The party was too loud, too crowded, too much. But maybe that was the point.

Rafe Cameron never did anything small—not the parties, not the fights, and definitely not the way he looked at you from across the room like he was trying to set you on fire with his stare alone.

You ignored it at first, pretending not to notice how his grip tightened around his drink when some random guy leaned in too close to you. How his jaw clenched every time you laughed at a joke that wasn’t his.

But Rafe wasn’t the type to be ignored.

So it didn’t surprise you when, not even ten minutes later, you felt fingers wrap around your wrist, tugging you through the crowd, away from prying eyes and straight onto the darkened balcony.

The night air was cool, but his touch was warm—burning.

“You’re acting up tonight,” Rafe muttered, his voice low, rough.

You pulled your wrist free, arching a brow. “And you’re acting possessive.”

He scoffed, shaking his head, running a hand through his already-messy hair. “Maybe I wouldn’t have to if you didn’t keep testing me.”

Your breath caught. There it was. The storm behind his eyes, the push and pull, the game you both played but never named.

You stepped closer, your voice quieter now. “You don’t own me, Rafe.”

Rafe looked at you for a long second before exhaling a slow, humorless laugh. “Yeah. I know that.” Then, softer, almost like he hated admitting it—“That’s the problem.”

Your heart skipped, and suddenly, the space between you felt even smaller. You could feel it—the weight of something unsaid, something dangerous.

So you did the only thing you could. You reached up, your fingers ghosting over his jaw, just to see if he’d let you. And he did.

Because Rafe Cameron didn’t know how to be gentle. But with you? He wanted to try.