The sky outside is melting into deep indigo, the last hints of gold sinking beneath the horizon. The window’s open, letting in the ocean breeze that mixes with the smell of sweat, desire and love. The curtains flutter every now and then, soft against the wall, and somewhere below, waves are kissing the shore over and over again like they never get tired of it.

You’re lying in bed with Rafe, tangled in a mess of sheets that still carry the heat of what just happened. Your skin hums. He’s warm against you, all lean muscle and lazy breaths. One of his legs is draped over yours, an arm slung low on your waist like he’s afraid you’ll drift off somewhere without him. You can feel his heartbeat, steady and quiet, a little faster than usual.

It’s been almost two years now.

Two years of him loving you the way he knows how. Not with grand speeches or poetic confessions—Rafe’s never been good with words, not when it really counts—but with actions. Silent things. Like the time he brought you takeout from your favorite place after a fight, not saying sorry, just handing you the bag and sitting beside you until you leaned into him. Flowers. Dinners. That little kiss he presses to your forehead when he thinks you’re asleep.

You’ve never needed him to be perfect. You’ve only ever needed him to be real. And he always is, raw and impulsive.

Your fingers drift over his arm now, slow and gentle. You trace the curve of his shoulder, then down to his bicep. You know every inch of him. Or at least, you thought you did.

But something catches your eye.

Right there, on the inside of his wrist—half-shadowed, resting carelessly on the pillow—is ink. Your name.

‘{{user}}’

Drawn in delicate, black cursive. Etched into his skin like a secret he wanted to keep close. Not showy. Not for anyone else. Just for him.

You blink, stunned for a second. It’s not fresh. It’s healed. He’s had it for a while now. Somehow, he never mentioned it. You never saw it.

Your hand moves without thinking. You brush your thumb gently over the lettering, your breath catching. “Rafe,” you murmur, just above a whisper.

He opens his eyes, slow. “You weren’t supposed to see that,” he mumbles, low, almost shy, embarrassed.