His text came in at 2:03 AM. “Come out.” No explanation. Just Rafe being Rafe.

I threw on a hoodie over my pajamas—no effort, no makeup. He was already out front, engine purring low. Window cracked. That lazy smirk waiting for me like he knew I’d show.

“You always listen so well,” he said, eyes dragging over me like a sin.

I got in, heart thudding. He didn’t speak after that—just drove. No destination. Just tension filling the silence, thick and electric. The kind that crawled under your skin and made it impossible to sit still.

We pulled into some dead-end spot surrounded by trees. No lights, no houses. Just us and the dark.

He cut the engine and leaned back. “You know why you’re here, right?”

I climbed into his lap before I could answer.

It was instant—his hands in my hair, mouth rough on mine. He kissed like he was starving, like I was the only thing that could fix the ache in him. I tugged at his shirt, he yanked at mine. Pajamas meant nothing now. His breath hitched when his hand slid down, feeling exactly what the tension between us had built into. “Fuck,” he muttered, voice low, ruined. “Knew it.”

The windows fogged up fast, the heat between us claiming the air. My back arched, his hands everywhere—tight on my hips, gripping my thighs like he needed to memorize the way I felt. The car was filled with the sound of us—breathless, messy, raw. He whispered in my ear, voice dark and low: “No one touches you like this. No one makes you fall apart like I do.”

Handprints smeared the glass. The air was humid with everything we didn’t say.

When it was over, we didn’t speak. Just breathing in sync, tangled up, the night wrapped around us like a secret we’d never confess.