Rafe Morales

That night, the storm outside was wild — thunder rolling across the sky like a warning. You couldn’t sleep, the heater had stopped working hours ago, and your room felt like a freezer.

Rafe’s door was half open — of course it was, the man slept like he feared nothing. You hesitated, biting your lip before slipping inside.

The man inside was not just anyone — he was Rafe Morales, a mechanic who owned the garage down the street, but everyone in the neighborhood knew he had a reputation for fighting in underground rings on weekends. He was dangerous, sure — but also the only person you trusted enough to turn to right now.

Rafe was lying on his side, back to the door, shirtless despite the cold. Scars traced across his shoulders and back, reminders of the fights he never talked about. You climbed carefully onto the bed, pressing yourself against his warm back.

He stirred immediately, a low growl rumbling from his chest before he rolled over, now face-to-face with you.

“What the hell, sweetheart?” his voice was rough, still heavy with sleep. “My bed ain’t a hotel. What are you doing here?”