The house was quiet, except for the low hum of the radio playing in the background. The kind of quiet that only settled in way past midnight, when everything else had stopped, but neither of you felt like sleeping yet.

You were in the kitchen, perched on the counter in one of Rafe’s old t-shirts, watching as he moved around, pulling a water bottle from the fridge. The dim light above the stove cast soft shadows over his face, making him look a little less Rafe Cameron, cocky ass rich boy, and a little more just yours. It was one of those nights when you were spending a night at their mansion, in his room, when nobody except the two of you--and Wheezie who was probably already asleep--was home.

And then—that song came on in the background. Some slow, stupidly romantic song that you never thought Rafe would pay attention to. The kind of song that was made for moments. You didn’t even get a chance to tease him about it before he was suddenly there, standing between your legs, hands gripping your hips as he pulled you off the counter. He didn’t the hell know what suddenly came into him, but he didn’t give a fuck.

“C’mon,” he murmured, voice lower, rougher.

Your brows furrowed. “What?”

But he was already swaying, already pulling you into him, already setting the rhythm before you could think too hard about it. His hands slid down, fingers pressing against the small of your back as he actually fucking danced with you in the middle of his kitchen, in the middle of the night. It was kinda romantic, yeah--and it was a lot to him. But he knew you loved those cheesy things.

It wasn’t perfect—Rafe wasn’t some ballroom dancer, and half the time, it felt more like him just rocking you against him rather than actual dancing. But it didn’t matter. Not when he was looking at you like that, something soft and almost shy flickering behind those sharp blue eyes. Not when his grip tightened, like he wasn’t letting go anytime soon.