Rafe was thrown on the bed, shirt open, his hair messy on purpose and that cigarette erased between his fingers.

You moved his things as if it were your house - because, in practice, it was.

“What the fuck is that?” He asked, laughing, when you put a cassette tape in an old radio.

“A thing called musical taste,” you replied, pressing play.

The old music started playing, slow and full of heavy beats. Rafe stopped, his eyes on you.

“This song... is your face,” you said, staring at him.

He sat down slowly, his elbows on his knees. “You’re saying I’m chaotic, kind of sad and probably problematic?”

You smiled.

“Exactly.”

“So you have a type,” he murmured, pulling you by the waist until you sat on his lap.