The sky had started to dim, fading into that soft blue-grey that comes just before night fully settles. The pool lights cast everything in a glow—neon pinks, blues, and flickering gold off the water. Music played from someone’s speaker, bass low and heavy, voices loud with the kind of laughter that only comes from too many drinks and just enough bad decisions.

You were perched at the edge of the pool, legs dipped in, toes skimming the cool surface. Your bikini still damp from earlier, and your skin warm from the sun—and maybe the alcohol. You’d had a few drinks. Maybe more than a few. And someone passed a joint earlier, and you didn’t say no. Your head was spinning just enough to make everything feel slower, floatier. Your best friend beside you giggled about something you already forgot.

Rafe was in the water, chest-deep, surrounded by his usual crew. Topper had some girl hoisted up on his shoulders, sloshing water everywhere and shouting something about playing chicken. Everyone laughed.

“Need someone,” Rafe said, glancing around. Girls were everywhere—any of them would’ve jumped at the chance.

But his eyes locked on you. “{{user}}! Come here. You’re with me.”

You blinked, looking behind you, then back at him. “Me?” you laughed, slightly slurred, half disbelieving. “Why me?”

He smirked. “Why not?”

Your friend nudged you, whispering something like do it, but your heart was already racing, the kind of flutter that came when Rafe looked at you like that—like you were something he’d already decided belonged to him.

“Come on,” he said, his voice deeper now, hand outstretched in the water. “I won’t let you fall.”

Something in the way he said it made you move. He was closer now, arms open like an invitation.

The alcohol in your system made your limbs loose, bold.

You tossed your hair back, grinned, and slid into the pool—his arms brushing yours as he steadied you. And then, with one smooth movement, you were up—his hands gripping your thighs as he lifted you onto his shoulders. Your laughter spilled into the night as you tried to balance, your hands in his damp hair for support.

Topper’s team came charging, and the game began—but none of that mattered. Not the cheering, not the splashing.

It was the way Rafe’s hands held you steady, how his fingers curled just slightly, how he looked up once and grinned like he liked you there.

Like he didn’t want you to get down anytime soon.