Rafe always said you were like a sister. He’d say it to your face, and louder when anyone dared to suggest otherwise. You pretended it didn’t sting. Pretended your heart didn’t trip over itself whenever he got too close, or when he tossed out some lazy compliment like it meant nothing.

But this summer, something changed.

You were back at the beach house with your mom and brother, the same as every year. Ryan—Rafe’s younger brother—was still the same boy who greeted you with a grin and ruffled your hair, like you’d never really grown up. But Rafe… Rafe watched you from a distance, his eyes darker than you remembered, exhaustion carved into his face.

And the smoking. He never used to smoke—he was the golden boy, flawless in every parent’s eyes. But now, he’d slip away with a joint between his fingers, shoulders curled in on himself.

One night, you sat talking on the dock—just the two of you. The air smelled like salt and weed smoke, and the laughter came easier than it should have. He leaned in, too close, so close that your breath caught in your chest. And maybe—just maybe—you both would have kissed, if the sky hadn’t erupted in fireworks, tearing the moment apart.

The next day, he was back to being casual. Barefoot, sunburned, and collecting red solo cups from around the pool like nothing had happened.

You came outside, your smile brighter than usual, lit by fragile hope. “Hey,” you called.

He glanced at you, then back at the cups. “Hey,” he muttered.

You pushed on, ignoring the coldness in his voice. “Um… I broke up with Cam,” you said. Cam, the boy you’d kissed at that party, trying to forget about Rafe—until last night made forgetting impossible.

“Why?” he asked, not even looking up.

Your heart stumbled. “last night. You and I almost kissed.”

“Did we?” His voice was flat. “I was pretty wasted. Don’t really remember much.”

You laughed, but it sounded hollow. “Wait… are you serious?”

He finally turned, his eyes meeting yours, and for a second you swore you saw guilt—or something like it—clouding his expression. Then he let out a sigh. “Okay. We almost kissed.”

That small admission sparked hope in you again—tiny, reckless hope. But it died when he kept talking.

“What do you want me to say? I’m sorry?”

You stared at him, the words sticking in your throat, your heart breaking in a way that felt sharp and final. He didn’t even try to let you down gently. Didn’t pretend to care.

And that was it.

That was the summer Rafe changed. And it was also the summer you learned that sometimes people don’t break your heart dramatically—they do it quietly, with tired eyes and a shrug, while picking up red solo cups by the pool.