The city outside was quiet — too quiet for a Friday night — but Rafe wasn’t thinking about that. He was sprawled across his couch, staring blankly at the TV, until his phone lit up with your name.

His thumb hovered over the screen. Like he even needed to consider answering you.

Meanwhile, across town, you were standing in front of your mirror in nothing but a black tank top and the tiniest pair of sleep shorts you owned. Still damp from the shower, hair curling at the ends, skin flushed from the heat — you looked like trouble. Which was fitting. Because tonight? You wanted trouble.

So you called him.

Rafe answered on the third ring, voice already dripping with smug confidence. “You need me, baby?”

There it was — that cocky tone that made your stomach flutter and your fists clench all at once.

You smirked into the phone, dragging your fingertips across your collarbone just to feel something.

“Oh no I don’t need you, but I miss you, come here. And oh it’s hard to see you, but I wish you were right here…” you purred, each word laced with something wicked and sweet.

Silence.

Then a low chuckle. “You always say the prettiest lies.”

“And you always fall for them,” you shot back. “Still coming?”

“Already halfway to the door.”

You hung up first. Just like always.

⸻

Twenty minutes later, Rafe walked in without knocking. The door had been left unlocked, like you were daring him to come through it. And there you were — leaning against your bedroom doorway, arms folded, lips pursed, looking like sin in the form of a daydream.

He let his eyes wander. “That’s what you wore to call me over?” he asked, slowly licking his bottom lip. “Dangerous.”