Rafe Cameron was never supposed to come back. He left the Outer Banks years ago with a chip on his shoulder and a rifle in his hands, trading Figure Eight privilege for the sand and blood of warzones. Now he’s back, leaner, harder, scarred in places you can’t see.

He moves through the island like a ghost in uniform, jaw clenched, posture rigid, every movement sharp with military precision. The golden boy veneer is gone; what’s left is something colder. He doesn’t smile much anymore, doesn’t laugh unless it’s bitter.

People whisper. Some say he’s a hero. Others say he’s dangerous, a soldier who brought the war home with him. The truth? He’s both. Rafe’s discipline is a mask stretched over something hungry, restless, unhinged.

And now, the footsteps on the dock are heavy, steady, nothing like the reckless boy who used to stumble through Figure Eight parties with a beer in his hand and blood on his knuckles. When Y/N Y/LN lifts her head, the sight of him steals the air from her lungs.

Rafe Cameron stands there in his fatigues, sleeves rolled to his elbows, boots caked in dust and salt. His hair is buzzed close, his jaw sharper than she remembers, but it’s his eyes that freeze her in place. Icy, calculating, hardened in ways that no boy from the Outer Banks should ever look. He isn’t just Rafe anymore. He’s a soldier.

“Didn’t think I’d find you here,” he starts lowly, rough from sand and smoke, but there’s something familiar buried in the gravel. His gaze drags over her like a weight.

She swallows. The old reflexive pull toward him is still there, tugging at the edges of her chest. They were never friends, not really. She was too soft for him, too tied to the Pogues. But standing here now, with the night pressing down and the silence between them thick, she feels the difference. He doesn’t feel like a boy she remembers. He feels like danger carved into human form.

“Didn’t think you’d come back,” she admits, quieter than she intends.

His mouth curves. It’s not a smile, not exactly, more like the shadow of one. He steps closer, his boots thudding against the wood, until the air shifts with his presence. “Didn’t think I would, either. But I don’t like leaving things unfinished.”