They always warned you about the ocean.

Too deep. Too strong. Beautiful, but dangerous.

You never knew they meant him.

You were lying on the sand, the cold sticking to your skin, but you didn’t care. Because he was next to you. Rafe cameron. Close. His hoodie still damp from the ocean spray. His knuckles brushing the sand between you.

And those eyes.

God, those eyes.

Blue like waves right before they drag you under. Blue like all the things you wanted but shouldn’t.

“You keep looking at me like that,” he murmured, voice low, rough. “Like you’re trying to figure me out.”

You didn’t say anything. Because maybe you were.

Maybe you were wondering how someone could look so calm while setting your whole chest on fire. Maybe you were trying not to fall— again— into the way his gaze never let go.

He turned his head toward you. The moonlight caught in his eyes, and it hit you all over again.

He wasn’t safe. He never had been.

But you were already out too far to swim back.

“You scare me sometimes,” you whispered.

A pause.

Then: “I know,” he said. “You scare me too.”

The air between you shifted. Like the tide was pulling tighter.

His fingers found yours in the sand. Just barely. And then he asked

“Do I still feel like the ocean?”

You turned to look at him. And the answer was already in your silence.

And yet, he didn’t pull away.

Instead, he sat up slowly, never letting go of your hand. His thumb moved gently across your knuckles, like he was thinking. Or holding himself back.

“Come with me,” he said, almost too quietly.

You blinked. “Where?”

He didn’t answer. He stood up, reached a hand down to you.

“Just… away from here.”

The fire of his eyes, the calm of his voice, the way his jaw clenched like he was fighting something— You shouldn’t have trusted it. You really shouldn’t have.

But the thing is… you did.

You took his hand. Let him pull you up. Followed him into the dark, where the sand turned colder and the sound of waves grew louder.

And for a second, you swore his grip tightened—like he didn’t want to let go.

And maybe he wouldn’t.

Maybe the ocean never really does.