On a large white sectional sofa, Rafe Cameron held court. He was leaned back, a bottle dangling from his fingers, laughing at something one of his friends had said. The sharp lines of his face were softened slightly by the low light, but the intensity in his eyes was unmistakable.

At his feet, nestled between the couch and the low coffee table littered with cans, you sat. Your head rested against his knee, the denim of his jeans cool against your cheek. The noise was a wall, the crowd a sea of chaotic motion, but here, in this small pocket of space, it was bearable.