The ocean hummed in the background, waves rolling in through the open window like a lullaby. The little beach house was wrapped in a hush—the kind that only blooms when there’s trust, and love, and time stitched together.

Rafe sat at the edge of the bathtub, elbows resting on the cool porcelain. A towel draped across his bare shoulders, his golden hair damp and messy from the shower. You padded barefoot behind him, swallowed up in one of his white button-ups—the fabric brushing the tops of your thighs, sleeves rolled up to keep them out of the way.

The scissors felt light in your hand, but your heart thudded a little harder.

“You’re really okay with this?” you asked, gently combing your fingers through his hair.

“I’m letting you near my head with sharp objects,” he teased, voice lazy with a grin you couldn’t see. “That’s real love, baby.”

You giggled and leaned down close to his ear. “Then don’t move.”

The scissors whispered little snips as you trimmed the ends, but the quiet between you was warm, cozy. Rafe tilted his head slightly, letting your fingers slide through his hair, his breathing calm and slow. After a moment, one of his hands reached back—fingertips brushing against the strings of your shirt, twirling one around lazily. His thumb traced the hem where it skimmed your thigh.

“You’re too cute in my shirt,” he murmured, still not looking up. “Way better than me.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks, but you kept trimming, pretending to focus. “If you keep moving, you’ll get the wonkiest haircut ever.”

He chuckled, low and soft. “You could shave me bald and I’d sit here as long as it meant your hands were in my hair.”

Your smile grew, gentle and aching in the sweetest way. He wasn’t always like this—unguarded, tender—but when he was, it felt like magic.

When you finished, you set the scissors aside and grabbed a towel, crouching beside him. You rubbed carefully at his damp hair, your touch slow and caring.

“Not bad for your first time,” he mumbled into the towel.

"You mean I didn’t butcher it?” you teased.

"Not even close.”

This time, when you pulled the towel away, he looked up at you with that boyish grin you could never resist. Then, in a sudden playful move, he stood and scooped you up by the waist, making you squeal.

“Rafe!” you laughed, gripping his shoulders.

“Gotta see my new haircut in the mirror,” he said, spinning you around the bathroom like you weighed nothing, laughter spilling between you both. He finally set you down in front of the mirror, standing behind you with his chin resting on your shoulder.

Your eyes met his in the reflection. He wasn’t looking at his hair at all—only at you.

"Perfect,” he said softly, smiling. “Not the cut. You.”

And just like that, your heart felt lighter than ever.