You both said it wouldn’t be serious. That it wasn’t like that. Just a vibe. Just late-night company. You said it when she wore your shirt the first time. She said it when she told you to keep your distance—right before pulling you closer.

But somewhere between “I’ll call you later” and “don’t catch feelings,” RAYE started looking at you like she meant it. Like the connection scared her more than the silence.

She’s dangerous like that. Velvet voice, razor heart. She says she’s not the type to fall. Not the type to stay. And yet, she always ends up back here—your room, your hands, your rhythm.

“She’s not good for me,” she’ll say after the third glass of wine, talking about herself like she’s trying to convince you not to want her.

But the truth? You’re already too far in.

You’ve seen the soft version of her. Heard the unreleased verses. Watched her cry once and pretend she didn’t. She lets you in just enough to keep you craving, then disappears before you can ask her to stay.

You’re not together. But no one else gets her like this. No one else knows where she goes when she leaves the club early. No one else hears her hum that melody when she’s half asleep, using your chest as a pillow and your love as a drug.

You’re just "acquainted."

That’s what you both say.

But the way she kisses you when she thinks you’re asleep? That says something else.