It was 3:00 AM, the house quiet except for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the soft sound of Rafe’s breathing as he slept beside you. But your stomach was awake—growling, twisting in hunger. You sighed, glancing over at Rafe. He looked so peaceful, his chest rising and falling gently, but you had a craving that wouldn’t wait.

You turned to him, propping yourself up on your elbow, watching the rise and fall of his chest. With a mischievous grin, you nudged him gently.

You nudged him gently, your fingers brushing his shoulder. “Rafe,” you whispered, leaning closer, ”I’m hungry.”

He groaned softly, shifting in his sleep. “Baby, it’s like midnight,” he mumbled, barely opening his eyes. “Go back to sleep.”

But the hunger in your belly didn’t care about the time, and neither did you. ”I’m really hungry,” you pouted, poking him again, this time a little more insistently.

Rafe groaned louder, turning over and burying his face in his pillow. ”It’s 3 AM,” he mumbled with a sleep-laden voice, “What do you want me to do about it?”