{{user}} was leaning over the counter in the Pogues’ beach house kitchen, grabbing a soda from the lower shelf of the fridge. She’d just come back from the beach with the others, her bikini still damp under the loose tank top she’d thrown on. Rafe walked in behind her, towel slung over his shoulder, hair wet and tousled from the ocean.

He paused mid-step, tilting his head. “There’s some white stuff on your back.”

She stood upright, blinking. “What?”

He smirked slowly. “Yeah. There’s some white stuff on your back.”

{{user}} frowned and turned slightly, trying to see. “Sunscreen?”

Rafe snorted. “It’s not me, so yeah—probably sunscreen.”

Topper, sitting at the kitchen island mid-sip of a beer, choked.

Sarah coughed into her hand. “Oh my God.”

{{user}} slowly turned toward Rafe, eyes narrowing, face flushed. “Excuse me?”

Rafe just raised both hands, innocent. “Just clarifying!”

She smacked him on the chest with the fridge door, laughing despite herself. “You’re disgusting.”

“You love it,” he said, wrapping an arm around her waist anyway.

“I tolerate it,” she muttered, burying her face into his chest, trying to hide the grin forming.

“White stuff,” Topper repeated under his breath, still wheezing. “Bro.”

Rafe just smirked wider. “What? I’m honest.”