It’s your last night on the island.

You’re sitting on the hood of Rafe’s truck, legs stretched out, the ocean breeze warm and sticky in the air. There’s a melted Slurpee between you, a playlist of lazy love songs playing from his phone, and a soft ache in your chest you can’t shake.

Rafe hasn’t said much in the last ten minutes.

He’s just… watching you.

Like he always does when he thinks you’re not paying attention — soft eyes, fingers twitching like he wants to reach out, but doesn’t know how to ask.

You finally speak. “Are you gonna be weird all night?”

He blinks. Smirks a little. “I’m not being weird.”

“You’re so being weird.”

He chuckles — that low, slightly breathy sound that only comes out when he’s relaxed. But then his smile fades a little.

“You’re really leaving, huh?” he asks quietly.

You nod. “Tomorrow.”

A beat passes. Then:

“We said no feelings,” you remind him, trying to keep it light.

Rafe shifts on the hood, leans back on his palms, staring up at the sky. “Yeah… I lied.”

Your heart stutters. “What?”

“I mean—” he shrugs, looking down at his lap, suddenly all shy and boyish and not the cocky mess you met in June. “I tried. I swear I tried.”

You stare at him, caught between panic and warmth.

Rafe turns to you, brows pulled together like he’s trying so hard to say it right.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he admits. “I don’t really… do feelings. But you’re in my head all the time. You laugh and I think about it for hours. You leave your hoodie in my truck and I drive around blasting the AC just so I have an excuse to wear it.”

You cover your face, laughing softly. “Rafe.”

He scoots closer, knees brushing yours. “You don’t have to say anything. I just— I needed you to know. Because if this is the last night I get to look at you, I’m not gonna waste it pretending I don’t care.”

You peek up at him.

His cheeks are pink. His eyes are soft. His voice is barely a whisper when he says:

“I care. So much it’s stupid.”

You reach out, fingers curling into his hoodie — the one you did leave in his truck.

Then you say the thing you’ve been swallowing all week:

“Come visit me.”

His whole face lights up.

“Yeah?”

You nod. “I want more than summer.”

Rafe grins, full and crooked and a little dazed, like he can’t believe he actually got the girl.

“Me too,” he says. “So bad.”

And when he kisses you — soft and slow, one hand cupping your cheek like you’re something precious — it doesn’t feel like the end.

It feels like the beginning.