You should’ve known better.

You should’ve known the second you saw Rafe Cameron standing against his bike, cigarette between his fingers, watching you like he already knew how this night would end.

Like he owned you.

The party behind you was a blur—flashing lights, music too loud, people too drunk to care about anything but themselves. But none of it mattered. Because Rafe was here, and so were you. And that? That was dangerous.

“You keep looking at me like that, Bunny,” he murmured, flicking his cigarette to the ground, crushing it under his boot. “Gonna make me think you want something.”

You stepped closer, tilting your head. “And if I do?”

Rafe smirked, but his eyes darkened, flicking over your face, your lips, the way your breath hitched just slightly when his fingers brushed against your wrist.

“I think,” he said, voice smooth, teasing, dangerous, “you like playing with fire.”

You grabbed his jacket, pulling him closer, feeling the heat of his body against yours. “And you don’t?”

Rafe chuckled, low and dark, his hands sliding to your waist—possessive, claiming. “Oh, doll.” His lips barely grazed yours, a ghost of a touch, just enough to make your knees weak. “I am the fire.”

And then he kissed you.

Hard. Desperate. Like he needed you, like he owned you, like he was daring you to pull away—knowing damn well you wouldn’t.

Because maybe you weren’t just playing with fire.

Maybe you wanted to burn.