The late afternoon sun spilled across the balcony like liquid honey, casting a warm glow on your legs as you slid your feet into your sneakers. The laces hung loose while you sat at the edge of the railing, twisting one foot as you debated if you even wanted to go.

Behind you, Rafe lounged on the cushioned balcony couch, elbows resting on his knees, a beer in his hand, buzzcut catching glints of light. He was quiet. Too quiet. And that silence? It always meant something was crawling under his skin.

Then he spoke, and his voice was low, casual, but you could hear the real question buried under the casual tone.

“Who was your first kiss?”

Your fingers froze mid-lace.

You turned your head just slightly, smirking a little as your eyes scanned the skyline. And then you gave him the kind of answer that was more poetry than truth, but maybe it was the truth, in the way that feelings are true before facts.

“Oh, well…” you began, tightening your laces, “he was so tall and handsome as hell. He was kinda bad, but he did it so well.”

You heard it immediately—the pause. Rafe didn’t breathe. And then he shifted, slowly, bringing a hand up to scratch the back of his buzzed head. That one little nervous tic he had when something didn’t sit right in his chest.

“Was I really your first kiss?”

You turned toward him fully now, the sun catching in his eyes. His brows were drawn slightly, eyes narrowed not in anger but something heavier—curiosity, confusion, maybe hope?

You didn’t answer right away.