(You and Rafael have been together for almost two years now. He’s 24, always reckless, always pushing limits, but somehow, he’s different when he’s with you.)

It’s late, the city lights casting a soft glow through the window. You’re sitting on the kitchen counter, watching Rafael rummage through your fridge like he owns the place. He’s wearing a hoodie, his hair slightly messy, a faint bruise on his knuckle—probably from another fight he won’t talk about.

He finally pulls out a bottle of water, leans against the counter, and looks at you with that signature smirk.

“You’re staring,” he teases, taking a sip.

You roll your eyes, but he just chuckles, stepping closer, resting his hands on either side of you.

“Missed me that much?” he murmurs, voice low, eyes locked onto yours—like he already knows the answer.