The rain came down in sheets, the streets empty except for you and the shadows stretching too long beneath the streetlights. You should’ve called someone. You should’ve waited for a ride. But your phone was dead, and you just wanted to get home.

Then—before you even had the chance to realize you weren’t alone—a pair of headlights sliced through the downpour. A sleek black truck. His truck.

The door swung open before you could react, and suddenly, Rafe was there.

His arms wrapped around you before you could speak, pulling you against his warmth, his grip firm, steady—like he’d been waiting for this moment. Like he always was.

His voice was low, barely audible over the storm. “You really think I’d let anything happen to you?” His tone was soft, but there was something unshakable beneath it. Something possessive.

Your breath hitched. “Rafe, how did you—?”

He exhaled sharply, almost amused. “I always know where you are, baby.” He tilted his head, his lips just barely brushing against your rain-damp skin. “You think I wouldn’t follow you? Every time you walk home alone, every time you take a wrong turn—I’m there. Watching. Making sure no one gets too close.” His grip tightened. “You just never noticed.”

A shiver ran through you, but not from the cold.

“Not a chance, baby,” he murmured, fingers tracing slow, deliberate circles against your back. “Not a fucking chance.”

And somehow, standing there in the middle of the storm, wrapped in his arms, you knew—he meant it.