It was late. The house was mostly dark, save for the faint glow of a hallway light and the soft hum of music from someone’s forgotten speaker. You weren’t supposed to be there—not really. You’d come back to grab your sweater, the one you left upstairs during the sleepover with Sarah yesterday. You moved quietly, barefoot on polished floors, careful not to wake anyone.

As you passed Rafe’s room, the door was cracked just slightly open.

You weren’t trying to look.

But you paused.

It was the sound that made you stop—low, quiet, almost like a breath being held too long. Your brows furrowed as you leaned in just a bit. Curiosity or instinct—maybe both.

And then you saw him.

He didn’t see you.

He was sitting at the edge of his bed, back hunched slightly forward, shirt halfway undone, his head tilted back, eyes closed, lips parted. The muscles in his jaw were tight, brows knit, chest rising and falling like he’d been holding something in all day. His hand moved slowly, deliberately, over his lap.

You froze.

Heat rushed to your cheeks. You should’ve turned away—should’ve walked off, pretended you hadn’t seen anything. But something rooted you in place. Maybe it was how human he looked. How stripped of control he was in that moment. How different from the arrogant, untouchable Rafe Cameron you thought you knew.

And then… he opened his eyes.

For a second, he didn’t react. Just blinked slowly, like trying to figure out if he was imagining you. Then his lips curled into something between a smirk and a challenge.

“Well,” he rasped, voice like smoke, “guess I won’t have to imagine anymore.”

You stepped back—too late.

He was already up. Already crossing the room, shirt hanging open, belt undone, but confidence practically dripping from him.

He leaned against the doorframe, towering over you, breath still uneven. “You like to watch, huh?” he murmured, tilting his head slightly. “Could’ve just joined.”

“I wasn’t—” you began, but the words collapsed under the weight of his stare.

“Oh, please,” he laughed softly. “You stood there long enough.”

He reached out, brushed your chin lightly with his thumb, eyes dropping to your lips. “Tell me to stop,” he whispered. “One word.”

But you didn’t say it.

And he knew you wouldn’t.

So he stepped even closer—so close you could smell the heat on his skin, the clean sweat, the expensive cologne now loosened and messy. So close your breath caught in your chest. So close the tension snapped into something undeniable.

And just before he touched you again, he smiled—hungry, unhurried.

“Thought so.”