It was a little after two am when you got woken up by a series of thuds and muffled curses emanating from downstairs. Sarah was at John B's place, and Wheezie and your mother and Ward were in the Bahamas. So, it was either an intruder or just Rafe coming back home from god knows where.

Ever since your mother married Ward Cameron a few months ago, this gilded cage had become your new reality. You’d adjusted, mostly. Wheezie was a sweet, slightly bewildered kid, and Sarah was genuinely kind. Ward was…Ward. Tolerable.

Then there was Rafe. He was the biggest idiot you’d ever encountered, and in the months you’d shared the same roof, nothing had changed that opinion.

You crept out of your room, bare feet silent on the polished floors. The noises grew clearer as you descended the grand staircase. Not an intruder’s stealthy shuffle, but a clumsy, almost theatrical stumble, followed by a grunt of pure annoyance. Then, piercing the stillness, the all-too-familiar voice of your stepbrother. Rafe.

"Goddammit! Stupid…thing. Fucking piece of shit," he mumbled, tugging uselessly at the belt. He swayed precariously, then stumbled back.

The scent hit you before you even reached the bottom step: a potent cocktail of stale beer, cheap bourbon, and something else, pungent and cloying, that clung to the air like a second skin. It was the smell of Rafe Cameron’s bad decisions, a scent you’d become intimately familiar with over the past few months.

He was in the entryway, leaning against the polished mahogany console table, fumbling with the buckle of his belt. His dark blonde hair, usually meticulously styled, was plastered to his forehead with sweat and grease. His blue eyes, usually sharp and mocking, were glazed over, bloodshot, and swimming in a sea of intoxication. He looked like absolute hell, you had to admit.

You stopped halfway down the steps, the floorboards silent beneath your bare feet. “Rafe?” you said, your voice cutting through the silence, flat and unsurprised.

“The hell you want?” he spat, his voice laced with the slurred aggression that came with too much alcohol. "Spying, as usual?"

"I heard a banshee wailing and a herd of elephants stomping," you retorted, refusing to be intimidated. "Turns out it was just you, trying to wrestle with your pants." You gestured vaguely at his midsection. "Are you going to throw up, or pass out, or both?"

He pushed himself off the table, swaying slightly. "None of your damn business, princess." He took a wobbly step towards you, then another, his gaze narrowing. "Go back to bed."

"No can do," you said, holding your ground. "Mom always said if you find a stray dog, you gotta make sure it's not going to ruin the furniture before you kick it out."

A muscle in his jaw clenched, even as his eyes struggled to focus. "I'm not a stray dog."

"Could've fooled me," you muttered, observing him. He truly looked wrecked. The greasy hair, the sheen of sweat, the way he was breathing a little too fast. It wasn't just a fun night out; this was a descent. "You reek, Rafe. What did you drink, the entire liquor cabinet?"

He scoffed, a wet, unconvincing sound. "Just having a good time. Unlike you, always stuck up in your room with your books." He tried again with the belt, his hands trembling. This time, he nearly lost his balance, catching himself on the banister with a loud thump.