You told yourself you were here to forget. To lose yourself in the party. The noise, the crowd, the illusion of fun. After all, you and Rafe were on a break. A cruel, bitter pause after an argument that left your heart frayed at the edges. You said you needed space. He didn’t argue. That silence—that unspoken final word—was louder than the music tonight.

But your friends knew better. They saw the way your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes. The way you kept checking your phone, even though you promised not to text him. So when your steps turned into stumbles, your words slurred into giggles, they made the call you couldn’t.

You were halfway to the bar, giggling at something stupid, when you stumbled. Hard.

Your body collided into something warm, solid. Familiar.

Your breath caught, a sharp inhale slipping past parted lips. You blinked up, your gaze swimming with half-sobriety, half-shock.

“…S’you,” you whispered, barely forming the words, your voice fragile in the haze.

“I’m here,” came his reply—low, certain, like gravity pulling you back to where you’d always belonged.

There he stood, steady while you trembled. Even in the chaos of the room, Rafe was an anchor. His eyes—no longer glacial with frustration—had softened, holding only concern, only tenderness.

You exhaled, a small, breathy sound leaving your lips—more of a sigh than a word, as if your mind was trying to put together a sentence and couldn’t quite reach it.

“Are you alright, my love?” he asked, his voice low and close, brushing against your cheek like a secret. “Can you walk?”

You nodded slowly. “Mm-hmm…” you hummed, the sound melting into him like muscle memory.

He didn’t wait for more. Gently, like it was the most natural thing in the world, he wrapped an arm around you and pulled you into his side, and you let yourself lean into him completely. Even in your tipsy haze, you felt it.

You were still his. And he was still yours.

Break or not.