rafeslxt

The Outer Banks has always been a place that feels both like a sanctuary and a snare. It’s the keeper of my firsts—first crush, first heartbreak, first taste of freedom, first sting of betrayal. Every dune, every marsh, every stretch of tidewater carries a memory like salt in the air. To outsiders, the barrier islands are paradise: a sun-soaked postcard where the wealthy play at leisure and the locals bend quietly beneath the weight of serving them. But for me, it’s always been something else entirely. Home, yes, but also a place I’ve fought tooth and nail to escape. I’ve always been terrified of sinking roots too deep into the marsh, of ending up with a cookie-cutter life on Figure Eight, my existence pre-written by generations before me.

So I left.

Four years ago, the morning after graduation, I packed my bags with more resolve than clothes and drove across the bridge with my windows down, the wind tangling my hair as if pushing me forward. Chapel Hill promised the clean slate I craved, and it delivered. I earned my finance degree, built a life in a tidy apartment overlooking the city, and even found the sort of man I once told myself I deserved—kind, attentive, respectable. Alex fits neatly into the future I sketched on dorm room notepads. With him, I have proof that I’ve built something better, proof I’m not tethered to this fragile strip of sand and sea.

But the illusion falters the moment the black Cadillac rolls to a stop in front of the Island Club.

The building rises before me like a monument carved out of memory, and with it comes a rush of nostalgia heavier than I’m prepared for. The Island Club is still the most prestigious address in the Outer Banks, a gleaming colonial fortress where the rich flaunt tradition like it’s inheritance. Tonight, its immaculate lawns stretch endlessly into the darkening golf course, the white siding catching the last flames of sunset until it glows amber and gold. Garlands curl around the thick pillars, wreaths crown the heavy doors, and artificial pines line the brick path as if performing some rehearsed holiday grandeur. Nothing has changed. Not the building. Not the stage it sets.

And, if I’m honest, not the person I’m about to face inside.

It’s been four years since I last stood in this circle of glass and champagne, four years since I locked eyes with him. I convinced myself I’d outgrown all of it—this club, this island, him. Yet now, with the Cadillac idling at the curb, my chest feels tight, my throat dry.

This trip began innocently enough, just a visit home for the holidays, a handful of days spent with my parents exchanging gifts and stories over wine. But my mother had other plans. Laurel adores these parties—glittering evenings of whispered deals and careful gossip—and she was delighted at the chance to parade her only daughter back through the double doors. “Everyone will want to see you,” she said, her smile almost childlike with anticipation. “And Alex too, of course. My daughter, the college graduate, the fiancée.” I didn’t have the heart to dim that excitement with a refusal.

Now, I sit frozen in the passenger seat, my hand tightening on the silk of my red dress, leaving creases in the fabric as if I can crush my nerves into the folds. The dress clings to me like confidence I don’t quite feel.

The door opens with a soft click, and Alex is there immediately, offering his arm and his calm, steady presence. He smells faintly of cedar cologne, his warmth an anchor against the bite of the coastal December air. The Outer Banks winters are never brutal, but tonight the chill slips sharp beneath my skin, carrying with it the ghosts of things I tried to leave behind.

Alex presses a quick kiss to my temple before handing his keys to the valet with practiced ease, his “thank you” crisp, unthinking. Together, we walk toward the French doors of the club, the golden light spilling through the glass panes like a beacon. Each step forward feels less like entering a party and more like crossing a threshold I promised myself I’d never return to.

Chatter hums like static, filling every corner of the grand hall and nearly drowning out the faint strains of piano keys drifting from the corner. Laughter echoes against the high ceiling, glasses clink in unison, and the scent of champagne mingles with pine garland and polished wood.

I slip my peacoat from my shoulders and hand it off at coat check, my eyes already scanning the glittering room for familiar faces. It feels as though I’m stepping back into a stage set perfectly from memory—every chandelier, every polished banister, every face that once belonged to the background of my life.

“Mia, Alex!”

My mother’s voice cuts through the din, high-pitched and brimming with delight. Laurel hurries toward us, her arms flung wide, a smile stretched so wide it pinches the skin around her eyes. “You made it! How was dinner?”

“Fantastic,” Alex answers easily, wrapping her in a polite hug before offering a firm handshake to my father, who joins us a beat later. “I’m so glad Mia suggested that restaurant. Best Italian food I’ve had in months.” He glances down at me as he says it, his smile warm, the kind that invites me to share in his ease.

I force my lips to curve back, but the smile wavers before it can settle. I picked that dinner reservation as a buffer, a delaying tactic. Anything to stall the inevitable.

My gaze slips past my fiancé to the crowd, restless and searching, as if pulled by an invisible thread. I tell myself I should be focused on Alex—perfect Alex—who looks the part of every mother’s dream. Tall, lean, with dark stubble that balances polish with just the right amount of ruggedness. Patient, intelligent, kind. Safe. With him, my life is structured, predictable, comfortable.

But comfort has a way of feeling like confinement.

Laurel’s hand lands lightly on my shoulder, drawing me back. “Come, darling. Let’s catch up with some old friends. Everyone has been asking about you.”

So I go, hand entwined with Alex’s, weaving through clusters of kooks dressed in velvet gowns and tailored suits. Crystal flutes glitter in the candlelight, laughter spills in golden bursts, and yet my chest remains tight, my throat dry. I pluck a glass of champagne from a passing tray and bring it to my lips in a swift, grateful swallow. The warmth of it spreads down my throat, loosening my edges, though not enough.

Maybe I’m overreacting. Maybe he isn’t even here. For all I know, he left the island behind years ago, just as I did.

“Rose!” Laurel calls, her voice bright.

The blonde woman gasps, her manicured hand flying to her chest. “Miss Mia!” Rose clasps my hand, spinning me in a playful twirl as if I’m still seventeen, not twenty-two. “Look at you. You’re stunning.”

And I suppose I am. The silk of my red gown drapes over my curves with effortless grace, loose enough to tease, fitted enough to draw eyes. The open back leaves my skin bare, the delicate chain of my diamond pendant swaying softly against the hollow of my spine with every turn. My hair, glossy and dark, falls in curls pinned half-up with a jeweled clip. I chose simplicity in my makeup, but the restraint only highlights the natural glow of my olive-toned skin.

I blush at Rose’s effusion, leaning into her embrace.

Ward Cameron appears next, stepping forward with uncharacteristic warmth. Usually, his face is a mask of strain, taut with the weight of work and the constant mishaps of his children. But with me, his expression softens. “Good to see you,” he says, his voice carrying an almost paternal fondness. “I trust Chapel Hill is treating you well?”

“Very much so,” I answer with a nod, slipping free from his embrace.

“And work?” Ward’s eyes sharpen with interest.

“Great,” I say quickly, summoning my polished answer. “I was promoted to Associate. No more spreadsheets, at least not as many. My supervisor thinks I could make VP within a few years.”

Ward gives a low chuckle. “You come work for me, and I’ll make you CFO tomorrow.”

I laugh politely, though it catches in my throat. I shake my head as if brushing it off, but the very thought of tethering myself back to this place sends a warning flare through my chest.

“Now, who is this handsome man?” Rose asks, her bright eyes flicking toward Alex.

I startle, nearly choking on my champagne when I realize I’ve forgotten to introduce him. “Oh—this is Alex,” I sputter.

“Her fiancé,” Laurel adds proudly.

The word lands heavy in my stomach, twisting hard.

The Camerons fawn appropriately, Ward clasping Alex’s hand with approval while Rose gushes over the ring. I extend my left hand, the oval-cut diamond catching the light and scattering it across the room. It’s beautiful, extravagant, everything a girl is supposed to want. Yet my skin prickles under the scrutiny, and I quickly withdraw, twirling my empty flute as though distraction could ease my discomfort.

And then I feel it.

A gaze. Hot, unflinching, cutting across the crowded room like a blade.

I look up, and there he is.

His eyes lock on mine, searing me in place.

Rafe Cameron.

The name alone is enough to rattle me, but nothing could have prepared me for the sight of him standing across the room—shamelessly studying me as if no time at all has passed. His eyes, bluer than the bluest sea and twice as sharp, trail from the hem of my gown up to my face, pinning me in place when they finally meet mine. I freeze, my heels rooted to the marble floor like I’ve been turned to stone. Time feels strange—stretching, collapsing—every second crashing into the next until it all blurs. In that one look, years of memories flicker through my mind, unspooling in fast motion: nights we spent by the water, whispered words I pretended didn’t matter, fights that carved me open. It’s unbearable, but I can’t look away.

The world feels like it’s holding its breath—until Rose leans closer, her voice cutting through the fog.

“When’s the wedding?” she repeats, clearly for the second time.

I blink, throat dry. “Sorry?” My voice sounds faint, not my own.

“The wedding,” Rose says again, smiling expectantly.

“Oh. Uh—next summer.” The words stumble out, my tongue clumsy and useless.

Laurel jumps in, clutching onto the conversation like it’s hers to hold. “So much planning in so little time. We haven’t even started designing the invitations yet and—”

Her voice fades into a distant hum. My gaze has already drifted back across the room, but Rafe is gone. My stomach lurches, breath catching painfully in my chest. The absence is somehow worse than his stare. My hands tremble as I smooth my dress, my lips parting before I can second-guess myself.

“I’ll be right back,” I say quickly, already stepping away. “I need another drink.”

No one protests—not Laurel, not Rose, not Alex. The men are still absorbed in their talk of stocks and property, blind to the storm unraveling inside me. I make my way toward the bar, each step heavier than the last, silently begging for something stronger than champagne. Ten shots of tequila might numb this knot inside me, might make me forget that I ever saw him tonight.

“Dirty martini, please,” I murmur to the bartender. He’s quick, efficient, and in minutes I’m pressing the cold glass to my lips. The burn is sharp, welcome, and I down it far too fast before ordering another.

By the time I return to the group, my chest feels lighter—until I see him.

Rafe stands beside Ward, and my heart plunges. Taller than I remember, broader too, he towers over everyone else. The navy suit he wears fits him too well, the fabric stretched over shoulders that have only grown more solid. His hair is buzzed close now, severe, dangerous. A stark contrast to Alex’s polished, careful style. My fiancé looks perfect. But Rafe—Rafe looks like trouble, the kind I once couldn’t resist.

He doesn’t notice me at first, too wrapped up in quiet conversation with my father. My pulse drums in my ears, but I force a smile when Laurel turns.

“Where did you run off to?” she asks, her brows pinched.

“Just needed a refill.” I raise my glass in proof, but the way her eyes narrow tells me she’s unconvinced.

Alex slips an arm around my waist, pulling me close, his hand settling on my hip like a claim. His voice is light, teasing. “Looks like you went for something a little stronger this time.”

I try to laugh, but the sound lodges in my throat. I can feel Rafe’s stare now, heavy and scorching, drilling into the very place where Alex’s hand rests. My skin burns under it, like I’ve been branded.

“Mia,” my father says suddenly, drawing me back. “Rafe was just telling me he’ll be taking over Cameron Development in a few months. Quite the step forward. Congratulations, son.”

The words ring in my ears. I snap my head toward Rafe, disbelief washing over me. Take over the company? Four years ago, he wouldn’t have been caught dead working for Ward Cameron. Back then, his whole world revolved around drugs, quick money, and reckless indulgence. The chaos of his future—his refusal to even think about one—was one of the reasons we fought so much.

But now? He looks straight at my father and says, steady, confident: “Thank you. I’m excited for the opportunity. I’ll be working alongside my dad for a while, of course. Learning operations before we make a full transition.”

I nearly choke on my drink. Who is this man?

Alex smiles politely, oblivious to the way my world has tilted. “Well, if you ever need friends in the business, I’d be happy to connect you. I’ve been working in property development for some time. Chapel Hill has excellent growth potential—very lucrative.”

Rafe lifts his glass, knuckles whitening as his ringed fingers grip the stem too tight. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Thanks. I’ll take your number and give you a call sometime.”

The lie is so obvious I almost laugh. Rafe Cameron doesn’t ask for help. He never has.

I catch myself before the sound escapes, hiding my smirk behind the rim of my glass. Still, both men glance at me curiously, as though they can sense something simmering beneath my calm. Only one stare, though, makes my heart trip over itself.

“Mia,” Rose interrupts, easing herself into the conversation, “your mom said you still need a florist for the wedding, and I think I know the perfect person. I’ll call them first thing tomorrow to book you.” Her smile is sweet, but my stomach sinks. Before I can even open my mouth, she tilts her head expectantly. “But I need to know what your favorite flower is.”

I part my lips to answer, but a voice slices through the chatter—low, deep, and thick with familiarity.

“Lilies, yeah?” Rafe drawls, almost taunting.

The sound of his voice is a punch straight to my chest. My eyes snap to his, and my breath catches. He remembered. Four years apart and he still knows.

His gaze locks on mine—unyielding, searing—as if he’s waiting to see if I’ll deny it. Every inch of him feels like a provocation. His presence presses into me like static electricity, a warning and a dare all at once. He’s still as frustrating, as magnetic, as utterly dangerous as I remember.

“Yeah,” I breathe, barely louder than a whisper. The word scrapes out of me, fragile and traitorous, because I can’t look away. My lungs tighten, starved for oxygen, while the crowded room suddenly feels smaller, closing in like the walls are about to collapse.

I shove my glass into Alex’s unsuspecting hand before my legs betray me. “I—I’ll be right back. Ladies’ room,” I mutter, though my voice hardly sounds like my own.

Without waiting for anyone’s response, I push through the swarm of glittering dresses and clinking glasses, heart pounding as if every step might give me away. I don’t stop until the heavy back door of the club swings open and the cool night air washes over me.

Coming here was a mistake. A colossal, stupid mistake.

The salty wind stings my cheeks as I grip the wooden railing of the deck, desperate for something solid. My fingers tremble as though I’ve touched fire. I drag air into my lungs, sharp and shallow, staring at the ocean where the moonlight shatters across the surface with each rolling wave.

Alex doesn’t know about Rafe. He never has. I tucked that part of my past into a box, shoved it deep into the attic of my memory, and convinced myself it would never matter again. With Alex, life is safe. Sensible. Predictable. He’s everything I should want—stable, respectful, endlessly patient. He’s comfort.

But the second Rafe looked at me, it all unraveled. That dangerous tilt of the earth beneath my feet. That impossible, reckless pull. The chaos I thought I’d buried.

And standing out here, chest heaving against the night air, I hate myself for it. Because a part of me misses it—the volatility, the wildfire, the way every fight with Rafe bled into passion so consuming it left me undone.

That kind of love burned me once. And yet, even now, I can still taste the ash on my tongue.

Rain lashes down in heavy sheets as I shove open the front door of Tannyhill and slam it shut behind me, the sound swallowed almost instantly by the storm. My chest is tight, my throat raw from screaming at him.

“You’re going to kill yourself, Rafe,” I had shouted, voice shaking as much from fear as fury. “Do you even care? Do you even realize what you’re doing to yourself?”

But his jaw had just locked, his pupils blown wide, his mouth twisting in that bitter, reckless smile that cuts deeper than a knife. He never takes it seriously. He never takes me seriously. So I left him—pacing, raging—because staying in that room felt like drowning.

I storm down the slick driveway, arms wrapped around myself more for armor than warmth. The wind shoves me sideways, the rain blinds me, but I keep moving. I don’t care that it’s two in the morning, that I’ll have to walk miles home through the storm. I’d rather fight the weather than the hurricane living in him.

“Mia!”

His voice booms from the porch, sharp enough to crack through the thunder.

“Where the fuck are you going? It’s the middle of the goddamn night!”

I don’t look back. I just push harder, each step pounding into the asphalt, defiance burning in my veins. But suddenly his hand clamps around my arm, spinning me with enough force to rip the breath out of me.

Rafe’s standing there in the downpour, his grip locked around both my arms like shackles. His chest is heaving, his face wet with more than just the rain. “Jesus Christ, Mia. Are you insane?”

“Let go of me!” My voice cracks as I thrash against him, kicking, clawing, desperate to tear myself free.

“Stop.” His voice cuts low, controlled, but the edge is there—razor sharp. His fingers don’t loosen, not even when I shove against him like I could break bone. “Mia, calm the fuck down.”

The fight drains out of me all at once, like a wave crashing against a rock only to slide back into the sea. My body sags, trembling, my breath coming in ragged sobs. Tears mix with the rain on my cheeks as I lift my gaze to him.

His pupils are huge, his eyes wild and bloodshot, but underneath—God, underneath—I see the fracture. The boy he was, buried under all the wreckage. His soaked hair drips into his face, droplets clinging to his lashes, his jaw tight with something between rage and desperation.

“I can’t do this anymore,” I whisper, the words tearing from my throat before I can stop them.

His brows pull together, rain streaming down his face as his mouth parts like I’ve just gutted him. “What do you mean?”

And for a heartbeat, it feels like the storm itself pauses, the weight of everything unsaid hanging heavier than the sky above us. The words taste like blood on my tongue, sharp and final. “I can’t be with you, Rafe.”

His eyes flicker, and for a second I swear I see him crack wide open. His voice is ragged when it slips out. “Please. Don’t do this. Not you.”

My chest aches like someone’s pressing their fists into my ribs. Every part of me wants to turn, to keep walking, to free myself before I drown. But he’s standing there in the rain, begging me with his whole body, and I feel my resolve crumbling like wet paper.

“You think this is easy for me?” My voice trembles, sharp with hurt. “I love you so much it feels like it’s killing me. But I can’t—” My breath catches and I nearly claw at my imploding chest. “I can’t survive the chaos anymore. I can’t keep wondering which version of you I’m gonna get. The one who makes me feel like I could conquer the world, or the one who scares the hell out of me.”

His jaw tightens, water streaming down his cheeks—whether it’s rain or tears, I can’t tell. He steps closer, close enough that the heat of him cuts through the storm. “Give me another chance,” he says, voice breaking. “I’ll do better. I’ll—fuck, Mia, I’ll do anything. Just… don’t leave me.”

I shake my head, but my hands betray me, curling into his shirt. My whole body aches for him, even as my heart screams at me to let go. “I don’t know how to stop loving you,” I whisper, and it feels like surrender.

That’s all it takes. His mouth crashes onto mine, desperate and bruising. It’s not gentle—it’s survival, frantic and consuming, teeth and lips and breath all colliding. Rainwater floods my lashes, slides between our mouths, mixes with salt and tears. I taste every ounce of pain, every plea, every shred of devotion he’s pouring into me.

I cling to him like I’ll vanish if I let go, fingers tangled in his soaked hair, nails biting at his neck. His hands lock around me, one fisted in the back of my dress, the other cradling my jaw, holding me there like I’m the last good thing in his world.

The storm thrashes around us, wind howling, lightning cracking the sky wide open. But none of it touches the chaos inside me—the storm of wanting him, needing him, hating myself for both.

When he finally rips his mouth from mine, we’re gasping, foreheads pressed together, breath shuddering into each other’s mouths. His grip slides down until our fingers lace, hard enough to hurt.

“Come on,” he rasps, voice frayed to the bone.

He pulls me, and I let him. My shoes slap against the slick pavement as we run, hand in hand, up the long driveway toward the house. Water splashes up our legs, the wind claws at us, but we don’t stop. He doesn’t let go, not once, dragging me with him like if he keeps holding on, the whole world won’t tear us apart.

The door slams behind us, a hollow thud swallowed immediately by the storm, but I barely notice. Rafe’s fingers are still threaded through mine. Water drips from his hair, his jacket, his sleeves, and soaks my dress, clinging to every curve of my body. The chill of the rain bites through my skin, but it’s nothing compared to the fire coursing between us.

Before I can catch my breath, he’s on me again. Our lips collide in a desperate, consuming kiss, and my knees threaten to buckle under the force of it. He holds me up, pressing me against the dimly lit wall, hands roaming my back, tangling in my hair, pulling me impossibly close. My heartbeat drums in my ears; every ragged gasp we share echoes off the empty walls.

“I can’t… I can’t stay away from you,” he hisses, teeth nipping my lower lip. His hands cup the backs of my thighs, lifting me, and I wrap my legs around him instinctively. My dress rides up, exposing me to him, and I feel his arousal through the thin fabric of my panties.

I shiver, but it’s not the cold. Goosebumps prickle along my skin as my hands claw at his shoulders, the back of his neck, in his wet hair. I need him, every inch of him, to memorize him before the world rips us apart. “I shouldn’t,” I whisper, voice swallowed by the strength of our kiss. “I… I can’t do this… but I… God, I need you, Rafe.”

A low groan rumbles from his chest, forehead pressing against mine, eyes dark and burning. “Just… don’t leave me again.” Each word drags across me like fire, and I tremble at the raw need in his voice.

We cling to each other, the universe tipping around us, the only thing keeping us upright this bruising, desperate connection. Rainwater drips down our faces, soaks through our clothes, but we don’t care. Nothing exists outside the way our bodies fit together, the way our hearts hammer in sync, the way our ragged breaths mingle.

I taste the salt of his skin mixed with rain as he eases me off the wall, guiding me toward the great room. A fire blazes in the hearth, warm and steady, casting flickering light over the polished floor. Every nerve in me is alive, every emotion raw and unshielded. He sets me down gently on the rug, hovering over me, longing and need etched into every line of his body. I claw at the edge of his soaked t-shirt, a silent plea for him to shed it so I can feel the heat of him against me.

Anger, love, frustration, desire—all tangled into one—coursing through us as we strip off wet layers, whispering promises against each other’s lips. We collapse together, limbs intertwined, bodies bare, surrendering to the storm of sensation. The empty house echoes our sighs and moans, a chorus to the chaos we can’t contain.

When we finally come down from the edge together, he presses a gentle kiss to my lips, brushing damp strands of dark hair from my face and tucking them behind my ear. “I love you, Mia. I want to be better for you. I will be better for you.”

All I can give back is a small, shaky smile and a nod, feeling the fire in my chest settle into something steadier—but no less intense.

I lean against the balcony railing, the cool wood pressing through the thin fabric of my dress, and force myself to take a deep breath. The ocean stretches out beneath me, black and endless, waves catching the moonlight like shards of silver. The sound is constant, hypnotic, and for a moment it drowns out the roar of the party inside.

My chest still pounds, and I can feel it in my throat, a lingering reminder of that impossible, intoxicating moment. The memory of him—Rafe—hits me like a second heartbeat. The rain, the storm, the way he’d pulled me into himself, the raw, desperate fire that seemed to consume everything around us. Every touch had been reckless, every kiss a challenge to every rule I’d ever made for myself.

And here he is. Across the room, somewhere in this glittering, perfumed chaos, he exists, and my body remembers before my mind does. My hands tighten around the glass I’m holding, the champagne forgotten and warm, and my teeth press into my lower lip.

I try to force my thoughts elsewhere, to remind myself who I have now. Alex. Calm, steady Alex, whose hand feels safe around mine, whose eyes never burn through me like his does. Alex, who is everything I theoretically wanted: smart, reliable, perfect in a way that feels designed for the life I’ve built. He’s safe. Predictable. The future I can plan for.

But Rafe… Rafe makes me feel alive. Every time he’s near, it’s as if the world tilts on its axis and I’m both terrified and exhilarated. He’s fire and storm and chaos wrapped into a man I can’t—or maybe won’t—ignore. With him, I lose control, and it’s dangerous, thrilling, addictive. He makes me reckless in ways Alex could never ask me to be, ways I can’t fully explain even to myself.

I close my eyes, trying to steady my pulse. I remind myself of the life I’ve built. The apartment, the degree, the security of a man like Alex. I remind myself that I chose him, that I wanted him, and that this—this reckless pull toward Rafe—could destroy everything. Could ruin the careful, perfect balance I’ve fought for.

And yet, when I picture Rafe’s face—the curve of his jaw, the intensity in his eyes, the way he’d made me feel like gravity had shifted just for us—I can’t push it away.

My fingers tighten around the glass, and I realize I’m holding my breath. The wind whips at my hair, and I let it sting my cheeks, trying to remind myself I’m alive here, safe here. But the truth presses down harder than the ocean breeze: no matter how much I should resist, Rafe Cameron has always been my storm. And some storms just can’t be tamed.

I hear the soft thump of shoes against wood behind me before a familiar, steady voice cuts through the night air.

“Mia?” Alex’s voice is calm, gentle, but there’s an edge of worry there. I turn, forcing a practiced smile onto my face, the one I’ve perfected over years of polite charm. The one that tells the world I’m okay. That I’ve got it all together.

“I’m fine,” I say, letting the words tumble out easy, casual, though my chest still feels tight. “Just… weird being back here after so long.”

His eyes search mine, careful, patient, as if he can sense the storm I’m trying so desperately to hide. “Do you miss it?” His hand hovers near mine, hesitant.

I let my gaze drift over the ocean stretching in the silver moonlight, the dark expanse of the golf course with its manicured greens faintly outlined in the winter haze. The salty wind tangles in my hair, and I take a slow, deep breath. “Sometimes,” I admit after a long pause. It’s quiet, almost to myself, but he hears it.

Alex’s lips curve into a small, teasing smile. “Just sometimes, huh? Not enough to drag you back here permanently?”

I can’t help but let out a soft laugh, but the tension in my shoulders hasn’t eased. The thought of moving back here, into Rafe’s orbit, makes me cower. All I see is destruction. “Not permanently,” I confirm, smiling up at Alex.

He offers his hand, and I take it without hesitation. It feels right—steady, warm, grounding. Together we turn back toward the party, our fingers entwined. The glow from the club spills onto the balcony, bathing us in golden light, and I let myself fall into the comfort of his presence.