You and Rafe weren’t dating. At least that’s what you told people. But at Kelce’s party, no one believed it. The music was blasting, liquor spilling over the counter top. Rafe was sat on the sofa, and you were beside him, your legs draped over his lap like it belonged there. Your elbow was resting on his shoulder, your hand holding his cup because you finished yours 4 songs ago, his fingers resting on your thigh tracing lazy, mindless patterns.