The air at Tannyhill was thick with the scent of sea salt and blooming jasmine, a perfect, lazy summer afternoon. You were sprawled out on one of the oversized wood and canvas beach chairs in the manicured garden, letting the afternoon sun soak into your skin. Everything was peaceful—the distant sound of waves hitting the marsh, the rhythmic hum of cicadas in the pines.

You were trying to drift off, comfortable in the heat, but there was a weight on you that wasn't the sun. It was the unwavering presence of Rafe.

He was sitting precariously on the very edge of the chair beside you, his denim shorts pulled over his knees, hands resting loosely between them. Usually, Rafe was motion—fidgeting, talking loudly into a phone, or pacing while plotting. But here, he was utterly still.

You didn't have to open your eyes to know exactly where he was looking. You could feel the heat of his gaze, focused solely on you.

This wasn't the usual look you got from him—not the cocky, challenging smirk he used when he was trying to prove something, nor the tight, frustrated set of his jaw when dealing with his father or the police. This was something else entirely. It was quiet, steady, and utterly gentle.

It was the look Rafe only let slip when he forgot he was supposed to be Rafe Cameron, the Kook prince with everything to lose. It was the look that held all the frantic loyalty, the painful selflessness, and the overwhelming love he desperately guarded behind layers of bravado. His eyes, you knew, never lied, and right now, they were saying more than he had ever spoken out loud. They spoke of reverence, protection, and a deep, grounding relief that you were right there beside him.

The intensity eventually pulled you out of your hazy contemplation. You slowly blinked open your eyes, squinting against the bright sky before turning your head toward him.

Rafe didn't flinch or look away. His blue eyes, usually so sharp and expressive, were soft at the edges, fixed on the curve of your collarbone where the sunlight caught your skin.

A small smile tugged at your mouth. "You're staring," you murmured, keeping your voice low and lazy, unwilling to break the spell of the afternoon.

He drew a slow breath, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly, not in a flirtatious way, but in genuine pleasure. He shifted his weight, leaning closer, and the warmth radiating off his body enveloped you.

"Yeah," he admitted easily, the word rough and honest. He didn’t try to deny it, didn't try to make a joke. He just let the truth hang in the perfect silence between you, and then he finished the thought that had been consuming him since you sat down.

"You're so beautiful."