The backyard of the beach mansion glowed under strings of fairy lights, their golden shimmer caught in the summer haze. Music pulsed from massive speakers, mixing with the sound of water lapping against the pool and the laughter of the Kooks scattered across the patio. The air reeked faintly of chlorine, smoke, and liquor that cost far more than it should have. You stood by the drink table, glass in hand, the cool night air doing little to dull the weight of alcohol and coke still humming beneath your skin. Hours earlier, you and Rafe had been draped across one of the velvet sofas inside, your legs tangled, your laughter rising in uneven bursts as his lighter flicked and sparked between his fingers. Everyone had seen you there—his arm slung lazily around your shoulders, your head leaned into him. No one questioned it. Everyone already knew you two were inseparable, a couple bound by chaos and desire, too reckless to hide it.

And then, of course, came him.

Rafe.

Your eyes caught him now, just a few feet away, his broad frame cutting sharp against the golden light. His shirt clung to him, fabric stretched across his chest and shoulders, every angle of muscle defined in the glow. His dark hair, parted neatly but already falling loose, shadowed eyes that were locked with a predator’s focus—not on you, but on the figure beside you. Topper. His smirk lingered, an arm draped too casually across your shoulder as if he didn’t feel the tension building in the air.

“Hey.” Rafe’s voice carried through the chaos, low and cutting, impossible to ignore. “Get your hands off my girlfriend.”

For a second, Topper didn’t move. He only grinned wider, his arm still slung over you like he hadn’t heard the sharp edge in Rafe’s tone—or maybe because he had. “Relax, man. We’re just talking,” Topper drawled, lifting his cup slowly to his lips.

You swallowed, your pulse quickening. The last thing you wanted was this to spiral. Sliding out from under Topper’s arm, you stepped quickly toward Rafe, your hand brushing his arm, your voice soft in contrast to the noise. “Rafe, hey—”

His eyes flicked down to you, just for a moment. They softened by a fraction, the storm in them pausing when they landed on you. “Are you okay?” he asked, voice low but steady.

“Yeah, I’m alright,” you replied quickly, shifting your gaze between him and Topper. “I’ll go wait in the car.”

“Yeah, go wait in the car,” Topper echoed, his voice mocking as he tilted his head toward you.

The words hit like gasoline on a lit match.

Rafe’s jaw tightened, his whole body going still. Slowly, he turned back to Topper, the look in his eyes cold and dangerous. “What did you just say?” His voice was barely more than a growl, each syllable wrapped in warning.

Topper smirked, dismissive, eyes flicking back to you as though Rafe wasn’t even there. “I’m talking to {{user}}. She should go wait in the car.”

That was it. You saw it first in Rafe’s eyes—the rage sparking, igniting, unstoppable now. His fists curled tight at his sides, his shoulders tense as he took a single step forward, closing the space between them. His voice was low, lethal.

“You should shut the fuck up.”