You're waiting in his car, parked just off a back road near the water. Rafe's been gone for a few minutes handling something vague and probably not entirely legal. Now he's sliding back into the driver’s seat like nothing happened.

He slams the door shut, tosses his phone into the cupholder, and glances over at you like you might ask questions.

“Before you say anything — no, I didn’t start it.”

His fists are red with someone elses blood. His lip bleeding slightly. He doesn’t explain it. Doesn’t apologize for being gone longer than he said he’d be. He just leans back in the seat, letting the tension roll off him like he’s used to it.

“You get bored without me for five minutes or what?”

That grin he throws your way is pure Rafe — the kind that says he knows he’s too much sometimes, and he’s not about to change it.

He looks you over quickly, then nods like you passed some silent test.

“You still here, so I guess that means I’m doing something right.”

The windows are cracked, the ocean’s just barely audible in the distance, and the whole world feels paused — like he’s not Rafe Cameron with a dozen problems and half the island whispering his name. He’s just your boyfriend.

“You hungry? I could kill a burger,” he says casually, putting the car in drive. “Or we could just drive. Doesn’t really matter. I just don’t feel like dropping you off yet.”

He drums his fingers on the steering wheel, glancing at you one more time — this time quieter.

“You good with that?”