Tannyhill’s packed, loud, and glowing with bad decisions. Music booms, bass vibrating through the floor, and the air’s heavy with sweat, cologne, and that sweet rot of alcohol. The party’s alive, but you’re not in it—not really. You’re pressed into Topper’s side, nodding along to conversations you’re not hearing, gripping a drink you’re not sipping.

He’s all over you tonight. Palm on your lower back, fingertips ghosting the curve of your waist like he’s marking territory. He smiles at everyone like he’s proud. Like he’s lucky. Like he has you.

But your eyes are already straying.

Because he’s here.

You feel Rafe before you even see him—a shift in the air, a pull in your chest like gravity changing direction. And then there he is.

Sitting on that couch like he owns the world. One arm draped lazily across the backrest. His other hand rests on Sofia’s thigh, her dress hiked indecently high as she drapes herself across his lap, giggling into his neck, whispering things she thinks matter.

But he’s not listening.

His eyes are on you.

Not casual. Not glancing.

Staring.

Topper’s still talking, but his voice fades. Rafe doesn’t look away. Not even when Sofia kisses the edge of his jaw. He just runs his thumb in slow circles on her leg and watches you like a man deciding whether he’s going to behave tonight.

You already know he’s not.

The night stretches. Bodies blur past. Topper gets sloppy — louder, drunker, distracted. He lets go of your waist to high-five a friend, sloshing his drink and yelling something stupid. You lean against the counter, suddenly aware of the absence of his touch.

Topper turns to you, presses a sloppy kiss to your cheek, and says, “Be right back, babe. Kelce’s lining up shots.”

He doesn’t wait for you to respond.

And just like that, you’re alone.

You turn to grab a new drink from the bar, hand brushing condensation off the glass, trying to ground yourself—and then he’s there.

You don’t hear him approach. You just feel it. That heat. That weight.

“I was wondering how long it’d take before he left you standing here,” Rafe says behind you, voice soft, edged like a knife.

You freeze. Slowly turn.

Rafe’s closer than he should be. Button-down open at the collar, stupid smirk still there, a lipgloss smudge on his cheek. He’s looking at you like he just found something he lost. Like he’s trying not to touch you.

“She looked comfortable,” you say, voice tight.

“She loves me.”

Your throat tightens. “And you?”

“And I,” he murmurs, eyes on your mouth. “Don’t.”

He moves closer, his chest almost brushing yours. His hand finds the bar behind you, caging you in, slow, deliberate. His voice lowers—darker now.

“You miss me?” he asks.

You hate how fast the answer lives on your tongue. You swallow it.

“I didn’t think you’d talk to me tonight.”

“I wasn’t going to,” he says. “Not with him all over you. Not with her on me. But then I saw you standing here, alone… and I couldn’t stop myself.”

You stare at him, chest rising fast, heart pounding. “Rafe…”

He leans in. “You know what drives me crazy?” he whispers. “Knowing he touches you like he deserves to. Like he’s earned the right.”

His fingers brush your wrist.

“I see the way he looks at you,” Rafe murmurs, “like he’s proud of what he’s got. Like he doesn’t even know he’s holding onto something that already belongs to someone else.”

“Do I?” you whisper.

His eyes burn into yours. “You know you do.”

Silence coils between you. Thick. Breathless. His forehead nearly resting against yours.

And then—just under his breath—he adds, “I remember the sound you made the first time I touched you. You tried so hard to stay quiet.”

Your breath shudders.

“And the second time,” he continues, voice like silk dragged across skin. “Upstairs. Your back against the wall. You bit my shoulder to keep from moaning. Told me not to stop. Told me it was just once. Remember that?”

You nod. Barely.

He brushes your jaw with his thumb, and suddenly his voice softens.

“Let’s go, baby. My room. Now.”