The sky was overcast, all soft gray and silver light. Clouds hung heavy, like they were holding their breath. The air smelled like salt and pine, and the world felt quiet—too quiet.

You didn’t ask where you were going when Rafe picked you up that afternoon. He didn’t say. He just told you to come with him, eyes unreadable, voice lower than usual.

Now you stood at the edge of a dirt road, staring at a crumbling old house hidden deep in the woods. The paint was peeling, windows boarded, ivy curling like veins across the front porch. It looked like something out of a ghost story. Forgotten. Haunted. Lonely.

Rafe stepped out of the car and walked ahead without looking back, his hands buried in his jacket pockets. You followed him, boots crunching over dried leaves. He didn’t speak until he reached the front door.

“I found this place when I was fifteen,” he said, voice hoarse. “Was out here with Topper one night. We were drunk, being idiots. Everyone else left, but I stayed. Just… sat on the floor in there for hours.”

You watched as he shoved the door open. The creak of it echoed through the empty space like a sigh. Dust swirled in the air, the smell of old wood and time pressing in on your senses.

Inside, it was gutted. Floorboards worn thin. A few pieces of broken furniture tossed in the corner. But it wasn’t dead. There was a fireplace. A kitchen nook. Tall, arched windows that let the soft gray light pour in.

“This is where I’d come when things got bad,” he muttered. “With my dad. When I didn’t want to be Rafe Cameron anymore.”

You looked at him. He was standing in the center of the room now, arms out slightly, like he could already see it—see what it could be.

“I know it’s messed up,” he said. “And it needs everything. But I want to fix it.”

“For who?” you asked gently.

He looked up at you like it hurt to say it. “For you.”

Your breath caught.

“I’ve never had anything of my own that felt real,” he went on. “Everything in my life is just money or power or lies. But this house? This could be different.”

He turned, walking over to a splintered window frame. “I want to put a bed here. Right by the window, so you can wake up to the sun. I want to fix the fireplace so we can fall asleep on the couch in winter. I want to paint the walls with you. Screw it up, laugh about it, live in it. With you.”

You stepped forward, heart thudding hard in your chest.

“I know I’m not normal,” Rafe whispered. “And I’ll never be perfect. But this—” he tapped the wall beside him “—this is the only thing I’ve ever wanted to build. Not for my dad. Not for the Camerons. Just for us.”

You stared at him for a long moment, then walked over slowly and rested your hand against his chest. His heartbeat was wild beneath your fingers.

“You’re serious,” you said.

He nodded, eyes glassy but never looking away. “This is me trying.”

And you didn’t need anything else.

You leaned in and kissed him, slow and soft, the kind of kiss that said I believe you. I believe in this.

Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the trees like a warning. But in that house—your house—it was warm. Quiet.

Safe.

And it finally felt like the beginning of something that was only yours.