The late afternoon sun was dipping low over Figure Eight, casting everything in a warm, honey-colored glow. After a long day of navigating the cutthroat world of the Cameron development business, Rafe was finally home.

He’d swapped his crisp button-down for a simple black tee, sitting out on the second-floor porch, listening to the distant sound of the tide.

He was exhausted, but it was a good kind of tired—the kind that came from actually building something real for the first time in his life.

He just needed one thing to make the day complete.

Then, he heard the front door slam. A few seconds later, you burst onto the porch, breathless and glowing, dropping a handful of designer bags by the door. You didn't even give him a chance to say hello before you were diving onto the outdoor sofa next to him.

"Rafe! You won't believe the day we had," you started, your hands gesturing wildly.

"So, Sarah and I were at that new boutique in Charleston, right? And this woman tried to grab the last pair of those silk trousers I wanted—the ones I told you about? The cream ones? Anyway, it was a whole ordeal, and then—"

Rafe didn't say a word. He just leaned back, a small, genuine smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He watched the way your eyes lit up when you talked, the way you got so animated over the smallest things.

A year ago, his mind would have been a chaotic mess of anxiety; now, your voice was the only thing that could actually quiet the noise.

He missed you. He'd spent ten hours staring at spreadsheets and nodding at investors, and all he’d wanted was this.

As you moved on to describing the lunch disaster at the club, Rafe reached out, his large hand settling firmly on your thigh. He squeezed gently, his thumb tracing small circles against the fabric of your dress. It was a clear "look at me" gesture, but you were on a roll.

"And then the waiter—Rafe, are you listening?—the waiter literally spilled the vinaigrette right next to my new bag! I almost had a heart attack..."

You didn't stop. You didn't even pause.

Rafe let out a soft huff of a laugh, his patience finally snapping in the best way possible. Without breaking eye contact, he reached for your waist and firmly pulled you across the couch and onto his lap.

You didn't miss a beat, naturally wrapping your arms around his neck and adjusting yourself so you were face-to-face. "So anyway, I told Sarah we had to leave because the vibes were totally off, and—"

Rafe’s smirk deepened. He watched your lips move, his gaze dropping to them for a split second before meeting your eyes again. He loved the "yapping." He loved that you felt safe enough to talk his ear off about absolutely nothing.

But he was done being a spectator.

"Oh yeah?" he whispered, his voice low and gravelly, vibrating against your chest.

"Yeah! And then—"

Before you could get the next word out, Rafe leaned in, his hand sliding up to the back of your neck to tilt your head just right. He caught your lips with his, effectively silencing the story in an instant.

It wasn't a rushed kiss; it was slow, deep, and tasted like he’d been waiting for it since he left the house at 7:00 AM.

He pulled back just an inch, his forehead resting against yours, his breath warm on your skin.

"Missed you too, princess," he murmured against your lips.