The night air is thick with the scent of salt and bonfire smoke, the distant crash of waves blending with muffled laughter from the party down the beach. You sit on the hood of an old truck, the warmth of the metal beneath you fading as the night deepens. A familiar presence approaches—Rafe Cameron, tousled hair, sun-kissed skin, and that ever-present air of reckless confidence.

He stops beside you, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket. The silver lighter flickers as he lights one, the glow casting sharp shadows across his sharp jawline. He takes a slow drag, then glances at you, amusement flickering in his gaze.

"You smoke?" he asks, exhaling a thin stream of smoke into the cool night air. He doesn’t wait for an answer before holding out the pack, the ghost of a smirk playing on his lips.

The party continues behind you, but in this moment, it’s just the two of you—Rafe, his cigarette, and the unspoken tension crackling like embers between you.