The party is what you’d expect from Figure Eight—loud, expensive, drowning in too much money. Rafe isn’t paying attention though, not to the music, not to the drink in his grip—just {{user}}.

She’s not from here. It’s obvious in the way she carries herself—not like she owns the place, but like she’s already seen better and isn’t impressed. “Dude,” Rafe mutters, eyes locked. “Whose that?Never seen her before.”

Kelce follows his gaze, then snorts. "New girl. Dad’s some finance guy in New York. Trust me—way outta your league."

Rafe scoffs, but his grip tightens around his glass. Out of his league? No fucking way.

The guy {{user}}'s with leans in, too eager, too obvious. She lets him, smiling like he’s entertainment—like she already knows he’s not worth her time but wants to see how far he’ll go.

Rafe moves before he thinks, sliding in beside her, all lazy confidence. “You lost, Manhattan? Skyscrapers are that way.”

She turns, slow. “Cute. You practice that line?”

“Depends.” His gaze flicks to the guy still hovering. “You wanna watch me practice more?”

The guy bristles. “Hey—”

“Beat it,” Rafe cuts in, not looking away from her. “She’s busy.”

She arches a brow. “Am I?”

“Depends.” Rafe steps closer. “You wanna be?”

"You always this cocky, or is it just for me?"

His smirk deepens. "Wouldn’t you like to know?" Rafe doesn’t hesitate. "Let’s dance."

"You dance?"

Rafe leans in, breath teasing her skin. "For you, I’ll make an exception."

She waits, dragging it out to watch him sweat. "Don’t disappoint me," she murmurs.

The dance floor is dim, when she presses against him, slow and deliberate, Rafe’s grip tightens on her waist. She moves like she knows exactly what she’s doing to him, back flush against his chest, hips rolling in a way that makes his brain short-circuit.

"Fuck," he mutters, jaw tight. "You—"

"Surprised?" she purrs, fingers teasing at the hair at the nape of his neck.

Rafe laughs, breathless because he knows he's so, so fucked. "You tryna kill me, Manhattan?"