You and Rafe are the epitome of opposites attract.

He’s a fixer-upper—skipping meals, dodging feelings, allergic to obligation. You’re a Friday night—soft light, open arms, laughter wrapped in warmth.

He’s a bad dream stitched in nicotine, tangled in habits he can’t quite shake. You’re tea at golden hour, peace in motion, a calm soul with a kind smile.

He’s East Coast chaos—jeans cuffed, jaw tight, silence worn like armor. You’re a welcome sign—sun-kissed and sincere, always glowing at the edges.

Since Tannyhill, you’ve run side by side—him wreaking havoc, you trailing behind, trying (and always failing) to tame the storm. You’ve never made sense on paper, but somehow, you’ve always fit.

Perfect puzzle pieces in the wrong box.

Everyone sees it—how the love hangs heavy between you. parents joking about you two getting married, friends singing K-I-S-S-I-N-G

Too soft to be platonic, too scared to call it more. always doing little things napping together, baking together (he only licks the spoon) , spending hours at a time on druthers laughing till your stomachs ache, following one another around parties like lost puppies.

everyone believes your meant to be, Something somehow someday.

And then—one afternoon.

You’re stretched across his lap, sun spilling through Druthers’ windows, eyes closed, smile soft. He’s not looking at the sun though. He’s looking at you—like you are the sun. Fingers gently playing with the ends of your hair.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, like a secret too big for his chest.

You laugh, light and easy. “Stop being weird, Ray.”

But he’s not smiling.

“I’m serious.”