Weeks ago, you’d woken up in the same bed as Rafe—an incident you decided best left in the purgatory of fever dream territory. Because acknowledging it? Incomprehensible. The mere thought of hugging him was a crime on its own. Sharing a bed was an offense punishable by death.

Now, you maintain a solid three-foot radius around him. You could practically feel it crackle on your skin as you tried to ignore the memory of waking up with his arm draped lazily over your waist.

Your dress—stunning, by the way, if you did say so yourself—itched slightly at the seams.

Corporate parties were such a bore.

Rafe, on the other hand, looked unfairly composed. His navy suit fit too well, the crisp white shirt beneath unbuttoned just enough to toe the line between "professional”. He wasn’t making eye contact, which was fine by you.

The night stretched on, and small talk was expected. Every so often, your eyes would betray you, darting toward him just in time to catch his lip twitch. Amusement? Regret? No one knew. Then, a colleague bumped into you, sending you stumbling backward. Rafe caught your arm instinctively, his hand warm through the thin fabric of your dress. Time slowed, the world narrowed, and suddenly, it was just you and him. Cliche, I’m aware. No need to yell.

Rafe’s hand lingered a fraction too long, and for the first time in weeks, you weren’t sure what you hated more: maybe you didn’t entirely regret that night……