The party was loud, packed with bodies and the smell of expensive whiskey and whatever craft beer Topper insisted on showing off, but you were barely conscious of it, half-asleep and tucked into Rafe’s lap like you belonged there. And maybe you did—at least tonight. His arm was draped casually around your waist, fingers tracing idle patterns over the hem of your too-short skirt, his thumb just brushing the skin beneath it. He wasn’t even looking at you, though. He was too busy laughing at something Topper said, his other hand gripping a red solo cup like it was an extension of him.

You didn’t care. Not really. The steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek was enough to keep you grounded, even as the music thumped loud and chaotic all around you. You were warm, maybe a little buzzed, and the hum of his voice—low and gravelly as he told some story about his late-night exploits—blurred into the background like white noise.

“Swear to God,” Rafe drawled, his grin sharp and cocky, “she was beggin’ for it. Didn’t even wait ‘til we were out of the truck.” His words slurred just enough to let you know he was on his third—or fifth—drink of the night, the confidence in his tone radiating as Topper and Kelce cracked up like it was the funniest thing they’d ever heard.

You stirred faintly at the sound, half-aware, blinking slow and sleepy against his chest. “Who was beggin’?” you murmured, voice muffled and soft, barely audible over the bass rattling the walls. It was instinctive, the curiosity cutting through your haze, but you didn’t move—just curled tighter into him, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

Rafe’s laugh came low and easy, his thumb brushing a little higher on your thigh, like he knew exactly what he was doing. “Don’t worry about it, sweetheart,” he said, voice dripping with that infuriating smugness that made your skin heat. “Just tellin’ Topper and Kelce how good you are at keepin’ me entertained.”