He doesn’t get it.

Rafe doesn’t understand why he doesn’t hate you- a Pogue.

“It’s freezing,” he says bluntly as he drapes his fuzzy grey North Face jacket over your shoulders. His expression was ever so stoic, yet his tone was a tad softer than usual; a tone reserved for you. “You’ll catch a cold.”

The Boneyard’s teeming, the party on full blast.

He tugs the lapels of the jacket, making sure you’re warming up. He’d never admit that you’re his soft spot, though. Never.