It started when you were six, Rafe was standing in front of you on the Figure Eight docks when a golden retriever tore down the pier too fast, arm slung out like a shield. “He’s just excited,” he muttered, but he didn’t move until the dog did. At ten, he split his Snickers every time, pressing half into your palm like don’t make a big deal about it. At thirteen, he gave you his hoodie in the rain, grumbling about how he didn’t care if you got sick, just didn’t wanna hear you complain.

By fifteen, it was everything. Him waiting outside Kildare High just to walk you to class. His arm heavy over your shoulders, voice low in your ear “They bothering you?” Him flipping through your textbooks like they were his, draping himself across your bed like he belonged there. Late nights at The Wreck, salt on his skin, his shoulders knocking against yours.

By seventeen, people whispered. "Are you guys a thing?" Sarah asked once, voice dipped in curiosity. Rafe was behind you, fixing your necklace clasp without looking. His fingers brushed the back of your neck, warm as he replied almost absentmindedly.

“No.”

But it wasn’t just best-friend stuff anymore. Not when he let you slip into his bed after a bad day, his “C’mere” soft and automatic. Not when his fingers curled intertwined with yours, pulling you through the crowd at Midsummers. Not when you started noticing the way he looked at you—like he was trying not to.

But neither of you said anything.

It was one of those days when everything felt wrong day, you had a bad day and now you were sitting on his bed, knees to your chest, trying not to cry. Rafe had tried to cheer you up but failed. He exhaled, muttered, “Move over” before climbing in beside you, arm sliding around your waist.

“You wanna talk about it?”

You shook your head.

“Okay.” Rafe said softly, no teasing, no pushing—just Rafe letting you bury your face in his chest. His hand moved up and down your back, slow, steady. Like he knew how to hold you together when you were falling apart.