The card hit different. Raphael's handwriting, precise as fuck. Like he'd drafted it three times before committing to paper.
Dakota - Thank you for Saturday. Lily hasn't stopped talking about you. She drew you a picture of a 'purple T-Rex building a skyscraper.' Seeing her that happy means everything. - R
Christ. My chest did that thing. You know the one. Where your heart tries to escape through your throat while your brain screams "ABORT MISSION."
I folded the card before I could re-read it a fifth time and start crying like some corporate Cinderella.
There was no time for feelings anyway.
The week? Absolute chaos. Final reports. Presentations. Surviving on coffee and spite. Every meeting was a performance—prove you're brilliant, prove you belong, prove you didn't fuck your way here (even though technically the fucking came after but whatever).
Friday hit like a truck. 7 PM. Face-planted on my bed. SpongeBob pajamas that hadn't seen a washing machine in... time. Hair achieving new levels of disaster. Two hours deep in Instagram's engagement announcement hellscape.
Knock knock.
Delivery. Had to be. My stress shopping had reached critical mass.
Opened the door. No package. Just Raphael fucking Sullivan in civilian clothes. Jeans. Henley. Looking like a whole meal while I looked like leftovers.
Brain: offline.
"Hi," he said. Casual. Like this was normal.
"You're... here. At my door. Being a person."
That smile. Illegal in twelve states.
"Lily's at a sleepover. Sophie's. Pick her up at noon tomorrow."
"Seven's young for sleepovers. What if—"
"Want me to go get her now?" Full smile. Devastating.
"Get in here before my neighbors see me looking like this."
Inside. My apartment is suddenly microscopic. Him taking up all the space, all the air, all my rational thoughts.
"Nice pajamas."
"They're designer. From the 'given up' collection."
Standing there. Pretending this was chill. Him in my space. I look like a tragedy. The air between us? Electric.
He didn’t speak anymore.
Just shut the door behind him, locked it, and turned to look at me like he was starving. Like he’d finally come for what he’d been denying himself for far too long.
“Rafael—”
That’s all I managed before his mouth crashed into mine.
The kiss was brutal, devouring. Not careful. Not patient. This wasn’t slow seduction. It was release—years of restrained need breaking loose all at once. His hands gripped my waist, dragging me against him so I could feel the thick, hard length of his cock straining through his jeans.
He pushed me back against the wall, lips bruising mine, tongue forcing its way into my mouth like he needed to claim me from the inside out. I moaned into him, breathless, and he growled—growled, low in his throat, as if the sound flipped some switch he couldn’t flip back.
“Do you know,” he rasped against my throat, “how many nights I’ve thought about this? About being inside you. Right here. In your bed. On your fucking couch. Anywhere I could make you scream my name.”
My whole body shivered. He didn’t wait. Didn’t ask.
His hands were on my shirt, tugging it over my head, unhooking my bra with practiced fingers. My nipples pebbled the second the air hit them, and he groaned like the sight physically hurt him.
“Take off your pants,” he ordered, voice low, hungry, shaking with restraint.
I obeyed—kicking off everything, panties and all—while he stripped just enough to free his cock and hissed as he rolled on a condom. And God… he was beautiful. Thick, veined, flushed, already leaking at the tip.
I whimpered.
He didn’t even get us to the bed.
Rafael grabbed me by the hips and lifted me—like I weighed nothing—and dropped onto the couch with me straddling his lap. The blunt head of his cock pressed right against my entrance. I was already soaked. Desperate.
“Please,” I gasped, rocking my hips forward, trying to get him inside me.
“You want this?” he growled, kissing down my neck, biting my collarbone. “You want to be fucked like you belong to me?”
“Yes—fuck, yes.”
He slid in deep, one long, relentless thrust, and I cried out. He stretched me wide, filled me completely. My nails dug into his shoulders as he bottomed out, his cock throbbing inside me.
“Fuck,” he snarled, breath hot against my ear. “You feel so fucking good—so tight. I could stay inside you forever.”
He grabbed my ass, ground me down onto him, and I lost my rhythm entirely. He set the pace—fast, filthy, perfect—his cock slamming into me over and over until I was nothing but open-mouthed moans and breathless curses.
His teeth found my neck again. “Say it,” he demanded.
“Say what?”
“That you’re mine.”
I was already shaking, hips stuttering, orgasm building like fire under my skin.
“I’m yours,” I gasped. “Fuck—Rafael—I’m so close—”
He slammed into me harder, rougher, until my orgasm ripped through me, loud and messy, my body clenching around him so tightly I heard him snarl.
He didn’t hold back. He came with a deep, guttural groan, burying his face in my neck as his hips jerked, filling the condom with every last pulse.
We stayed tangled together, my body still twitching, his breath hot and uneven against my throat.
I didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to leave the moment.
Because the way he held me after—tight, grounding, quiet again—told me this wasn’t just sex. Not for him. And definitely not for me.
After. Tangled up. His fingers drawing patterns on my spine.
"Tell me something real."
"I'm terrified." No hesitation. "Of this. Of Lily already loving you. Of how much I—" Stop. Regroup. "Of feeling this much."
"Same. We should start a support group."
His laugh. Deep. Real. "Meeting attire?"
"All black. Obviously."
Morning looked like a cold Chinese takeout at 10 a.m., “The Office” playing in the background, and I curled up on my couch wearing one of my casual T-shirts like it was a second skin. The air smelled like soy sauce and something dangerously close to comfort.
“This is weird,” I said around a mouthful of lo mein.
“The breakfast timing or us pretending this is casual?”
“Yes.”
He smirked and handed me a napkin, just as his phone buzzed on the coffee table. He reached for it lazily, then paused mid-swipe. A soft chuckle escaped him.
“What?” I leaned closer.
He turned the screen toward me. A video.
Lily, absolutely covered in face paint—swirls of purple and blue on her cheeks, glitter in her hair, and what might’ve been pancake syrup on her forehead. She was laughing, spinning in circles, yelling something about rainbow unicorns and waffles.
“She’s having a blast,” he said, watching her like he was afraid to blink.
“She’s perfect,” I murmured.
“Yeah.” His voice was quiet, but when I looked up, he wasn’t watching the video anymore. He was watching me.
That’s when it hit me. Like a wrecking ball to the chest.
Falling for Raphael? That was one thing. Risky, sure—but survivable. But falling for Lily too? For their messy, real, oddly beautiful little life that suddenly didn’t feel so off-limits?
That was the kind of emotional earthquake that leveled whole cities.
But right then, sitting on my couch, stealing his egg rolls while Pam fell for Jim for the hundredth time, I couldn’t make myself care.
Future me would probably be furious.
But present me? She was too busy memorizing the way Raphael looked when he was happy.