You were already in bed; pajamas on, lights off, the faint hum of your phone charging beside you, when the knock came. Loud, insistent, like someone was trying to break in. Who the hell knocks at midnight?

Sleep had been just seconds away. Your body ached from the double shift at the marina, and your mind was still replaying calculus formulas and your mom’s voicemail about rent.

You padded barefoot across the creaky floorboards. Peering through the peephole, you saw Rafe, his blue eyes glassy, unfocused. His white button-down was half-untucked, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and he was leaning against the door frame like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

Before you could decide whether to open it, another knock— harsher, impatient.

You unlatched the chain and swung the door open.

He didn’t say hello. He didn’t wait. The second the gap was wide enough, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around your neck, pulling you into him so hard you stumbled. His chest was warm, his heartbeat frantic against your collarbone. He smelled like bourbon, cigarette smoke. Topper’s yacht, no doubt, where the Kooks liked to party like the world owed them champagne and sunsets.

“Hey,” he mumbled into your shoulder, voice thick, rough. “Missed you.”

You exhaled, caught between irritation and something softer. “Rafe, it’s one in the morning.”

“Yeah,” he said, lifting his head just enough to look at you. His eyes were softer, hazy with drink. “But you weren’t answering. You’ve been busy. Didn’t want you to forget me.”

“I haven’t forgotten you,” you said, stepping back slightly, still holding his arms to steady him. “I’ve just been swamped with midterms and the extra shift at the marina.”

He nodded, but his jaw twitched, that familiar possessive tension creeping in. “Topper said you were all over John B last week. Laughing at his trash can jokes.”

You blinked. “Because I am? Rafe, we’re friends. That’s all.”

“Yeah, well. I don’t like it.” He leaned in again, his forehead resting against yours. “Don’t like anyone looking at you like that. Don’t like anyone touching your hand when they pass you a drink. Don’t like—” He exhaled sharply. “Don’t like not being the one who makes you laugh.”

“You do make me laugh,” you whispered. “When you’re not being an obnoxious jerk.”

He snorted, the first real smile of the night cracking through the haze. “I’m always an obnoxious jerk. That’s why you like me.”