You were wasted— gone in that beautiful, dangerous way that turned the night into a blur of music and golden lights. Your laughter was easy, your balance not. You’d been pulled around the room for hours, always by the same person— that friend. The one who always seemed to appear between you and Raphael.

He’d watched it all unfold. The hand on your back, the way your friend leaned close to whisper in your ear, the way you giggled and didn’t pull away. Every small gesture, he saw it. Every single one.

At first, he’d done what he always did. Smiled for the cameras. Played the part. The calm, composed co-star, the one everyone said could never be rattled. But he was rattled. Beneath the tux and tired grin, something simmered, something that only ever showed when it came to you.

That sound— your laugh, had always been his favorite. But tonight, it burned.

And when you finally stumbled out to the balcony, he followed— not out of duty, but because he couldn’t stand another second watching someone else hold your attention.

The door clicked shut behind him. The air felt clearer out here, or maybe it was just the distance from him.

“You’re drunk,” he muttered, stepping up beside you, catching your elbow when you swayed. His hand lingered, steady but trembling. “And freezing.”

He draped his jacket over your shoulders before you could protest, his scent swallowing you whole. His fingers brushed your arm as he adjusted the fabric, lingering longer than necessary.

“You shouldn’t let him pour your drinks,” he said quietly. “He does it on purpose. You know that, right?”

You mumbled something incoherent, and that was enough to make him huff out a bitter laugh. “Of course you don’t. You never notice when he does it.”

His gaze lingered on the door, jaw clenching. “He’s been trying all night,” he muttered. “Touching you like that. Laughing at everything you say. Acting like he knows you— like he’s entitled to you.”

His hand flexed where it rested on your waist. “He loves the attention. He does this every time. Waits until I’m in the room, then goes straight to you.” His voice cracked, low and sharp. “And you let him.”

You shifted, leaning your weight against him. The movement made his breath stutter. His arm came up instantly, wrapping around your waist, pulling you closer to steady you. The touch lingered, a little too desperate.

He pressed his forehead to yours, voice lowering. “We said no strings. No jealousy. Just fun, right?” His throat bobbed. “But then he looks at you like that, and suddenly I want to tear the entire room apart.”

His laugh was soft but shaky, humorless. “God, you should’ve seen him. The way he looked at you. Like he was already planning to take my place.”

He exhaled hard through his nose, the sound of irritation. “I hate him,” he muttered softly, half to himself. “Always hanging around, acting like he knows you better than I do. Like he’s part of this—” he stopped himself before finishing, jaw clenching. “Like he’s us.”

He laughed, quiet and broken. “Do you have any idea what that does to me?” His voice cracked. “I don’t even recognize myself when it comes to you. I hate it.”

His hands framed your face, thumbs brushing over your flushed cheeks. “You won’t remember this tomorrow,” he murmured, softer now, trembling. “But I will. Every second. Every time he touched you, every time I didn’t say something when I should have.”

He rested his forehead against yours again, eyes closing. “He wants you. He’s wanted you since the first press tour. I know it. You know it.“

Your friend’s laugh echoed faintly through the glass.

“He’s still in there,” he whispered. “Probably looking for you right now. Waiting to swoop in the second you walk back through that door.”

He laughed quietly— low, bitter. “He thinks he’s winning.” He drew you closer, his chin brushing the top of your head. “Let him think that.”

His arms tightened around you. “You’re wasted, I know. But right now, I just want this. You. Here. With me. Stay here. Don’t go back in. Let him wonder where you are. Let him wonder who you’re with.”