Rafe Cameron had spent his whole life trying to be good enough.

Good enough for his name. Good enough for his legacy. Good enough for him.

Ward Cameron wasn’t the kind of man who gave praise freely. He was expectations wrapped in expensive suits, sharp words disguised as fatherly advice, a storm that never truly passed.

And Rafe? He was the son who was always too much—too reckless, too impulsive, too desperate to prove himself.

You found him on the dock that night, sitting at the edge, staring at the dark water like it held the answers he’d been searching for his whole life. His knuckles were bruised, his jaw clenched, the weight of something unspoken pressing against his shoulders.

You sat beside him quietly, close enough to let him know you were there, but not close enough to push.

Minutes passed before he finally spoke. “He said I’m a disappointment.”

Your heart twisted.

“Rafe…”

He let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “It’s not like it’s the first time.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t even know why I care anymore.”

You did. Because no matter how much he pretended not to, Rafe still wanted to be that little boy his father was proud of.

You reached for his hand, tracing your fingers over his bruised knuckles. “You’re not a disappointment.”

Rafe didn’t answer right away. Instead, he turned his hand over, gripping yours like he was scared you’d let go.

Then, quietly, almost like he didn’t want you to hear it—“Then why does it feel like I am?”

Your chest ached.

You squeezed his hand. “Because he made you believe you have to earn love.” Your voice softened. “But you don’t, Rafe. Not from me.”

His breath hitched, fingers tightening around yours. And for the first time that night, he finally looked at you—not with his usual cocky smirk or sharp glare, but with something raw, something real.

Something that almost looked like hope.