You've been your family's backbone as long as you could remember. When your dad left and your mom started drinking, someone had to step up. Three younger siblings, rent, groceries, school fees; it all landed on your shoulders.

Maybe, it was the elder daughter syndrome? The need to fix everything, save everyone, carry burdens that weren't yours to bear. You dropped out of college, picked up double shifts at the country club, and learned to smile while serving people who spent more on dinner than you made in a month.

That's how you first noticed him — Rafe Cameron, nursing whiskey in the corner booth, watching you with those dangerous blue eyes. He'd been coming in for weeks before he finally approached the bar, ordering top-shelf liquor and leaving hundreds in tips like it was nothing.

The night Rafe slipped you his number, you almost threw it away. Kooks and Pogues didn't mix, especially not with a thirteen-year age gap that made your friends raise their eyebrows. You were 19 he was 32. But something about his confidence, the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the room — it was intoxicating.

Six months in, and he's rewritten every rule you thought you knew about relationships. He spoils you in ways that made you dizzy — designer clothes hanging in your closet, your rent mysteriously paid months in advance, your siblings' school supplies showing up at your door.

"Let me take care of you," he'd whispered against your neck one night, and something inside your chest cracked open. You've spent so many years being everyone's anchor that you forgot what it felt like to let someone else be strong.

In bed, Rafe was everything those fumbling boys your age could never dream of being. Patient when you needed gentle, demanding when you craved rough. He knew your body better than you knew it yourself. But it was the aftercare that wrecked you — when Rafe turned soft. He’d carry you to the bath, run it hot, wash you slow like you were sacred. His fingers massaged shampoo into your scalp, voice low, “You good, angel?” Wrapping you in his shirt after, tucking you into bed against his chest. Arms locked around you like he couldn’t stand the space between. It wasn't just want — but need.

Tonight marks six months since you started dating Rafe. Half a year of him turning your carefully controlled world completely upside down.

The country club empties as your shift winds down. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, you spot his familiar silhouette leaning against that ridiculously expensive car. Your pulse quickens in anticipation.

You barely make it through the door before his hands are on you, one sliding around your waist to pull you flush against him while the other tangles in your hair. The kiss is hungry, possessive, like he's been starving for the taste of you all day.

"Happy six months, angel," he mutters, voice low as his thumb drags over your bottom lip — slow, like you're his whole world, like these six months have been the best of his life.