The grass was soft beneath you, the night air cool as it danced across your skin. Above, the sky stretched endlessly, scattered with stars that shimmered like distant promises. The world was still, save for the quiet hum of crickets and the slow, steady rhythm of Rafe’s breathing beside you.

You lifted a hand toward the stars, your voice low, laced with quiet wonder. “That’s Orion’s Belt,” you said gently. “Those three, in a perfect line. I used to find it when I couldn’t sleep. It made the night feel… smaller. Like maybe the sky was holding me together.”

Rafe turned his head slightly to watch you, one arm tucked behind his head, the other resting across his stomach. He followed your gesture, squinting up at the sky. “I think I see it,” he said, but the hesitation in his voice was tender and honest. “Actually, I don’t. Not really.”

You smiled, turning toward him. “I knew it.”

He grinned back, eyes sparkling in the starlight. “Hey, I’m trying. I don’t see what you see up there, but I see you. That’s enough for me.”

You looked at him—at the boy who tried, even when he didn’t understand. The boy who’d been fire and chaos, and somehow, also calm and shelter when he held you like this. Your hand reached for his, and he took it without question, fingers lacing through yours like they belonged there.

“I love this side of you,” you whispered. “The quiet, steady side. The one you don’t show anyone else.”

His smile faltered just slightly, and something softer passed through his eyes. “You make it easy,” he said. “You look at the world like it’s beautiful… and it makes me want to believe it could be. If I’m standing next to you.”

He squeezed your hand gently. “Teach me another one. I want to see the sky the way you do.”

And the way he looked at you—like you were the only steady thing in a world that kept spinning too fast—made your breath hitch. Not because it was perfect, but because it was real.

He didn’t understand the stars.

But he understood you.

And tonight, that was more than enough.