31

It had been a few weeks since things started feeling... real between Rafe and Stella. Not just real, but stable. For once, it wasn't just stolen moments, whispered apologies, or chaos stitched together by lust and adrenaline. There was something warm in the quiet of their togetherness lately, like the calm after a hurricane—danger still lingering in the air, but peace nonetheless.

Stella sat cross-legged on the edge of Rafe's bed, wearing one of his oversized, faded button-downs with her damp blonde hair curling into soft beachy waves. The freckles on her nose were even more noticeable today, scattered like stars across her sun-kissed skin. She looked up from her phone as Rafe walked in, tossing his keys on the dresser.

"You know," she said with a teasing smirk, "you never knock."

Rafe scoffed, pulling off his sweatshirt, revealing a white tee beneath it that clung to the lean muscle of his torso. "It's my room."

"It's your house," she corrected, "but this is our room now."

He grinned, walking over to her and nudging her knee with his knuckle before leaning in to kiss the side of her mouth. "Whatever helps you sleep at night"

She dramatically rolled her eyes. "Where are we going tonight? You still haven't told me."

"You'll see." He looked her up and down with that familiar cocky smirk. "But you might wanna wear something fancier than that wrinkled shirt of mine. I'm taking you out—like out-out."

She raised an eyebrow. "Out-out?"

Rafe nodded, brushing a piece of her hair behind her ear. "Like expensive food, dim lighting, wine list. That kinda out."

Stella blinked, surprised. "Are you... okay?"

"Don't get used to it," he muttered, standing up and snatching his cologne off the dresser. "It's a one-night-only kinda deal."

"Liar," she smiled softly, watching him in the mirror. "You're soft for me."

He caught her eye through the reflection, his smirk faltering for just a second, replaced by something deeper, gentler. "Shut up and get ready, Angel."

The car ride was filled with quiet music and low conversation, the kind where they didn't have to say much to fill the space.

Stella turned in her seat to face him. "You sure we're not just going to some bougie place to make up for something stupid you're about to do?"

Rafe grinned without taking his eyes off the road. "I'd never admit it if I was."

She laughed, twisting her hair around her finger. "I'm just surprised. I've never seen you like this."

"Like what?" he asked, lips twitching.

"Like... thoughtful. You shaved. You're not wearing that ratty polo you love. And you didn't smoke before we left. You're not your frat-boy self anymore"

His voice was smug. "Told you. One-night-only."

"Rafe."

"What?"

"I like you like this."

That made him glance over. Just a second, but enough to show her he heard her. And that it meant something.

The restaurant sat perched just off the water, glowing with soft golden lights and the low hum of conversation. It was elegant without being stiff, the kind of place that didn't have a dress code but still expected class.

Rafe pulled up to the valet and tossed the keys to a guy barely older than them, giving a quick nod before walking around to Stella's side. He opened her door with a flair that almost made her laugh—cocky, like he was born to play this role—but when she stepped out and he took her hand, the touch was genuine.

Inside, he pulled her chair out before sitting down across from her. He didn't make a big deal about it, didn't say anything cheesy. Just did it. Like maybe he wanted to do it. For her.

She looked down at her menu, whispering across the table, "I don't even know what half these words mean."

"That's how you know it's good," Rafe said, already scanning the wine list like he wasn't just going to get a glass of whiskey.

They were halfway through their appetizer—tiny, overpriced crabcakes—when Stella suddenly froze, her fork halfway to her mouth. Her eyes locked on something over his shoulder, her lips parting just slightly.

Rafe's back straightened. "What is it?"

"Don't... don't look," she said quickly.

He turned anyway.

Standing near the host stand was Oliver—tall, tailored in a navy suit, and beside him was a woman Rafe had never seen. She was older, elegant, with sleek dark hair and sharp eyes that surveyed the room like it belonged to her.

Oliver's gaze shifted. His eyes met Stella's, and something passed across his face—something unreadable. But he didn't approach.

Rafe turned back slowly. "What the hell is he doing here?"

Stella picked up her water, her hand shaking slightly. "It's a nice restaurant. People go to nice restaurants."

Rafe narrowed his eyes. "Don't play dumb."

"I'm not," she said, trying to hold his gaze. "It's fine. Let's just... ignore it."

He leaned in, voice low, almost a growl. "You sure about that?"

She nodded firmly. "I'm with you. He's not a problem."

Still, the tension curled like smoke between them. Rafe didn't like the way Oliver had looked at her—like he still had some sort of unspoken claim. And that woman with him—too polished, too poised—had given Stella a once-over that made his blood simmer.

Stella reached across the table, brushing her fingers against the back of his hand. "Don't let him ruin this. Please."

Rafe stared at her for a moment, the tension in his jaw slowly easing. "Fine. But if he even looks at you wrong, I swear to God—"

"You'll be in the back of a cop car tonight?" she teased.

His lips twitched. "You'd still bail me out, right?"

She grinned. "Depends. What kind of wine are we getting?"

They continued their meal, the presence of Oliver and the mystery woman lingering like a shadow in the corners of the candlelight. At one point, the two walked past their table—Oliver's hand grazing the woman's back. He didn't stop. Didn't speak. But his eyes met Rafe's for a long, charged moment.

Rafe leaned back in his chair, draping his fingers still lingering on Stella's. His body language screamed mine.

Stella, despite herself, found it almost funny. The cocky tilt of Rafe's chin, the way he subtly played fidgeted with his chunky rings. He was a storm and a shield all at once.

When dessert arrived—some decadent chocolate soufflé with a molten center—Stella leaned into the warmth of the moment, letting herself forget the tension for a while.

They shared spoonfuls between soft laughter and low conversation, and once the plates were cleared, Rafe pulled out his wallet and paid with a nod to their waiter, not even glancing at the total.

He stood, offering her his hand. "Let's get outta here."

Outside, the ocean breeze had picked up. As they waited near the valet podium, Stella rubbed her arms, the night air cool against her bare shoulders. Without a word, Rafe shrugged off his jacket and draped it over her.

She looked up at him, surprised by the small gesture, the warmth of the jacket almost overwhelming after how cold she hadn't realized she'd gotten.

"You really are soft for me," she whispered with a small smile.

He grunted. "You keep saying that."

The valet pulled up in Rafe's truck, and he opened her door again—rough around the edges but attentive in all the right ways. She climbed in, still wrapped in his jacket, still carrying the weight of the evening on her skin.

Back in the car, the windows slowly fogged from the inside, the sound of waves muffled by the closed doors. Stella tucked her legs under herself as she turned to look at him.

"Hey," she said softly, "thank you. For tonight. Even with... you know, everything."

Rafe glanced over at her, his fingers drumming lightly on the steering wheel. "You deserve better than what I usually give. Tonight wasn't about him. It was about you."

She smiled, dimples peeking through. "You softie."

He groaned, exasperated. "If you tell anyone, I'll deny it 'til the day I die."

She leaned across the console and kissed him—slow, deep, and full of the gratitude she couldn't quite put into words.

"Secret's safe with me, Rafe Cameron."

And in that quiet, foggy space, it didn't matter who had been watching earlier. Didn't matter what was said, or what wasn't.

All that mattered was the girl with the freckles, and the boy with the storm in his chest—finally finding peace in the middle of it.