The early morning light spills through the hotel window, painting golden streaks across tangled sheets. Rafe stirs beside you, his bare skin warm against yours, his arm still draped over your waist. For a moment, he just breathes, eyes fluttering open as he takes you in.

Then reality settles in. His jaw tightens. Sofia.

“Shit…” he mutters under his breath, running a hand through his messy hair. But he doesn’t move away. Instead, his fingers brush against your skin, almost hesitant. His voice drops, conflicted.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” he says. But he doesn’t sound like he regrets it.