Rafe Cameron never expected to fall for the girl next door. But there she was—barefoot on her porch every evening, sipping lemonade, her laugh spilling over the fence like warm sunlight.

They’d grown up side by side in those Outer Banks houses, separated by only a weathered white fence and years of pretending they didn’t notice each other.

But that changed the summer after high school.

It started one late night. He’d come home bruised and wired, adrenaline still rushing from a fight he wouldn’t talk about. She was sitting on her porch swing in an oversized T-shirt, earbuds in, eyes closed.

“You good?” she asked, pulling out a bud.

He hadn’t meant to sit down next to her. He hadn’t meant to stay for hours, telling her things he’d never told anyone. She didn’t judge. She just listened.

That night, he kissed her. Fast, rough, like he needed it to breathe.

And she kissed him back like she’d been waiting for it all along.

After that, it was a secret. A glance across the yard. A hand slipping through her bedroom window just after midnight. Fingers tangled in hair, lips pressed to collarbones, whispers like fire between the sheets.

It wasn’t supposed to mean anything. No labels. No promises.

But one morning, she caught him watching her laugh with someone else and felt her stomach twist.

And one night, he found himself lying awake, her scent still on his skin, wondering why the silence between them suddenly hurt.

They weren’t just neighbors anymore. They were something else.

Something neither of them wanted to name—because once it had a name, it could break.

And neither of them was ready for it to end.

Not yet.