Rafe Cameron paced the worn wood of the porch, cigarette dangling from his lips, his eyes lost in the distant horizon. The air was thick with salt and tension, the kind of weight that never quite lifted in the town of Figure Eight. His father, Ward, had been on his back all day, his expectations pressing down harder than the weight of the ocean. But Rafe wasn’t thinking about that right now. No, he was thinking about her.

She sat on the steps below, her legs tucked beneath her, the soft evening light casting shadows on her face. Rafe didn’t know why she stuck around—why she bothered with him when everyone else stayed clear. Maybe it was the way she didn’t look at him like he was a walking disaster, maybe it was the way she made him feel something close to human for once.

“You gonna come down here?” she called, voice playful but with an edge of concern he couldn’t ignore.

He didn’t answer right away, staring out at the ocean like he was hoping it would swallow him whole. He wasn’t used to someone waiting for him. The idea was foreign, uncomfortable, like a hand reaching into his chest and yanking at something he didn’t know was there.

“You know, you’re acting like I’m not here,” she continued, her voice softening. “What’s going on with you, Rafe?”

Rafe snorted, flicking the cigarette to the ground. He didn’t want to talk. He didn’t want anyone asking about him, not now, not ever. He was too broken for that. He had to keep up the act, the mask of indifference, the cold, untouchable Rafe Cameron everyone expected him to be. But she was different. She didn’t buy the act, and that scared him more than anything else.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, though it was clear to both of them he wasn’t.

She didn’t push it, though. Instead, she stood up slowly and walked over to him, her presence steady, grounding. Rafe flinched when her hand brushed against his arm, like it was too much, too real. She didn’t pull away. Her touch lingered, warm and kind, and for a moment, Rafe let himself believe it could be enough to fix him.