They were supposed to be watching a movie.

Supposed to be.

The screen flickered in front of them, some half-forgotten title playing, but neither of them had looked at it for the past twenty minutes. {{user}} was on Rafe’s lap now, straddling him on the couch in her dimly lit living room, her fingers tangled in his hair as their mouths moved like magnets—hungry, desperate, like they hadn’t kissed in years.

Rafe’s hands gripped her waist tightly, thumbs sliding under the hem of her hoodie, skin warm and soft beneath his touch. He kissed her like he needed it—like he’d starve without her. And {{user}} matched him, lips bruising against his, tugging at his shirt, pulling him closer even when there was barely any space left.

“{{user}},” he murmured, his voice all gravel and heat, “you drive me insane.”

“Good,” she whispered, breathless, her forehead pressed to his. “You make me lose my mind.”

Their lips met again, messier this time, and he leaned forward, pushing her down against the couch cushions, never breaking contact. She gasped into his mouth as his hand slid along her thigh, grounding her to him.

The movie was long forgotten. The world had gone quiet, save for their breaths, their quiet moans, the way his name left her lips like a secret.

It wasn’t just lust—it was heat laced with something deeper, something raw. Something neither of them ever said out loud.

Not yet.

But they felt it. In every look. Every kiss. Every desperate pull.

They felt it like fire.