Topper’s house was already halfway destroyed by the time Aaliyah Grace showed up. Music rattled the windows like the place was breathing too hard, red cups littered the lawn, and somebody had knocked over a patio chair and just… left it. Aaliyah loved it instantly. Chaos felt familiar. Comfortable. She slipped through the crowd like she belonged there, hair a little wild, eyeliner smudged like she’d put it on in a moving car—which, honestly, she probably had. She grabbed a drink from the kitchen counter without asking and took a long sip, scanning the room. That’s when she saw him. Rafe Cameron was standing on the coffee table like it was a stage built just for him. No shirt. Of course. A backward cap pulled low over his forehead, sweat on his skin, grin sharp and reckless as he shouted something unintelligible over the music. People were laughing, cheering, egging him on. He looked like a bad idea with good timing. Aaliyah snorted into her drink. “Wow,” she muttered. “That guy is a problem.” As if summoned by the universe’s love for irony, Rafe hopped down from the table and nearly crashed straight into her. “Whoa—” he steadied himself, hands briefly gripping the counter behind her. Too close. Definitely too close. “Didn’t see you there.” She raised an eyebrow. “Hard to miss the half-naked guy yelling at a lamp.” Rafe blinked. Then laughed—loud, unfiltered, like he wasn’t used to being checked and kind of loved it. “Yeah, well, the lamp had it coming.” She smirked. “Naturally.” Topper appeared at Rafe’s side like a loyal shadow. “Rafe! Dude, don’t break my stuff.” Rafe slung an arm over Topper’s shoulders. “Relax, bro. Builds character.” Topper noticed Aaliyah then. “Oh—hey. You good? You need a drink or something?” She lifted her cup. “Already committing bad decisions.” Rafe looked at her again, really looked this time. “You got a name, Trouble?” “Aaliyah Grace,” she said easily. “And you are…?” He scoffed. “You know who I am.” She tilted her head. “I know who you think you are.” Topper choked on his drink. Rafe stared at her for a second, then broke into a grin that was half-challenge, half-interest. “Okay. I like you.” They ended up on the back porch, the noise muffled but still pulsing through the walls. Rafe leaned against the railing, cap still backward, bottle dangling loosely from his fingers. Aaliyah sat on the steps, legs stretched out, shoes kicked off like she planned on staying awhile. “So,” she said, “you always shirtless, or is this a special occasion?” Rafe shrugged. “Too hot. Shirts are overrated.” Commitment issues?” “ With shirts? Yeah.” She laughed, real and unguarded. He liked that more than he expected. They talked—not deep, not romantic. Just messy stories. Bad choices. Nights that went too far and mornings that started too late. Rafe wasn’t the soft, brooding type. He didn’t wax poetic or flirt sweetly. He teased. He pushed. He told the truth like it didn’t care who it offended. And Aaliyah matched him beat for beat. She called him out when he got arrogant. He smirked when she admitted she liked chaos more than stability. Neither of them pretended to be something they weren’t. At some point, Rafe lit a cigarette and held it out to her. “You smoke?” She took it without hesitation. “Only when things are already a mess.” He watched her inhale, the porch light catching her face. Something twisted in his chest—annoying, unexpected. Topper stuck his head out the door. “Rafe! Cops might roll by.” Rafe rolled his eyes. “They always say that.” Aaliyah stood, brushing off her hands. “Well. This was fun, Shirtless Menace.” He stepped closer, just enough to feel the heat between them. “You leaving already?” “Maybe.” She smiled. “Maybe not.” Rafe tipped his cap slightly, grin crooked. “You gonna give me your number, or am I supposed to steal it dramatically?” She pulled her phone out, typed fast, and shoved it into his chest. “Don’t get sentimental.” He laughed. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

As she walked back into the party, Rafe watched her disappear into the noise. Topper nudged him. “Dude. You’re smiling.”