hums, pulling a hat down onto your head before pressing a quick kiss to your lips.

“Lucky guess,” you giggle.

“Nah,” he says easily. “You’re just a natural.” Rafe reaches into your bag, pulling out a club, handing it to you.

The two of you walk toward the markers side by side. He digs into his pocket, pulling out a ball and a tee, then scratches your name onto the scorecard just above his before glancing up to watch the pair ahead move toward the green.

“Alright, baby, first thing is your stance,” he starts, stepping closer as he gestures toward the ground. “You want your feet about shoulder-width apart and your weight balanced.”

“Mhmm,” you agree as he mirrors your stance, standing a few feet in front of you.

But in reality, you’re not hearing a single word because it all starts to drift away and blur together into something that sounds blah, blah, blah, proper name, place name, backstory stuff, because you’re just watching him.

You notice the way his mouth moves when he talks, the way his arms flex when he adjusts his grip on the club, and the way his voice softens slightly, like he actually cares about getting it right for you.

Your eyes move over him slowly without trying to hide it, and when you finally look back up at his face, you realize he is already looking at you.

“You’re not listening to a damn thing I’m saying, are you, baby?” He asks, a quiet, bashful laugh slipping out, a faint flush creeping across his cheeks.

“What?” You ask softly, your hands dropping to the club like you even know what you are fixing, which only makes him laugh harder.

The head of his club taps against the grass as he tries to collect himself, but he cannot even pretend to be annoyed about it.

If anything, it looks like he loves it, like he loves you like this, a little distracted and completely caught up in him.

He steps closer again, slower this time, and it’s less about the lesson now and more about you, his attention shifting between your eyes and your mouth as he exhales quietly through a small smile.

“Alright,” he says, his voice dropping slightly. “Yeah… this isn’t gonna go how I planned.”

“I’m sorry,” you repeat softly, echoing yourself from earlier without even realizing it.

“Baby,” he murmurs, his tone lowering just enough to make it clear he does not want to hear you apologize again.

You nod, taking in a little breath, brows furrowing as you try to focus on your stance, and the club face.

He grins at that, his eyes moving over you again, slower this time as he takes in the dress, the way it flutters in the breeze, and the way your tongue pokes out a little as you try to mimic his shoulder position.

“Yeah,” he hums, pretty distracted himself. “Exactly like that.” You smile proudly, following behind him as he takes a practice swing of his own. “Alright, baby. You’re up.”

You look ahead, watching the old men in front of you cruise off in their cart toward the second hole. You crouch down, sinking your tee into the grass, settling your ball on top, watching it wobble slightly before it finally steadies.

“Atta baby,” he says, his tone easy and approving, like you did something far more impressive than setting a ball on a tee, but it makes you smile anyway.

You step into position, lining yourself up with the ball as you adjust your feet the way you’ve seen him do before. He walks around you, watching you closely. “Alright, hold on,” he says, stepping in. “Let me fix a couple things.”

You nod, your eyes still fixed on the ball.

“See how this hole runs?” He says, one hand coming up to rest on your waist as the other points ahead. “It’s gonna hook left once you get some distance on it, so you don’t want to aim straight down the middle, you want to offset a little to the right.”

You glance over your shoulder at him, smiling as you see just how close he is, his eyes nowhere near where they need to be as his gaze traces from the hem of your skirt, following where the fabric stretches over your back, dipping low.

His eyes meet yours and he smiles. “You listening?” He asks as he smirks.

“You focusing?” You giggle, gasping as his hand comes down to swat you playfully on the butt.

“Am I focused?” He snorts, laughing under his breath. “I’m focused, baby. I’m locked in.”

“Mmm… Sure,” you tease him, tightening your hold on the club. You glance up where you need to go, squinting into the sun a little bit before you look down at the ball, your hold tightening on the iron as you try your best to lock in yourself.

“Sheesh, baby,” he says, pulling you right out of your focus, stepping in closer to look over your shoulder, shifting back into teaching mode. “Your grip—”

“What?” You ask.

“Hey, don’t move,” he adds lightly. “Your stance is perfect but you’re squeezing the life out of this thing. Relax.” The final words fade off his lips as he steps in behind you.

His chest pushes against your back, solid and warm, the heat of him seeping through the thin fabric of his polo. He keeps talking through it, calm and patient, like this is still a real lesson and not something that shifted the second he got close enough to hold you in his arms.

Your fingers loosen around the club like he told you to, but the effort is half-hearted at best because you are too aware of him—of the way he is standing behind you, his body lining up perfectly with yours.

His hands come in, settling briefly over your grip, so big they almost completely cover your own. “Like this,” he says quietly. “Not too tight, just let the club do the work.”

Music drifts from the golf cart, the afternoon breeze swirling around the subtle sweetness of wild roses and freshly cut grass as that little liquored-laced buzz of yours mellows you out even more in the North Carolina heat.

“Baby…” He murmurs; a quiet breath of a laugh leaving him warm and close against your ear. “Stop wiggling, yeah? Your stance was perfect.”

You hum softly in response, still not fully present, your weight shifting again just enough that you end up settling back into him instead of finding your stance again.

“Back straight, alright?” He mumbles. “Bend at the knees—” His breath catches, the word leaving him as you do your version of whatever that is.

His grip tightens over yours, not correcting anymore, a helpless laugh tumbling out of him before he can stop it, his control slipping almost instantly as his head drops forward, pressing into the curve of your neck when you push back into his lap.

You giggle breathily, catching your error—catching the way he reacts too. And for a moment you pause, realizing exactly what’s happening, and how much he’s enjoying the lesson.

“Fuck, baby, just—“ He huffs out a breath. “Keep… Keep goin’,” the words barely pass his mouth, and you can hear the lusty smile on his lips.

You bite your lip, grinding your hips a little more for the fun of it; ass pressing against the thick bulge beneath his shorts.

His hands drop down to grip your thighs, drifting inward. You turn your cheek and your lips ghost over the top of his, his smile spreading across your mouth before he kisses you soft enough to make your lips and your whole body tingle.

He lets it happen longer than he should, long enough for it to sink in and feel good—too good. A cart of old women rolls by, heading back from the 18th hole, and he clears his throat, snapping himself out of it, forcing himself away from you, blinking a few times as he tries to reset and remember where the two of you are.

“Baby,” he says, shaking his head slowly, like he does not even know what to do with you anymore.

“I’m sorry,” you say quickly, the words tumbling out as you laugh, shaking your head while you reposition your hands. “I’m sorry, okay, let’s try again. I’ll be good, I promise.”

You line yourself back up with the ball like you mean it this time, adjusting your stance and squaring your shoulders. His hands hover over your hips. A quiet, defeated laugh slips past his lips because it hits him that there’s no version of this where he finishes the lesson. Not a single chance that he makes it through the front nine, let alone the back without taking that dress off you and getting you underneath him.

“Nah,” he decides, almost immediately.

Before you can react, his hand hooks around your waist, the other taking the club off your hands. He guides you back toward the cart with a smile on his lips.

“Rafe—”

“We’re not doin’ that,” he mutters under his breath, still half-laughing as you start to assure him that you’ve got this, but all he’s got is you on his mind. “We’re gettin’ outta here.”

“Why?” You ask, as if the answer isn’t written all over his face and strained against the zipper of his shorts as the two of you step into the golf cart again, not a single swing marked on the scorecard.

“So you can do that again.”

Max just smiles against her palm, pressing a lazy kiss into the center of it, utterly unbothered.

“A couple hundred? You got no clue, do you? You’re payin’ me back, Max.”

“Whatttt?” He chuckles, drawing out the word tipsily. “Probably wasn’t even that much—”

“Minor in consumption. One thousand dollars. Jacked it up to five to get it wiped off your record so you can play ball in the fall.”

“Damn… I mean, Kildare County’s finest is bendin’ over for five? That’s nothin’—”

“Nothing? Then take out your wallet. If five thousand isn’t a lot, let’s see it, kid. Hell, my pocket’s five K lighter—hand it over.”

Max lets out a short laugh, disbelieving, rolling his eyes. “I don’t just walk around with cash. Perks of bein’ old as fuck—SHIT!” Max yelps as Rafe slams on the brakes, sending the two of them jolting forward, your eldest getting clotheslined by the belt before thumping back against the seat with a thud.

“Enough,” Rafe’s warning breathes through the silence. Max buttons his lips, trying not to laugh, nodding his heavy head in compliance. “You’re thinkin’ about opening your mouth right now. Don’t fuckin’ do it. The only thing leavin’ your lips is a goddamn apology to your mother when we get home. You understand?”

Max nods again, exaggerated, shoulders shaking with laughter he’s biting back as he mimics zipping his lips shut.

“You called your mom?” Rafe asks, pressing down on the gas, glancing back through the rearview mirror.

Max gets smaller in his seat, letting his reaction speak for itself.

“WORDS,” Rafe barks.

“You told me to shut up,” Max howls. “I’m too drunk for this shit. What do you want from me, huh? You see? He’s acting unreasonable,” he pouts sarcastically to his girlfriend, who’s trying her best to check out of the situation to keep from laughing herself.

“Answer the damn question, Max.”

“I mean… yeah,” he mutters.

“In the middle of the night,” Rafe continues, eyes still forward, voice worn thin. “After she worked all week. After she had your friends at the house all spring break.”

Max drags a hand down his face, groaning tiredly. “I panicked,” he mumbles. “She’s… she’s nice to me.”

Rafe scoffs, sucking his teeth, letting his head fall back into the headrest in mental exhaustion. “Told you I was landin’ at midnight this afternoon—”

Max’s laugh cuts him off—like that’s when it clicks for him.

“I was busy,” he chuckles.

“Busy?” Rafe almost chokes on the word.

“Yeah, I wasn’t payin’ attention, alright? I was doing someone—SOMETHING,” he corrects himself, but his girlfriend’s face is already burning with embarrassment, Rafe’s blood boiling at your son’s response.

“Shut up, Max,” he breathes. “Just shut up.”

Rafe turns into the neighborhood as Max’s eyes sink lower, his heavy head resting against his girlfriend’s shoulder.

“Next time you screw up, you call me. Not her,” Rafe mutters bitterly, Max mumbling something that almost sounds like an apology.

“There’s still time,” he slurs from the back. Rafe doesn’t respond, just looks through the mirror, waiting for whatever dumb shit comes next. “McDonald’s is open for another two hours—”

“Oh, my god. Help me,” Rafe whispers, taking a sharp turn into the driveway before cutting the engine.

Rafe’s out of the car before Max can even lift his eyes, jaw still set, shoulders tight as he pops open the back.

Max, on the other hand, has no intention of getting out yet, still half-sprawled across the backseat, turned toward his girlfriend, his hand sliding up her neck, fingers catching in her hair as he leans in. “You’re—” He stops, laughing under his breath, shaking his head as he looks at her. “Like, do you know how hot you are? S’fuckin’ crazy. This is, like—”

“Out,” Rafe grunts.

The two stumble out a moment later, Max reaching for her again, but Rafe has other plans. His leather duffle bag hits Max square in the chest—knocking the air out of him, killing the moment. He lets out a short, offended scoff, slinging it over his shoulder.

“What the fuck,” Max chuckles, side-eyeing Rafe as he steps around him to grab his briefcase. “That felt targeted—”

“It was,” the words leave Rafe cold and final as Max rolls his eyes.

He glances back at his girlfriend, immediately reaching for her again, his hand finding hers. “Such a bitch when he’s mad, holy shit.”

Rafe’s hands come up in defeat. The solace waiting on the other side of the door is the only thing keeping him from boiling over. The pressure in his head throbs, tension wound tight through his shoulders.

He pinches his eyes shut, then looks back, blowing it out slow as the two of them follow behind, all six-foot-four of your son swaying with each step on the cobblestone.

“Tomorrow,” Rafe calls over his shoulder, “you’re cleaning out that fucking boat.”

Max groans immediately. “Oh my God,” he drags out, head tipping back. “No, I’m not. That’s biohazard-level shit. Here—” Max stuffs his hand in his back pocket, fishing out his wallet, thumbing through his cash. “How much is the cleaner, like twelve? Fifteen hundred?”

Rafe looks back at him, disgusted—that little jab about being “old” and carrying cash instead of cards still tasting sour.

“What?” Max chuckles teasingly.

“You’re unbelievable, kid. Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” Rafe spits as he tugs open the front door. “Your money doesn’t mean shit to me. You will work. You will sweat. Manual goddamn labor. Do you understand me?”

“Manual labor?” Max asks like the words are foreign. “Shit’s gonna take all day. I got obligations—”

“A thank you,” Rafe cuts in with a heavy sigh. “Thank you, I’m sorry, and yes sir is all I should hear leavin’ your lips right now for savin’ your ass.”

“You’re acting like that isn’t the first thing I said. Ain’t I supposed to shut up anyway?”

“I don’t know how you do it. Run,” Rafe mutters, glancing at Max’s girlfriend—and for the first time all night, it lands. Max scowls back at him.

“Thank you,” Max mutters, shuffling his feet along the marble floors. His girlfriend jabs him in the side, forcing an “I’m sorry” out of him as the three of them move into the kitchen.

“You need to apologize to your mother. You better hope she’s awake—” Rafe stops mid-threat.

On the counter sits a note.

It is placed right where he would see it the moment he walks in, next to a bottle of something expensive with a tumbler already set beside it.

He reaches for it, a smile already curling at his mouth when he sees the handwriting.

𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝓀𝒾𝒹𝓈 𝒶𝓇𝑒 𝑔𝑜𝓃𝑒, 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓉𝓌𝒾𝓃𝓈 𝒶𝓇𝑒 𝒶𝓈𝓁𝑒𝑒𝓅, 𝑔𝓇𝒶𝒷 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈, 𝓉𝑒𝓍𝓉 𝓂𝑒 𝒷𝑒𝒻𝑜𝓇𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒸𝑜𝓂𝑒 𝓊𝓅. 𝐼 𝓃𝑒𝑒𝒹 𝓎𝑜𝓊.

The tension does not break—it rolls out of his shoulders all at once, his head tipping back as that smile cracks clean through everything.

Max lets Rafe’s bag drop with a thump, gripping the banister of the staircase for balance as he looks back at his girlfriend, muttering about only taking a minute.

“Don’t,” Rafe says.

A groan leaves Max from somewhere deep in his chest as he braces for another lecture. “What, Dad? Oh my God—”

“Don’t go up there.” Rafe lets out a quiet chuckle under his breath as he folds the note in half and slips it into his pocket before grabbing the glass and the bottle, pouring himself a double as he heads in the same direction Max was going.

“You told me to apologize like five seconds ago—”

“Yeah,” Rafe cuts in easily, “and now I’m telling you to get lost.”

Max looks back at his dad, baffled and wasted. “What the fuck is happening?”

Rafe does not answer. The amber liquid catches the light as he lifts the glass to his lips and takes a slow sip.

“Did you talk to your mother?” Rafe asks. “Or did you just call her?”

“She didn’t answer.”

“Good,” Rafe hums, the liquor already warming his throat, the weight of the night lifting off his shoulders.

“Can I just apologize—”

“I’ll give you five hundred dollars,” Rafe interrupts, “if you make this easy and don’t ask me one more fuckin’ question.”

Max blinks at him. “You’re serious?”

Rafe lifts a finger to his lips, silencing him with a sharp, sarcastic look.

Max bites his cheek, holding it in for the moment.

“It’s killing you, I can tell,” Rafe adds, amused now. He reaches into his wallet, pulls out five hundred dollars, and flashes it between two fingers. “One of the many perks of bein’ an old fuckin’ man. The others are waitin’ upstairs, so if you’ll excuse me.”

Rafe does not slow as he moves up the steps, his stride noticeably lighter now. Max’s mouth opens as Rafe walks past him, heading up the stairs, tapping the cash against his chest on the way by to make his point clear.

“You should get some sleep,” Rafe adds, taking out his phone to let you know that he's on his way, the text sends, and the next few words leave his lips like an afterthought. “You’re still cleaning the boat tomorrow.”

“What the fuck,” Max mutters, shifting his focus to his girlfriend, looking for sympathy from anyone at all.

She shrugs and steps toward him as he mutters something under his breath that makes her roll her eyes while he reaches for her. Max, being Max, is already over it, trying to salvage what is left of the night.

“Hey,” Rafe calls down one last time.

Max freezes, his arm already wrapped around her waist, the other hand cupping the back of her neck, halfway to a kiss.

“Yeah?” He answers, distracted.

“She’s got the guest bed,” Rafe says, nodding toward Max’s girlfriend. “You’ve got the floor in the twins’ room.”

“No. Dad—”

“Good luck tonight, buddy,” Rafe continues. “You’ve got monsters under the bed, glasses of water at two a.m., and a wake-up call at five.”

“You serious?”

“And if you even think about knocking on our door before ten a.m.,” Rafe adds, almost friendly now, “I’ve got five cars, a bucket, and some soap waitin’ for you. Don’t fuckin’ test me. I missed you.”

The last two words land softer, more honest than anything else he has said all night. Max lifts his hand and flips him off from the bottom of the stairs.

“Love you too, buddy,” Rafe chuckles.

He takes the stairs two at a time out of habit, but by the time he reaches the landing, he slows, his hand dragging along the railing as the house finally quiets behind him. The noise from downstairs fades out, replaced by something softer.

Light music floats through the hallway like a whisper, pulling him the rest of the way without much thought. His phone buzzes once in his hand, the screen lighting up with the message he already knows is there.

The text—𝙷𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚢.

By the time he reaches your door, the music is clearer, warm light spilling faintly from underneath, cutting a soft line across the floor.

He slows, his shoulder angling toward the frame as he listens. He doesn’t go in right away. There’s movement on the other side, the soft scrape of something being dragged across the wood.

He exhales quietly through his nose as he lets himself settle into it. His mouth pulls at the corner, something restrained and knowing, because whatever you are doing in there, it’s for him.

He pushes the door open slowly. The room is still dark except for the light from the bathroom. He leans into the doorframe, shoulder braced against the hardwood, arms crossed over his chest as he watches you.

You’re already moving, beckoning him closer with a look, positioning the chair at the threshold. No hesitation in the way you move, no second-guessing what you want, like the fantasy’s already been playing out in your mind.

Your hands fall away from the chair once it’s set, and as you straighten, the robe slips from your shoulders, fluttering to the floor, knocking the breath out of his chest as you slip out of sight.

He walks across the bedroom. Music hums low, the sound of the shower cutting through it.

He rounds the corner as you test the water, pointing to the marble floor right in front of the glass shower door.

A quiet chuckle slips out of him under his breath as he reaches for the chair and drags it forward by the back two legs, scraping softly against the floor. His focus doesn’t shift once—unwavering as he watches every move you make behind the glass.

He positions the chair where you told him to, adjusting it until it feels right—lined up the way he wants it, before he sits. He leans back into it, one arm draped loosely over the backrest as he settles, already halfway gone just looking at you.

He takes a slow sip of the brown liquor, letting it sit on his tongue for a breath before swallowing. The bottle rests on the floor as his hand comes up to his tie, loosening it without looking, pulling it open just enough to breathe easier.

He leans back further, legs spreading, head tipping just enough to get comfortable.

The water hits your body, running down in little rivers as he takes another drink, soaking in the moment that you built just for him.

He threads the silk the rest of the way open—tie laying loose against his chest—his fingers moving to the top button of his shirt first, popping it open, then the next. Each one undone with the same steady pace.

“Look at you, huh?” He asks through a proud smirk. “All this for me?”

Your eyes fall, catching the glint of gold at his throat, your initials resting against his skin, dewy from the heat of the room, sitting right where they belong.

His shirt opens further, exposing more of him. He shrugs it off his shoulders, his tanned skin on display; black slacks fitted to perfection still slung around his hips, black loafers tapping ever slightly to the sound of the music playing overhead.

He tips his chin toward the soap, subtle, like he doesn’t need to say anything for you to understand exactly what he needs.

You reach for it, fingers wrapping around the bottle as he pours himself a little more, the sound of the liquor hitting the glass soft under the music.

The soap hits your palm, pooling in your hand, the sight of it enough for his hand to drop to his belt, big fingers working it loose.

You work the soap between your hands slowly, letting it build before you bring it to your skin. Your hands move over your arms, your shoulders, slower than it needs to be.

You trace your collarbones before drifting inward, circling your tits before you squeeze. “You’re unbelievable,” he mutters under his breath. His eyes fall with your hands as they move down your waist, circling your hips.

A smile breaks across his mouth, tongue gliding along his bottom lip as he watches the suds rinse away, that steady beat he’d been keeping with his foot, now moving faster than the tempo as anticipation builds.

He lets out a low whistle when his finger comes up, twirling it just enough to let you know he wants the picture of you from the back. The look on his face is smug and hungry when you do just that—a look in his eye letting you know that he’s getting off on the power too. The idea that no one else gets this version of you—no one has it as good as him.

Your back arches, water sliding down your spine.

You look over your shoulder, watching as he sets his tumbler down, glass hitting the marble with a clink.

He leans forward slightly in the chair, his elbows resting on his knees as he watches you, gaze dropping briefly before lifting again, heavier now.

You turn around and step closer, closing the distance between you and the glass, your hands coming up to rest flat against it, body following until you’re pressed into the cool surface.

He looks at you again—then lets out a breathless, lust-laced laugh, his head dropping between his shoulders. Shivers run down your spine, nipples tightening against the cool glass.

You hold his gaze as your fingers spread against the glass. He lifts his hand and taps once against the glass. “Jesus, baby…” He mutters, his voice deep and rough. “I fuckin’ missed you.”

You let out a soft laugh, seeing just how undone he is, the heat of your breath catching against the glass, fogging where it hits.

You drag your fingertip through the fog, slow and deliberate, curving it into his initials. “You’re killing me,” he groans like something so simple did more damage than anything else you’ve done so far, his hands tightening like he’s holding himself back from breaking—wondering how much longer he can just sit there and watch.

You turn around again, ass sliding along the glass as you look into his eyes, giving him a shameless glimpse of your pussy. He lets out a quiet, disbelieving huff of a laugh, shaking his head once.

“That’s not—” He sighs, cutting himself off, dragging his hand down over his face before he looks back at you, harder now. “That’s not fair. I’m being so good for you.” His voice dips. “Don’t make me come in there.”

You smile, and he does too like that’s a threat you’d cash in on in a heartbeat, your body physically aching for contact—for his lips on yours.

Your hands move again, raking up your ass as you walk away, and he swears under his breath, the steam thickening between you.

“I can’t sit here and watch you like this,” he breathes. “I need you. You hear me? I need you.”

You hold his gaze as his hand comes up flat against the glass.

“I hate leaving you,” he adds, deep and needy. “Doesn’t feel right when I’m not here.”

You step a little closer to the glass, lip tucked between your teeth, water rolling down your curves. Your fingers curl around the glass shower handle, and that’s more than enough for him, the man rising to his feet, kicking off his dress shoes, shoving his slacks down his thighs in one motion.

“You’re mine,” he says, steady and certain, his forehead almost brushing the glass now as he waits.

You look down at him, cock stretching the material of his briefs, chest rising and falling fast, and you know he’s done waiting. You crack the door and his hands curl around the band of his boxers, heat spilling into the bathroom, hitting him all at once.

He steps in, closing the distance between the two of you, consuming you completely—his big body tangling with yours, cupping your cheeks in his rough hands, kissing you hard and deep as the water rushes between you.

His bare skin presses against you—warm and firm—his stiff cock nestled between your thighs as his tongue slides between your lips, your mind going hazy with it.

“There’s my girl,” he murmurs, his hands following the water lower, landing on your hips.

“I missed you,” you breathe between kisses and he smiles against your lips.

“Yeah?” He asks. “You got no idea how much I missed you.”

Rafe turns you around, pulling you back into his chest, his mouth already finding your neck, your shoulder, the space just under your ear, making your knees weak.

“Let me have this, yeah?” He asks as he takes his cock in his fist, tracing your folds like you wouldn’t have begged for it anyway if he made you wait.

You arch your back, giving him the perfect angle to trace your pussy, lips falling open as the thick head of his cock presses at your entrance, teasing you before pushing himself in fully.

Your moans fill the shower, bouncing off the walls as his long, thick dick stretches you wide—filling you to the brim. He squeezes your hips in his hands; his body flush against yours, pinning your body to his.

He exhales against your skin, warm and heavy, feeling the weight of you in his arms. “Fuck,” he murmurs. “How do you—” He cuts himself off, burying himself in your neck like he doesn’t even have the words for it. “How do you always feel this good?”

“Fuck, Rafe,” you sigh, like you finally got your fix, head falling back to rest against him. “I needed this—I needed you.”

He groans as he tips you forward a little, drawing back his hips, rolling them forward again, stroking deep. “You got me all fucked up,” he mutters, wet skin clapping against yours. “Couldn’t even sit out there for five fuckin’ minutes without losin’ it—”

The squeal that leaves your lips cuts him off, eyes rolling back at the sound as your pleasure courses through you.

“That’s it, huh?” He asks, a wicked smile pulling at his mouth as his hips snap a little harder.

“I’m close,” you manage, your voice catching on the way out, barely steady.

“Yeah,” he breathes immediately, low and rough against your ear. “Me too.” The words break past his lip, his control thinning down to nothing now. “You feel too good.”

He reaches his hand down, wrapping an arm around your chest, the other sliding around your hip, making you gasp when his big fingers press and circle your clit, the arm across your chest moving higher—binding around your neck as he fucks up into you, the pressure around your throat making you see stars.

Your head turns to the side, finding his mouth, and he’s right there for it, swallowing his name as it whimpers out of your lips.

“C’mon,” he mumbles into it. “Give it to me.”

Your body gives, finally, the tension snapping all at once, your breath breaking as you let go, and he’s right there with you, his grip tightening, his head tucking close as he floods you with his release.

He holds you through it, his arms softening just enough for you to breathe fully, pulling out with a heavy sigh, not giving you enough space for you to get away—but you wouldn’t imagine it. He just keeps you there, breathing against your skin as you do the same.

He hums along with the music playing overhead, barely heard under his breath as he rocks with you ever so slightly, the sound of his voice vibrating against your skin.

“We’re sleepin’ in tomorrow,” he murmurs, his voice low and close.

You let out a breathless laugh, feeling his smile spread along your own because you don’t believe him—that’s wishful thinking. “Are we?”

He hums out a yes. “Max said he’s got ’em in the morning,” he adds.

“Our Max?” The words leave your lips like the punchline to his joke, whispered against his lips.

A quiet chuckle slips out of him, his hands sliding down your body, taking hold of your hips. “Kid’s got a girlfriend. He’ll survive breakfast.”

He pulls back just enough that his eyes find yours—smiling like it’s his favorite thing in the world.

“So…” You start, his eyes falling to your lips.

“So,” he echoes.

“Guess we’re not in a rush then.”

He tilts in, pulling you to him like a magnet, kissing you tender and soft. “Does it look like I have any plans to rush tonight, baby?” He murmurs as he turns you toward his chest.

“No,” you whisper, reaching up to wrap around the back of his neck, guiding him back in again.

“I don’t.”

He keeps your hand and lifts it, guiding you into a slow turn under his finger, his eyes moving over you, taking in the outfit you put on for him.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, softer now. “That’s my girl.”

You tug him further into the house, a breathy laugh slipping out of you when he follows without hesitation, letting you lead him like he wasn’t already planning to.

The door shuts behind him with a quiet click. His hands settle at your waist, pulling you closer. His nose brushes along your neck, lips ghosting against you, kissing wherever they land with a soft press.

“Fuck me… that the perfume I got you, sweetheart?” He asks, his voice vibrating against your skin as he breathes it in.

You tilt your head back with a smile, giving him more access, a soft confirmation slipping from your lips.

“Knew it,” he hums, pleased with himself.

Your sundress shifts as you press your chest to his, skimming higher on the back of your thighs. He smiles into your skin as he takes advantage of it—his rough hands sliding to grip your ass, lifting you off your feet. You let out a surprised laugh, arms coming up around his shoulders, guiding him closer.

“Miss me?” He murmurs against your neck, not waiting for an answer.

“Maybe,” you tease, breath catching when he bites down lightly.

“Yeah?” He huffs, amused, tightening his grip just enough. “Couldn’t tell.”

“Did you have fun?” You ask, moving close enough that your mouth brushes his when you speak.

“Sure,” he answers with the dry wit of a man who would rather be where he is right now. Then he’s right back on you, his mouth dragging from your lips to your jaw, down to your neck.

“Rafe,” you giggle softly, fingers sliding into his hair, tugging just enough that he groans for more.

“I did,” he adds, quieter, his voice already a little breathless. “Until you told me to come over… didn’t wanna be anywhere else.”

“Sorry, baby.”

“Sure,” he echoes with the same bite. “Started playin’ like shit,” he mutters, the words half lost against your lips. “Couldn’t focus. Kept thinkin’ about you.”

“I should’ve waited.”

“Stop,” he chuckles, like that’s even an option. “Still beat ’em.”

“Of course you did.”

“Stop feedin’ my ego,” he mutters. “Got you in my arms… don’t need help.”

“Please,” you breathe, cheeks burning from the compliment, smiling as Rafe’s lips drag along your neck, sucking at the soft skin, his teeth sinking in with that playful possessiveness you love.

“Made some cash,” he adds. “Gonna take you out later.”

“Yeah?”

“That place you like. Drinks, dinner… we’ll get that dessert you like.” His mouth drags back up your throat. “Do this again after.”

Your back hits the bed with a bounce, and he follows you down a second later, settling onto his knees.

Your fingers drift to the hem of your dress, lifting it slowly, a quiet laugh slipping out of him when you do something he likes.

“Atta girl,” he mutters under his breath.

His hat is gone the next second, flicked off without a thought, his shirt following right after—pulled over his head and tossed aside.

He runs his hands through his hair, pushing it back, and you don’t even try to hide the way you’re looking at him.

“You’re staring,” he points out, a little amused, like he wants you to.

Your hands slide over his chest slowly, feeling the heat of his skin, the way his muscles flex under your touch.

“Can you blame me?” You murmur.

The sound of his belt loosening cuts in, and he lets out a quiet breath, snapping it through the loops. His hands come down to your thighs, warm and steady as he presses them into the bed, pinning you beneath him.

“Look at you,” he says as his thumb drags along the crease between your skin and your panties.

He leans over you without breaking eye contact, one hand braced beside your head as he dips down, catching your lips again.

“All dressed up for me…” He murmurs quietly.

You let out a soft sigh against his mouth, your hands coming up to his shoulders, feeling the tension there.

His mouth drags lower, from your neck down to your chest, before he lifts the lace cups of your bra just enough to knead your flesh, his mouth sucking down on the other while his body grinds into the mattress, keeping pace with each swirl of his tongue.

He releases your nipple with a pop, kissing down your stomach, his breathing hot against your skin, heat building with each touch.

Your fingers slide into his hair, raking through his bangs, guiding him lower until his mouth reaches your hip. He pauses there, lips brushing, goosebumps spreading across your skin.

His grip firms, thumbs pressing into your skin as he leans in closer, his breath warm where it hits, his gaze still locked on yours.

“Rafe, please.”

“Yeah… yeah,” he murmurs teasingly, his voice rougher now. “Fuckin’ desperate, huh? I can tell.”

His hands adjust on you, keeping you right where he wants you as he leans in again, slower this time, more deliberate.

“Easy… Stay put,” he mutters, low and steady, thumbing over your clothed clit, making your hips buck, your lip caught between your teeth as you try to stay still. “You don’t think I know what my girl wants?”

His hand leaves your thigh for a second, sliding up your body, big and warm as it catches the fabric of your dress and pushes it higher.

“Show off, baby. C’mon now,” he murmurs like he’s starving for it, watching from between your thighs as you lift your bra completely. “So fucking beautiful. Oh my god,” he moans against you, making your back arch.

His tongue retraces the same path, gliding up your inner thigh along the lace, licking just beneath it before he catches the fabric between his teeth, tugging your panties to the side.

You shiver as your wetness hits the breeze of the ceiling fan above, your thighs drawing in, squeezing his broad shoulders between them. Looking up into his blue eyes, you spread your legs—Rafe kissing your clit like a thank you, groaning into you before he drags a line up your slit.

“Fuckin’ soaked,” he murmurs, more to himself than you. “Didn’t even make me work for it.”

His arms slide under your thighs, biceps flexing as he pulls you closer, diving in. Your fingers tug at his hair again, your other hand twisting in the sheets, gasping as his finger presses into your entrance, your body tightening around it as it curls and thrusts.

He leans into it, his mouth just far enough away that you’re left reaching and trembling—too much pleasure building to move, to let it fade. His chuckle is low, close enough to make your head spin.

“Yeah?” He huffs.

Your head falls back as it keeps building, so close to the edge you can feel yourself about to break.

“Eyes on me, baby. C’mon,” he murmurs against your sex.

You lift your head again, eyes locked, lips parted. “Fuck, Rafe. I’m gonna cum.”

“That so?” He asks.

You nod immediately, heavy-eyed as you fight to keep them open. “Yes. Yes—” Your body jolts at the loss, a sharp breath punching out of your chest as your hips stutter.

“Yes. Yes. Oh fuck, Rafe,” he mocks, mimicking your breathless tone—just nasal enough to make it sting, his eyes rolling away in annoyance.

“Baby?” You breathe, half disbelief, half frustration hitting all at once. “What—what the hell? Fuck!” The word breaks from your lips as his hand comes down sharp, slapping your pussy, making your eyes well with tears from the shock alone.

His head tilts as he looks back at you, pouting his lip to match yours.

“What’s wrong?” Your voice comes out pathetically small.

“Wrong?” He asks, like the word doesn’t make sense to him. “Nothing’s wrong.” His eyes drop to where his hand is, watching the way you react—how you still follow his touch.

“What,” he adds, crueler now. “You were countin’ on something?” Your stomach twists at the tone, the pleasure that had been building, gone now. “Or someone?”

“I—yeah?”

He hums, playing with you shamelessly, fingers slipping through the wet mess he made.

“U n r e l i a b l e…” He breathes, like he’s thinking out loud more than talking to you, drawing every letter of the word over your clit with his rough finger.

“I don’t know what—what’s going on?” Your words clip off in a gasp as he thrusts his digits in and out, in and out, then stopping—leaving you rocking your pussy into his palm, chasing something he still isn’t giving you.

“Y’know what pissed me off the most?” He asks, his eyes dragging over you slowly, his fingers still moving like he’s still deciding your fate. “It’s not even that you said it… it’s that somebody out there might’ve believed you.”

“Believe what?” You whisper.

His hand slows again—not stopping, just playing, keeping you waiting—just enough to pull you back before you can settle into the feeling of it.

“You tell me,” he says, glancing up at you like the issue’s obvious. But it’s not.

He lets out a low, sharp laugh under his breath, shaking his head in frustration. “You even know what ‘no’ means?” He asks.

You blink up at him, confused, your brows pulling together as your lips part to answer, but nothing really comes out.

He watches that happen in real time, something in his expression shifting when you don’t have an answer.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Didn’t think so.”

“Just tell me, Rafe…”

He exhales through his nose, leaning in closer.

“You know how embarrassing that was today?” He says, quieter this time, like he’s replaying it in his head. “My boys saw that TikTok shit and thought I don’t take care of my girl.”

He looks you over as he says it, slow and pointed, like he’s making sure you feel the ridiculousness of those words.

“Me?” He adds, a disbelieving edge slipping in. “You fuckin’ kidding me?”

“Rafe, I can explain—”

“I mean, look at you, huh?” He murmurs, lifting his fingers, sucking off the wet. “You’re a mess.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” you say breathlessly, still a little unsure. He just scoffs, muttering your words under his breath. “I was just trying to be funny,” you whimper, soft and a little desperate.

“Funny,” he repeats, his hand resting on the bed beside your head as he lowers himself closer.

“It was silly,” you whisper.

“Tryin’ to be relatable, huh?” He asks, his thumb pressing against your clit, rolling slow. Your brows pull together as he keeps you right on the edge. “Had people lookin’ at you different today,” he mutters. “That’s not how this works with me.”

“I know, baby. I—”

“You really thought I was gonna laugh that shit off?” He laughs, dark and demeaning. “C’mon, baby. You know me better than that… I don’t do halfway,” he mutters. “Not with you. Never have.”

Your eyes roll back in your head, the pressure building between your thighs, your heart racing in your chest.

“I don’t want any girl lookin’ at you,” he says, quieter now, “and thinkin’ they’ve got a man who takes care of them like I take care of you. I don’t want them to think you’re relatin’ to that bullshit, understand?” He asks, slowing his hand just enough to keep you right there—a fat tear rolling warm and heavy down your cheek, landing on your silk pillow.

“You mean so much more to me than that,” you whimper.

“Yeah?” He asks, dipping in to kiss your lips. “Sayin’ you couldn’t rely on me… like I’m not gonna have you like this ten minutes after I walk through the fuckin’ door if I wanted to. Lucky for you I still do—”

“Please,” you whimper as your thighs shake uncontrollably.

He leans in closer, his forehead brushing yours for a second, his tone steady when he speaks again. “Delete that,” he says quietly. “Then we’ll talk.”

“Oh—okay, of course,” the words stutter out of you in a rush, breathless and weak, your hand patting blindly against the bed until you find your phone, fingers fumbling as you lift it between you.

The device trembles in your hand, hitting every button but TikTok, struggling to get from your fyp to your main page. A sharp huff of a laugh leaves him as his eyes drop to your hand, then back to your eyes, something dark and amused flickering there.

“Fuck, baby,” he murmurs, watching you struggle with a simple task. “Who’s got you shakin’ like that, huh?”

“It’s gone,” you say quickly, completely breathless, almost dropping it as you flip it around to show him. “See? I deleted it.”

He takes the phone from your hand, glances at it for half a second, then drops it back onto the mattress, his attention already back on you.

“No more bullshit. You understand me?”

“I’m sorry, baby,” you whisper, nodding immediately as your vision goes hazy, blinking the tears from your eyes as you look up at him.

“Don’t do that shit again.”

“I won’t,” you say quickly. “I promise.”

“You’re a fucking brat sometimes,” he mutters, the tempo of his hand speeding up as your orgasm comes within reach. “My brat.”

“You’re so good to me… I’m sorry.”

His thumb brushes your jaw, tilting your face back toward him. “Better,” he says, almost amused. “See? You learn fast.”

Your eyes pinch shut, your back arching off the mattress, hands wrapping around his body, digging into the broad planes of his back as your body releases.

Your pussy flutters around his fingers as he pounds his hand into you, palm slapping against your clit again and again, until you’re pushing him away from the overstimulation—but he’s having none of that, lowering himself between your thighs to work you with his tongue as well.

He circles your clit, groaning against your heat with each breath of praise that slips from your lips.

“You’re gonna make it up to me,” he breathes against your pussy, spreading your lips apart, your panties stretched at the seams from being yanked. “I’m gonna take care of you like I always fucking do. You’re gonna be screaming my name over and over… I promise you that. You can see how reliable I am then.”

“You always take care of me,” you whisper, pulling down your panties, tearing your dress over your head. He shoves his pants down his thighs, quickly pressing your thigh to your chest, tapping his tip against your pussy.

He traces lower, lips parting when he feels you start to stretch around him.

“C’mon, baby… remind me. Who takes care of you.”

“Rafe Cameron,” his name falls from your lips in a moan, his lips swallowing the sound as he presses his body tight to yours.

“Always me.”

dividers @pixopix

“I’m fine, Rafe,” you stop him before he can start. “How are you, baby? How was your day?”

He doesn’t answer, just walks toward you. Your hands dive back into the sink, scrubbing the next dish harder, faster in a feeble attempt to appear busy.

He wraps his arms around your body from behind, his large hands settling over yours before gently guiding you to set the dish back down in the sink.

One by one he pulls the rubber gloves off your hands. Your arms fall around your waist as he hugs you tightly from behind, tucking his face into the crook of your neck.

“Slow down, baby. You’re alright,” he murmurs softly against your neck, pressing a slow kiss there.

“Mom!” Winnie shouts suddenly from the top of the staircase. “When’s the pizza getting here?”

You open your mouth to answer, but Rafe beats you to it. “Soon,” he calls, vague enough for her to nod and walk away—vague enough that you could get away without admitting you forgot, but the way your shoulders fall in defeat after you hear her question tells Rafe everything he needs to know.

He hugs you closer still, nuzzling his face in your neck again, breathing deep. “Bad day, baby?” He mumbles.

“Work was… this. Just everything.” You gesture to the house as Rory and Poppy run across the wet, sandy mess Max left behind, slipping and falling to their bums, giggling it off before starting up again.

“I get it, baby, I’m sorry,” he soothes.

Your cheek melts against him as his arms tighten around you.

“I’m gonna get Max and those shitheads to clean up this mess, dishes too—the twins and I will go get the pizzas, and you… You go do whatever’s gonna make you feel good for the meantime, alright?”

“Rafe, I—”

“Yes, sir,” he chuckles softly as he kisses your cheek playfully. “That’s the only thing you should be sayin’ to me, pretty. No excuses.”

“Yes, sir,” you breathe, a small laugh slipping out of you despite the tears. “Really… I’m okay,” you whisper.

“You had a bad day,” he says gently, turning you into his chest. “This is the least I can do, baby—let me do it.”

You nod as he cups your cheeks, tilting down to press a lingering kiss against your forehead.

“Boat’s outta gas,” you sigh, trying not to laugh but Rafe’s already scoffing like he expected no less—like he’s tired but he wouldn’t change a thing.

“Of course it is. Story of our fuckin’ life, huh?”

“Mhmm…”

“You got plans for tomorrow?” He whispers as he pulls you close, letting his forehead rest against yours.

“Nothing,” you smile, your voice still trembling a little.

“Perfect,” he hums. “Gonna fill up that goddamn boat… Get you your favorite meal—some drinks. And we can just sit. Silence. Sunset. You and me.”

“I’d love that,” you sigh.

“Mmm… I love you, baby,” he hums, leaning down to meet your lips again.

“I love you too.”

🪻new tag list on my pinned post 💜 @rafesthroatbaby @hockeygirlyyyy @karlydiary @drewstarkeyswife-7 @ornellastreet @cokewithcameron @loserboysandlithium @buckybarnessweetheart @torturedpoetism @slut-4-rafey @americanboz0 @taliescapes @rcameronlova1 @slxttfadustin @cdiaz18 @tangledinmyfeelings @harrrrystylesslut @rafecamlovr @st8rkey @obsessedwrafe @my-name-is-baby @dollforafe @fiercetigerpoison @seulbeomie @pillowprincess4him @moondustbaby @celestialreid @premiumshitt @gigislover08 @lilithblackkk @babygoddam @harringtonsbowgirl @yesimeasyy @angelicameron @ashleyytatum @stace-041193 @rafesbabygirlx @lhhlver @raf3cam3r0n @rafesbuzzcutseason @jscasmth @bunnyx2 @virgilsgurl @diasnohibng @ariieeesworld @ilovehughbiggs @wisewarriorlycanthrope @willowpains @esmerai-artemis @simp4f1 @ijustwanttoreadlols

"what the fuck." you mumbled to yourself, thumbs slipping under the cloth of the newly bought panties you're now wearing. most of your ass were practically out, the panties doing anything, but actually covering you as you turn your back towards the mirror to look at yourself. "did it shrink on the way home or what?" you question, a frown etching on your face when you move your hands down to cup the leftovers of your ass.

"now, what do we have here?" rafe whistled, walking out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist as he look at you with a knowing look on his face. instead of going along with his teasing, you ended up getting annoyed, the day getting worse by the second for you. "i think they got the wrong measurements for my size or something, i don't know!" you huffed angrily, a pout tugging on your lips as you look over towards him.

he held his hands out in defense, surprised by your sudden outburst as he walk over towards you. "i'm sure that this is solvable." he muttered, a hand cupping the back of your head pulling you against him, making you bury your face into his bare chest with his free hand going to wrap you up in a hug as he comforts you.

"let me see," he removes the hand on the back of your head as he reaches out for the untouched panties sitting on the vanity chair that are in the same set as the one you're wearing. he chuckled to himself when he sees the tagging on them, and you remove yourself so fast from his hold, offended. "why are you laughing?" you pushes at his chest although he doesn't budge, making you even more pissed than you already are.

"baby, you got the wrong size. it's a size smaller than you normally wear," he was laughing now, showing you the tags as he shook his head when you practically ripped them away from his hands. "but i took them from the rack—" you cut yourself off, letting out a breath of annoyance as you threw them back on the vanity chair.

rafe was still laughing, amused by the way you're actually pissed over a small mistake. he thought that you actually look cute this way—all grumpy and pouty—and it only made his smile bigger than it already is. he reaches out for you then, a hand cupping your cheek as the other went down to your arm to soothe the skin there in a way to calm you down. "take a deep breath for me, baby." he demonstrate, urging you to follow him as you do what he says.

"it's not that serious, yeah? you didn't do anything wrong," he assures you, thumb moving against your cheek making your eyes flutter shut at the feeling. "but i had a long day running errands, and i thought that i did something useful by actually getting everything done on my list in a day just for this to happen." you were rambling now, telling him the thing that's actually stressing you out. he didn't say anything then, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear as he listens.

and when you were finally done, you let out a sigh of relief, feeling like a weight has been lifted from your chest after telling him everything that's been bothering you the whole day. "you did something useful today, you always do. it's just an honest mistake, okay? it's not your fault they weren't doing their job right," he cooed, tilting his head to the side to look at you better.

you huffed again, "now i feel bad because we're blaming them for my mistake." as you bury your face back into his bare chest, arms snacking around him to pull him closer. he lets out a soft laugh at that, shaking his head at your antiques before making eye contact with the mirror that's facing the two of you—specifically your ass that's practically out—an idea coming up to his mind.

"well," he drags the word out as his hands that were wrapped around you are now moving down to cup your uncovered skin. "i don't actually mind seeing you like this every once in a while." he said it almost too proudly, the smirk on his face telling you more than words can explain as you pushes him away, again. he faked hurt then, a hand coming up to his chest after you had harshly pushed him away although it did nothing to him.

"seriously, rafe?" you call out, a smile threatening to tug on your lips as you look away from him, crossing your arms against your chest, "you're a freak." but it only made him smile wider, pulling you back in with both his hands on your waist.

he nudges his nose with yours, "yeah, but i'm your freak." before leaning in to kiss you, hands not staying long on your waist as they make their way down to cup your exposed ass.