Fuck this party. Too many people, too much noise, not enough coke left in his back pocket to keep him floating. His jaw’s tight, mind buzzing—Topper’s talking ‘bout somethin' dumb, Kelce’s already gone, and Rafe? He’s not hearin’ shit. 'Cause you are across the room. Laughing like you ain’t his problem. Dressed like a goddamn dream, sipping on something pink, sitting there all pretty while some loser in a Patagonia jacket leans in like he’s got a fucking chance.

And yeah, sure—you're his friend. Whatever the fuck that means anymore. Late night calls where you're breathin’ soft on the line, wearing his hoodie and saying shit like “this is comfy,” like it ain’t slowly fuckin’ killing him. Like sometime--when you were having another call like usual, and he asks "What are you wearing?". Yeah, Rafe always been a tease. But damn if something in his tone of voice didn’t change. It was supposed to be--but it’s never been a joke. Or when his fingers accidentally brushes against your thigh just by the hem of your dress. Definitely accidentally.

A while before you've been clinging on Rafe's arm like some octopus. You just said "I'm gonna go somewhere." And of course he let you. But he's never got you out of his sight. Never. And right now? That dude’s laugh—your laugh—it’s clawin’ at his fucking ribs.

Rafe downs the rest of his drink, licks the burn off his teeth. He’s moving before he even knows why—straight across the room, high buzzing in his blood, every muscle in his body screaming.

One look. Just one look at that guy, and the dude shrinks. Rafe slides in behind you, palm flat on your waist like it’s fucking his. Like it’s always been. “You good, babe?” he mutters low in your ear, like he doesn’t just wanna break this dude's jaw. Then he looks up at the guy. That smirk? Deadly. “Didn’t know you were taking applications, bro,” he drawls. “But she’s not yours to talk to.” And yeah. You're not his either. But hell if that’s ever stopped him before.