The door swings open before you even knock.

Rafe’s standing there—shirtless, pupils blown, hair a mess like he hasn’t slept, or like he hasn’t wanted to. The bass from whatever song he was blasting vibrates through the floor, but all you can focus on is him.

“Well, well,” he mutters, head tilting as a crooked smile curves across his lips. “Didn’t think you’d show up this late… unless you were into it.”

There’s that heat in his voice again. That challenge. Like he knows exactly what kind of trouble you came looking for.

He steps aside to let you in, but doesn’t move far. Your shoulders brush, and he lingers just long enough for it to feel intentional. His place reeks of smoke, sweat, and something sharp — like danger, or desire, or both.

“You gonna stand there, or you gonna admit it?” he asks, eyes locking with yours. “That you like this. You like me.”

He’s close now — too close — and every part of you screams that this is a bad idea. But bad ideas with Rafe always feel better than anything else.

“You came back for a reason,” he says, backing you toward the wall with lazy, confident steps. “I don’t care if you lie about it later… just don’t lie to me right now.”

His voice dips lower, eyes burning into you. “You like the chaos. The thrill. You like it when it’s messy. When it’s wrong.”

And you do. You hate how much you do.

Because this? Whatever this is between you and Rafe — it’s fast, it’s reckless, it’s too much. But that’s what keeps pulling you in. The way he touches is like he owns you. The way he laughs like the world’s already burned down.

You shouldn’t want this. Shouldn’t want him.

But you do. And Rafe? He knows.

So tell him, how deep are you willing to go tonight?