It was late — well past midnight — and the last of the guests had gone. The lights still glowed softly in the backyard, casting a golden hue over the scattered balloons and empty glasses. Music played faintly from inside, but everything felt quieter now. Still. Like the world had paused just for you two.

Rafe stood by the sliding door, watching you with that familiar look — the one that always made your heart skip.

“You look beautiful tonight,” he said, his voice low.

You smiled, a little tired, a little tipsy, but glowing from the happiness of the night. “You’ve already said that three times.”

“I’ll keep saying it. You don’t even know what you do to me.”

You stepped closer, fingers brushing the collar of his shirt. “Maybe you should show me.”

He didn’t need more of an invitation. In one movement, his arms were around you, lips on yours, warm and full of the kind of hunger that built up over hours of subtle glances and quiet touches. He kissed you like the night was yours — like there was no one else, no past, no future. Just now.

You barely made it to the bedroom. The laughter from earlier had turned into quiet moans, whispered promises, and the rustle of sheets as clothes were left behind. He touched you like he remembered every part of you — like he’d memorized the map of your body.

“Happy birthday,” he whispered against your skin, before everything else faded away — the only sounds were breath and heartbeats and the soft rhythm of two people who had nothing to hide from each other.

That night, it wasn’t just about sex. It was about feeling seen. Loved Desired.

And for once, you didn’t need candles or cake to know it was a celebration — because with him, like that, it was more than enough.