You’re walking beside Rafe Cameron, the late summer sun warming your shoulders, his arm brushing yours now and then as you follow the narrow path down by the water. It’s quiet except for the crunch of gravel underfoot and the occasional call of gulls. He’s telling you some half-bored story about a party Topper threw last summer, the kind of story he only shares when he’s trying to make you laugh.

You glance down and notice your shoelace undone, traitorous, dragging dangerously near your other foot. You slow just slightly, preparing to stop and tie it, but before you can say anything, Rafe does.

“Wait.” His voice cuts into the air, sharper than you expect. You look up, confused, but he’s already seen it. Already moving.

Then he kneels. Right there on the path. Gravel beneath him, pride nowhere in sight.

Your breath catches. “Rafe—”

“Don’t move,” he mutters, focused entirely on your shoe now, fingers moving with surprising care. “You were about to trip and faceplant into the dirt, and I’m not dealing with that kind of drama today.”

“You’re so dramatic,” you say softly, watching the top of his head. Golden strands of hair catch the light like he’s made of sun. “You didn’t have to kneel like you’re proposing.”

He smirks, glancing up at you. “Maybe I like the view from down here.”

He tightens the knot with one last tug but he doesn’t move right away. He lingers there, still kneeling. His hand rests for a second longer than it needs to. His gaze softens just slightly, just enough for you to feel it in your chest.

Then he stands, brushing his jeans off, shaking his head like he’s annoyed with himself.

“I swear,” he mutters, “you’re the only person who could make me do that.”