Saturday dinners were supposed to be routine, familiar—two families orbiting around the same long oak table, laughter echoing against the high ceilings of the Thorntons’ coastal house. Rafe had grown up in this rhythm: Sarah laughing too loud, Topper cracking jokes his mom hated, Ward and Mr. Thornton talking business, Rose pretending she wasn’t drinking too much wine. It was muscle memory by now.

But tonight was different, because of you.

He hadn’t seen you in weeks—not really seen you. And now here you were across the table, no longer the kid he used to flick peas at when you trailed too close behind him and Topper, no longer just Topper’s little sister. You weren’t the afterthought anymore. You were… something else. Something dangerous.

Your laugh came quick, light, filling the room in a way that made Rafe’s chest go tight. He told himself it wasn’t noticeable. That nobody clocked the way his eyes kept dragging to you when you leaned forward, when your hand brushed your hair back, when you smirked at something Topper said. He told himself he wasn’t obvious, but God, he knew he was.

He stabbed a piece of steak with more force than necessary, jaw tight. Play it cool. Don’t fucking stare.

“Rafe,” Mr. Thornton’s voice cut across the table, jarring him out of the spiral. “How’s work going? Your dad keeping you busy?”

Rafe leaned back, smirk fixed in place like armor. “Yeah. He’s got me on a couple things. Y’know, keeping me outta trouble.” His tone was lazy, careless—like the lie wasn’t burning his tongue.

Topper laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. “As if keeping Rafe outta trouble is even possible.”

Everyone laughed. Everyone except you. You just raised your glass, hiding the curve of a smile, and for one impossible second, Rafe swore you were laughing with him, not at him.

That moment gutted him more than any jab from Ward ever could.

Because the truth—the one he’d never let out, not to Topper, not to anyone—was that he wanted to know if you still looked at him the way you used to when you were fifteen. He remembered that look too well: wide-eyed, soft, unguarded. And he remembered shutting it down, making a joke, ruffling your hair like you were still a kid.

Now, the look was gone—or maybe you just buried it. And that terrified him. Because if you’d buried it, if you’d moved on, then what the hell was he supposed to do with all of this? With the way he felt like he couldn’t breathe when you looked at him from across the table?

Later, when dessert hit the table, Sarah asked something sharp, sarcastic, and everyone laughed again. Rafe only half-heard. His eyes were on you, the way you pressed your fork into the pie crust, the way you glanced at him for a fraction of a second before turning back to your plate.

And he thought—maybe imagined—the faintest flicker of that old look.

It made him reckless.

“Hey,” he said, too loud, too sudden. The whole table turned to him, but he wasn’t looking at them. Only you. “You still making those drawings? Or did you quit?”

Your eyes snapped to his. There it was again: recognition, something flaring under the surface. And then, smooth as glass, you shrugged. “Still do sometimes.”

Topper chuckled. “She’s good, man. Like, scary good. Don’t let her downplay it.”

Rafe smirked, leaning back, letting his gaze linger just a second too long. “Yeah. I always knew she was.”

It was nothing, a throwaway comment to anyone else. But Rafe felt the air shift in the room, like he’d just broken a rule that had been in place since childhood. A line he wasn’t supposed to cross.

And when you finally looked away, cheeks faintly flushed, Rafe thought—maybe, just maybe, she still feels it too.