Rafe leaned against the side of his truck, phone pressed between his ear and shoulder, cigarette tucked between his fingers. The sky was dark, the salty OBX breeze warm, and Barry’s voice crackled on the other end of the call.

“Still whipped over Sheriff Shoupe’s daughter?” Barry teased, amused. “Didn’t think you had it in you, Cameron.”

Rafe rolled his eyes but didn’t bother defending himself. “It’s not like that.”

“Oh no?”

Rafe was quiet for a beat. He took a long drag, exhaled slow.

“I don’t need her,” he said finally, voice low and careful. “But I wish she was right here.”

Barry went quiet.

“She’s just… everywhere, y’know?” Rafe murmured. “I leave her house, and she’s still with me. Her voice in my head, the way she says my name when she’s pissed, her laugh—shit echoes. It’s hard to leave when she’s already all over me.”

“Damn,” Barry said, no sarcasm this time.

Rafe smirked, a little embarrassed. “I sound pathetic.”

“You sound like a man in love.”

Rafe huffed, tossing the cigarette and crushing it under his boot. “Yeah. Maybe I am.”

Just then, his phone buzzed with a message.

{{user}}: Where tf are you. I made pancakes and you're missing it, idiot.

Rafe grinned.

“Gotta go,” he said into the phone.

“Let me guess,” Barry chuckled. “Pancakes?”

“She made it for me,” Rafe replied, already getting in the truck. “Tell me that ain’t love."