You showed up in denim shorts and a sun-bleached hoodie, not sure what to expect. The Cameron estate was silent when you knocked, and just when you considered turning around, the door creaked open.

Rafe didn’t look how you remembered him.

You’d seen him before — back when he was all swagger and sharp grins, the reckless Prince of Figure Eight. But now he was sitting in a chair by the window, hair messy, eyes hollow. Like someone had hit pause on him mid-life.

“You’re the babysitter?” he asked without looking at you.

You blinked. “I prefer the term companion with a paycheck.”

He snorted. It was the first sound of life you’d heard from him.

“I don’t need a friend,” he muttered.

“Good,” you replied. “I’m terrible at friendship anyway.”

That earned you a glance. Brief. Curious. He didn’t speak again.

You stayed.

It took weeks to wear him down.

At first, he barely acknowledged you. You’d sit nearby reading a book while he scrolled through the same three apps on his phone with disinterest. You brought him lunch. He wouldn’t eat it. You made sarcastic comments. He rolled his eyes.

But you kept coming.

Then one day, he looked at you mid-sentence and said, “You talk too much.”

“Maybe you listen too little,” you fired back.

He stared at you like no one had ever said that to him before. Then—his mouth twitched. Barely. A ghost of a smile.

Progress. It was raining the night he opened up.

The storm was loud. Thunder rolled over the water. You were sitting cross-legged on the floor with two mugs of cocoa, telling him a ridiculous story about your worst high school date.

“And then,” you laughed, “he tried to kiss me with a mouthful of mozzarella sticks.”

Rafe chuckled — actually chuckled — and shook his head. “That’s brutal.”

You glanced at him, surprised. “You’re laughing.”

He sighed. “I forget what that feels like sometimes.”

There was a beat of silence. You didn’t fill it.

Then he spoke again, quieter this time. “I wake up and it’s like… someone swapped out my life for someone else’s. Like I’m watching myself from the outside and I can’t stand who I’ve become.”

You swallowed. “You’re not broken, Rafe. Just bruised.”

His eyes met yours. “You say that like you believe it.”

“I do,” you said softly.

It was a warm afternoon when he let you touch the scar.

You’d seen it before, the long pink line across his ribs. He never mentioned it. Always flinched away.

But today, he didn’t.

Your fingers brushed over the jagged skin and he held still, gaze fixed on you. There was no flirtation in the moment. Just honesty.

“You know what hurts worse than this?” he said quietly.

You looked up.

“Waking up every day thinking no one would miss me if I didn’t.”

You leaned in, voice steady. “I’d miss you.”

And for the first time, Rafe didn’t hide his eyes when they started to shine. A few days later, you found him in the backyard, looking out at the ocean.

“I thought I’d hate you,” he said without turning around.

You stood next to him, hands in your pockets.

“Same,” you said.

He finally looked at you. “But now I don’t know how to go a day without you being here.”

Your breath caught.

“I was supposed to scare you off,” he said. “But you stayed. Even when I was a complete ass.”

“You’re still an ass,” you said gently. “You’re just mine now.”

Rafe smiled then — a real, full smile.

“Come here,” he whispered, and you stepped into his arms like you were meant to be there all along.