You had no idea how many shots you'd had. Enough that the world felt like it was spinning — not dangerously, just... dramatically. Like it was part of some indie film montage, and you were the main character stumbling through a house party with glitter on your face and one shoe missing.

You’d been laughing too loud, singing too off-key, and trying to explain to a group of strangers why pizza was the solution to all of life’s problems when your phone buzzed in your hand.

Rafe: Where are you?

You squinted at the screen. “I’m at… the party with the... with the lights. There’s music,” you replied. It wasn’t helpful.

Ten minutes later, the front door opened, and there he was.

Rafe Cameron, in a black hoodie and that unbothered look he wore like a shield. His eyes scanned the crowd like he was already over this, already done—but when he saw you?

He softened.

You were half-laying across a beanbag chair, giggling to yourself and holding a slice of pizza you’d forgotten to bite.

“Rafe!” you shouted, like he’d just returned from war. “I lost my dignity but gained pizza! Worth it!”

He blinked. “Jesus Christ.”

Still, he walked over. Still, he crouched in front of you.

“Let’s get you home, drunk girl.”

You pouted. “But my legs are made of noodles now.”

“I figured.”

And without another word, Rafe slipped one arm under your knees and the other behind your back, scooping you up in a full-on bridal carry.

“Oh my God, you’re doing it,” you whispered dramatically. “You’re doing the romantic thing.”

He didn’t respond, but the corner of his mouth lifted just slightly—just enough for you to notice, even in your haze.

People were watching, a few laughing, some taking pictures, but Rafe didn’t care. He carried you right through the party like you were weightless, like this was nothing new.

In the car, he buckled you in gently and tossed your forgotten shoe onto the floorboard.

You leaned your head against the window, eyes fluttering shut. “Do I still look cute, even like this?”

He didn’t answer right away. Then—

“You always do,” he muttered. “Even when you’re a disaster.”

And you smiled, letting sleep take over, safe in the knowledge that even at your worst, you were still his.

You weren’t fully asleep yet, and his words slid under your skin like warm water. You cracked one eye open, grinning lazily.

“You like disasters, Cameron?”

He glanced over at you as he pulled out of the driveway. “I like you. The disaster part is just a bonus.”

You snorted. “So romantic.”

“I try,” he said dryly, but his hand reached over to rest on your thigh. Gentle. Grounding.

The roads blurred by in soft streaks of streetlights, and your head lolled to the side again. You tried not to drift off, but it was impossible when the hum of the engine, the warmth of the heater, and Rafe’s presence wrapped around you like a blanket.

By the time he pulled into his driveway, you were asleep.

He opened your door quietly, unbuckled you, before scooping you back into his arms.

Your hand curled into the fabric of his hoodie, and your breathing evened out.

Inside, he nudged open his bedroom door with his foot and set you down carefully on the bed. You rolled over immediately, sighing into the pillow like it owed you something.

Rafe pulled your shoes off first. Then your hoodie, leaving you in your tank top. He draped a blanket over you and hesitated, watching you for a moment. Your face was smudged with makeup, your hair a wild halo, and you had a tiny smear of pizza sauce on your cheek.

Still beautiful. Still you.

He leaned down and kissed your temple, just once. Just long enough to whisper, “I’ve got you.”

Then he turned off the light, climbed in beside you, and pulled you gently into his arms.

And even though you were out cold, your fingers found his shirt and held on like you always did—like, deep down, you knew: no matter how much of a mess you were, Rafe Cameron wasn’t going anywhere.