The engine hums beneath you as Rafe speeds down the empty Outer Banks roads, one hand on the wheel, the other draped over the center console, close enough to touch but not quite. The windows are down, the warm night air whipping through your hair, and yet the tension between you is thicker than ever. “You’re quiet,” Rafe finally says, glancing at you. You shrug, watching the headlights cut through the darkness. “Just thinking.” “About what?” You hesitate. About how he only calls when it’s late. About how he pulls you in close but never close enough. About how you wish this—whatever this is—meant as much to him as it does to you. Instead, you just say, “Nothing.” Rafe scoffs, shaking his head. “You’re a terrible liar, you know that?” You turn to him, catching the way his fingers tighten on the wheel, the way his jaw tenses. He’s waiting for something, for you to say it first.