The party was wild — music pulsing through the floorboards, laughter echoing off the walls, and the sharp scent of alcohol hanging in the air. You weren’t even supposed to be there. It was one of those older crowd parties — mostly Pogues and Kooks.

But Sarah had dragged you along, and now she was somewhere inside, probably taking shots with a bunch of guys who couldn’t even spell her name right.

You needed air. You slipped outside, down the steps of the porch, and leaned against the wooden railing.

You heard footsteps behind you.

And then, his voice.

“You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

You didn’t have to look. You felt him.

Rafe stood a few feet away, hands in his pockets, jaw tight. He looked like he hadn’t slept —half-buttoned.

“I can handle myself,” you said, not turning around.

“I know,” he muttered. “That’s the problem.”

You finally turned to face him, crossing your arms. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at you like you were something he wasn’t supposed to touch — and already had.

“I try to stay away,” he said quietly. “I really do. But then you show up to parties like this, dressed like that, and I start thinking things I’m not supposed to.”

Your heart skipped. “Then stop thinking.”

He laughed once — dry, bitter. “You don’t get it. You’re young. You think this is just a game.”

You stepped closer. “I’m not a kid, Rafe.”

“I know you’re not. That’s what makes this so fucked up.”

Then he leaned in. Not kissing you. Just close enough that his breath brushed your ear. His voice dropped to a whisper:

“One more second with you and I’m not gonna care who sees.”

You didn’t back down.

“Then don’t.”

That’s when he kissed you.

It wasn’t gentle. It was months of tension, frustration. His hands were on your waist, pulling you closer like he’d been starved. And you kissed him back like you’d been waiting your whole life for that moment.

When he finally pulled away, he was breathing hard.

“We shouldn’t do this,” he said.

“But we already did.”