The waves outside roll in slow and steady, brushing the shore with the same tenderness he used when he held your face that morning. Sunlight spills through the windows in golden streaks, casting soft lines across the wooden floor, the linen couch, and your tangled legs. But you’re not paying much attention to any of it.

Your entire world is curled on top of you, fast asleep.

Rafe.

God, it’s always him.

Since the beginning—before Morocco, before JJ, before the ring and the promise and the coastal house. Even when you were too young to understand what fate was, it was still him.

He came back today—finally. After weeks away. And when you opened the door and saw him standing there, windswept and sun-kissed and tired in that way that made your chest ache, you ran to him. Dropped everything and collided into his arms. You didn’t even speak at first. Just held each other and cried.

Because nothing—nothing—ever compared to that feeling. The curve of his shoulder. The way his laugh sounds in your hair. The way your heartbeat slows down when he’s near.

You spent the whole afternoon catching up, fingers laced. And now, hours later, you’re very much nap trapped.

Rafe had fallen asleep mid-sentence with his head tucked into the crook of your neck, one arm thrown around your waist, and the rest of his very muscular, very heavy body draped over you like a living, breathing quilt.

You shift a little and sigh, grinning to yourself. “Rafe,” you whisper, brushing his hair back from his face, “you’re crushing me.”

He groans softly, voice muffled against your collarbone. “Mm… don’t care. Missed you too much.”

“You weigh like a hundred kilos,” you murmur, though your fingers never stop combing through his hair.

“I’m a weighted blanket,” he mumbles. “Therapeutic.”

You laugh, shaking your head. You stare at the ceiling, but you’re glowing. From the inside out. Because this—this ridiculous, perfect moment—is what forever looks like.