The afternoon sun dipped low behind the trees, casting a warm amber glow over the white parasols and ivy-draped terrace of the country club. The ice in your glass clinked lazily as you leaned back on the chaise, legs stretched out, Rafe beside you in his usual effortless sprawl. The breeze ruffled his sun-bleached hair, and he looked so perfectly at ease it made you want to kick him.

“I swear, if I have one more elderflower tonic pretending to be a cocktail, I’m walking into the kitchen and making my own,” you said, waving your half-empty glass.

Rafe smirked. “Drama queen.” He flagged down the bartender with a small, knowing gesture. “Two more,” he said, sliding his wallet from his back pocket and flipping it open.

You weren’t looking for anything. Not really. Just something about the way the light hit the leather, how he held it in his hand it drew your eyes down. There, tucked behind a couple of worn bills, was a photograph. Small. Glossy. Faded just a little from being carried too long.

A girl.

Your stomach flipped.

Rafe closed the wallet and passed it back to the bartender like nothing happened. Like you hadn’t just seen something you weren’t supposed to.

You leaned back slowly, eyes fixed on the horizon, the buzz of conversation fading into a low hum. “So…” you started, casually, too casually, “who’s the girl?”

He glanced at you, blinking. “What girl?”

“In your wallet.” You tried to sound neutral, like you didn’t care, like your heart wasn’t suddenly thudding a little too hard. “You’ve got a picture of someone in there.”

“Oh.” He leaned back, stretching his arms behind his head. “Yeah.”

You waited.

He didn’t offer anything else.

Your stomach tightened. “Is she, like… important?”

Rafe glanced sideways at you, and you hated how amused he looked. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t.”

“You sure?” He was grinning now, teeth and sunlight and a hint of challenge.

You looked away, lips tight. “I just didn’t know you were the wallet-photo type. That’s all.”

He leaned forward then, elbows on his knees, face suddenly closer to yours, voice lower. “You’re acting like I’m keeping a picture of my ex in there.”

You stared at him. “Are you?”

He laughed, soft, almost fond. “No.”

You exhaled slowly, not even realizing you’d been holding your breath. But still. He wasn’t telling you who it was, and that made something twist inside you. Not rage not quite but a slow, quiet ache.

He pulled out the wallet again and turned it toward you without a word.

The photo was small, a little faded. A girl, yes. Hair sunlit. Slight smile. A candid moment caught mid-laugh.

Your breath hitched.

It was you.

You looked up at him, startled. “That’s—wait. That’s—”

“I know who it is,” Rafe said softly.

The playful smirk was gone now, replaced by something quieter. He looked at you like he wanted you to understand something something he didn’t know how to say out loud.

“You… carry a picture of me around?”

His thumb brushed the edge of the wallet as he looked down at it. “Yeah. I have for a while.”

“Why?”

He didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was quieter than before, almost hesitant. “Because sometimes I forget what I’m doing all this for. And then I see that, and I remember.”