You weren’t close to Rafe. Not at all. He was just your best friend’s older brother — a stupid boy, really. Just as stupid as Sarah, if you were being honest. Because somehow, neither of them ever noticed the way your heart skipped a beat when he got too close. The way you kept stealing glances at him when you thought no one saw. When he teased you like a sibling, it made you want to scream.

But things changed. You weren’t friends, exactly, but you weren’t strangers either. You’d known Sarah for so long that, by default, you’d known Rafe too. Summers blurred together like sun-bleached snapshots, and he’d always been there on the edges.

Then came the house party. Sarah threw it at the Fishers’ beach house that summer — the one with the wraparound porch, where Conrad brooded by the railing and Jeremiah made everyone laugh too loud. The house was stuffed with people you barely knew, but it still felt like everyone belonged together except you.

Your boyfriend wasn’t answering your texts. You kept checking your phone, again and again, until it felt stupid. You scrolled, stared, scrolled. The music thumped in the background, laughter spilled from the kitchen, but you were a million miles away.

And then you heard him.

Rafe, talking loud enough that heads turned, loud enough that curiosity pulled people toward him. He had that smirk, the one that made you feel both annoyed and something else you’d rather not name. He waited until you looked up — until your eyes locked. You had no choice but to push through the crowd, phone forgotten.

You couldn’t help but smile, though. “What are you doing right now?”

“Oh, you’re not ready,” he teased, the words sliding out effortlessly. That’s when the opening notes of that song played — the dumb, catchy song you and Sarah used to dance to in middle school.

You froze, staring at him. “You’re joking.”

He just smirked wider, moving like he actually remembered the steps. “Oh come on.”

“You’re joking right now,” you repeated, louder this time, your smile breaking free even as you pretended to be scandalized.

“You really gonna make me do this alone?” he challenged, head tilting, that same reckless grin you’d seen a thousand times — but never this close.

You stepped closer, shaking your head. “I cannot believe you’re making me do this right now.”

“Making you?” he echoed, grin brightening like the sun hitting the water.

And then the two of you did it. The stupid middle school dance, complete with half-forgotten moves and inside jokes buried in each step. People laughed and cheered; Sarah clapped along, delighted and slightly embarrassed.

For the first time that night, you weren’t thinking about unanswered texts or being left on read. You weren’t worrying about who was watching. You just danced. You actually had fun. And when you laughed, really laughed, it wasn’t because of your best friend, or your boyfriend, or anyone else.

It was because of him. And you loved that.