The party is wild, music pounding, smoke and liquor heavy in the air. You shouldn’t be here. You told yourself that the second you stepped inside. But then you saw him, leaned over the marble counter, rolling up a bill like he’s done this a thousand times before.

You watch as Rafe presses a finger to one nostril and inhales a line in one smooth motion. He tilts his head back, sniffs sharply, rubs his nose with the back of his hand. When he looks up, his gaze finds yours instantly. He smirks, like he knew you’d be watching. Like he wanted you to see.

Outside, the heat clings to your skin, thick and suffocating. You step out for air, but you don’t even get a moment to breathe before he’s there, leaning against the balcony railing, cigarette balanced between his fingers.

“You keep showing up,” he mutters, exhaling smoke into the night. “Starting to think you actually like this.”

You scoff, arms crossed, but you don’t walk away. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He steps closer, slow, lazy, like he knows you won’t stop him. His fingers graze your wrist, then your waist. “Oh, c’mon, we both know how this goes. You say it doesn’t mean anything, but you keep coming back.”

You should pull away. You don’t.

“You don’t want me, Rafe,” you whisper. “You just don’t want to be alone.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. But there’s something in his eyes, something raw, something that almost makes you believe there’s more to this. “Maybe,” he says, voice softer now. His thumb brushes over your jaw, his lips inches from yours. “But that doesn’t change the fact that you’re here.”

You swallow hard, pulse racing. It’s a game, it always is. No promises, no feelings. Just a constant push and pull.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs.

You should. You don’t.