#sombr

A few months earlier, last week of summer...

Rafe Cameron’s NYC apartment was exactly what you imagined a Cameron apartment would be—sleek, expensive, sterile. The kind of place that screamed money but whispered nothing about home. Marble countertops too polished to touch. Leather furniture that looked better in magazines than beneath bodies. Enough pieces to fill a showroom, not enough to fill a life.

Rafe hated it. He hated how quiet it was when he came back at night, hated how cold the air felt no matter how high he turned the heat. Tannyhill hadn’t felt like home since his mother died, too, but at least it had memories. This place had nothing.

Until you.

The second you stepped through the door—backpack slung over your shoulder, hair falling into your face, smile breaking wide when you looked around—something shifted.

“Holy shit,” you breathed, spinning slowly in the entryway while Rafe carried your suitcase down the hall. “This is—this is unreal.”

Your voice was alive in the apartment in a way his never was. You touched the counters, the shelves, the back of the bar stools as if you could pull warmth from them.

By the time he set your bags in the guest room and came back out, you were already at the floor-to-ceiling windows, palms pressed to the glass, drinking in the skyline.

“Oh my God, Rafe, this view.” You laughed, almost breathless. “Do you even know how insane this is? I’m gonna be in a shoebox dorm with a window that faces another dorm. And you—you’re out here living in the clouds.”

You pushed the window open a crack and leaned out, the summer air tugging at your hair. “It’s not fair.”

Rafe leaned against the wall, arms folded, watching you with a smirk tugging at his mouth. “The whole city smells like piss. You know I’m miserable here.”

You glanced back at him, eyebrows lifting. “Miserable? With this?” You gestured out to the skyline, lights bleeding into the dusky sky, horns echoing off the buildings. “Please. You have no idea how lucky you are.”

“Luck doesn’t mean much when you’re alone.” His tone was lighter than the weight of the words, but something in your expression flickered—like you saw straight through him, like you always did.

You shook it off with a laugh and turned back to the window. “You just don’t have taste, Cameron. That’s the problem. You need me to decorate this place.”

“Oh yeah?” He sauntered closer, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket as he dropped onto the edge of the windowsill beside you. “Like what? Throw pillows?”

“Not just pillows.” You tapped your chin, mock-serious. “Plants. Art. A rug that doesn’t look like you ordered it off a law firm catalog.”

He chuckled, flicking the box open. “You’re saying you’d fix it up?”

You grinned. “Obviously. First thing I’d do is hide that tacky ashtray.”

He slipped a cigarette between his lips, brows arching at you. “Tacky?”

Before he could light it, you were already rolling your eyes and plucking it from his mouth.

Rafe nearly groaned. The brush of your fingers against his lips, the sharp look you gave him—it made his pulse kick hard in his throat.

“You know I hate when you smoke,” you scolded, sliding the cigarette between your own lips with a grin.

Rafe’s jaw went tight, eyes fixed on your mouth as you exaggerated the motion, glossy lips wrapped around the filter.

Your voice dipped into a mocking drawl. “I’m Rafe Cameron. I’m so mysterious, so tortured, nobody understands me. Look at me smoking a cigarette because I have my own place in New York.”

You pretended to suck on it, cheeks hollowing slightly, and Rafe’s knuckles dug into the sill to keep from reaching for you.

When you tilted your head and blew out an invisible cloud of smoke, eyes glittering with mischief, Rafe thought he might actually lose it.

“Hot, right?” you teased.

He stared at you, every nerve in his body sparking, fighting not to look down at your lips again. Fighting not to think about the fact that he knew exactly how they tasted.

“You’re so hilarious,” he muttered, voice rougher than he meant it to be.

Rafe reached over, plucking the cigarette from between your lips with two fingers. For a second, he didn’t even look at you—his eyes lingered on the faint gloss-stain around the filter, that slick shimmer that was so you. His throat tightened, and before he could stop himself, he pressed it back against his own mouth.

He flicked the lighter, flame catching. His eyes flicked up at you through the small haze of smoke, unreadable, but something dark and unsaid sat behind them.

The bitter taste of tobacco mixed with the faint sweetness of your gloss. It was intoxicating in a way no hit ever could be.

“Classy,” you muttered, rolling your eyes as you pushed yourself off the sill. “Stealing my cigarette.”

“You stole it first,” he shot back, smoke curling from his lips.

“Yeah, but it looks better on me.” You tossed him a grin over your shoulder before crossing the room.

He leaned back, head against the wall, dragging in another slow inhale. It burned down his chest, but he barely felt it—your gloss clung to the paper, made every drag taste like you, and it was killing him.

But he wouldn’t say it. He couldn’t.

He wasn’t your boyfriend. Hell, maybe he never counted as one in the first place. Middle school “dating” didn’t hold weight in the real world. At least, that’s what he told himself. He had no idea if you even thought of him as an ex.

He exhaled smoke toward the ceiling, watching you drift across the apartment.

You had already forgotten about him, busy snooping through his shelves, running your fingers along the spines of his books, tugging open drawers without hesitation. You bent low to peer at the record player, hair spilling forward.

Rafe’s gaze slipped lower—couldn’t help it, wouldn’t help it.

Your low-waisted jeans clung to your hips, and when you bent forward, the lace of your panties peeked out, delicate against your skin. His stomach clenched, smoke stuttering in his throat.

He forced his eyes away, jaw tightening, but his mind was already painting pictures he had no right to imagine.

Because you weren’t his.

Maybe you never were.

But he was yours.

Always.

You flipped through the stack of vinyls, groaning loudly.

“Seriously, Rafe? It’s all rock. Like—just dudes screaming and shredding guitars.”

“That’s music,” he shot back from his spot on the windowsill, smoke curling past his lips.

“Shit, do you have anything else— Ah, Fleetwood Mac! They don't scream, right?” You slid the record free, holding it up like a prize. “This I can work with.”

He smirked. “Still rock, though.”

“Barely,” you said, rolling your eyes, but when the first soft chords of Dreams spilled from the record player, your lips curved into a smile. You swayed a little, humming along, while Rafe sat there with his cigarette and let the image brand itself into him.

You didn’t stay in one place long. Within minutes, you were moving into the kitchen, opening cabinets and tugging at sleek handles until you found the stash. “Bingo,” you said, holding up a bottle of tequila. “Pregame before we hit the streets?”

He stubbed out the cigarette and pushed off the wall, wandering closer. “Hit the streets? What are you? Fifteen?”

“Shut up,” you laughed, uncapping the bottle. “I’ve got a whole itinerary. Central Park. Times Square. A hot dog from a sketchy street vendor because that’s, like, required.” You poured two shots with all the confidence of a bartender. “Oh, and the Met. I want to pretend I’m Blair Waldorf for at least five minutes.”

Rafe leaned against the counter, watching you with a half-smile tugging at his lips. You didn’t notice—not with the way you were rambling, eyes shining, your hands flying as you talked.

And he just stood there, silent, soaking it in.

Because he could imagine it so easily. You in his kitchen, barefoot, wearing one of his t-shirts, talking his ear off while he leaned on the counter like this every morning. Listening to you complain about his music taste, about his cigarette habit, about everything—and not wanting you to stop.

He wanted to say something. Anything. But instead, he picked up the glass you slid his way and knocked it back in one swallow.

The tequila burned, but it was nothing compared to the way you burned him just by existing in his apartment.

The tequila didn’t take long to work. By the third round, your laughter was too loud for the sterile apartment walls, your cheeks flushed, and your words spilling without filter.

“God, you’re such a lightweight,” you teased, nudging his shoulder with yours as you poured another shot.

Rafe scoffed, but his grin gave him away. “Lightweight? I’ve been carrying your ass through every party since freshman year.”

You clinked your glass against his. “And you’ll keep doing it,” you said before throwing it back.

It hit him harder than the alcohol—the way you said it, like you knew he’d always be there. Like he’d never stopped.

Music still played from the record player, Stevie Nicks humming soft in the background. You spun on your heel, hair flying, pointing at him with mock authority. “Dance with me.”

He blinked. “I don’t dance.”

“You won’t turn gay if you sway your hips a little, c'mon,” you countered, grabbing his wrist.

He let you drag him into the open space near the windows, where the city skyline bled through the glass behind you. You started moving, swaying your hips, raising your arms like you didn’t care who was watching. Rafe stood there stiff for a moment, until you laughed and shoved at his chest.

“Loosen up, Cameron. Jesus.”

“Yeah? Show me how then,” he murmured, stepping closer.

And you did. You guided his hands to your waist, smirking when his breath caught. Your body pressed into his as you rocked with the music, tequila buzzing in your veins.

“See? Not hard.”

You didn’t realize how close the words cut. His jaw clenched as your ass brushed against him, and he thanked every god that you were too drunk to notice the way his body betrayed him.

Your laugh rang out, sweet and sharp, and it went straight to his head. He swore he could get high just off the sound of it—didn’t need the tequila, didn’t need anything else.

“You’re terrible at this,” you teased, leaning up, your lips dangerously close to his ear.

“Maybe I just need the right partner,” he shot back, voice low, almost lost under the music.

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, your smirk lopsided, teasing, unbothered. “I'm not enough for you, Rafe?”

False hope. You tossed it at him so carelessly, like crumbs on the floor—and still, like a damn dog, he picked them up, clinging to them.

He slid a hand lower on your waist, testing. “Yeah? You always get like this when you’re drunk?”

You turned your head, eyes locking with his, lips parted like you hadn’t even registered what he was saying. Then you tilted your head, pretending to be dumb, voice soft, sweet, dangerous.

“Like what?”

Rafe bit down on his bottom lip, trying to swallow the smile clawing its way out of him, but it broke through anyway. God, you were impossible. And you knew it.

“Forget it,” he muttered, shaking his head, his hand loosening on your waist.

You leaned closer, breath warm with tequila, eyes still sparkling like you could see right through him. “No, tell me. Like what?”

He almost said it. Almost told you you were driving him insane, that you were pressing against him like this, looking at him like that, and he didn’t know how to stand it. Instead, he smirked, masking the ache in his chest.

“Like a terrible dancer.”

You gasped dramatically, pushing against his chest. “Me? Excuse you—I’m fantastic.”

“Fantastic?” he echoed, teasing.

“Way better than you, Rafe Cameron,” you said with a grin. “Which is tragic, considering you dated, like, half my friends—and at least three of them were competitive dancers.”

He barked out a laugh, shaking his head. “Wow. Calling me out in my own apartment. You wanna sleep on the streets?”

You grinned, swaying your hips, pulling his hand back to your waist. “Come on, show me what you’ve got then.”

The tequila burned warmer now, crawling under his skin, making his movements looser, sloppier. But it didn’t matter. You were laughing, tugging him closer, spinning clumsily with your arms hooked around his neck. The music swelled, and Rafe’s chest was so tight it was hard to breathe.

Every brush of your hands against his arms, every tug of your body against his, made him feel like he was seventeen again, drunk on nothing but you. And fuck, you were hot. The white tee you wore clung to your curves, and he couldn’t stop himself from noticing the way your nipples pressed against the fabric. It made his throat dry, made him want to look away, but his eyes lingered. Always lingered.

And when you spun, hair flying, your jeans dipped low enough for the lace of your panties to peek out. He didn’t even realize his fingers had tugged lightly on the strings until you shot him a look over your shoulder, sly, teasing, not stopping the music or the dance.

“Careful,” you smirked, “that’s expensive.”

Rafe chuckled, low, trying to mask how hard it was to think straight. He took a step closer, until your bodies brushed again, until his chest was pressed against your back. His hands hovered at your hips like he was scared of himself.

You tilted your head back to look up at him, lips glossy, eyes daring. The way you laughed into his chest, like he was the only person who could make you feel this light.

“See?” you teased, voice slurring with laughter as you tripped into him again. “You’re not completely hopeless.”

“Don’t stop now,” he murmured, voice rougher than he meant, fingers tightening slightly on your hip.

But you just smirked, twirling away again, leaving him standing there—hot, hard, drunk, and gone for you all over again.

You told him you two had to leave now, that there were sights to see, things to do, places in New York waiting for you. Rafe thought you were so full of shit—he could see it in the way you wobbled on your feet, tequila heavy in your bloodstream—but he took your hand anyway. You grabbed your bag from the side table, tugged him toward the door, and he locked it behind you as you stumbled into the hallway.

The two of you spilled onto the streets of New York like you owned them. Neon lights flickered, cabs honked, and you laughed at everything—at nothing—clutching his hand tighter than you probably realized. Rafe couldn’t stop smiling, even when he tried.

You pointed at a street artist sketching a caricature and gasped. “Oh my god, Rafe, imagine us—cartoon us. You’d look ridiculous. Like, with your little swoopy hair.”

“My little swoopy hair?” He scoffed, running a hand through it automatically. “You’re just jealous because your last boyfriend was balding.”

“Rude.” You slapped his arm with your free hand, then leaned into him when you almost tripped over a curb. “But fair.”

He steadied you easily, hand firm around your waist, and for a second his chest tightened. It was so easy. Too easy. He let you pull him to take photos in front of glowing billboards, made faces while you stuck your tongue out at the camera, listened to you ramble about how much bigger everything felt compared to the pictures online. Every word you said lodged itself in his chest. You were giving him so little, and like a dog, he clung to every scrap.

By the time you dragged him into Madison Square Garden, you were buzzing—eyes bright, smile wide. He payed for the hot dogs from a vendor, and you shoved one into his hands while you chattered about how unfair it was that he had an apartment here while your parents didn’t even trust you with a mini fridge in your dorm.

“This city’s wasted on you,” you said through a mouthful of bread. “If I lived here, I’d be out every night. Broadway, comedy clubs, museums, like—”

“You’d last two weeks before calling home crying about how loud the sirens are,” Rafe interrupted, smirking.

You glared, then laughed, shoving your shoulder into him. “Shut up. I’m a city girl at heart.”

“Right,” he said, biting into his hot dog. “Southside OBX to the Big Apple. Makes sense.”

You flipped him off with mustard on your finger, and he laughed so hard he almost choked.

While you rambled, Rafe tried to focus on your words—but his eyes kept slipping. To the way your white tee stretched across your chest, nipples tight from the cool night air. To the glimpse of skin above your low-rise jeans. To the mustard smeared just at the corner of your mouth. His jaw clenched. He wanted to drag his thumb across it, wanted to taste the salt and tang of the hot dog mixed with you. Instead, he shoved another bite into his mouth and forced himself to look away.

“—so I’m saying,” you were concluding, scrolling on your phone with one hand, hot dog in the other, “if this club is actually uptown and you made me walk all the way downtown, I’m suing you. For damages. For emotional distress. For…”

You trailed off when you realized he hadn’t answered. Hadn’t been answering at all, actually. You turned your head, squinting at him, catching the way his gaze was fixed, not on your eyes but your lips.

“Were you even listening?” you demanded, half-smiling.

Rafe blinked, throat tight, trying to save his ass. “You, uh—you’ve got mustard.”

Your eyes went wide, hand flying to your mouth. “Oh my god, why didn’t you say something sooner? I’ve been talking for, like, fifteen minutes—Rafe, you’re the worst. What kind of friend lets someone walk around New York with mustard on their face?”

He shook his head, smiling despite himself. “Calm down. It’s not that bad.”

“It’s humiliating,” you said dramatically, waving your hot dog at him. “You’re supposed to help me! You’re supposed to be, like, my person. What if people saw?”

“Relax,” he cut you off, and before he could think better of it, he reached out. His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth, slow, deliberate, swiping the yellow smear away. Your breath caught, lips parting as his touch lingered for a second too long.

Then, like it was nothing, Rafe brought his thumb to his lips and licked it clean.

You froze. Heart hammering.

His eyes met yours, something dark flickering there, and for a second the noise of the city dulled, the air between you sparking hot.

“You’re ridiculous,” you finally whispered, trying to cover the way your pulse was sprinting.

“You wanted my help, so I gave it to you. What's the issue?” he asked, but his voice was rougher, lower. He leaned back, took another bite of his hot dog like he hadn’t just undone you with one casual swipe of his thumb.

But Rafe felt it too. The burn of your stare. The taste of your lip gloss on his tongue, faint under the mustard. The ache that had been building all night, all summer, for years.

And still, he said nothing. Because you weren’t his. And he wished he could get over that fact.

You stuffed the rest of your hot dog into your mouth like it might fill the gaping, gnawing void inside you. The mustard and onions didn’t even register anymore—you were aware of the heat licking at your skin every time Rafe’s arm brushed yours, too aware of his thumb still stained in your memory from wiping your lip. You chewed too fast, swallowed, then threw away the empty paper tray with more force than necessary.

“Call a cab,” you said, already raising your arm. “No way I’m walking across half the city in these shoes.”

Rafe smirked, but he didn’t argue. He called a cab, listened to you as you complained about something else, and then he slid into the backseat with you, shoulders crowding you against the door, your thigh pressed flush against his jeans. The cab smelled like stale beer and cigarette smoke, but all you could smell was him—his cologne, that heady spice-and-smoke scent that had clung to him since the first night he ever snuck out with you.

You tried to focus on the city lights flashing by the window, but your gaze slid lower. To the way his thighs stretched his jeans. Muscular, solid. To the space of his lap that your drunken brain wouldn’t stop imagining yourself curled into. Heat crawled up your neck, your pulse kicking up. You forced yourself to turn back to the window, cheeks hot.

If he noticed, he didn’t show it. He was leaning back, long legs spread wide like he owned every inch of space in the cab. His fingers tapped restlessly on his thigh—like they were itching for something. Or someone.

By the time the cab pulled up outside the club, your stomach was buzzing as much from the tension as from the alcohol. The bass thumped from inside, the line at the door a blur of glittering dresses and cologne-soaked shirts.

Inside, the crowd swallowed you instantly. Hot, loud, bodies pressing from every angle. You stumbled, and before you could panic, Rafe’s hand found yours. His palm was big, warm, swallowing your smaller hand easily. He tugged you forward, using his broad shoulders to shove through the press of people, dragging you behind him like you weighed nothing.

“Don’t let go of me,” he shouted over his shoulder, grip tightening, almost possessive.

Your heart skipped. His hand was tingling against yours, your stomach burning at how casual he made it look while it felt like the world had tilted beneath your feet.

When you finally reached the bar, he didn’t let go of your hand. He tugged you onto a barstool, settling you there like he was placing you somewhere safe. Then he leaned forward, his free hand braced on your thigh to steady you as he shouted at the bartender.

His palm was hot against your thigh, the weight of it anchoring you in place. You stared down at it, heart hammering, and then up—at the way he leaned over you, chest brushing your shoulder, cologne wrapping around you like a vice. Usually, when a guy touched you like this, when he leaned in this close, it was to kiss you.

But this was Rafe.

Your best friend.

The guy who’d dated your friends, who never looked twice at you except to smirk, to tease, to shove you into the friend-zone every chance he got. The guy who never stayed in one place, or with one girl since middle school.

And yet.

Your breath caught in your throat, your lips parting as you bit down on your bottom one, trying to mask the reaction clawing at your chest.

Rafe turned his head slightly, his mouth just inches from your ear as he yelled, “What do you want?”

You almost didn’t hear him—not over the music, not over the rush in your blood. His lips brushed close enough that your skin tingled.

You tilted your head, meeting his eyes, and tried to smirk through the dizziness. “Surprise me.”

His hand flexed on your thigh before he pulled back, jaw tight. “You sure, Y/N?”

“Why?” you teased, leaning toward him now, just enough that your hair brushed his shoulder. “Should I not trust you to pick for me?”

He gave you a look that was equal parts warning and hunger. His gaze dipped to your lips before snapping back up. “I don’t trust you not to like it too much.”

You laughed, covering the way your pulse thundered in your throat. “God, you’re full of yourself.”

But your knees pressed together, thighs shifting under his hand. And he didn’t move it. Didn’t pull away. He just let it rest there, heavy and possessive, as if it belonged.

Rafe Cameron was unraveling slowly, quietly, and all you had to do was sit there smiling with your glossy lips and wide eyes.

And he swore, if he didn’t find some way to kiss you tonight, he was going to lose his mind.

Rafe leaned across the bar, voice low but firm as he ordered. He didn’t even have to think about it—something sweet for you, something you’d like. He remembered the way you’d suck on ring pop candy off your fingers when you thought no one was watching, the glossy strawberry shine you always kept on your lips. Sweet things. Sweet like you.

He wanted you to know he remembered. That he'd always remember, even when you’d leave for Columbia, and he'd stay in New York, even when there were miles and people and years in between. He still knew you better than anyone.

For himself, he ordered something lighter—beer, something he could nurse. He didn’t trust himself with anything stronger. Not tonight. Not when the pregame at his apartment had already left him buzzing, already had his head swimming with the kind of thoughts that would ruin everything if he let them out. Thoughts he could never take back. Thoughts he couldn’t afford, not when you were all he had.

He noticed the way your leg twitched, restless against the barstool, thighs round and soft in those jeans that sat too perfectly on your hips. His jaw tightened as he forced his gaze up. He told himself he was just focusing on the twitch, the way it looked like you were itching to dance, like you couldn’t sit still another second.

So he leaned down, close enough that his lips brushed your ear. His voice came out lower than he meant. “Go have fun. I’ll find you when the drinks are ready.”

Your head turned, those big eyes meeting his, and you nodded—too quick, too eager. You didn’t even wait for him to offer twice before you slid off the stool and disappeared into the crowd, body already moving to the beat.

Rafe sank onto your stool, exhaling slowly, running a hand down his face. He told himself he wouldn’t stare. He told himself he could sit there, wait for the drinks, and keep his cool.

But then he looked up.

And you were moving like the music was inside you.

The jeans made your ass look unfairly good, the sway of your hips hypnotic. Your tits bounced with every shift and dip. He dragged his hand over his thigh, trying to ground himself, but heat flooded through him anyway. His cock stirred, heavy in his jeans, and all you were doing was dancing. Dancing and laughing and looking so damn shamelessly good that he forgot the air in his lungs.

He tried to look away, dragging in a sharp breath. The bartender called the total, and for a second Rafe was grateful for the distraction. He shoved bills across the counter, grabbed both drinks, and turned to enjoy your little dance a little longer, but you weren’t where his eyes left you.

His brows pinched. Panic flickered in his chest as he scanned the crowd, shoulder-checking bodies left and right. A guy bumped into him hard enough to almost spill your drink, and Rafe’s jaw locked, hand tightening around the glasses as he fought the urge to knock him flat.

Then he heard the cheering.

He turned, gaze cutting through the crowd, and there you were—on top of a table. Some girl in a short skirt had helped you up, but she’d already hopped down, leaving you swaying, dancing alone under the lights while everyone looked up at you.

Rafe’s mouth went dry.

God, you were hot. Confident, wild, completely unbothered by the stares. You soaked them in like you were made for it, smiling, hips rolling, shirt riding up just enough to tease. He couldn’t even be mad at the people gawking. Couldn’t blame them. He was doing the same thing, his lips parted, eyes dark as he made his way through the crush of bodies toward you.

You spotted him before he reached the table. Your brows furrowed for a second before your face broke into a smile, one that made his chest ache. You lifted your hand, beckoning him, coaxing him up with a tilt of your head.

He shook his head, jaw tight. Dancing in his apartment was already pushing it—this? Dancing on a table with people cheering? This wasn’t him.

But you kept smiling, swaying sweetly, looking down at him like he was the only one there. And suddenly, his willpower didn’t mean shit.

Somehow, you got him up there with you. Maybe it was the drinks in his hand, maybe it was the fact that he’d never once been able to say no to you when you looked at him like that.

He stood there stiffly at first, holding both glasses, trying not to show how lost he felt. But then you stepped close. Too close. Your hands pressed against his chest, palms warm through his shirt. And before he could react, you dipped low, sliding your body down until you hit the floor, slow and deliberate, your hair brushing his thighs.

The crowd roared.

Rafe’s jeans went tight instantly, his cock straining against the denim as he looked down at you. You, kneeling at his feet with your wide eyes and that sweet, dangerous smile. His throat bobbed, every filthy scenario flashing through his head—ones he shouldn’t be having, not about his best friend. Not about you.

You tilted your head, lips parted like you were about to say something, but he spoke first, voice rough, straining.

“Careful,” he warned, though it sounded more like a plea.

You only smirked, fingertips ghosting along his calf before sliding higher. “Careful of what?”

His chest heaved, his hand twitching at his side like he wanted to grab you, drag you up, press his mouth to yours. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

Rafe swallowed hard, pulse thrumming in his ears, drinks forgotten in his grip. And fuck, he wanted you—wanted you more than he’d ever admit, more than he could stand.

Your lashes fluttered, your lips parting as if you didn’t understand a single word he’d just said. “What do you mean?” you asked, head tilting, voice soft and almost saccharine. “I’m just… dancing.” You blinked up at him with those wide, innocent eyes that he knew damn well weren’t innocent at all.

Rafe barked out a laugh, sharp and warm in your ear, shaking his head. He knew your game. Knew you were pretending to be clueless, to play dumb like you were all looks and no brain. But he also knew the truth. You were the full package—smart, beautiful, funny, sharp, devastatingly aware of what you were doing to him.

“Sure you are,” he muttered, but his lips curved into a smile anyway, because he couldn’t help it when it came to you.

You only grinned back, all teeth and gloss, before plucking the cocktail straight from his hand like it had been yours all along. You spun, taking a long sip, the straw between your lips as you leaned your back into him, swaying your hips. Your body fit against his too perfectly, pressing into every hard line of him.

Rafe’s jaw clenched, eyes darting to the side as if looking away would help, as if ignoring the way your ass dragged against his straining cock would calm the heat surging through him. He brought the beer to his mouth, taking a long swallow, trying to disguise the shallow rise and fall of his chest.

But when you pressed harder, grinding just slightly in the rhythm of the music, his control slipped. His free hand moved instinctively, sliding around your bare waist, his palm splayed against your warm skin. He felt the dip of your spine, the soft give of your flesh under his fingers, and it burned him alive.

You arched into the touch, still playing the part, still pretending like this was nothing more than fun. But Rafe knew. He knew by the way your body lingered against his, by the subtle bite of your lip, when you caught your own reflection in the column covered with mirrors.

He leaned down, his breath ghosting over the shell of your ear. “You’re dangerous, you know that?” His voice was low, strained, a confession he hadn’t meant to let out.

And all you did was laugh, soft and airy, tilting your head back against his shoulder, smiling at him like you were proud of it.

Rafe had always known you’d be the death of him, but tonight you were making sure it was a slow, torturous one.

“Stay here, I’ll grab us another round,” he muttered, reaching for his wallet, already getting off the table. But you just smiled that dangerous little smile, the one that made his stomach tighten and shook your head.

“Mm-mm. Watch this.” You winked and strutted off, hips swaying in those low-rise jeans, heading straight toward a pair of guys leaning against the counter.

Rafe stood rooted, jaw tight, beer bottle dangling from his hand like dead weight. He wanted to follow, wanted to snatch you by the wrist and drag you back to his side, but he couldn’t. You weren’t his. And the way you leaned into those strangers, laughing too loud, twirling a strand of hair, told him you weren’t planning on being his anytime soon.

He tilted his head back, drained the rest of his beer, bitter taste doing nothing to ease the burn in his chest. What was he supposed to do to make you see him? To make you love him like he loved you—more than a friend, more than anything else he’d ever wanted? Was he that disposable to you? That meaningless?

By the time you two came stumbling out of the club hours later, you were a mess of laughter and slurred words, clinging to his arm as if you hadn’t just made him jealous enough to want to fight half of New York.

And, of course, you chose that moment to start mocking him. "You were like this," you staggered a few steps ahead, spinning around to face him, arms flailing in some poor imitation of his dancing. “This is so you,” you teased, jerking your shoulders and kicking your leg out like you were possessed.

Rafe pinched the bridge of his nose, but his lips betrayed him, twitching into a reluctant grin. “You’re gonna eat shit if you keep that up.”

As if the universe had been listening, your heel snapped clean off before you made it inside his apartment building. You froze, looking down, then up at him with wide eyes, refusing to step barefoot onto the grimy sidewalk. Instead, you stretched out both arms toward him, expectant, playful. “Piggyback. Now.”

Rafe raised a brow. “Yeah, no. Not happening.”

Before you could whine, he bent down, sweeping you up into his arms bridal-style like you weighed nothing. You gasped, arms flying around his neck, brows jumping high. That look—the one in your eyes when you realized he’d caught you off guard—was enough to twist something deep in his gut.

You tried to play it off, voice high and teasing. “Wow, look at you. Sweeping me off my feet everywhere we go.”

He smirked but didn’t bite back, didn’t tease you like he usually would. He was too busy breathing you in, fighting the way his chest squeezed at having you this close.

By the time you reached the elevator, you were hiccupping, giggling, trying to swipe his keycard with unsteady hands. “I feel like you’ll drop me. And then I’ll sue.”

Rafe dipped his head closer, letting his nose graze the air just above your neck. Your perfume hit him like a punch, sweet and dizzying. His whole body flexed, nerves sparking like he was in fight-or-flight. He had to do something—had to, because having you close but not close enough was driving him insane.

He carried you inside, kicking the door shut behind him. When he set you on the narrow side table, you groaned dramatically, clutching your stomach. “If I bend over, I might puke.”

Rafe chuckled, kneeling at your feet. “Just say you're lazy, Y/N.” His fingers worked at the straps of your heels, slow and careful. You watched him with a soft smile, your head tilted.

For a moment, drunk as you were, you let yourself believe it—that he was still that middle school boy who brought you flowers and wrote your name in the margins of his notebooks, not the guy who’d ignored you in high school when it mattered.

When his eyes lifted back to yours, you reached out, tugging at his shirt. “C’mon. Couch. I demand it.”

He groaned but scooped you up again, carrying you over and setting you down gently. Then he dropped beside you with a sigh, running a hand through his hair. “Gonna regret this tomorrow. My head’s already pounding.”

But you weren’t listening. You were already sliding into his lap, arms looping around his shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Rafe stiffened, his cock pressing hard against the inside of his jeans. He tried not to groan, tried not to let you know what sitting on him like this was doing to him. He was so turned on he thought he might snap in two, but more than that, he was confused. You never did this. You were his friend, weren’t you? His best friend. So why the fuck did it feel like something else?

You only smiled up at him, your brows furrowed like you were puzzled by his height. “How are you still taller than me even like this? It’s unfair.”

He blinked up at you, caught off guard by how close your face was to his, how pretty you looked even with your lipstick smudged. “Long legs, long torso, long... I guess.” His mouth stayed slightly open, like he’d forgotten how to close it.

You chuckled, brushing your fingers along his jaw, feeling the light scrape of his stubble. “You need to shave.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, hands sliding instinctively to your hips, thumbs pressing into the soft give of your waist.

You leaned in just enough to kiss his temple. The simple, soft press of your lips made his eyes flutter shut, his chest rising on a sharp inhale.

And in that moment—your perfume wrapping around him, your weight warm on his lap, your mouth so close—Rafe Cameron thought this had to be it. The catalyst. The point where his whole world tilted and he couldn’t ever pretend again that you were just his friend.

You pulled back just a little, just enough to really look at him. His blue eyes were wide, lips parted like he couldn’t remember how to breathe. You tilted your head, a playful curve to your mouth.

“Do you remember,” you whispered, soft and teasing, “when I used to kiss your face like this?”

For a beat, Rafe only stared, the world tilting under him. His throat worked, but nothing came out. He gave the smallest shake of his head, terrified that if he opened his mouth he’d spill everything—the dreams, the nights he’d fallen asleep replaying that exact memory, the ache in his chest every time he woke up alone. He couldn’t tell you that. Couldn’t tell you how badly he wanted to believe this wasn’t just alcohol playing games.

So he shook his head again. Silent.

You giggled, brushing your lips across the apple of his cheek. “Still don’t remember?”

Another shake.

Then a kiss along his jawline. “Not even this?”

His fingers twitched against your hips, gripping tighter without him realizing. His chest heaved, but he only shook his head again, barely holding it together.

You moved to his forehead, a soft kiss right in the center, then one on his temple. “Really? You have such a bad memory, Rafe.”

His lips curved into the smallest, helpless smile—because he remembered everything. Every kiss, every laugh, every way you used to make him feel like he wasn’t doomed to drown in his own head. But he couldn’t tell you that, not when you were looking at him like this, too close, too pretty, too much.

Finally, you leaned down and pressed your mouth to the corner of his lips. Close enough to steal his breath, but not close enough to give him what he wanted most. When you pulled back, there were smudges of your lipstick scattered across his skin—cheek, jaw, temple, mouth.

You tilted your head, studying your work, your smile tugging wider. “Look at you,” you teased, voice warm. “Covered in me.”

Rafe swallowed hard, eyes still locked on yours. His hands flexed against your waist like he was fighting himself. Fighting the urge to tilt his head that extra inch and close the distance.

And God, he wanted to.

Rafe’s breath hitched, his chest rising and falling like he’d just run a mile even though he hadn’t moved an inch. His words slipped out low, rough, almost broken, “How did we get to this?”

Your smile softened, mischief sparking behind your eyes as they flicked between his. You let a giggle slip, leaning closer like you had a secret. “You paid for my food, my drinks… you entertained me, carried me, took my shoes off…” Your fingers toyed lazily with the fabric of his shirt. “I just wanted to thank you.”

Rafe’s brows furrowed, a half-laugh leaving him, like he couldn’t decide if this was a joke or torture. “I always do that,” he said, his voice gruff. His hands slid a little lower on your hips, holding you tighter. “You never thank me.”

“Maybe I’m feeling generous tonight,” you replied, teeth catching your bottom lip as your gaze dipped to his collar. Pretending you needed to fix it, when really you just couldn’t bear to look at his face without your heart stuttering. Without giving yourself away.

Rafe tilted his head, watching every movement, the way your fingers trembled slightly against his chest. “Not generous enough,” he murmured.

You froze for just a beat, your eyes darting up to his. And then you laughed—soft, airy, pretending like he couldn’t possibly mean what you both knew he meant. Playing clueless, the way you always did. Acting like it was a game, like you couldn’t feel the heat curling low in your stomach or the way his words made your skin prickle.

But Rafe wasn’t laughing. His smile barely held. His thumb rubbed slow circles against your waist, eyes locked on you like he was memorizing the curve of your mouth, the crinkle of your laugh, the way you looked at him as if you didn’t know you were killing him.

Rafe’s stare didn’t waver. His voice dropped, gravel low, almost swallowed between his uneven breaths.

“Not generous enough,” he repeated, slower this time, like he wanted the words to sink into your skin.

You tilted your head, lashes fluttering like you didn’t get it. “What do you mean?” you asked, all wide-eyed innocence, like you weren’t sitting in his lap with your jeans dipping low and his hands branded against your waist.

He huffed a laugh, sharp and humorless, leaning back against the couch cushion as if he could put distance between himself and the ache you caused. His jaw flexed, eyes flickering down to your lips before he dragged them back up.

“Don’t play dumb with me,” he muttered. “You know exactly what I mean.”

You grinned like he’d just told a bad joke. “Nope,” you said, popping the p. “You’re not making any sense.” Your hand smoothed down the front of his shirt again, deliberately slow, nails grazing the fabric like you were just fussing with him. “Maybe you drank too much.”

He let out a broken laugh, shaking his head, but his grip tightened on your hips, fingers pressing bruises he’d apologize for later. “You think this is funny? You’re driving me insane.”

“Me?” you gasped, your mock offense so sugary sweet it nearly made him groan. “I’m just thanking my best friend. That’s all.”

“Best friend,” he echoed bitterly, his mouth curling like the word burned. His thumb brushed dangerously close to the line of your thigh, and he tipped his head forward until his forehead nearly touched yours. “Friends don’t look at me the way you’re looking at me right now.”

Your laugh slipped out, airy, betraying the nerves that tightened your stomach. “And how am I looking at you, Rafe?”

He smirked, but it was tight, restrained, like he was holding something back. “Like you want to kiss me but you’re too stubborn to admit it.”

You giggled again, leaning just enough to brush your lips against his cheek instead, soft, deliberate. “That’s just gratitude,” you whispered, pulling back to look at him with innocent eyes, though your smile gave you away.

Rafe’s eyes darkened, his breath catching. “Then maybe,” he rasped, his hand sliding fully to your thigh now, gripping hard enough to make you shiver, “you should show me what ‘real’ gratitude looks like.”

Your lips parted, a laugh breaking the tension even as your pulse hammered. “Greedy,” you teased, shaking your head as if you weren’t seconds away from giving in.

His grin flashed, sharp, hungry. “Not greedy,” he corrected softly, leaning closer until his mouth brushed your ear. “Desperate.”

And the way his voice cracked on that word told you everything his pride wouldn’t let him say.

Your smile was syrupy sweet as you tilted your head, pretending innocence like it was second nature. “Desperate?” you echoed, blinking at him as if you had no idea what he meant. “For what? Another thank you?”

Rafe’s laugh was strained, sharp at the edges. “Don’t do that,” he warned softly, though his hands betrayed him—one sliding up your thigh, the other tugging at the thin string of your panties that peeked above your low-rise jeans. The elastic snapped lightly against your skin, and you gasped, your wide eyes meeting his with a spark you tried to smother with another giggle.

“Rafe!” you chided, playful, brushing his hand away like you weren’t secretly burning. “That’s rude.”

He smirked, a dangerous tilt of his lips. “So’s the way you’re sitting on me,” he shot back, voice thick, gravelly. His hand returned to your hip, firmer this time, pulling you closer until your body molded against his.

“Am I?” you asked, biting your lip, feigning cluelessness even as your hips shifted just enough to feel him—hard and aching beneath you.

Rafe’s breath caught, and he squeezed his eyes shut for a second, fighting himself. “Don’t—” he muttered, but the rest of the sentence died as his hand slipped lower, guiding your hips down until the friction made his jaw snap tight.

You laughed, soft and breathy, pressing your palms against his chest like you were steadying yourself. “You’re so bossy when you drink,” you teased, rolling your hips once, slow, deliberate.

His head fell back against the couch, a broken groan slipping out before he could catch it. His fingers dug into your skin, dragging you against him again, harder this time. “Fuck… you’re killing me,” he muttered, voice shredded, but when you leaned forward to study his face, he smirked like nothing was wrong, like he wasn’t throbbing under you. “And you’re loving it, aren’t you?”

You widened your eyes, lashes fluttering, and shook your head innocently. “Me? I’m just—” you leaned closer, brushing your nose against his, your lips hovering a whisper away, “—sitting.”

“Liar,” he rasped, his hand tugging once more at the string of your panties, his thumb slipping just beneath the band, hot against your skin. His other hand moved back to your hip, guiding you in a rhythm that left no room for pretending.

Still, you giggled, playing stupid even as your own breath hitched. “You’re imagining things,” you whispered, though your hips pressed down, slow and sweet, betraying you.

Rafe’s eyes snapped open, wide and wild, locking on yours. His lips parted, chest heaving, his control fraying by the second. “If I’m imagining this,” he said, voice shaking as he rocked you against him, “then don’t wake me the fuck up.”

Your lips curved into that maddening little smirk, the one that always got under Rafe’s skin, and you leaned back just slightly, giving yourself space to slip your fingers to the button of your jeans. His eyes followed the motion instantly, pupils blown wide, throat working as you popped it open with a careless flick.

“Getting comfortable,” you murmured, feigning casual, like you weren’t undoing him one slow second at a time.

“Jesus Christ,” Rafe muttered under his breath, dragging a hand over his face as if that would clear the heat rushing through him. It didn’t. Not when your hips shifted on top of him, denim tugged looser now, making it easier to feel every twitch and strain of his hard cock underneath.

“You look like you’re about to faint,” you teased, nails tracing the collar of his shirt as if you were concerned. “What, never seen a girl take her pants off before?”

He shot you a look, sharp and incredulous, but his hands betrayed him again. They slid lower, fingers hooking beneath the waistband of your jeans. His breath hitched when he felt the soft edge of your panties again, this time pushing past the string. Slowly, cautiously, like he was testing the limits, his hands moved to cup your ass, squeezing hard enough to make your breath catch.

Your laugh came out shaky, and you tilted your head, pretending like nothing had changed. “You’re bold tonight,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady.

Rafe swallowed hard, jaw tight. He wanted to say something cocky back, something that’d keep it light, keep it safe. But when his palms kneaded into your ass, thumbs pressing into the curve of you, the sound that almost slipped past his throat was closer to a whine than a laugh. He clenched his jaw harder, biting it back.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he finally forced out, voice low and rough. “Just making sure you don’t fall off me.”

“Right,” you breathed, rocking your hips just enough to test him, your open jeans riding lower. “Best friends always do that—grab each other’s asses for safety.”

He groaned, hand flying to the back of your waist as if to steady you again, though his fingers dug in tighter, knuckles pale. “You’re impossible,” he said, but it came out broken, reverent almost, his forehead tipping forward until it rested against yours.

“Impossible?” you teased, lips brushing his but not kissing him, not yet. “Or irresistible?”

His laugh was short, strained, chest heaving beneath you. “You think you’re funny.”

“I think,” you whispered, letting your nails scrape lightly against the back of his neck, “you’re trying really hard not to enjoy yourself.”

Rafe’s breath shuddered out, his hands tightening on your ass, dragging you just slightly against his cock. His eyes fluttered shut for a second, lips parting, betraying him completely.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” you dared, voice soft, sweet, dangerous.

He opened his eyes again, meeting yours head-on, no more games in his gaze even if his words stayed stubborn. “You’re always wrong,” he said hoarsely, but his body told the truth—every tense muscle, every shaky inhale, every desperate squeeze of his hands on you.

And you just smiled, like you’d won.

Rafe’s grip on you grew greedier the longer you stayed in his lap, his big hands filling with your ass like he was scared to ever let go. His thumbs pressed into the soft dip of you, his fingers flexing, squeezing—each motion making his breaths come rougher, heavier.

You leaned in closer, lips brushing his skin. A kiss to his jaw. One to the slope of his cheekbone. Another just beneath his eye. He let out a low groan, deep and unsteady, the sound vibrating in his chest as you worked your way over his face everywhere but his mouth.

“Fuck,” he muttered when you grazed your lips over the corner of his mouth and pulled back again, smiling wickedly. His eyes squeezed shut for a moment like he was in pain, but his hands wouldn’t stop roaming, kneading your ass harder, dragging you down against the thick length straining under his jeans.

You laughed softly against his skin, kissing down to his chin, his temple, his nose, his forehead, your lipstick smudging in faint stains. “You still don’t remember?” you teased between kisses, voice sing-song and cruelly sweet.

Rafe shook his head minutely, breath shuddering, but his lips parted helplessly as if begging you to break your own game and finally kiss him where he wanted it most. “Not… not like this,” he rasped, though his hands were telling a different story entirely. They gripped you tighter, rocking you slowly against the hard ridge in his lap, like he couldn’t stop himself even if he tried.

Your giggle came out breathy, almost a whimper, as you pressed your mouth to his jaw again, your fingers sliding down his chest. You toyed with the hem of his shirt, then lower, finding the leather strap of his belt. He froze beneath you, chest rising and falling faster, eyes wide as he realized what you were doing.

“Y/N—” he started, but it broke into a shaky exhale when you tugged the belt loose with one sharp pull. His knuckles dug into your jeans as he grabbed your ass harder, as if punishing you, but it only made you press down harder against him.

“You’re really bad at pretending,” you whispered into his ear, teeth grazing the shell before you kissed the spot just below it. His whole body shivered beneath you, his head falling back against the couch as your fingers popped open the button of his jeans.

“Goddamn it,” he cursed under his breath, his voice low and wrecked. His hips jerked up against your hand, betraying him completely. “You—fuck, you don’t even know what you’re doing to me.”

“Oh, I know,” you murmured, slipping your hand beneath the denim, under the waistband of his boxers. His cock twitched instantly against your palm, hot and hard, and he let out a sound that was half-growl, half-whine.

Rafe’s hands trembled where they gripped you, his jaw tight as he tried to hold back the desperate noises clawing their way out of his throat. His forehead pressed to yours again, eyes squeezed shut, lips parted, breathing like he was drowning.

“You’re—” he choked out, then cut himself off with another rough groan when your hand squeezed. “You’re driving me insane.”

“And you’re still trying to act like you don’t want me,” you whispered, brushing your lips over his cheek, his nose, the corner of his mouth again, every place but where he needed you most.

His hands slipped lower, almost under your jeans now, groping at bare skin, dragging you harder against his cock, and the sound that escaped him this time was unrestrained, a low, broken whimper swallowed against your throat.

“I never said that.” Rafe’s chest was heaving like he’d just sprinted ten miles, every breath jagged, every exhale heavy and desperate. His hands, already buried under the waistband of your jeans, shifted lower, his fingers sliding over the lace you’d teased him with all night. He stilled when he felt it—warmth, dampness. His jaw flexed, eyes fluttering shut, like the discovery alone knocked the air straight out of his lungs.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, barely audible, forehead pressing to yours again. His fingers dragged slowly over the thin lace, knuckles trembling. “You’re—fuck—you’re soaked.”

You didn’t answer, didn’t need to. Your hand was already wrapped around him, thick and hot under his boxers, stroking slow just to torture him. His cock twitched helplessly against your palm, and he let out the kind of sound you’d only ever heard from him in your dreams—low, wrecked, somewhere between a moan and a whimper.

“Don’t,” he begged suddenly, though the way his hips rolled into your touch betrayed every word. “Don’t play with me like this. I can’t—”

“You can’t what?” you murmured, brushing your lips over his cheek, dragging the words against his skin like a kiss. “Handle it?”

He let out a broken laugh, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip, head falling back as your thumb circled his tip through the fabric. “You think you’re funny, huh?” His free hand gripped your hip tight, nails almost biting through denim.

“Little bit.” You grinned against his jaw, kissing it again, still refusing to give him your mouth. “You’re easy to tease.”

He groaned, full-bodied and wrecked, his fingers finally slipping past the lace, straight against you. The first brush of his skin against your wet heat had you gasping, your hand faltering on him for just a second.

“Yeah?” he rasped, eyes blown wide, watching your reaction like he wanted to memorize it. “Still think this is a game?”

Your lips curved, though your voice came out breathy. “Maybe.”

“God,” he hissed, circling you with slow, deliberate strokes that had your thighs twitching on either side of him. His cock pulsed in your grip, and he groaned again, louder this time, when you squeezed harder in retaliation.

You both sat there, bodies tangled, breathing harsh and desperate, touching each other but not giving in fully. Every kiss you laid on his face without touching his lips was driving him further off the edge. Every stroke of his fingers against your slick heat had you fighting not to give yourself away, not to beg.

Rafe’s voice came low, ragged, hot against your ear. “You’re killing me, Y/N. You know that?”

His forehead pressed to yours, breath shaky, almost desperate, every exhale ghosting over your lips like a silent plea. Rafe’s fingers slid lazily through your wetness, spreading it, teasing, never quite giving you the friction you were begging for in your head. You thought he’d dip inside, thought he’d finally cave, but instead he dragged his fingers up, circling so lightly over your clit you swore you could cry from it.

Your hand on him tightened, stroking him through his boxers, and his hips jerked forward helplessly, a strangled groan tearing from his throat. He caught your wrist, not to stop you, but to slow you down, to make the torture last longer.

“Don’t—don’t do me like that,” he muttered, voice wrecked, his eyes fluttering shut like just your touch was undoing him. “I can’t think when you…” He trailed off, teeth sinking into his bottom lip, the muscles in his jaw twitching.

You smiled against his cheek, placing another soft kiss there, then another, tracing your lips over his temple, his hairline, his jaw. Always close, never his mouth. It was deliberate, it had to be, and it was driving him insane.

“You’re not supposed to think,” you whispered, your hand sliding lower, palming the base of his cock through his briefs. “You’re supposed to feel.”

His laugh came out broken, strangled, more of a gasp. “That’s the problem. All I do is feel when you’re around.”

Your thighs squeezed tighter around his as his fingers pressed harder against you, circling in rhythm with your strokes. Both of you were trembling, your bodies betraying the game you were playing with your mouths. His free hand gripped your hip, thumb digging into your bare skin just above your waistband, tugging you forward so your core ground down on his hand.

“Fuck—” you gasped, your head falling onto his shoulder. He felt your breath on his neck, your lips grazing skin without meaning to, and it sent a violent shiver down his spine.

Rafe’s own composure cracked. He groaned into your hair, hand flexing on your ass, kneading like he was trying to keep himself anchored. “You don’t even know, do you?” he whispered, words half-choked. “You don’t know how long I’ve wanted this. How bad.”

You pulled back enough to look at him, your lips curved in that teasing smile he hated and loved. “Wanted what, exactly?”

He stared at you like he wanted to devour you, chest rising and falling fast, pupils blown wide. But he didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His pride kept the words in his chest, where they burned him alive. Instead, his hand shifted lower, his fingers slipping against you more firmly now, forcing a sharp whimper from your lips.

Your hand on him mirrored the pace, stroking him harder, feeling the hot length of him straining under thin cotton. The sound he made—low, wrecked, helpless—had you clenching around nothing, your whole body begging for more.

It was unbearable. Every kiss that wasn’t on his lips, every touch that stopped just short of what you both wanted, every shallow breath filling the space between you. You were grinding down on his hand now, your own hand squeezing him harder, and still neither of you closed the final gap.

Rafe’s head dropped back, his throat bared, his jaw clenched so tight it looked painful. “Y/N, I’m—” He cut himself off with a hiss, fingers curling against you, his hips bucking helplessly into your grip.

Your giggle was breathless, shaky, your lips brushing along his jaw again. “You’re what?”

He grabbed your hip suddenly, pulling you down harder against his hand, and the sharp cry that escaped you was music to him. His eyes shot open, meeting yours, dark and wild. “I’m about to lose it.”

And god, he looked like he meant it.

Your nails dug into his shoulders as you rocked your hips, chasing the unbearable high that his hand promised. Rafe’s fingers were buried in you now, slow at first, then curling, pressing exactly where you needed him. You clutched at him like he was the only thing holding you together, forehead pressed to his, moans muffled against his parted lips though neither of you dared to close the distance.

At the same time, your hand fisted his cock through his briefs, and his thighs trembled against yours, pushing up into your grip. His groans were ragged, strained, torn straight from his chest, each one vibrating through you. “Fuck, baby, don’t stop,” he breathed, his voice low, almost pained. “Just—don’t stop.”

You whimpered in reply, grinding down harder on his fingers, the wet slap of your body against his palm lost under the thrum of both your shallow breaths. Every movement fed the fire between you, sweat slicking your skin, his scent clouding your thoughts until there was nothing but him—Rafe beneath you, Rafe inside you, Rafe everywhere.

Your lips ghosted over his jaw as you cried out, body trembling. His name left your mouth, breathless, broken, the sound of it unraveling him completely. His hips jerked up into your fist, thighs tightening against yours as his own release hit. He bit down on his lip so hard it almost hurt, muffling the guttural sound that tore out of him as he came, hot and messy, spilling into the cotton barrier of his briefs while you clenched helplessly around his fingers.

For a few dizzying seconds, you were nothing but a tangle of gasps and whimpers, bodies locked together, clinging like you’d fall apart without the other. The high burned through you both, white-hot, and then slowly, agonizingly, it ebbed.

And with it, reality crept back in.

You blinked at him, chest still heaving, sweat glistening at your temples. The rush of pleasure hadn’t fully faded, but already doubt clawed at you. What the hell had you just done? His hand slipped out from under you, sticky and shaking, and he dragged it down his thigh like he needed to erase the evidence.

Rafe stared at you, wide-eyed, lips parted like he might say something—confess something—but he didn’t. His chest rose and fell sharply, and then he dropped his gaze, scrubbing his palm over his face. The silence stretched, heavy, suffocating.

You shifted off his lap, your shaky laugh a poor attempt at covering the crack in your voice. “We’re drunk. That was—god, that was so stupid.”

The words sliced through him, sharper than he expected. He swallowed hard, forcing his expression into something neutral even though every part of him wanted to disagree, to tell you that nothing about this felt stupid. That it felt inevitable.

But then he saw it—the way your smile didn’t reach your eyes, the way your fingers twisted nervously in your shirt hem. The doubt. The regret.

And that was enough.

“Yeah,” Rafe said finally, his voice low, steady, a lie in every syllable. He leaned back into the couch, staring at the ceiling like it might give him strength. “We’re friends. That’s… all it is. Friends do stupid shit.”

He told himself he was protecting you, that pulling back was what you needed. But deep down, it felt like ripping out his own chest.

Because all he wanted was more—more of your kisses, more of your touch, more of you. And the only thing he could do was swallow it down, force it behind clenched teeth, and remind himself that if keeping you meant staying friends, he’d bleed himself dry to do it.

“They do, but— Not like this…” Your laugh broke the silence first—thin, nervous, the kind of sound that cracked at the edges. You shifted on the couch, tugging at your jeans as if you could erase what had just happened, as if you could laugh away the tremor in your voice.

“It’s fine,” you said quickly, filling the space before Rafe could. “It was just—we’re drunk, we’re… leaving for school, and we knew we wouldn’t see each other for a while. We just… needed each other, that’s all. Right?”

Your words tumbled out, rehearsed and messy all at once. You bit your lip, trying to sell the performance, but your shaking hands gave you away. They were still damp, sticky with his release, your fingers twitching like you wanted to hide them in your pockets.

Rafe’s chest constricted. He hated how small you sounded, how hard you were working to pretend this was nothing when his entire body still pulsed with the aftershocks of you. He didn’t call you on it. He never could. Instead, he pushed himself off the couch, voice steady, softer than it had any right to be.

“C’mere,” he murmured, extending a hand.

You hesitated, then placed your trembling fingers in his, letting him tug you gently toward the bathroom. The apartment was dim, city lights spilling through the windows, shadows stretching long across the walls. Rafe flicked on the light above the sink, its glare harsh, unforgiving.

He turned the faucet, warm water rushing into the basin, steam curling into the air. You hovered at his side, lip caught between your teeth, hands half-hidden behind your back like a child caught sneaking candy.

Rafe didn’t let you hide. He reached slowly, carefully, palms steady as he brought your hands forward and held them under the stream. The water kissed your skin, washing over your knuckles, rinsing away the evidence of what you’d done together. He stayed close, his broad chest almost brushing your shoulder, his reflection towering beside yours in the mirror.

“You’re shaking,” he said quietly.

“I’m fine.” Your voice was too quick, too thin. You forced a laugh, staring at the water swirling down the drain. “See? It’s fine. Just… we stepped over a line, that’s all. Lines can be stepped back.”

He didn’t believe you, not for a second. But he didn’t argue. Instead, he took the soap and worked it gently into your palms, rubbing slow circles until the tackiness faded. His fingers lingered against yours longer than they should have, thumbs brushing the delicate bones of your wrists.

“Ray—” your voice caught when you finally looked up, catching his eyes in the mirror. His face was unreadable, jaw tight, gaze dark with something you couldn’t name.

He swallowed hard, leaning back half a step, giving you space even though every part of him screamed to close it. “You don’t have to explain it to me,” he said softly. “We needed closure and stepped over a line. That’s enough.”

Your throat bobbed. For a second, your mask slipped—the nervous laugh fading, the weight of what you felt cracking through. You wanted to believe him, to pretend it was that simple. That the trembling in your hands wasn’t longing, that the ache in your chest wasn’t heartbreak waiting to happen.

Rafe rinsed your fingers one last time and reached for a towel, pressing it into your palms. His touch lingered, steady and grounding. “There,” he said, like he’d just fixed something, like soap and water could scrub away everything burning between you.

You managed another small laugh, shaking your head. “You’re too good at this. I don’t deserve it.”

Rafe clenched his jaw, hiding the truth that sat heavy in his chest. You deserve everything.

Instead, he dried his own hands, flicked off the light, and walked you back toward the couch, every step a silent promise to himself: he’d keep being what you needed, even if it killed him.

Even if it meant pretending this was nothing.