It began unceremoniously — no dramatic music, no cinematic moment. Just Rafe walking up to you under the sleepy sun of a golden afternoon, his voice half-sure, half-shaking. “Hey… you wanna go out sometime?” And you said yes — casually, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And maybe it was.

Because from that moment on, you and Rafe were stitched together like dusk and dawn. Not loud. Not showy. Just inevitable.

People talked. They always do. Rafe Cameron? The boy with too many shadows in his eyes, the one who wore chaos like cologne. But if they looked closer — if they really watched — they’d see it. The way he softened around you. How he listened, as if your every syllable rewrote the rules of the universe.

They didn’t know the Rafe who brought you breakfast when you had early class, who sent you long, chaotic voice notes just to say he missed your voice, who tried (and failed) to braid your hair one slow Sunday afternoon. They didn’t see how he loved you — with the intensity of tides, the hush of snowfall, the quiet ache of poetry.

Rafe didn’t know how to love halfway. His love was full-throated, infinite, incandescent. It was in the way he held your hand, always — like if he let go, he might vanish.

He called you his pretty girl. Never just “pretty.” No — his pretty girl. The phrase lived on his tongue like prayer, like poetry, like promise.

And tonight, you’re on the roof of Tannyhill — again. The sky above you is spilled ink, constellations glittering like spilled sugar. Rafe lies beside you, propped on one elbow, watching you instead of the stars. You can feel the weight of his gaze, steady and reverent, like he’s trying to memorize you.

You tilt your head. “What?” you ask, smiling softly.

He just grins, slow and warm, and shrugs. “Nothing. You’re just… you’re so goddamn pretty.”

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks heat. He notices, of course. He always does. That’s Rafe — attuned to your every breath, your every shift in mood.

He scoots closer, so your knees brush. His hand finds yours, fingers lacing together like they’ve done it a thousand times — and maybe they have. His thumb strokes your knuckle absentmindedly.

“You know,” he murmurs, voice low and thick with affection, “sometimes I look at you and I can’t believe you’re real. Like… you’re this fever dream I keep waking up to, and somehow, you’re still here.”

You laugh — that soft, melodic kind he loves so much. The kind that makes his heart jolt in his chest like a startled bird. He leans forward and kisses your temple, slow and reverent, like a benediction.

The wind ruffles your hair, and he tucks a strand behind your ear. His fingers linger. You lean into his touch.

“I love you,” he whispers — not because he’s unsure, but because it’s sacred. It’s a secret he wants to tell you a thousand times in a thousand ways.

And you say it back. Not because you have to. But because you feel it in your bones, in your blood, in the stillness between heartbeats.

You look out at the sleepy coastline, feeling the weight of his arm around your waist, his heartbeat thudding a little too fast. Even after months, he still gets nervous around you. Still gets that dreamy look in his eyes when you wear his hoodie or kiss the tip of his nose or fall asleep with your head on his chest.

Because to Rafe Cameron — the boy who everyone called ice and fire — you were something softer, purer. You were warmth. Safety. A lighthouse in his storm.

You were his pretty girl.

And you always would be.