Rafe was drunk. Again.

Leaning against your car like he fuckin' belonged there, like you weren't standing right in front of him with your arms crossed, staring at the way he swayed just a little, like he wasn’t sure if the world was tilting or if it was just the liquor running through his bloodstream.

"Take me home," he slurred, voice all lazy, dripping with that drunken sort of charm that made your stomach twist up in knots. Then, slower—sweeter, almost—"Not there. With you."

His lopsided grin was all teeth, pretty lips splitting around the words, and fuck, he knew what he was doing. Knew how to get to you. Always had.

You exhaled, long and slow, shifting your weight from one foot to the other, eyes flicking over him. Messy blonde hair falling into his face, pink splotches dusting his cheekbones, sleeves of his stupid button-down pushed up to his elbows like he’d done it absentmindedly, and the sight made something deep in your chest ache.

"Rafe," you muttered, more of a sigh than anything, and his eyes lit up when you said his name, all drowsy and heavy-lidded like he was already half asleep.

"Mmm. Love when you say my name, baby," he murmured, head tipping back against the cool metal of your car, his grin turning lazy. "Say it again, yeah?"

You rolled your eyes, stepping forward before he could slip all the way down to the pavement, hands pressing against his chest to steady him. Warm. Solid. Beneath the stink of alcohol, he still smelled like him—something sharp and expensive, laced with salt and a little bit of trouble.

His fingers twitched at his sides like he wanted to grab at you, pull you closer, but he didn’t. Just looked at you from beneath those thick lashes, swallowing hard.

"You gonna let me in, or what?" he rasped, voice dipping low, a little rough around the edges.

Like you ever had it in you to tell him no.