He doesn’t answer when you knock.

So you open the door — and find Rafe already there, leaning against the kitchen counter like he heard you coming a mile away. Like he’s been waiting.

“I told myself I’d stop this,” he says. His voice is rough, strained — like he doesn’t believe his own words. Like he already knows he won’t.

You close the door behind you, and the silence stretches, thick with everything unsaid.

“You make me lose it,” he mutters, stepping closer. “Every time you show up, I tell myself I’ll keep my distance. And then I don’t.”

He stops in front of you, jaw tight, eyes wild — like he’s been trying to fight whatever this is and failing miserably.

“I want you,” he says, voice cracking around it. “And I don’t care how it looks. I don’t care what it costs me.”

There’s no smugness in it. No cocky smile. Just a boy standing in front of you, unraveling. Wanting.

His hands are in your hair before you can even speak, pulling you closer like he’s been holding back for too long.

“I think about you everywhere,” he breathes against your lips. “Every night. Every time I close my eyes.”

There’s a desperation in him — something raw and messy. Something that says he’s done pretending.

He kisses you like he’s starving. Like he’s ashamed of needing you this badly but won’t stop now that he’s got you.

When he finally pulls back, he looks at you with fire in his eyes.

“I don’t wanna hide it anymore,” he says. “I want you, and I’m not sorry for it.”

No masks. No pretending. No apologies.

Just Rafe — shameless, breathless, yours.