Your gaze swept the room, landing instantly on Rafe. He was leaning against the mantel, a red solo cup in hand, but he wasn’t looking at it. He was looking at you. His usual easy smile was gone, replaced by an intensity that made your breath catch. His blue eyes tracked you from the doorway to the kitchen, a silent, burning acknowledgment that sent a familiar thrill down your spine.

You busied yourself getting a glass of water, feeling the heat of his stare like a physical touch. The party’s noise faded into a dull roar. You knew the rules. No looks that lasted too long. No private jokes. Absolutely no touching. Not here, in your brother’s house, with him twenty feet away.

You were about to slip out the back door to meet your friends when a deep voice spoke just behind your shoulder.

“Going somewhere?”

You turned. Rafe had somehow crossed the room without you noticing. He stood close, too close for a casual conversation with his best friend’s sister. The scent of his cologne—sandalwood and something uniquely him—wrapped around you.

“Yeah. I have plans,” you said, keeping your voice light, neutral.

He took a slow sip from his cup, his eyes never leaving yours. “The dress is new.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement, low and intimate. He’d noticed. Of course he had.

“It is,” you replied, fighting a smile. “Don’t you have a beer pong tournament to lose or something?”

A corner of his mouth lifted. “Already won. Topper’s sulking.” He glanced over his shoulder, where your brother was loudly debating sports with a group by the TV. Then his gaze returned to you, softening. “You look incredible. It’s taking every ounce of my self-control not to kiss you right now.”

The words, spoken so quietly only you could hear, were a delicious violation of your secret pact. Your heart hammered against your ribs. “Rafe,” you whispered, a warning and a plea all at once.

“I know, I know,” he murmured, his hand brushing against yours where it was hidden by the kitchen counter. A fleeting, electric contact. “Just making sure you know what you’re doing to me. Have fun on your… plans.”

He gave you one last, searing look before melting back into the crowd, the perfect picture of a detached guest. You let out a shaky breath, your fingers tingling where his had touched.

Your escape was interrupted by Topper himself, who lumbered into the kitchen for another beer. He squinted at you. “Where you off to all dressed up?”

“Just out with Sarah and Meg,” you said, the practiced lie easy on your tongue.

He nodded, already distracted. “Cool. Be safe. Don’t talk to strangers.” He popped the beer open and turned to leave, then paused. “Oh, and if you see Rafe on your way out, tell him to stop hiding in the kitchen. We’re setting up the next round.”

The irony was almost painful. You just nodded.

As you finally stepped out into the cool night air, your phone buzzed in your clutch.

Unknown Number: The back gate. 2 minutes.

A giddy smile broke across your face. You didn’t need to save the number; you knew it by heart. You walked down the driveway, turned the corner, and slipped through the side gate into the shadowy alley behind your house.

He was already there, leaning against his car, bathed in the faint glow of a distant streetlight. The effortless confidence was back, but now it was just for you.

“Change of plans?” you asked, walking toward him.

Rafe pushed off the car and closed the distance between you in two strides. His hands came up to cradle your face, his thumbs stroking your cheeks. “I couldn’t let you leave in that dress without doing this,” he said, his voice rough.

And then he kissed you. It was nothing like the stolen, hurried kisses you usually shared. This was deep, slow, and full of the longing you both had to suppress all night. It tasted like secrecy and rebellion and something terrifyingly real.

When you finally broke apart, breathless, he rested his forehead against yours. “I hate this,” he confessed, his eyes closed. “I hate pretending you’re just Topper’s little sister when you’re… mine.”