Rafe’s house was dead silent, except for the faint hum of the AC. The party had ended hours ago, but here you were, still lingering.

You sat on the edge of his couch, tipsy but not enough to blame your boldness on the alcohol.

Rafe was sprawled on the couch across from you, his legs stretched out, watching you with that sharp, unreadable gaze.

His hair was messy, his shirt slightly unbuttoned—God, he looked too good.

You weren’t even sure why you stayed behind, but something about the way he kept glancing at you, like he was daring you to make a move, kept you rooted.

You stood up slowly, fingers trailing along the hem of your dress. His eyes followed the movement instantly, his jaw tightening.

“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice rough.

You smirked, letting the strap of your skin-tight dress slide off your shoulder.

“Let me show you how proud I am to be yours.”

you murmured, holding his gaze. You wanted to look good for him.

His brows furrowed, and you swore you saw his breath hitch as the dress fell, pooling at your feet—leaving you in nothing but lace. You could feel his eyes burning into your skin.

He didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to.

His hand rested on his knee, his thumb tapping slowly. He eyed you, the heat in his expression had your breath catching in your throat.

Still, he didn’t move. He just tilted his head slightly, looking at you like you were the most gorgeous thing he’d ever seen.

You felt your cheeks flush, and he finally cracked a smile, slowly, like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

“Mine.” he finally said.

And yeah, the dress was a mess on the floor.