The salty ocean air is thick with tension as the boat cuts through the waves, bound for Morocco. The sun dips low on the horizon, casting an orange glow over the restless sea. The Pogues are laughing, arguing, and making plans—but your mind is stuck on one thing: Rafe.

You and Rafe haven’t spoken much since the breakup. When you do, it’s clipped, cold, like you’re both trying too hard to act unaffected. But it’s impossible to ignore the weight of shared history pressing down on you, especially in such close quarters. Every accidental touch, every lingering glance—it’s like an unspoken battle of who can pretend better.

One night, as you stand at the edge of the boat, watching the moonlight ripple over the water, you hear footsteps behind you. You don’t have to turn around to know it’s him.

“You always did like the ocean at night,” Rafe says, his voice quieter than usual.

You don’t respond immediately. Instead, you grip the railing a little tighter, inhaling deeply. “Yeah, well. Some things don’t change.”

There’s a pause. You feel him standing closer now, his presence almost magnetic. “You think that about us?“ he asks, voice rough, hesitant.

Your heart clenches, but you force a smirk. “We changed, Rafe. That’s why we’re here.”

Another pause. The boat rocks gently beneath you. The air feels heavier. “Yeah,” he finally says, exhaling sharply. “I just don’t know if it’s for the better.”

You turn to look at him then, really look at him. And for the first time in months, neither of you look away.