You and Rafe are… confusing to most people.

It’s not just the fact that you’re best friends. That alone raises eyebrows — you, with your soft voice and floral notebooks and “sorry” always on the tip of your tongue. And Rafe Cameron, who practically radiates trouble even when he’s standing still. People expect him to be with girls who wear smudged eyeliner and blow smoke out of cracked lips. Not someone who picks flowers from cracks in the sidewalk and still texts with emoji hearts.

But it’s more than that. It’s how you are with each other.

You’re always close. Closer than people think best friends should be.

Like how he plays with your rings when he’s bored — twisting them around your fingers while you talk, completely unaware of how intimate it looks. Or how you fix the collar of his shirt in public, brushing your fingers across his collarbone like it’s nothing. Or how he puts his hand on your lower back whenever you walk through a crowd — not possessively, not romantically. Just there. Like he’s always making sure you don’t get pushed or lost.

People notice.

Sarah gives you a look once when she sees you curled into Rafe’s side on the couch, legs over his lap, his hand resting on your knee like it belongs there. “Are you guys, like… a thing?” she asks, nose scrunched. Rafe just shrugs, lips twitching. “Don’t think too hard, sis.”

Topper’s said worse. “Bro, she’s like a bunny. It’s creepy how into her you are.”

Rafe doesn’t correct him. He just smiles that tight, sharp smile that usually comes right before someone ends up with a split lip — and you gently press your hand to his arm before it gets that far.

The truth is, people don’t get it. They don’t understand how someone like you could find comfort in someone like him. They think it’s an act — or a ticking bomb. They wait for him to break you. But you’ve never been scared of him, and maybe that’s the only thing that actually scares him.

He never crosses lines. He never makes it weird. Not once.

But sometimes, his hand lingers on your cheek when you’re laughing too hard. Sometimes he pulls you into his hoodie when it’s cold, murmuring, “You’re tiny, you’ll fit.” Sometimes he doesn’t say anything, just lays his head in your lap when it’s all too much and lets you comb your fingers through his hair in silence.

You don’t flinch away. You never have.

Maybe it’s weird.

Or maybe it’s just what happens when someone who’s been hardened by the world finds the one person who never asked him to be anything but soft.

———

It’s colder than usual for the Outer Banks, the wind biting as it comes off the water.

You hadn’t thought to bring a jacket. You rarely do. Instead, you’re curled into yourself on the marina bleachers, sleeves pulled over your hands, legs tucked tight. Rafe notices — of course he does.

“You’re freezing,” he mutters, glancing down at you from under the hood of his sweatshirt. “Why didn’t you bring a jacket?”

You shrug.

He sighs, the kind of exasperated that only ever sounds fond coming from him. Then he unzips his hoodie and lifts an arm. “Get in.”

You blink. “What?”

“Don’t make me say it twice. C’mon.”

You scoot closer, sliding under his hoodie as he wraps it — and his arm — around you, zipping it halfway. Your cheek rests against his chest, his scent wrapping around you: soap, ocean air, gasoline. Familiar. Warm.

From a distance, it looks like something it technically isn’t. A couple. Something intimate. People glance. Whisper.

You feel it. So does he.

But you just say softly, “Ignore them.”

He doesn’t say anything at first. Then, under his breath, “I don’t care what they think. I just don’t want you cold.”

And that’s Rafe. Gruff. Blunt. Soft only for you.

They can think what they want.

He keeps you warm. Always has.