Rafe Cameron was never good at letting go. He held onto things too tight—gripped them like they’d slip through his fingers if he loosened for even a second.

And now? Now, he was haunted.

By a laugh that wasn’t Sofia’s. By memories carved into the bones of the Outer Banks. By you.

She sits across from him at the Wreck, her hand wrapped around a drink, her voice soft as she talks. But he barely hears her. Because all he can hear is the echo of your voice—your laughter spilling into the humid air, your fingers tracing circles on his wrist from that night, years ago.

He blinks. Sofia is staring at him. “What?” he asks, clearing his throat.

She sighs. “You’re thinking about her.”

His jaw tenses. He shakes his head, but it’s a lie, and they both know it.

Because he had taken her everywhere you’d been. Sat in the same booth, drove down the same winding roads, kissed her on the same sunlit shores. But it never felt the same. It never would.

Because she wasn’t you.

And he swore he could still hear you—whispered against the crashing waves, woven into the wind that tangled in his hair. A voice he had tried to outrun, only to realize you had never left.

He remembers the nights under the stars, the way you whispered against his skin, how he had once believed in forever. He had memorized the way your laughter wrapped around the salt air, the way your freckles darkened in the summer sun, the way your body fit against his like you had been made just for him.

He had promised you the world. And for a while, you were his entire universe.

But now, it’s Sofia’s hand in his. Sofia’s lips against his cheek. Sofia’s voice pulling him back. And yet, all he can feel is you—lingering, impossible to forget.

He grips the edge of the table, knuckles white.

“You’ll never get away from the sound of the woman that loves you,” you once teased, eyes bright, smile easy.

And God, you were right.

Because he could have a thousand new beginnings, a thousand second chances, and yet, every road still led back to you.