Rafe and {{user}} weren’t dating. That’s what they told people.

But watching them at Topper’s party? No one believed it.

The music was loud, bass thumping hard enough to rattle the deck. People spilled from the living room out onto the patio, red solo cups in hand, already buzzed off Topper’s liquor and Barry’s side deals behind the shed.

Rafe had claimed his usual spot on the patio couch early. {{user}} was beside him, legs draped across his lap like it was habit. One of her hands rested on his shoulder, the other wrapped around his drink—because hers had gone missing two songs ago. His fingers rested on her thigh, tracing lazy, mindless patterns.

They weren’t talking. They didn’t need to.

Barry strolled by first, high as hell, his grin slow and calculated. “Y’all ever gonna admit it?” he asked, eyes flicking between them. “Or just keep playing pretend?”

“Nothing to admit,” Rafe said without looking up.

“Right,” Barry drawled. “You keep holding her like that and someone’s gonna get confused. Probably you.”

He walked off laughing, and {{user}} just shook her head, smiling to herself.

Later, Topper dropped into the seat across from them, drink in hand and smirk already in place. “You two make it real hard to believe this whole just friends thing.”

{{user}} leaned back, unfazed. “That sounds like a you problem.”

Topper looked between them. “No, it sounds like a problem for the next poor idiot who catches feelings and doesn’t know he’s already too late.”

Rafe didn’t rise to it. He just reached for his drink—right before she took it from him again, sipping without missing a beat.

“You really don’t care what people think?” she asked, more curious than teasing.

His eyes didn’t leave hers. “I care what you think.”

Her smirk faltered—just for a second.

Rafe leaned in slightly, voice low and steady.

“Tell me to stop, and I will. Otherwise? You already know what this is.”