Summer in the Outer Banks hit different when Rafe Cameron was around. He wasn’t the guy people expected to be soft, but there he was—hair sun-drenched and messy, eyes squinting from salt and sun, always barefoot like he was born for the beach. And somehow, she kept ending up where he was.

She met him under a rusting lifeguard stand, toes buried in the warm sand, watching the waves crash while he carved his name into driftwood. "You’re always out here alone," she said one evening, voice barely louder than the wind.

Rafe didn’t look up. “So are you.”

It became a ritual—sunset talks, sand-stained clothes, shoulders brushing just close enough to feel the spark. She saw something in him no one else did. Not the reckless Cameron boy. Not the ticking time bomb. Just Rafe. The boy who hummed old beach tunes and talked about the stars like he actually believed in second chances.

One night, she caught him dancing under the moonlight to a scratchy speaker blaring “Surfer Girl.” His arms wide, hair wild, grin wide. “Dance with me,” he said, and she did—saltwater still clinging to their skin, laughter echoing across the empty shore.

“You’re different here,” she whispered against his shoulder.

“I’m me here,” he murmured back. “Just your beach boy, huh?”

And he was. Messy, wild, sun-kissed and free—but only with her.