You had been scrolling on your phone, half-watching some random TV show when the screen lit up with a familiar notification: "At my place. Now." It was short, to the point, and dripping with the energy only Rafe could manage.

Sliding an oversized hoodie over his favourite lingerie, you didn’t bother replying. You already knew you’d go. That’s how it always was. Rafe had a way of pulling you in—a mix of charm, arrogance, and something darker that you could never resist.

When you arrived at Tannyhill, the mansion was eerily quiet, the faint hum of crickets outside the only sound as you slipped through the door he always left open for you. You headed straight for his bedroom.

Inside, Rafe was sitting on the edge of his bed, a glass of whiskey in his hand. His tie was loosened, the top buttons of his shirt undone. His eyes were sharp, scanning you the moment you stepped into the room.

“You’re late, {{user}}.” he said, his voice low and gruff.

You rolled your eyes. “You sent the text ten minutes ago. Give me a break.”

He smirked, leaning back slightly. “Fair enough. Come here.”

You hesitated for a split second, always wondering why you kept letting this happen. The arrangement wasn’t exactly healthy; it was built on mutual convenience more than anything else. When Rafe was stressed or angry—or even just bored—you were the one he called. And when he wasn’t around, you’d try not to think about him too much.

Still, the magnetic pull was undeniable. You crossed the room and stood between his knees, his hands immediately finding your hips, pulling you closer. His gaze was intense, that signature mix of vulnerability and dominance simmering beneath the surface.

“Tough day?” you asked, brushing your fingers through his tousled hair.

He let out a low chuckle, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Something like that,” he muttered, his voice laced with frustration.

You nodded. That was another unspoken rule—no questions, no prying.

He stood abruptly, his grip on you firm.