You and Rafe Cameron had been best friends since you were six—two kids from Figure Eight always getting into trouble. Now at eighteen, nothing had changed… or so it seemed.

Your curls bounced as you raced after him down the boardwalk, the salty wind catching your breath. “You seriously ditched me for Vienna?” you snapped, catching up.

“She needed advice,” Rafe said, barely glancing at you with those watercolor eyes. “Besides, you always say I should talk to people.”

“Yeah, people. Not girls who want to get in your pants,” you muttered, trying to play it off as a joke, even though your chest tightened. He didn’t hear—or pretended not to.

That night, there was a bonfire on the beach. You sat shoulder-to-shoulder, sharing a flask of something too strong. Rafe leaned in, voice low. “Why do you never talk about guys?”

You laughed. “Because they’re boring.”

“That’s not it,” he smirked, eyes scanning your face. “You like someone.”

“Do not.”

“Do too.”

You shook your head and looked away. “Wouldn’t matter if I did.”

He was quiet for a second. “Why not?”

Because it’s you.

The words almost spilled out, but the fire cracked louder than your courage.

Later that night, he disappeared. You found him on the dock, shoes kicked off, legs dangling over the water. Drunk and distant—your least favorite version of him.

“I don’t think I’m ever gonna get it right,” he murmured.

“What?”

“Life. Girls. People. Everyone wants something from me.”

“I don’t,” you said quietly, sitting beside him.

He looked at you—really looked. “I know.”

Your heart thudded so loud you were sure he could hear it. And maybe he did, because he leaned his head against your shoulder.

“I don’t deserve you,” he said.

You didn’t reply. You just sat there, hoping one day he’d realize you were the one person who never needed him to be anyone but himself.

And maybe that was love. Or maybe it was just another night with your best friend.