The bass rattles through the walls, heavy and relentless, making the whole house feel like it’s pulsing. You’re sunk into a chair in the corner of the living room, elbow propped on the armrest, your head cradled in your palm. The room spins just slightly, and every shout, every burst of laughter feels like someone pounding against your skull. Maybe you had one drink too many. Maybe three.

You close your eyes, breathing through the headache, when a voice cuts through the noise. Low, sharp, with that hint of mockery you know too well.

“Damn, you look like shit, {{user}}.”

Your eyes snap open. Rafe Cameron. Sarah’s older brother. Of course. He’s standing over you, a lazy grin tugging at his mouth like he’s enjoying your misery.

“Fuck off, Rafe,” you mutter, your voice rougher than you intended.

That only makes his grin widen. “Relax, princess. I’m trying to help. You wanna keep sulking down here, or you want me to make you look a little less… tragic?”

Before you can protest, his hand is wrapping around your arm, pulling you gently but firmly to your feet. You’re too drained to fight him on it. The stairs blur in your vision as he guides you up, his arm steady against your back. The further you get from the pounding music, the easier it feels to breathe.

He nudges open a door at the top of the hall—the bathroom. Quiet, cool, a world away from the chaos below. You drop your bag on the counter and slide down to the tiled floor, leaning back against the wall with a relieved sigh. Your eyes flutter closed, head tilting up.

“In my bag,” you mumble. “There should be painkillers in there.”

He raises a brow but obeys, flipping the small purse open. Inside, among crumpled receipts and lip gloss, he finds the pills. But his hand stills, hovering over something else. A slow grin spreads across his face as he pulls out the small foil box.

“Well, well,” he drawls, holding up the pack of condoms. “Planning on putting these to use tonight?”

Your eyes snap open, cheeks heating instantly. “Rafe, shut the hell up.”

He laughs, low and amused, turning the box over in his hands. “Extra large, huh? Even bought my size. That’s considerate of you.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“Disgusting, or just right?” He leans back against the counter now, arms folded, watching you like he’s found a new kind of entertainment.

You snatch it out of his hand, glaring at him. “I asked for painkillers, not commentary.”

Finally, he fishes out the pills and sets them in your palm. “There you go, princess. Don’t say I never did anything for you.”

You take them dry, eyes closing again, wishing the ground would swallow you up. But then you feel it—his gaze lingering on you, heavier than the bass downstairs. You peek at him through half-lidded eyes, and he’s still leaned back against the counter, studying you like you’re something he can’t quite figure out.

“Y’know,” he says slowly, lips twitching, “I like this side of you. All messed up, no filter.”

You shake your head, pressing your hand to your temple. “Rafe, seriously—shut up.”

But even as he laughs—low, careless, a sound that curls warm against your skin—there’s a darker pull in his eyes. Like maybe he’s not just here to tease you, but to see how far you’ll let him go.