The country club glittered under chandeliers, polished marble floors echoing with the sound of money pretending to be charm. Rafe sat rigid at the long white-draped table, shoulders tense beneath his pressed shirt. A glass of whiskey sweated in his hand, but he hadn’t taken a sip in minutes.

You sat beside him, the embodiment of everything the room wasn’t. Pink silk, nails sparkling under the golden light, hair done to perfection like you’d stepped out of some glossy magazine—but you weren’t fake. That was the problem. That was what scrambled his head every damn time he looked at you.

Across from him, the client’s daughter leaned forward, batting lashes so thick they looked heavy. Blonde hair cascading over her bare shoulders, blue eyes fixed on him like he was the only man in the room.

“So, Rafe,” she drawled, twisting her straw in a club soda like it was some performance. “You, uh, spend a lot of time at the docks? Bet you’re really good with boats.”

Rafe smirked. He could’ve had her in the back of his truck by midnight if he wanted. And Christ, six months without sex was eating him alive. Six months of watching you sleep next to him, smelling like expensive perfume and warm skin, but never letting him past the velvet rope you’d drawn around yourself.

He tilted his head, gave the blonde across from him that lazy grin. “Yeah,” he said, voice low, smooth. “I’m good with more than just boats.”

The girl giggled. It made Ward laugh too, distracted while he pitched numbers to her dad. Your own father didn’t even glance over—too busy talking about investments.

But you did. You weren’t smiling, weren’t frowning either—just watching him with that sharp, unreadable look that always made him feel like you could see inside his skull.

You leaned in, close enough that your perfume curled around him. Your voice was quiet, edged with sweetness that wasn’t entirely sweet. “You flirting, baby?”

Rafe froze. A small laugh escaped his throat, half-choked. “What? No,” he muttered, shaking his head, jaw tightening. “Just being polite.”

“Mm.” You turned back to your drink, the clink of ice against glass sounding louder than it should have.

The blonde across the table touched her necklace, let her hand drop low, brushing the neckline of her dress like an accident. “You must have so many stories, Rafe,” she purred. “You’ll have to tell me one later.”

He swallowed hard, wanting to say yes. Wanted to fall back into that shallow rhythm where women were simple, bodies were simpler, and nothing felt like it mattered. But he looked at you again—glitter catching on your collarbone, lips parted just enough to breathe—and suddenly the idea of saying yes made his stomach turn.

“Maybe,” he said instead, voice sharper than he meant. “Depends how boring the story is.”

Her laugh faltered and Rafe almost smirked. He leaned back, forcing himself to stretch an arm along the back of your chair, letting his hand rest heavy on your shoulder like a claim. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t lean into it either. You just stayed there, that unreadable expression still in place, sipping your drink like you had all the time in the world.

Inside, Rafe was unraveling.

Every girl before you, he’d cheated on without hesitation. He’d called it instinct, called it need. Sex was currency, power, a way to keep the chaos inside from boiling over. But with you—Christ. With you, the thought of touching someone else made him nauseous.

He leaned down, close to your ear, his voice just for you. “You know I’m not interested in her, right?”

You didn’t look at him. Just arched one perfect brow. “Didn’t look that way a minute ago.”

“Baby.” His tone was a warning, but also a plea. “Don’t start.”

That earned him your smile—small, knowing. The kind of smile that made him wonder if you had any idea how fucked he was for you.

Rafe couldn’t look anywhere except at you. Six months in, no sex, and he couldn’t even stomach the idea of cheating. It was terrifying. It was the first time he’d ever looked at a girl and thought: I could love you.