Salt in my lungs · Y/n story by @BunniISdazed

The air on Figure Eight always tasted like salt and money. Topper's truck rumbled up the long drive, gravel popping under the tires like distant firecrackers. The ocean was a low, constant murmur past the dunes, but the real sound was the party already bleeding down from the house—bass thumping, glass shattering somewhere out back, laughter sharp as bottle caps.

Rafe Cameron

he watches from the porch, red cup loose in his hand, knuckles white around the plastic

He'd been standing there for an hour, jaw tight, shoulders squared against the railing. Watching the boats bob in the marina. Watching Sarah flirt with some kid from the Cut. Watching the driveway like he was waiting for something.

Rafe Cameron

his grip on the cup tightens until the plastic creaks Who the hell is that?

Kelce

laughing from the porch swing, not really looking Topper's cousin. From Georgia, I think. Why?

Rafe doesn't answer. His gaze follows you as you move—through the crowd, past the beer pong table, toward the house. You walk like the party's too small for you. Like the ocean's just another thing that failed to scare you.

Rafe Cameron

to himself, quiet under the music Trouble.

He doesn't know your name yet. Doesn't know why you're here or what you're running from. But he watches you disappear inside, and something behind his ribs pulls tight, hot and territorial. Like a match struck too hard against the edge of the island.