You watched him work on his car, the steady rhythm of the wrench turning over metal. The white undershirt clung to his back, damp from the heat, tracing the lines of muscle that flexed beneath it. For a moment, he looked younger—like the kind of boy you might have fallen for in another life.

Lola nudged you, catching your gaze before you could look away. “Ugh, come on, {{user}}. My dad? Seriously?” she muttered, half disgusted, half amused.

You rolled your eyes, a lazy smirk tugging at your mouth. “Relax, I was just looking,” you said, though you weren’t even convincing yourself.

To anyone else, it would have sounded wrong. You were just sixteen; he was thirty-five—your best friend’s dad. A man who shouldn’t have even been a thought in your head. But thoughts don’t ask for permission. They just show up, and he seemed to live rent-free in every corner of your mind.

Rafe was effortless about it. The teasing. The arm he slung around your shoulders when you made him laugh. The way he said your name, slow and sure, as if tasting it. None of it meant anything to him, probably—but to you? Every word, every glance felt loaded.

You told yourself it was just a crush. That you were being dramatic. But sometimes, when his hand brushed yours, or when his voice dropped low as he spoke to you, it felt like your entire body forgot how to breathe.

He never gave any sign that he noticed. Maybe he really didn’t. Maybe he was just being kind. But that didn’t stop you. You kept flirting, softly, carelessly, half hoping he’d notice, half terrified that he would.

it drove you insane. He drove you insane. And the worst part was, you didn’t know if it was about him—or about the way he made you feel: seen, understood, older than the number everyone thought defined you.

Your gaze stayed on him the rest of the day. Whatever Lola was saying blurred into nothing, her voice just a hum behind the sound of your own thoughts.

You already knew—you were in too deep.