Rafe wasn’t needy. Not in the annoying way, at least. He just… functioned better when you were within reach. It wasn’t his fault. It was just a fact of life, like the sky being blue or Ward Cameron being a terrible father.

So you walking away, even just across the deck of his dad’s yacht, was—well. Problematic.

Five minutes. That’s how long you’d been gone. Five minutes. And he’d tried to be normal about it, really. Leaned against the bar, sipped his drink, nodded along to whatever Topper was saying (something about stocks? or golf? honestly, who cared?). But the second he glanced up and saw you—standing way too far away, laughing at something someone else said—his brain short-circuited.

Because why were you over there? And not here?

It wasn’t that he didn’t trust you. Or them. It was just—he hated this. Hated the space between you. Hated that his hands were in his pockets instead of on your waist, that his chest wasn’t pressed against your back, that you were existing in real-time and he wasn’t touching you while you did it.

So, yeah. He fixed it.

Didn’t think, didn’t hesitate—just walked straight to you, cutting through conversation like it wasn’t happening (because for him, it wasn’t), and without a word, slid his arms around your waist, tugging you into him like he was reeling himself back to shore.

You startled, a little gasp catching in your throat, but relaxed almost instantly, back molding against his chest like muscle memory.

“Rafe.” You tilted your head slightly, voice laced with amusement.

“Hm?” His lips brushed your shoulder, breath warm against your skin.

“I was talking.” You grumbled your voice laced with playfullness.

“Yeah,” he murmured, chin resting on your shoulder. “And I missed you.”