The house was silent, cloaked in the kind of darkness that made everything feel heavier. You stood in the kitchen, hoodie hanging off your shoulder, arms crossed as you stared blankly at the counter. The fight with your mom, the stress, the way the day completely fell apart—it all clung to you like fog. You didn’t cry. You just stood there, numb, wrapped up in your own storm.

Then you heard it.

A soft click, and suddenly, music—gentle, warm, something old and jazzy—floated through the kitchen. You turned your head slightly and saw Rafe leaning against the doorway, his phone in hand, a small smirk playing on his lips.

“You looked like you needed a soundtrack,” he said softly.

You rolled your eyes, but a tiny part of you softened. He stepped closer, shirt half-buttoned, hair messy like he’d just woken up—or never went to sleep.

“Come here,” he said, voice low.

“No,” you mumbled, looking away.

He didn’t listen. He stepped behind you, slid his hands to your waist and slowly turned you to face him. “You’re allowed to be pissed. But not alone.”

You stared at him, unsure whether to snap or sink into him. But then he did something stupid.

He twirled you.

In the middle of the dim kitchen, bare feet on cold tile, he spun you awkwardly, then caught you with exaggerated grace like some kind of ballroom dancer. You cracked a smile. He grinned.

“There she is,” he said, pulling you close again, now swaying slowly with the music.

You rested your cheek against his chest. “This is dumb.”

“Yup. But you’re not mad right now, are you?”

Silence.

You weren’t.

You let him keep swaying, his arms wrapped tight around you, the music drifting on as the clock blinked 2:14 AM.

And for the first time that night, you felt okay again.