midsummer in figure eight is the kind of night that smells like salt and champagne. money and trouble laced together under the stars. everyone’s dressed to the nines, glimmering in white and gold, the country club strung up like a dream. laughter rings out from the patio, glasses clink, and the ocean hums somewhere in the background.

rafe cameron stands near the bar, jacket undone, knuckles tight around a half-empty bottle of beer. his jaw ticks, that sharp line working as his eyes track you from across the crowd. you’re in white, of course. short dress, glossy lips, that look he swears you wear just to ruin him. you haven’t looked at him once tonight. not since the fight. not since the words he threw like daggers just to see if they’d stick.

he’s with topper and kelce, both laughing about something he doesn’t care to hear. their voices blur out as the liquor hits his veins, and all he can think about is you. your laugh, your perfume, the way you used to cling to him like he was the only solid thing in a world that wouldn’t stop spinning. now you’re across the room, pretending he doesn’t exist.

and then you smile at some guy. some tall, clean-cut, polite little kook in fuckin’ pastel. rafe sees it happen like a punch to the gut. his grip tightens on the bottle till the glass almost shatters “bro, chill—” topper starts, but rafe’s already moving, that wild look in his eye.

his boots hit the deck with purpose, steps heavy, heart hammering. he’s had too much coke, too much beer, too much of living without you. every step brings that heat up his chest until he’s standing right behind you, that country drawl coming out low and dangerous.

“you enjoyin’ yourself, darlin’?”

you freeze. he’s close enough that his breath ghosts over your neck. the guy beside you looks nervous, glancing between the two of you. you force a smile, sweet but sharp.

“rafe. you’re drunk.”

“maybe,” he says, tilting his head, grin lazy and mean, “but i ain’t blind.”

he looks the other guy up and down like he’s something stuck to his boot.

“why don’t you go grab us another drink, huh, bud?”

the guy stammers something about needing to find his friends, and bolts. you roll your eyes, exasperated, but there’s a flicker of something in your stomach. you always feel him before you see him, always.

“you don’t get to do this every time,” you whisper, voice trembling between anger and want.

“yeah? then stop givin’ me a reason to,” he fires back, stepping closer.

his hand finds your hip like it belongs there, like it never forgot. you shove him lightly, but he catches your wrist, eyes dropping to your mouth. the world tilts.

“rafe…”

it’s always the same dance. you fight hard, love harder, and crash like waves against rock. you told him it was over last week. he said fine, let it be over. but he never means it, and neither do you.

“don’t,” he says, voice breaking in half. “don’t say my name like that unless you mean it.”