The late afternoon sun bled into Rafe’s bedroom, casting everything in a lazy, golden haze. His calculus notes were tossed across the bed, ignored and forgotten. Because how the hell was he supposed to focus on textbooks when you were sitting there, cross-legged on his bed, looking like sin and heaven rolled into one? Tiny matching shorts, a snug little tank top sliding dangerously off your shoulder, your braid loose and falling over your collarbone. You were flipping pages, tapping your pen against the textbook, rambling about derivatives like you weren’t completely wrecking him without even trying.

Then your strap slipped lower. And Rafe’s world just…stopped. The plum-colored bra strap peeked out, soft against your bare skin, and every rational thought he had left in his brain burned up on the spot. You didn’t even notice. You kept explaining, innocent and serious. Meanwhile, Rafe’s hand itched with the need to touch, to pull you closer, to ruin you for anything even remotely productive.

You frowned at him, totally oblivious.

He leaned in, eyes locked on you like you were the only thing in existence. His voice dropped, a low hum that curled against your skin.