The party was wild, bodies moving in the dim glow of string lights, the air thick with alcohol and smoke. You were tipsy, just enough to let yourself loosen up, but Rafe—Rafe was gone. Drunk, high, needy. His hands hadn’t left you all night, his touch desperate, like he physically couldn’t handle even a second of space between you.

“You’re so fucking pretty,” he slurred against your neck, arms wrapped tight around your waist, like he was afraid you’d slip through his fingers. His lips brushed your skin, warm and lazy, his breath hot and heavy. “You love me, right?”

You smiled, turning in his arms just enough to meet his glassy blue eyes. “Of course, Rafe.”

That should’ve been enough, but it wasn’t. He pulled you even closer, his forehead pressing against yours. “Say it again,” he murmured, voice almost pleading.

You cupped his jaw, feeling how warm his skin was, how hazy his gaze had gotten. “I love you, Rafe.”

His grip on you tightened, his hands sliding down your waist as you turned back around, pressing your ass against him, swaying to the beat. A ragged groan left his throat, fingers digging into your hips. “Fuck—baby.”

He was completely at your mercy, whimpering when you pushed back against him, rolling your hips slowly. His hands roamed, gripping, pulling, holding onto you like you were the only thing tethering him to the ground.

“You’re killing me,” he groaned into your ear, his voice wrecked, desperate. “You’re—fuck—you’re mine, yeah?”

You smirked, letting your head fall back against his shoulder, pressing yourself even further into him. “All yours, Rafe.”

That was all he needed. His lips were on your shoulder, your neck, hands everywhere, touch burning through your dress. He didn’t care about the people around you. Didn’t care that you were still in the middle of the party. All he cared about was you.