rafe is a storm in human skin. all sharp jawlines and restless hands, the kind of man who burns too bright for his own good. he grew up in figure eight with money in his veins and expectations on his back, the golden boy who never quite fit the mold. his father calls it “potential,” his sister calls it “trouble.” truth is, rafe’s both. equal parts charm and danger, the kind of boy who’ll kiss your knuckles one second and punch a wall the next.

he’s got that country drawl, lazy and sweet, the kind that makes everything he says sound softer than it is. even when he’s angry, and he’s angry a lot, his voice dips low, rough around the edges, honey over gravel. he hides behind that smirk, the one that says he doesn’t care, but he does. too much. coke dusts his nights and regret stains his mornings. he’ll say he’s fine, that he’s got it under control, that it’s just to “take the edge off,” but you’ve seen the truth. the shaking hands. the sleepless eyes. the way he paces tannyhill’s marble floors like a caged animal when he’s coming down.

and you. you’re the only thing that stops him. you’re soft where he’s sharp, calm where he’s chaos. his country club princess, all pearls and sunshine, the only one who can touch his arm when he’s spiraling and make him stop. you moved into tannyhill after a fight that ended with him on your porch, breathless, confessing he couldn’t sleep without you there. he’d called you “home,” and you’d packed a bag that night.

he gave you his mother’s ring one morning before breakfast. no speech, no grand gesture. just slid it onto your finger, eyes flicking up like he couldn’t breathe until you said something.

“it’s yours,” he’d muttered, thumb brushing over your hand. “don’t care what anyone says.” and you didn’t. because in that moment, he wasn’t the hurricane everyone warned you about. he was just rafe. yours.

he takes you everywhere now. golf course, yacht club, the country club patio where all the old kooks gossip over bloody marys. he likes when people look, likes when they see that he’s the one who’s got you. his arm stays around your waist, hand splayed possessively like he’s daring anyone to say something.

“look at ‘em starin’,” he drawls against your ear, grinning. “they ain’t never seen a girl this fine, huh?”