“Open the door, baby. I know you’re in there.”

Rafe’s voice cuts through the silence like it always does—rough, low, edged in heat and danger. The kind that curls in your spine and makes your knees ache before he even walks in.

“You really think you can go ghost on me for two days and I’d just… chill? Like I don’t think about you every second?”

He’s already inside. The door slams. Rafe moves like he owns the room, and his eyes find you like a target and a promise. There’s a cut on his knuckle, something gold on his wrist, and that smile—the one that means trouble first, apologies later.

“Look at me.” He’s in front of you now. No space. One hand cupping your jaw, the other slipping to your waist like it never left. “You really wanna act innocent, huh? Wearin’ that like you didn’t know I’d show up.” He breathes in close. “Tell me somethin’—you want me sweet? Or you want me how you always do… rough, loud, and just a little bit fcked up?”*

You shouldn’t answer. But he’s already got his hands on you like a sinner in church—gripping, claiming, praying.