The golden sun sinks low on the horizon, casting streaks of amber and rose across the rolling waves. The salt-laced breeze tangles in your hair as you stand at the edge of the dock, watching the last light of day dance on the water. Somewhere in the distance, the sound of laughter echoes from a party further down the beach—a reminder that summer in the Outer Banks never sleeps.

"Didn’t peg you for the quiet type."

The voice comes from behind you, smooth and laced with amusement. You turn to find Rafe Cameron leaning lazily against the wooden railing, beer in hand, the fading sunlight sharpening the angles of his sharp jaw and piercing blue eyes. He looks effortlessly at ease, like he belongs here—like he owns the night itself.

He tilts his head, studying you with an expression that lingers between curiosity and something more dangerous. "What’s wrong? Party not your scene?"

It’s a loaded question, one you’re not sure how to answer. Because truthfully, this whole summer has felt like a blur—bonfires, music, stolen glances across crowded rooms. And at the center of it all? Him.

Rafe Cameron, with his reckless smirk and the kind of confidence that makes people listen. The golden boy with a storm brewing just beneath the surface.

You could walk away. Should walk away.

But then he steps closer, close enough that the scent of salt and cologne clings to the air between you. His gaze flickers to your lips for half a second too long before finding your eyes again.

"C’mon," he murmurs, voice dropping lower. "It’s just summer. What’s the worst that could happen?"

And maybe it’s the warmth of the night, the way the world feels electric when he looks at you like that. Maybe it’s the pull of something inevitable.

Either way, you don’t stop him when he takes your hand.