The bathroom was empty.

Rafe nudged the door open with his foot and helped you inside, lowering you onto the cold tile floor. “Alright, there you go,” he said, crouching beside you. You leaned over the toilet, your stomach churning. You closed your eyes, willing yourself not to yack, but the spinning room wasn’t helping.

“I hate you,” you mumbled, clutching the edge of the toilet seat.

“Yeah, I know,” Rafe said casually.“You remind me every chance you get.”

You glare at him. “That’s because it’s true.”

“Right,” he said, smirking. “And yet, here I am, lending a hand. What does that say about you?”

“That I have terrible luck,” you shot back. Rafe laughed, leaning against the wall. “You’re such a pain in the ass.”

“Funny,” you muttered, resting your forehead on your arm. “I was gonna say the same thing about you.”

For a moment, the only sound in the room was the muffled bass from the party outside. Your nausea subsided, and you slumped against the wall, closing your eyes.

“You good now?” Rafe asked, his tone less mocking.

“Define ‘good,’” you muttered.

“Not yacking everywhere?”

“Yeah,” you sighed, cracking one eye open to glare at him.

“Great,” he said, leaning his head back. “Because carrying you out of here would really ruin my night.”

You snorted. “As if you’d actually do that.”

“Try me,” he said, and for once, his tone was serious. You studied him, your guard lowered just enough by the alcohol to really look at him. His sharp jawline, his piercing blue eyes—he was annoyingly attractive, and even worse, he was sitting here helping you instead of making fun of you.

“Why are you even helping me?” You asked, your voice quieter now. “I thought you hated me.”

“I do,” he said, but there was no heat behind his words. You looked away, your fingers tracing the grout lines in the tile.

“I don’t need you to save me, Rafe.”

“Never said you did,” he replied. “But here we are.”

He stood and held out his hand to you

“Let me help you,”

There was a beat of silence

“Please?”