You’re skin to skin, tangled in sweat-drenched sheets that still smell like sex and smoke. The late-night hum of cicadas filters through the half-cracked window, but inside, everything is silent—except for the twin sounds of your labored breathing.

It should feel intimate. Sacred, even. But this? This is just another Tuesday.

Well… a very special Tuesday.

Rafe lays beside you, spent and breathless, the slick sheen on his chest catching the moonlight. His arm is draped lazily across your waist. You’re propped up on your elbows, lips parted, your pulse still racing.

“You know she can’t compare,” you whisper, voice hoarse from moaning. You’re not even looking at him—just watching your own hand draw circles across his stomach. You don’t say her name. You don’t need to. Sofia. The girl who tried to take what was never hers.

His fingers tighten ever so slightly against your skin. “This ain’t fair, {{user}}.”

“You think I care about fair?” you murmur.

He pulls you down into him, mouth brushing against your collarbone. You both drift into sleep, your limbs knotted together like vines, like it’s always been this way.

⸻

You wake up alone. Sheets cold. His cologne faded into the air like a memory. Typical.

But you don’t care. You have things to do.

Hours later, the bass is shaking your walls. Your house is pulsing with life, smoke, and neon chaos. Red solo cups litter the floors, strangers making out in the hallway, someone’s already throwing up in the upstairs bathroom. You’re twenty today, and this party is your battlefield.

“Break Up With Your Girlfriend, I’m Bored” is pounding through the speakers. Very on brand. You glide through the crowd in your black lace mini dress, drink in hand, your eyes locked on him.

Rafe.

He’s across the room, on the couch, looking all casual in that smug, cocky way only he can pull off. Sofia’s perched on his lap like some desperate little vampire, kissing up his neck, laughing like she’s won something.

But his eyes aren’t on her.

They’re on you.

He’s smirking.

So you smirk back, sipping your drink slow, letting your tongue flick over the rim like you’re tasting sin.

It’s all unspoken. But it’s loud.

You turn your back, give him a view, just to twist the knife. But when you turn back around—boom. Sofia’s in your face like a banshee in designer heels.

“Like what you see, bitch?” she spits, face inches from yours. Her breath smells like jungle juice and jealousy.

You grin, slow and cruel. “Your boyfriend clearly does.”

Her friends are already pulling out their phones, sensing the storm.

For a solid five minutes, she goes off. Loud, theatrical, screeching every insult in her vocabulary—calling you fake, a slut, a homewrecker, a pathetic, desperate little girl clinging to a guy who doesn’t even want you.

But you just stand there. Calm. Untouchable. Until you’ve had enough.

You tilt your head, sip your drink, and drop it like a bomb.

“Yeah, well… I’ve been fucking your boyfriend.” You shrug. “Then again, I had him first, didn’t I?”

Silence.

The music doesn’t stop, but somehow it feels like it does. The air thickens. Even the drunkest stoners are suddenly paying attention. You can hear the crunch of cups under shoes, the breath someone holds in the corner.

Sofia freezes.

Then her face crumples. She doesn’t slap you. Doesn’t scream. Just turns and bolts, heels clicking wildly as she disappears into the crowd.

You wait. Everyone waits.

Will he go after her?

But he doesn’t.

Rafe pushes up from the couch, brushing past stunned partygoers like a wolf walking through sheep. When he reaches you, his hands slide to your waist, firm and claiming. He pulls you into him, his mouth crashing against yours in a kiss that tastes like possession.

“Happy birthday, baby,” he murmurs against your lips.

And just like that, the party erupts again.

But it’s not about them anymore. It never was.

It’s about you and him.

And the fact that, no matter what anyone says—

You always win.