The thing about you and Rafe was that everyone saw it coming before you did.

It started weeks ago—late-night drives that lasted too long, whispered conversations that felt heavier than they should’ve, the way he leaned a little too close, the way you didn’t pull back. Everyone noticed the shift: the stolen looks, the smirks, the slow-burning tension that wrapped itself around you both like smoke. It was only a matter of time.

So when you casually mentioned to your friends that Rafe was staying over, they didn’t even pretend to be surprised. They just exchanged knowing glances, smirked, and one of them said, “Guess you won’t be a virgin much longer.” You’d rolled your eyes, but deep down you knew they were right.

And last night, it happened.

It wasn’t awkward or rushed, not like you’d feared. It was intense, messy, and so Rafe—demanding and soft all at once, like he’d been waiting for this too. By the time you drifted into sleep, curled against him, you didn’t feel nervous anymore. You just felt… changed.

Now, morning sunlight streamed across your room, warming your bare skin. You stretched carefully, a little ache between your thighs reminding you of everything that had happened. Your lips curled into a smile. For once, you didn’t care what anyone said—you felt good.

You tugged on a sweatshirt and padded downstairs, bare feet silent against the steps. The house was empty of parents, thank God. But in the kitchen, something unexpected waited for you.

A cake.

White frosting, neat swirls around the edge, bold black letters spelling VIRGIN—slashed through with a thick red circle.

Your hand flew to your mouth as laughter bubbled up. Next to it, a folded note leaned against the plate: We all knew it would happen. Hope you can still walk. Enjoy the cake.

You groaned, half mortified, half amused. Unbelievable. They actually did this.

You were still staring when footsteps padded behind you, slow and deliberate. Then his presence was there—close, overwhelming. Rafe planted his hands on either side of you on the counter, his body caging yours in. His chin dipped lazily to your shoulder, his voice low and rasping from sleep.

“What’s this?” he drawled, eyes flicking over the cake.

Heat flared in your cheeks. “My friends,” you muttered, embarrassed. “They think they’re hilarious.”

He chuckled, the sound vibrating against your back. “Hilarious, huh? Guess they’re not wrong.”

Before you could react, he reached forward. Two fingers—index and middle—slid straight through the frosting, carving a slow, deliberate line. He pulled them back, the buttercream clinging thickly to his skin. For a beat, he just looked at it, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

And then he turned his hand toward you.

Your breath caught, the world narrowing to that simple gesture. His eyes locked on yours, sharp and playful, daring you. He lifted his hand closer, frosting dripping slightly, until his fingers hovered right before your lips.

“Go on,” he murmured, his voice low, coaxing, commanding all at once. “Have a taste.”

Your pulse hammered. You leaned back instinctively, but his body behind you, his arms braced on the counter, left you nowhere to go. His smirk deepened as he guided his frosting-coated fingers past your lips, slipping them into your mouth with slow insistence. The sweet taste of sugar clung to your tongue as his gaze held yours, daring you to pull away.

Every nerve in your body lit up, a mix of shock and thrill coursing through you. Trapped between the counter and his steady frame, you realized with a shiver—last night hadn’t been an ending. It was only the beginning.