The rain didn’t fall — it clung. Thick drops hung in the humid Outer Banks air like unspoken words, heavy with implication, unwilling to fall unless provoked. You leaned against the hood of your car, watching them bead and slide down the windshield in slow motion, not unlike the past few weeks with him — Rafe Cameron.

He wasn’t supposed to linger. He wasn’t supposed to feel like a lyric stuck in your head, the kind that loops back to the beginning before you realize it’s playing again. You should’ve known better. Everyone always did when it came to Rafe.

The night was carved from deep blues and smudged gold — the aftermath of a sunset that refused to burn out cleanly. You hadn’t expected him to show up, especially not here. The backroads near the old marina were your escape, not his playground. But there he was, leaning against his dirt-dusted bike, cigarette barely lit, gaze sharper than it had any right to be.

“I didn’t know you came out this far,” you said, folding your arms — defensive, but not disinterested. Never disinterested.

He tilted his head, slow and lazy, like he had time to waste. “Didn’t know I needed permission.”

You didn’t answer. Neither did your pulse.

The silence between you had a strange texture — not cold, but edged. Not affectionate, but familiar. The kind of silence born from too many almosts.

Rafe’s eyes skimmed you, not hungrily, but carefully — like he was still deciding whether you were something he wanted or something he should destroy before he did. He played with that line a lot.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said simply, flicking ash into the wind.

You smirked. “Maybe I just don’t want to be another girl you ruin for sport.”

He stepped forward, one hand in his pocket, the other brushing his jaw like your words amused him. “You think I play for fun?”

You did. But sometimes, when he looked at you like this — like he’d already lost you before he ever had you — you weren’t so sure.

And that was the problem.