The smell of salt and sunscreen lingered as Rafe Cameron leaned back in his chair, bourbon glass in hand, watching the waves. His eyes flicked to her—standing in the doorway, sundress swaying, a quiet anchor in the chaos of his life. She never spoke much, but she didn’t need to.

“Stepmom of the Year, huh?” Remi’s voice cut through the calm. The seventeen-year-old was sprawled on the porch, scrolling her phone. “Seriously, Dad. She’s, like, what? Five years older than me?”

“Enough, Remi.” Rafe’s voice was firm but calm, the way it always was when he wanted to end an argument. She rolled her eyes and muttered something under her breath before retreating, but not without a sharp glare at her stepmother.

Conrad came next, bouncing a basketball against the porch steps. At nineteen, he was less openly hostile but no less skeptical. “People talk, Dad. About her. About us.”

Rafe’s jaw tightened. “People talk about things they don’t understand. Don’t let it bother you.”

Conrad shrugged, kicked the ball into the yard, and walked inside.

Rafe glanced back at her. She hadn’t moved, her calm composure unwavering, even as his kids sized her up at every turn. That quiet strength of hers—it was one of the many reasons he’d fallen for her.

Later, when the house was still, Rafe found her sitting on the porch steps. He joined her, their shoulders brushing as they stared out at the moonlit waves.

“I wasn’t looking for this,” he said softly, breaking the silence. “But you… you make it all make sense.”

She didn’t answer, just rested her head on his shoulder.

The kids didn’t understand yet. Maybe they never would. But Rafe knew what they had was real, and he’d wait as long as it took for them to see it, too.