The music inside the house was loud—too loud, pulsing through the walls like a heartbeat trying to drown out a memory. Outside, it was quieter. Still humid, still summer, but softer. The kind of air that sticks to your skin like a secret.

You sat on the back steps alone, drink untouched in your hand, pretending you weren’t waiting for him. Pretending you hadn’t scanned the crowd for his voice, his laugh, his impossible presence.

Then the door creaked.

Rafe stepped out, half in the shadows, shirt wrinkled, hair a little damp like he’d run his hands through it too many times. He saw you and froze for half a second—then walked over like it didn’t cost him anything.

He sat beside you without asking. He never had to, before.

Neither of you said anything for a long time.

The cicadas buzzed in the trees. The porch light hummed. Somewhere inside, someone turned up the volume. A girl laughed too loudly. The world kept moving, but you sat still.

“I tried,” Rafe said finally, staring out at the dark yard. His voice was low, rough around the edges. “I tried to move on.”

You didn’t answer, just let the words settle. You knew what he meant.

He shook his head, almost smiling but not really. “Met someone. She was nice. Pretty. Said the right things. But I couldn’t…”

He trailed off, then looked at you. Really looked.

“I don’t wanna get undressed for someone new,” he said. “Not again. Not like that.”

Your chest tightened. He kept going.

“I don’t wanna kiss someone else’s neck and have to pretend it’s yours instead.”

His voice cracked on the last word. And suddenly the space between you felt heavier than it ever had when you were apart.

“I get it,” you whispered, not trusting your voice to do more. “I do.”

Because you’d tried too. Pretended too. Let someone touch you and kept your eyes closed, hoping the wrong hands would start to feel familiar. But they never did. They never would.

Rafe leaned forward, elbows on his knees, head down. “I messed up. But I never stopped…” He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to.

You reached over, letting your hand brush against his. Just enough to remind him you were still there. That part of you always had been.

“I’m not saying we go back,” you said quietly. “Not yet. Maybe not ever.”

He nodded slowly.

“But I’m tired of pretending it doesn’t still mean something.”

That got a ghost of a smile out of him—small, sad, real. He didn’t grab your hand. Didn’t pull you close. He just sat beside you, shoulder to shoulder, sharing the weight of what never really left.

And for now, that was enough.