It was late. Rain tapped gently against the window, the kind of soft lull that made the world feel slower. You were lying in Rafe’s bed, tucked into the crook of his arm, your head against his chest. The room smelled like him — wood smoke, cologne, something darker underneath. He was warm, steady. And he hadn’t said much in the last twenty minutes.

But you could feel the tension in him. Every time you shifted slightly closer, his breath caught. Every brush of your hand against his skin made his muscles twitch. He was quiet, but his body was loud.

Your leg moved over his, innocent in motion, and that’s when you felt it — the unmistakable hardness pressing against your thigh.

You stilled.

So did he.

A beat passed. Then he sighed, not in frustration, but like he was trying to control something deep inside him. He brought a hand up, brushing hair gently away from your face, looking at you like you were something he didn’t quite deserve but couldn’t stop needing.

“Sorry,” he murmured, voice rough. “You just… you drive me insane. Being this close to you and not being able to touch you the way I want to…”

He stopped himself, jaw clenching.

You looked up, wide-eyed, lips parting. “Rafe…”

“I know,” he cut in gently. “You’re not ready. And I’m not gonna push you. I’d rather lie here aching for you than do anything that might scare you off.”

His words landed somewhere between a confession and a vow. His hand slid down to your waist, resting there, thumb brushing softly against the fabric of your shirt.