You shouldn’t have come. But here you are.

Again.

The lights are low, the air thick with smoke and something sweeter—something that feels like sin. Rafe’s sitting on the edge of the bed, a bottle dangling from one hand, eyes locked on you like you’re the only thing in the room worth noticing. Worth devouring.

“You look like you’re already drowning,” he says, voice deep and smooth, pulling you in like a rip current. “Might as well come in.”

He says it like it’s a joke, but his eyes tell a different story — dark, hungry, dangerous. You feel it in your chest, in your pulse, in that place between fear and want that only Rafe ever seems to touch.

He stands, slow and deliberate, walking toward you like he already knows you won’t stop him.

“You keep coming back,” he whispers, fingers brushing your jaw. “No matter how deep it gets, no matter how much it fucks you up.”

You hate how right he is. Hate how being around him feels like slipping under, like you’re gasping for air but still chasing the high.

“You swim in it,” he murmurs, forehead nearly touching yours. “You say you hate it, but baby, you breathe this shit. You breathe me.”

His hands are on your hips now, pulling you closer like gravity’s made of nothing but him. The heat between you rises fast, wild, and suffocating — like the water’s already over your head and you don’t care anymore.

“Tell me to stop,” he dares you, voice rough now, need bleeding through the cracks. “Say it, and I will.”

But you don’t. You won’t. Because he’s right — you’re already too far gone.

You’re not just swimming.

You’re drowning.

And God help you… You like it.