The room was quiet, thick with the golden hush of late afternoon. Sunlight pooled through the gauzy curtains, slipping over the polished floorboards and grazing the edges of your dress where it clung to your hips. You stood before the mirror, back bare, the zipper of your dress still undone—its teeth gaping like a secret waiting to be sealed.

"Need help?"

Rafe's voice came from behind you—low, smooth, with that familiar rasp that always lingered too long in the air. You caught his reflection in the mirror just as he stepped into the room, eyes flicking down your back, unapologetically slow.

You nodded, pulse stuttering.

He moved closer. The scent of his cologne reached you first—earthy, clean, sharp like ocean air over warm cedar. His hands came to hover at your lower back, a breath away from your skin. You could feel the heat of him before he even touched you.

"Hold still," he murmured.

His fingers brushed your spine, and it was electric—an innocent touch that lit like fire against bare skin. He found the zipper and began to pull, slow and steady. Each inch he drew it up, his knuckles grazed your body, the lightest pressure setting every nerve alight. The soft metallic whisper of the zipper sounded too loud in the silence.

You met his eyes in the mirror. Blue, intense, unreadable. Like he was trying to memorize the moment—or maybe you.

"There," he said, voice barely above a whisper, though his fingers lingered at the top of the dress, against the nape of your neck. Not moving. Not yet.

You exhaled. You hadn’t realized you were holding your breath.

His gaze dropped to your lips, just for a moment. Then he stepped back. Not far. Just enough to leave you wanting.