The fairground glows warm against the soft gray of the Outer Banks evening—strings of golden bulbs swing between wooden booths, music spills from distant speakers, and the smell of kettle corn and fried dough hangs thick in the salt-heavy breeze. It’s one of those local things—Founders Festival, or some bullshit like that—but people show up anyway.

You’re not sure if it’s tradition or boredom or the promise of seeing who’s gotten hotter, richer, or more pathetic since high school. You didn’t think Rafe would come. He never does, not really. Not to this kind of stuff.

And yet, here he is, walking beside you with his shirt sleeves pushed up to his elbows and a half-finished stick of cotton candy in his hand—already snagged and stringy from where you both keep stealing pieces off the same one.

He keeps handing you the floss like he doesn't even want it. But you know he’s eaten at least half.

He hasn’t said much—nothing new there—but he’s here, which says more than enough. He cleaned up nice today. Switched out the usual shrug for a smirk. Smelled like cologne and woodsmoke when you hugged him hello, the briefest lean-in that made you way too aware of his arm against yours.

The two of you are parked near the ring toss now, the air buzzing with chatter and laughter around you. A kid screams nearby—something about funnel cake—and Rafe squints toward the sound, then glances down at the game in front of him like it’s already pissed him off.

The plush prizes are ridiculous; oversized frogs, teddy bears, neon pink whales with huge eyes. But your eyes linger a little longer than you meant to on one of them; a big, soft-looking duck with a blue ribbon around its neck. You don’t say anything. You don’t have to.

Rafe tosses the last bit of cotton candy into his mouth, wipes the sugar from his fingers on his jeans, and mutters something low under his breath before stepping up to the counter.

His jaw clenches when the first ring bounces off the peg, the second one lands—barely, and the third? Right on the money. The guy running the booth gives a reluctant grunt, then gestures to the wall of prizes.

Rafe doesn’t look at the rest. He points to the duck.

He turns to you with a rare smirk, that glint in his eye that makes everything slow down for just a second, like you’re the only person in the whole damn town. "You like it, right? Looked like you were staring at it like it owed you money."

He hands it over without waiting for a thank you. You take it anyway, fingers brushing over his, your hand accidentally too close to his wrist for too long.

The duck is warm. Or maybe it’s you. You’re about to say something—something—when Rafe speaks again, voice quieter this time. "Don't let it get all gross in your car. I’ll keep it in mine if you want... just ‘til you get home."

The way he says it, you’re not sure if he means tonight or always.

You walk in silence again, down past the lemonade stand and the pop-up petting zoo. Kids run by in masks. Fairy lights blink against the slowly darkening sky.

Then Rafe nudges your elbow with his. "Hey. You wanna check out the ferris wheel? It’s… less loud up there." He won’t say it’s pretty. Or that he wants to be alone with you, but he’s looking at you like he needs a reason to stay a little longer.

Maybe you do too.