You roll your eyes at him. It’s not even dramatic—just a slow drag upward after he says some dumb shit about Barry, or blames you for his bad mood. But it’s enough.

Rafe doesn’t yell. Doesn’t flinch. He just moves—fast, smooth. One hand snakes around your waist, the other comes up and grips your jaw, not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to make your breath catch.

His thumb slides just under your lip, tilting your face to meet his. His smile’s sharp and slow, that glint in his eye that says he’s so about to eat you alive.

“Really, baby?” he murmurs, voice low and dangerous like it’s a dare. “That what we’re doing now? Eye rolls and attitude?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Not when he’s this close—his fingers curling just a little tighter, his lips brushing your cheek without giving you what you want. He’s all heat and chaos and control right now, and he knows it.

“Say it again,” he whispers, smirk deepening. “Go ahead. Roll ‘em one more time.”

Your heart’s pounding. You want to defy him. He wants you to, too. This whole thing? It’s the game. The line neither of you can stop toeing.

You bite your lip. His eyes drop to your mouth. “That’s what I thought.”

And then he’s kissing you—hard, claiming, like he’s got something to prove.

Because you’re his girl. And nobody gets under his skin like you do.