The bar’s quiet as you mop up the last spill. Neon hums above you, casting tired shadows. Everyone’s gone—except Rafe. He’s in his usual spot at the far end, leaning back, watching.

You can feel his eyes even without looking.

“You gonna leave me hanging again, sweetheart?” His voice cuts through the silence—low, smooth, with that usual edge of challenge. But tonight, there’s something else beneath it. Something heavier.

You glance over your shoulder. His gaze holds yours, and suddenly the mop, the ache in your feet, the weight of the night—it all fades.

“No,” you say, steady despite the pulse in your throat. “Almost done.”

He doesn’t move, just watches. When you finally click the lock on the front door, the bar seems smaller. Quieter. You walk toward him, aware of every step, of how close he is.

As you near, Rafe reaches out, fingers brushing your wrist—soft, but electric.

“I could help you finish,” he murmurs, voice even lower now. It’s not just a suggestion.

You don’t answer. You don’t need to.

You close the distance, breath catching as his hands find your waist, pulling you in. The tension crackles—like it always does—but this time, something’s shifted.

His lips hover above yours, teasing. His hand slides to your back, anchoring you there. You rest your hands on his chest, feel the heat, the rhythm of his heart under your palms.

Then, slowly, he leans back just enough to meet your eyes. That cocky grin still lingers, but it’s different now—almost serious.

“You wanna finish this,” he asks, voice quiet, “or should we take it somewhere else?”

You don’t answer. Not yet.

And for once, neither of you rushes the moment.