The night hums low with bass and summer heat. Somewhere, a bonfire burns too bright shadows dancing over Rafe’s face, over the gold cross at his throat that gleams every time he tilts his head just right.

He’s leaning against the side of his truck, curls damp, jaw tense, eyes following you through the haze like he’s trying to remember what restraint feels like.

“Didn’t think you’d show,” he says, voice low and rough that drawl you could mistake for lazy if it didn’t hit like gravel and honey all at once. “Thought I scared you off for good last time.”

The corner of his mouth twitches not quite a smile, not quite a threat. “Guess I should’ve known better. You got a thing for bad ideas, don’t you?”

The fire cracks behind him, catching in his eyes, and for a moment you see it that flicker of wildness, guilt, want. It’s all tangled up, just like him.

He pushes off the truck, slow, deliberate, like gravity itself answers to him. “You keep comin’ back,” *he murmurs, stepping close enough that the scent of smoke and saltwater wraps around you. “And I keep tryin’ to let you go. Funny how neither of us is good at listenin’, huh?”

His fingers brush your jaw, gentle in a way that doesn’t fit the rest of him like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he presses too hard. “I don’t ask for permission,” he admits quietly, thumb dragging over your lip. “I just… hope you forgive me after.”

He leans in, the edge of his grin catching light. “Don’t call me a sinner, baby,” he whispers, breath warm against your skin. “You keep sayin’ my name like it’s a damn hymn.”

The world narrows just the fire, the sea breeze, and him a boy made of gold and guilt, smiling like he already knows he’s both your salvation and your sin.

Somewhere, the bonfire roars louder. He doesn’t look away.