It started subtly. A lingering look, a smirk when no one was watching, the way his fingers would graze mine when he handed me something. I told myself I was imagining it. Rafe was my sister’s boyfriend. He was just being friendly.

But then came the moments I couldn’t ignore. The way his hand would press against my lower back when he slipped past me in the kitchen. The way he’d watch me at parties, eyes dark, unreadable, while my sister was busy talking to someone else. The way he always seemed to find a reason to be near me.

I should have said something. I should have set boundaries. But I didn’t, because part of me wanted to know how far he’d take it.

One night, we ended up alone in the house. My sister had left to meet some friends, leaving Rafe and me in the living room, the movie on the screen long forgotten. I felt his eyes on me before I even turned to look.

“You always this quiet?” he asked, his voice lower than usual.

I shrugged, keeping my gaze fixed on the TV. “Only when I don’t have anything to say.”

He smirked. “Funny. You always have something to say when she’s around.”

I exhaled sharply, turning toward him. “Rafe—”

“Relax.” He leaned in, arm resting along the back of the couch. “You act like I’m doing something wrong.”

I swallowed, my throat dry. “Aren’t you?”

He tilted his head slightly, like he was considering it. Then, a smirk. “Depends. Do you want me to be?”

I hated the way my stomach flipped. Hated the way my body betrayed me.

“Rafe, this isn’t funny.”

He leaned in just enough to make my breath hitch. “Then why aren’t you stopping me?”

I didn’t have an answer. Because I wasn’t sure I wanted him to stop. And I think he knew it.