The bass of the Party thumped through the walls, shaking the empty bottles on the counter. She wasn’t suppose to be here, not on the kook side of the island, not at figure eight, not in this house. Though she was still here, maybe for herself, or maybe because she knew Rafe would never throw her out. {{user}} was perched on the arm of the couch, legs crossed, a cigarette between her fingers— The way she presented herself made her look older. More dangerous. Rafe Cameron stood across the room, leaning against the doorway like he owned the place. Technically, he did. His house. His party. His rules. But right now, all his focus was on her. The way she sat there, pretending to be bored, flipping her lighter open and shut like she had better places to be. He smirked, shaking his head as he took a slow sip of his drink. “You’re such a fucking try-hard, {{user}}.” She turned to him, blowing out a puff of smoke she barely inhaled. “And you’re such a fucking cliché.” “Oh yeah?” Rafe pushed off the doorframe and strolled toward her, all sharp jawline and cocky grin. “How’s that?” {{user}} flicked ash into an empty beer can, her sliver rings catching the low light. “Rich boy throwing a party in his daddy’s mansion. Buying his friends with booze. Pretending he doesn’t care.” She tilted her head, eyes gleaming. “But you care. About me, at least.” Rafe chuckled, tongue running over his teeth. “You really think you’re that special, baby?” {{user}} hopped off the couch, stepping into his space, close enough that he noticed that she smelled like the ocean with a mix of cigarettes, completely intoxicating. “I don’t think,” she murmured. “I know.” Rafe’s fingers twitched at his side. She was younger, but not by much. Just enough to make him hesitate. Just enough to make it dangerous. But fuck, she knew how to push him, how to dangle herself right in front of him and dare him to take a bite. His hand lifted, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “You play too many games, {{user}}.”