You’re not sure how long you’ve been staring at him—at them. Maybe it’s the hormones, or the exhaustion, or the sheer impossibility of the moment. But there he is. Rafe Cameron. The boy who once burned too hot, too fast, the hurricane you somehow survived—and learned to love. And now? He’s holding your son.

Noah.

Born on Father’s Day, like fate itself was pulling strings. The weight of it, of everything, settles into your chest like a quiet fire. You’re propped up against a mountain of hospital pillows, sweat still drying at your temples, body aching, heart full.

Rafe is shirtless, Noah tucked tightly against his bare chest, tiny fingers curled against him like he knows exactly who this is. Rafe’s hand, usually so careless, rough with a cigarette or clumsy with your waist when he thought you needed pulling close, now moves with a kind of reverence. He cradles Noah like he’s glass. Like he’s holy.

And he hasn’t stopped looking at him.

“I didn’t know I could feel like this,” he whispers.

The room is quiet except for the soft beep of machines, and Noah’s barely-there breathing. Rafe doesn’t take his eyes off the baby, but his other hand reaches for you, fingers slipping gently through your hair, smoothing it back with a tenderness you never saw coming in those Outer Banks days.

“You did good, baby,” he murmurs. “You were… you’re amazing.”

You don’t even have the energy to speak yet, just blink slowly at the way he’s rocking side to side now without even realizing it. Natural. Protective. As if he’s been this man all along, waiting for this moment.

He kisses Noah’s head, eyes wet but not breaking. You wonder if he even realizes.

“He looks like you,” you finally say. Voice hoarse, broken.

He glances at you then—just for a second. But it’s everything.

“He does…he looks like me,” he breathes.

Your fingers twitch toward him. He shifts, adjusting Noah with a kind of sacred care, and he leans down, pressing Noah gently into the crook of your arm, then kisses your forehead.

“Happy Father’s Day,” you whisper.