You hear the door creak open behind you, but you don’t need to turn. You know it’s him.

“Slow down,” Rafe murmurs, voice low and steady — too calm, like he already knows how this ends. Like he’s not chasing anything because he knows it’ll come to him. You will.

He walks up behind you with that lazy confidence, each step deliberate. You can feel him before you feel him — heat, presence, gravity. And when his fingers brush your wrist, slow and featherlight, it’s not an accident. Nothing with Rafe ever is.

“You’re always in a rush to figure things out,” he says, just above a whisper, lips brushing close to your ear. “But you keep ending up here, don’t you?”

His hand trails along your arm, up your shoulder, until it rests gently at your neck — not threatening, not soft, just… holding. Like a reminder. Like a question.

“No one’s watching. No one has to know,” he murmurs, drawing you back into his space. “We’ve got time.”

His breath is warm against your skin, and your pulse is already betraying you, thumping under his thumb.

You hate how well he reads you — how easy it is for him to get in your head without even trying. He doesn’t need to raise his voice or rush anything. He knows what he's doing. He knows what you want.

“You don’t have to pretend,” he says, tilting your chin up so you’re forced to meet his eyes. “I can feel it on you. You want this.”

The words hang there, thick with heat and tension.

With Rafe, it’s never loud. Never rushed. Just slow, steady destruction wrapped in velvet.

So go ahead. Stay a while.

Just don’t pretend you’re not into it.