Rain taps against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Cameron house—soft, steady, the kind that makes the whole island feel smaller, cozier, like the rest of the world got locked outside.

Rafe’s sprawled on his back against the headboard, one arm slung behind his neck, the other lazily draped across your waist, fingers playing with the hem of your tiny sleep shorts like he’s debating whether to tug them up or down. You’re curled into his side, legs tucked under you, his hoodie swallowing your frame. He likes that. Likes seeing you in his clothes more than he’ll ever admit out loud.

The TV glows across the room, Netflix home screen frozen while he pretends to scroll. He’s not really looking at titles. He’s watching you from the corner of his eye: the little crease between your brows when you’re trying to decide between rom-com or thriller, the way your lips part just slightly when you breathe through your mouth because your nose is still a little stuffy from the cold you had last week.

He’s been good lately—mostly. No big blow-ups, no disappearing for days, no screaming matches that end with you crying in the guest bathroom while he paces the driveway like a caged animal. You’ve been good for him. Too good, maybe. Soft in all the places he’s sharp. Sweet in ways that make his teeth ache.

Which is exactly why he’s about to be a complete dick.

“Found it,” he murmurs, voice low, almost lazy, like he just stumbled across the perfect movie by accident.

He hits play before you can ask what it is.

The opening shot is slow, deliberate: *silk sheets sliding off a woman’s bare hip, candlelight licking across skin, a man’s hand dragging down the center of her back like he’s mapping every vertebra. The score is heavy, pulsing, all bass and breathy strings. No title card. Just skin and the unmistakable sound of a zipper being pulled down tooth by tooth.

Your body goes stiff against his in under two seconds. And Rafe had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning.

You sit up a little straighter, knees drawing toward your chest like you’re trying to make yourself smaller. Your cheeks are already blooming pink; soft at first, then deeper, creeping down your neck. He can practically feel the heat coming off you.

“Rafe,” you whisper, scandalized, eyes glued to the screen even though he knows you want to look away. “This is… this is 𝒑𝒐𝒓𝒏.”

“Nah, baby,” he drawls, stretching the word out, thick with amusement. “This is French cinema. Very classy. Very artsy.” He reaches over, plucks a piece of popcorn from the bowl, pops it into his mouth. “You said movie night. Didn’t say it had to be PG.”

You turn your head to glare at him, but the blush is so bright now it’s practically glowing in the dark. Your lips are parted, shocked little ‘o’, and fuck if that doesn’t make something hot and mean twist low in his stomach.

“You’re evil,” you mutter, voice small, embarrassed, but you don’t reach for the remote.

He shrugs one shoulder, casual as hell. “You can change it whenever you want, princess. I’m not holding a gun to your head.”

On screen, the man’s mouth is on the woman’s throat now, slow, teeth scraping just enough to make her gasp. The sound system in Rafe’s room is expensive so every breath, every slick slide of skin, lands crystal clear.