The Figure Eight club was packed, bodies moving under flashing lights, the air thick with sweat, liquor, and bad decisions. Topper’s birthday party was the event of the night, and everyone who mattered was here. Including him.

Rafe Cameron was wasted.

You weren’t there—not yet, anyway. But your phone buzzed in your hand, lighting up with another message.

RAFE: where r u RAFE: u look hot tnight RAFE: wait ur not here. how do i kno that. RAFE: i jus kno

You rolled your eyes, but your stomach flipped. Another buzz.

RAFE: come get me. dnt wanna be here

You hesitated, glancing at the unread messages from your friends—warnings about Rafe getting too drunk, too reckless. But it was the next text that made your breath catch.

RAFE: only person i wanna see tonight is u

Your heart pounded. You shouldn’t fall for this—his messy, impulsive, so-Rafe way of pulling you back in. But you were already grabbing your keys.

By the time you got to the club, Rafe was leaning against the bar, head tipped back, eyes half-lidded and lazy. The second he spotted you, that signature smirk appeared, sloppy but real.

“Knew you’d come,” he slurred, pushing off the counter, stumbling slightly as he reached for you.

You caught his wrist before he could do something stupid. “You’re a mess, Cameron.”

He leaned in, his breath warm against your ear. “Yeah,” he murmured, “but I’m your mess.”

And that? That was dangerous. Because no matter how many times you tried to walk away—Rafe always knew exactly how to pull you back.