3 strikes—that's all you were given Rafe tonight. He had screwed with you, bad. And you weren’t just going to let it slide like that, not when he kissed another girl right in front of you.

“Fuck him.” You were telling your friends as you took another shot of something none of you guys knew. You rolled your head back, looking across the room, and there he was, in the center of the room, your worst enemy—but your best love.

“Well, well, well. Look who it is.” You say to your girls as they follow your gaze in awe. “He’s gonna come up to you, y’know.” One of them says, but you play it off with a laugh, taking another shot. “I’m counting on it.”

You get up from the bar and waltz over to the dance floor, which is Rafe's signature spot for hooking up with drunk girls. You move your body to the music, and of course, he finds you like he always does. “Hey baby-“ He begins to say, but you cut him off as you whip your head around.

“Strike one.” You say, and he looks back at you, clearly confused. “You didn’t apologize for kissing that bitch last night.” You say with a sharp tone, curling your lips into a smirk. Rafe clears his throat, his ego weakened. “I-I’m sorry.” He mutters out, and you accept it, even though it could’ve been better.

“Great, now you can dance with me,” You say, bringing his hands to your hips, his palms fitting perfectly like a puzzle piece. “You missed me?” He asks, rocking meaninglessly to the thumping beat. You laugh, “No.” You blurt out, but he knew it was a lie.

“Ah, so you did.” He whispers, his breath hot against your skin. Damn it, he shouldn’t be able to touch you like this, but god, did it feel good. “Well, I missed you too,” He says, pulling you into him. “So much.”