The party had been great. You had fun with your friends, maybe a little too much fun, considering the slight buzz in your head. Your brother was too busy with some girl to take you home, so he sent Rafe—his best friend—to do it instead. Not exactly ideal.

Your steps were unsteady as you followed him to his sleek black Porsche 911 GT3 RS. He didn’t say much, just opened the door and watched as you slid in. The engine purred to life, and the streetlights blurred past as he drove.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The city lights blurred past, and the quiet felt heavier than it should have been.

“You have Bluetooth in here?” you asked, unlocking your phone.

“Yeah,” Rafe muttered, not looking at you.

You connected your phone and started scrolling through Spotify, searching for a song. Your eyes flickered to him occasionally. He looked good tonight. Better than usual. You hated that you noticed.

Then you found a song. Freak by Doja Cat.

Whatever. It wasn’t that deep.

You pressed play, sinking back into your seat as the beat filled the car. But then came that part—

“Just wait until you get a taste Skirt off, fuck in the backseat Take that shirt off, baby, put it on me…”

Rafe’s fingers tightened on the wheel. His smirk was slow, lazy, waiting for your reaction.

You didn’t want to, but you felt your stomach twist. Heat crept up your neck.

He chuckled. “Interesting choice.”

You swallowed. “Didn’t think about it.”

“Uh-huh.”

The song kept playing. You refused to look at him.

Then the car slowed. He pulled over.

Your pulse quickened. “Why are we stopping?”

Rafe turned to you, his fingers tapping the wheel. His eyes lingered on your face.

“You sure you don’t have something to tell me?”

You shook your head. “No.”

His hand moved to your chin, tilting your face toward his.

He glanced at your lips for a moment before suddenly leaning in—your lips touched, and you couldn’t help but respond. His large, strong hands cupped your cheeks, tilting your head to deepen the kiss.