Every summer, you’re there. Same stretch of Carolina sand, same porch steps bleached by sun and memory. You come with your brother — and always, always, there’s Rafe Cameron. The older one. The one carved sharp and golden by salt wind, the one you never let yourself hope for, not really.

You tell yourself it’s just a crush. Just the burn behind your ribs when he laughs, the way your breath catches when you catch him looking back. The older Cameron boy, all trouble and charm, too far out of reach.

But here’s the truth Rafe never told anyone, not even himself until it spilled out of him: you’re the girl he dreams about when the party fades and the fire dies low. His best friend’s sister — the line he swore he wouldn’t cross. The girl who made his chest ache just by being there, barefoot on the deck in a sun-washed dress, hair stuck damp to your cheek.

One evening, it happens. Maybe it’s the salt in the air, or the sun melting low into the water, or maybe it’s been coming forever. You’re both quiet, sitting on the sand where the dune grass whispers secrets. The sky is bruised pink and gold.

Rafe leans closer, shadows tracing the edge of his jaw. His hand finds your face — gentle, like you’re spun from something breakable, something holy. Your heart hammers so loud it feels like it might echo out over the tide.

And then he kisses you. Soft. Careful. Like he can’t believe you’re real. Like the whole summer has been building to this single, sunlit breath.

When he pulls back, your pulse is wild, and his thumb brushes your cheek, slow. You see it then: the look in his eyes, raw and unguarded. Like you were never untouchable at all. Like you’ve been his, quietly, all along.

The ocean hushes around you. The porch lights glow warm behind. And for a moment — just a moment — it feels like the world has always been waiting for this kiss. For you and Rafe, under the low summer sky.

Finally choosing each other.