Rafe knew it was wrong. Just like you did. You were supposed to be step-siblings—fighting over the remote, borrowing clothes without asking, annoying each other and all that. That was the script, the easy, acceptable narrative. But your fingers shouldn’t brush his whenever y’all were next to each other, your glances shouldn’t linger too long on each other, and you definitely shouldn’t kiss each other whenever y’all were alone, tucked away in the shadows of the Figure Eight compound.

But y’all did. Y’all knew it was wrong. His father and your mother were married; they loved each other, creating a new, stable family unit. But so did you and Rafe, carving out your own volatile, dangerous unit in the dark corners of the house.

It was late, deep into the suffocating coastal night. Everyone was already asleep, or at least confined to their respective grand, silent rooms.

You were asleep, tucked under the soft duvet, a slight warmth radiating from your peaceful form. Rafe, however, wasn't.

He sat in the plush velvet chair that you rarely used, positioned across the wide expanse of your room. His frame was hunched slightly, elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped loosely between them. The moonlight, sharp and cool, cut through the plantation shutters, casting long, metallic shadows across the polished wooden floor, illuminating the faint buzz of his hair and the intensity of his blue eyes.

He knew he shouldn't be here. He should be in his own room, tossing restlessly under the weight of his own thousand mistakes, trying to find the sleep his mind refused to grant him. But he couldn't.

Every stolen glance, every secret touch on the staircase, every hushed confession whispered into the night—he replayed them all. He loved how your presence calmed the anxious, turbulent storm inside him, the one Ward Cameron had spent years cultivating. When he looked at you, he wasn't just Rafe, the disappointment, the hothead, the one who couldn't measure up. He was just Rafe, the man who protected what he loved.

He watched the gentle rise and fall of your chest. He loved the soft, almost innocent way you slept, a stark contrast to the coiled tension he carried every day. He wanted to scoop you up, take you far away from the complexities of the Outer Banks, away from the expectations and the parental judgment.

He moved silently across the plush carpet, his gaze never leaving you. He stopped by the edge of your four-poster bed, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his sweatpants.

You shifted once more, your eyes fluttering open slowly, blinking against the shadow of his silhouette.

“Rafe?” The word was a soft, sleepy question, barely audible.

He crouched by the bed, his voice a low, rough rumble. “Couldn’t sleep, princess.”

“You shouldn’t be here,” you whispered, though you made no move to pull him away.

He gave a dry, sarcastic laugh, the sound holding zero humor. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

He didn't wait for permission, sliding into the space next to you. The bed dipped under his weight, and the cool sheets quickly warmed against the heat radiating off his body.

You turned your back to him as he wrapped an arm tightly around your waist, pulling you against his chest. His chin rested on the crown of your head, and he inhaled deeply, the scent of your clean hair and the familiar, comforting smell of your room finally acting like an anchor in his churning mind.

Neither of you said anything for a while, just soaking up each other's presence. He sighed, rubbing his thumb slowly over your skin just above the hem of your pajama shorts. "Just tell me one thing," he breathed out, his voice barely audible. "Do you ever regret it?"