It’s late.

The kind of late where the world feels quieter, where the ocean breeze carries a certain stillness that settles deep in your bones. The fire crackles softly in front of you, the glow illuminating Rafe’s sharp features, making the gold in his hair look almost molten.

He sits behind you, legs spread so you can rest between them, his arms draped lazily around your waist. His breath is warm against your neck, his fingers tracing slow, idle patterns on your skin—like he’s not even thinking about it, like touching you is just instinct at this point.

“You cold?” he murmurs, voice barely above the sound of the waves.

You shake your head, but that doesn’t stop him from tugging you closer, pulling his hoodie over your shoulders anyway. It smells like cologne, whiskey, and something inherently Rafe—something that makes you dizzy in the best way possible.

The fire flickers as the wind shifts, and for a while, neither of you speak. It’s not awkward. If anything, it’s the kind of silence that feels comfortable, magnetic — like the weight of his presence is enough.

And then, suddenly, Rafe shifts. His fingers tighten around a piece of driftwood he must’ve picked up earlier, and before you can ask what he’s doing, you hear the faint scratch of a knife carving into wood.

“What are you doing?” you ask, twisting to look at him.

He doesn’t answer right away, just keeps carving, his jaw tight in concentration. It’s not until a minute later that he tosses the knife aside and holds the driftwood up for you to see.

Your initials, etched deep into the grain.

“Now you can’t get rid of me.” he mutters, smirking like it’s a joke, but something in his expression is serious, almost possessive. Like he’s staking his claim — not just on the wood, but on you.

You swallow, heartbeat unsteady as you stare at the carving. And then, before you can think too much about it, you reach for him, twisting so you’re straddling his lap, your hands framing his face.