The early morning sun spilled through the slats in Rafe’s blinds, striping your bedroom with lazy gold. You lay still beneath your sheets, bare skin warm against the cool fabric, hair tangled across the pillow, chest rising slow and even. He was standing near the dresser, half-dressed—black jeans slung low on his hips, pulling a wrinkled T-shirt over his head.

His back was to you, but you could feel his energy. That familiar mix of chaos and control, tension and desire. The room still smelled like him and you. Sex and cologne and something addictive.

“You’re really gonna go back to her?” you asked softly, your voice calm but not accusing. Just curious. Just… real.

Rafe paused, hands frozen at the hem of his shirt, head tilted slightly. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything.” You shifted beneath the sheets, the fabric sliding across your skin like a whisper. “I’m just asking.”

He turned then, those storm-blue eyes landing on you with that look—possessive, conflicted, wrecked. “You know what this is.”

You nodded slowly. You did. You always had.

Still, when he crossed the room and leaned down to kiss you—rough and slow and selfish—you let him. You kissed him back like he belonged to you, even if only in moments like this.