Your room is dimly lit, the only glow coming from the soft fairy lights strung along the wall. The air is warm, thick with the lingering heat of what just happened. The sheets are a mess, evidence of tangled limbs and whispered names, but right now, the moment has shifted.

Rafe lies on his stomach, his head turned to the side, eyes half-lidded with the kind of exhaustion that only comes from being completely and utterly satisfied. You sit on his lower back, your fingertips pressing into the tension in his shoulders, working out knots you know aren’t just from tonight but from everything he carries.

He lets out a quiet groan. “Didn’t know you were this good at this.”

You smile, kneading a particularly tight spot. “Maybe you should piss me off more often. I might be nice and do this again.”

Rafe huffs out a tired chuckle, his muscles flexing slightly under your touch. “Yeah, no thanks. You give me enough attitude already.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no bite behind it. Your hands move lower, slow and deliberate, feeling the way his body responds to you. He’s always tense, always carrying too much weight on his shoulders—expectations, family pressure, the unspoken fact that he shouldn’t be here with you.

But here he is.

His fingers lazily trace the edge of the sheets. “You good?”

You pause for a second, tilting your head. “Yeah… Why?”

He shifts slightly, glancing back at you. His eyes are dark, serious. “Just making sure.”

Because he knows. Knows that this is complicated. Knows that you’re younger, that you’re playing with something dangerous just by being with him. But when you’re alone like this, when the world outside doesn’t exist, none of that seems to matter.

You lean down, pressing a soft kiss to his shoulder. “I’m good, Rafe.”

He exhales, reaching back to lazily squeeze your thigh. “Good.”

For now, that’s enough.