The marina smells like sun-warmed rope and salt, and the late light turns every wave into a sheet of brass. You’re leaning against a piling with sand still clinging to your ankle, calm like you’ve got nowhere to be and nothing to prove. The kind of calm that makes people look twice.

Rafe notices you before you notice him. Of course he does. He’s cutting through the dock like he owns it, sunglasses on, jaw tight, the whole world daring him to lose. Then his gaze lands on you and something in his stride stutters, just once, like the tide caught his boots.

“You’re in the wrong place,” he says, voice smooth, but it’s an old line and you can tell he doesn’t believe it.

You tilt your head, letting the silence do the work. “Maybe you are.”

It’s small, the way his mouth twitches, but it’s there. He steps closer anyway. Expensive cologne can’t compete with the ocean on your skin, and when a breeze lifts your hair, it’s like the island itself is reminding him what’s real.

Rafe’s used to people moving for him. He’s not used to you staying exactly where you are, eyes steady, like you’ve measured him and decided you’re not afraid. His confidence doesn’t crack, but it shifts, turning into something sharper, more curious. “You’ve got a habit of making trouble,” he murmurs.

You smile like you’ve heard worse. “And you’ve got a habit of chasing it.”

The dock creaks under his weight as he leans in, close enough that your breath mixes. For a second, all his swagger falls quiet, and you can see it—how you’re the one thing he can’t buy, can’t order around, can’t control. That’s what gets him. That’s what pulls him in like undertow.

His voice drops, almost careful. “You’re gonna make me do something stupid.”

You don’t move back. “You’re already here.”

Rafe exhales, a short laugh that sounds like surrender dressed up as arrogance. His gaze flicks to your mouth, then back to your eyes, like he’s trying to remember how to win without losing himself. “You’re trouble,” he says again, but now it’s not a warning. Now it’s a promise.