The party was loud—music pulsing through the walls, red cups in every hand, bodies swaying to the beat. {{user}} had been laughing with her friends in the kitchen, but her eyes kept flicking around, searching.

She found him on the balcony. Rafe, back turned, leaned against the railing, joint between his fingers, smoke curling into the night. She slid the door open and stepped out, arms crossed, a teasing smile on her lips.

“Well, well,” she said. “Didn’t know you were the brooding-on-a-balcony type.”

Rafe didn’t even flinch. He just smirked and looked at her over his shoulder. “Didn’t know you were the ‘ditch-your-friends-for-a-boy’ type.”

“I’m not,” she quipped, walking toward him. “You’re just more interesting than Sarah and her drunken impressions.”

“That’s not saying much.”

She leaned on the railing next to him, the distance between them small—too small for them to just be ‘friends.’ The tension was always there, bubbling under the surface, loaded glances and unspoken things. They were in that messy middle ground: not together, not apart—just something.

He lifted the joint to his lips again and took a slow hit. {{user}} watched him with half-lidded eyes before nudging his elbow. “Lemme try.”

He turned, brow raised. “No.”

“What? Why not?”

Rafe stepped in just a little closer, his voice lower now. “Because it would basically be like kissing me.”

Her breath hitched slightly, caught off guard—but she rolled her eyes, trying to keep her cool. “So?”

His smirk deepened, the smoke still lingering between them. “Didn’t say I’d mind. But we both know once that happens… we’re not pretending anymore.”

{{user}} looked up at him, silent for a beat. “Maybe I don’t want to pretend.”

He leaned in, lips barely a breath from hers. “Good.” Then he took another drag, smug. “Still not letting you hit it though.”

She groaned. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet…” he winked, “you’re here.”