The air between you and Rafe had been different ever since that night. That one perfect, heated, unforgettable night. Neither of you talked about it. Not once. But the silence wasn’t because it didn’t matter. It was because it did.

The truth was, you weren't sure if this night had meant anything, and leaving it was easier than talking about it.

But it wasn't that easy.

Every time you passed each other on the island, whether it was on the beach or at a party, your eyes would meet, making brief but intense eye contact. In time, your hands would touch as you passed each other on the dance floor or when you grabbed a cup in a crowded kitchen.

His smirk said it all. He knew that you were still thinking about it too.

You told yourself it was nothing. That it was just a night, a moment, a mistake that didn’t need to mean anything. But every time Rafe’s fingers brushed against yours, every time his eyes locked onto yours across a crowded room, you knew you were lying to yourself.

Like now.

You were at another party, lost in the chaos of music and bodies moving around you. You weren’t looking for him, but somehow, you always found him anyway. Or maybe he found you.

Rafe was leaning against the counter in the kitchen, beer in hand, watching you. Not subtly. Not casually. He wanted you to see him. And when your eyes met, his smirk deepened, like he knew exactly what was running through your mind.

His breath was warm against your ear. “You can keep pretending,” he murmured, voice low enough that only you could hear. “But I know you still feel it.”