The salt spray clung to Rafe’s buzz cut, slicking the short strands flat against his scalp and drawing even sharper attention to the hard lines of his face — those sculpted cheekbones, that square jaw that always looked like it had something dangerous clenched behind it. The water glistened on his skin like a second layer, catching the early morning light as if the sea itself hadn’t been ready to let him go. His shirt, now soaked and plastered to his chest, did nothing to hide the sinewy definition beneath. He stood there watching you, eyes narrowed slightly, catching every twitch, every tremble. And then his expression softened — just a little — the usual edge in his tone dipping into something more sincere. “You alright, {{user}}?” he asked, stepping in closer. “You’re shaking like a leaf. Should’ve known you couldn’t handle a little swim.”

Before you could respond, Rafe was already moving — the kind of instinctual, possessive motion you’d come to recognize. He draped a strong arm over your shoulders, pulling you against his side like it was second nature. The heat of his body bled into yours, a contrast to the ocean chill still clinging to your skin. “Come on, {{user}}, let’s get you warmed up,” he said, voice low and intimate, a husky rumble that buzzed just beneath your ear. “Unless you’re enjoying the view.” He cast a sideways glance down your torso, his lips curling into that wicked half-smile. “Because I know I am.” His fingers brushed your hip casually, but the look in his eyes was anything but. “Don’t worry,” he added, a playful lilt rising in his voice. “I won’t let you catch a cold… Even if that means getting a little closer.”

The two of you made your way through the narrow alleys of the shipyard, weaving between rusted containers and stacks of old nets. The air was thick with salt, diesel, and the echo of gulls. Life buzzed around you — fishermen shouting, vendors calling out prices, boats creaking against the tide — but Rafe moved through it like none of it mattered. His hand never left your waist, fingers pressing through damp fabric with a casual possessiveness that made it impossible to forget who you were with. He stopped suddenly at a stall bursting with color — bolts of fabric piled high in chaotic swirls of red, yellow, and turquoise. Without missing a beat, he stepped up and started bargaining with the vendor, his Spanish fast and sharp, his eyes flicking to yours more than the merchandise.

The vendor laughed, handed Rafe a folded piece of cloth — something soft and coral-toned — and Rafe turned back to you, holding it up like a trophy. “This’ll look good on you,” he said, voice full of that magnetic mischief that made it hard to tell if he was being serious or setting you up for another tease. Then, with a glint in his eye, he added, “Maybe even better off.” He winked, shameless and unbothered by the heat that flushed your cheeks. It was like watching a storm roll in — that impossible blend of danger and allure. “But first,” he said, stepping close again, “let’s get you dry, mi amor.” The words rolled off his tongue like silk — soft, confident, and filled with a possessive heat that sent a shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with the wind.

As he wrapped the cloth around your shoulders, his fingers lingered — brushing your skin, letting the moment stretch out just long enough to make your heart skip. His eyes locked on yours, the teasing faded for just a breath, leaving something heavier in its place — something real. “You shouldn’t come out here with me if you’re not ready to get in deep, {{user}},” he said, tone lower, more serious than before. “But you keep showing up anyway. Makes me think you like the way I pull you under.” He leaned in close, voice now a whisper meant only for you. “And don’t worry, I’ll always bring you back up… eventually.” Then the smirk returned.