Crimson Tides

The first time I understood what I wanted, I was fourteen and Rafe was fifteen and he'd just broken a boy's nose for calling me a slut at a Figure Eight party.

I didn't even know the boy's name. Some touron from the mainland with a popped collar and a mouth that ran faster than his brain. He'd said it loud enough for the whole dock to hear, and I'd felt the heat climb up my neck, that familiar burn of being seen and found wanting. But before I could even open my mouth, Rafe was there. Not because he was protecting me, I know that now. He was protecting the Cameron name. Protecting Dad's reputation. Protecting the fragile architecture of appearances we'd all been raised to maintain.

But at fourteen, I didn't know the difference.

I watched him hit that boy and something cracked open inside my chest. A fissure, thin as a hairline fracture in glass, and through it poured something I didn't have a name for yet. It wasn't gratitude. It wasn't the warm, safe feeling of having a big brother who'd fight for you. It was darker than that. Hotter. It pooled in my stomach and stayed there, a coal I'd carry with me for years, banking it, feeding it, watching it glow in the dark of my bedroom at night.

I'm nineteen now. The coal has become a furnace.

---

The house on Figure Eight is quiet tonight in that way that means something's wrong. Not the good quiet, the kind that settles over the porch when the sun goes down and the cicadas start their evening sermon. This is the other quiet. The one that hums with everything nobody's saying.

Dad's in his study with the door closed. I can hear the clink of ice in his glass every few minutes, a metronome marking time until he passes out. Mom's upstairs pretending to read a book she hasn't turned a page in for an hour. And Rafe.

Rafe's in his room. I know because I can hear him pacing. The floorboards creak in a specific rhythm when he's wearing a groove into the hardwood, and I've memorized that rhythm the way I've memorized everything about him. The way he breathes when he's trying to calm down. The way he laughs when he's actually happy versus when he's performing. The way his jaw tightens right before he does something he'll regret.

I'm lying on my bed with my phone in my hand, scrolling through nothing, seeing nothing. The screen glows blue in the dark, painting my ceiling with shadows that shift and crawl. I should be asleep. I have work in the morning, another shift at the Island Club where I smile at tourists and pretend my family isn't crumbling from the inside out.

But I can't sleep. Not when he's like this.

Not when I know what comes next.

The pacing stops. I hold my breath, listening. There's a thud, soft, like he's dropped onto his bed. Then nothing. Then, thirty seconds later, the creak of his door opening.

I'm on my feet before I make the conscious decision to move. My body knows what it wants even when my brain tries to argue. I pad across my room in bare feet, wearing nothing but an old t-shirt and shorts that are too short, and I open my door just as Rafe reaches the top of the stairs.

He freezes when he sees me.

"Sarah." His voice is rough. Used. Like he's been screaming into his pillow. "What are you doing?"

"Couldn't sleep." I lean against my doorframe, casual, like I wasn't just lying in the dark cataloging the sounds of his distress. "You?"

He doesn't answer. He just looks at me with those eyes that are the same color as mine, blue like the ocean on a clear day, and I feel that familiar pull in my chest. The one that's been there since I was fourteen and watched him break a boy's nose.

"Bad night?" I ask.

He laughs. It's not a real laugh. It's the sound of something breaking. "Every night's a bad night."

I should say something comforting. Something sisterly. That's what a normal sister would do. She'd tell him to get some sleep, that things will look better in the morning, that he should talk to someone. She'd keep her distance. She'd maintain the boundaries that exist for a reason.

But I'm not a normal sister. I haven't been for a long time.

"You want to come in?" I tilt my head toward my room. "I have that whiskey you like. The one Dad thinks he's hiding."

Rafe hesitates. I watch the war play out on his face, the part of him that knows better fighting against the part that just wants to stop feeling for a while. I know which part wins. I always know.

"Yeah," he says finally. "Yeah, okay."

He follows me into my room and I close the door behind us. Not locked. That would be too obvious. But closed. Closed is enough.

---

My room is a contradiction. That's what Rafe said once, back when he still said things like that to me. When we were kids and he'd sneak into my room at night because he couldn't sleep either, and we'd lie on my floor and stare at the glow-in-the-dark stars I'd stuck to my ceiling. He said my room was a contradiction because it looked like a princess's room but felt like a prison cell.

I didn't ask him what he meant. I already knew.

The walls are pale pink, the color Mom picked out when I was twelve and still trying to be the daughter she wanted. The bedding is white and expensive, the kind of sheets that cost more than most people's rent. But the walls are covered in things Mom doesn't know about. Polaroids of me and my friends at parties she'd never approve of. Ticket stubs from concerts I snuck out to see. A poster for a band that broke up three years ago, still hanging because I can't bring myself to take it down.

And on my nightstand, hidden behind a stack of books I've never read, there's a journal. Black leather. Filled with things I'd die before letting anyone see.

Rafe doesn't know about the journal. He doesn't know about a lot of things.

He settles onto my bed, his back against the headboard, and I watch the way his shoulders slump. He's wearing a t-shirt that's seen better days and sweatpants that hang low on his hips. His hair is a mess, dark and tangled, like he's been running his hands through it for hours. There are circles under his eyes so deep they look like bruises.

He's beautiful. Even like this. Especially like this.

I grab the whiskey from where I've hidden it in my closet, behind a box of old shoes, and two glasses from the bathroom. I pour us each a generous measure and hand him his. Our fingers brush when he takes it. I feel that touch in my spine, a jolt of electricity that I hide behind a smile.

"To bad nights," I say, raising my glass.

He snorts. "To bad nights."

We drink. The whiskey burns going down, but I like it. I like the way it makes everything feel softer, warmer, like the edges of the world have been sanded down. Rafe drinks his in one swallow, then holds out his glass for more.

I pour. He drinks. We repeat this ritual three times before he finally speaks.

"I can't do this anymore, Sarah."

His voice is quiet. Broken. It's the voice he uses when he's talking about things he can't say in the daylight.

"Can't do what?"

"Any of it." He stares at the empty glass in his hands. "The pretending. The fucking pretending. Dad looks at me like I'm a disappointment. Mom looks at me like I'm a problem she can't solve. And I'm just... I'm so tired."

I move without thinking. I sit down on the bed next to him, close enough that our thighs touch, and I take the glass from his hands. He lets me. He always lets me.

"You're not a problem," I say. "You're not a disappointment."

"You don't know what I am."

"I know you better than anyone."

He looks at me then. Really looks. And for a moment, just a moment, I see something flicker in his eyes. Something that might be recognition. Something that might be the beginning of understanding.

But then it's gone. He looks away, and the moment passes, and I'm left with the ache of almost.

"I should go to bed," he says.

"Stay."

The word hangs in the air between us. I didn't plan to say it. It just came out, raw and desperate and too honest. But I don't take it back. I never take anything back.

"Sarah..."

"Just for a little while." I reach out and touch his arm. Light. Casual. Like it doesn't mean anything. "You don't have to be alone tonight."

He's quiet for a long time. I can feel the war inside him, the push and pull of what he wants versus what he knows is right. He's always been like this. Always fighting himself. It's one of the things I love about him. The way he cares so much about being good, even when he can't manage it.

"Okay," he says finally. "Just for a little while."

I hide my smile behind my glass.

---

We end up lying on my bed, side by side, staring at the ceiling. The glow-in-the-dark stars are still there, faded now, barely visible. I should replace them. I should let go of the past. But I can't. I never could.

"Do you remember when we were kids?" I ask. "When you used to sneak in here at night?"

"I remember."

"Why did you stop?"

He's quiet for a moment. "I got older. It wasn't appropriate anymore."

"Appropriate." I laugh, but there's no humor in it. "That's such a Dad word."

"Maybe. But he's not wrong."

"Isn't he?"

Rafe turns his head to look at me. In the dim light from the window, his face is all shadows and sharp angles. He looks older than twenty. He looks like he's been carrying the weight of the world for a hundred years.

"What are you asking, Sarah?"

I don't answer. Not directly. Instead, I turn on my side to face him, and I let my hand rest on the space between us. Not touching. Almost. The almost is the point.

"I'm asking why you stopped coming to me," I say. "I'm asking why you started keeping secrets. I'm asking why you think you have to carry everything alone."

"Because I do."

"No." I move my hand closer. An inch. Maybe less. "You don't."

He doesn't pull away. He doesn't tell me to stop. He just lies there, looking at me with those eyes that are the same color as mine, and I can see the conflict in them. The desire to let someone in fighting against the fear of being seen.

"Sarah, we shouldn't..."

"We shouldn't what?"

"Whatever this is."

I smile. Slow. Deliberate. "What do you think this is?"

He doesn't answer. He doesn't have to. We both know what this is. We've always known. The only question is whether he'll admit it.

But he's not ready. I can see that. He's still clinging to the version of himself he thinks he's supposed to be, the brother who keeps his distance, the son who doesn't disappoint. He's not ready to let that go.

That's okay. I can wait.

I've been waiting for five years.

"Get some sleep," I say, pulling my hand back. "You look like shit."

He laughs. A real laugh this time. It's a small thing, but it's something. "Thanks. You really know how to make a guy feel special."

"Someone has to."

He shakes his head, but he's smiling. And when he closes his eyes, I let myself look at him. Really look. The curve of his jaw. The way his lashes rest against his cheeks. The rise and fall of his chest as he breathes.

He's mine. He just doesn't know it yet.

---

I don't sleep. I never sleep when he's this close. Instead, I lie awake and listen to him breathe, and I think about all the ways I could make him see.

I think about the way his hand felt when it brushed mine. The way his eyes looked when I said I knew him better than anyone. The way he didn't pull away when I touched his arm.

Small things. Tiny victories. But they add up.

I've been collecting them for years. Every moment he's looked at me a second too long. Every time he's stood a little too close. Every time he's touched me and let his hand linger. I've stored them all, a dragon's hoard of almost-moments, and I take them out at night and polish them until they shine.

Someday, he'll see what I see. Someday, he'll understand that we're the same. Two halves of a broken whole. Two people who've been drowning in the same darkness, reaching for each other without knowing it.

Someday.

But someday isn't good enough anymore.

I'm nineteen now. I've wasted five years waiting for him to notice me, five years watching him destroy himself with drugs and alcohol and self-hatred. Five years of loving him in secret, of wanting him in ways that would make our parents sick, of dreaming about him in ways that would make anyone sick.

I'm done waiting.

Tomorrow, I'll start making him see.

---

The next morning comes too fast.

I wake up to an empty bed and the smell of coffee drifting up from downstairs. Rafe's gone, slipped out while I was sleeping, and I feel the absence of him like a physical thing. A hollow in my chest that only he can fill.

I take my time getting ready. I shower, I do my hair, I put on makeup that makes my eyes look bigger and my lips look fuller. I choose my outfit carefully: a sundress that's too short for church, too casual for a country club, but perfect for making my brother look at me twice.

When I get downstairs, the kitchen is a battlefield.

Dad's at the table with his laptop, a cup of coffee at his elbow, his face set in that expression of permanent disappointment he's worn since the day Rafe dropped out of college. Mom's at the counter, pretending to be busy, but I can see the tension in her shoulders. And Rafe.

Rafe's standing by the fridge, holding a glass of orange juice, looking like he hasn't slept at all.

The moment I walk in, his eyes find me. I feel it like a touch. A brush of heat that starts at my scalp and travels all the way down to my toes.

"Morning," I say, keeping my voice light.

"Morning," he says back. His voice is careful. Guarded. He's already building the walls back up.

I pour myself a cup of coffee and lean against the counter, close enough to him that I can smell his cologne. It's the same one he's worn since high school. I bought it for him for his birthday. He doesn't know that. He thinks it was from Mom.

"Sleep okay?" I ask.

He shrugs. "Fine."

"Liar."

He looks at me, startled, and I smile. Just a little. Just enough.

"You were talking in your sleep," I say. "Something about a boat."

It's a lie. He didn't talk in his sleep. But I want to see what he'll do. I want to see if he'll call me out, or if he'll play along.

He doesn't call me out. He just looks at me for a long moment, something shifting behind his eyes, and then he shakes his head.

"Weird dream," he says.

"Must have been."

Dad clears his throat. "Are you two going to stand there gossiping all morning, or are you going to make yourselves useful?"

Rafe's jaw tightens. I see it. The way his whole body goes rigid, the way his hands curl into fists at his sides. He's always been like this around Dad. A live wire, waiting for a spark.

"I have work," Rafe says, setting his glass down on the counter with more force than necessary. "I'm going."

He's out the door before anyone can respond. I watch him go, the way his shoulders hunch, the way he doesn't look back. And I feel that familiar ache in my chest. The one that's always there when he's hurting.

Dad sighs. "That boy is going to be the death of me."

I don't respond. I just finish my coffee and grab my bag, and I head out the door to follow my brother.

---

The Island Club is buzzing when I arrive. Tourists in their bright, expensive clothes, laughing too loud, drinking too much. I hate them. I hate the way they look at this place like it's a playground, like the people who live here are just part of the scenery. But I smile. I always smile.

I work the front desk, checking people in, answering questions, pretending I don't notice the way their eyes slide over me. The way they see a pretty girl in a sundress and assume I'm just another local, good for directions and nothing else.

But I'm a Cameron. I'm Figure Eight royalty. And they don't know that, because I don't tell them. I like the anonymity. I like being someone else for a few hours.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I check it when no one's looking.

A text from Rafe: *Where are you?*

I smile. He's never texted me first before.

*Work,* I reply. *Why?*

Three dots. Then: *Need to talk.*

My heart stutters in my chest. Need to talk. Those words could mean anything. They could mean he's figured it out, that he knows how I feel, that he's disgusted and horrified and never wants to see me again. Or they could mean something else. Something better.

*Can you meet me?* he asks. *Lunch?*

I should say no. I have a shift. I have responsibilities. I have a life that doesn't revolve around him.

But I've never been good at saying no to Rafe.

*Where?*

He sends me an address. A bar on the south side of the island, the kind of place tourists don't go, the kind of place where people mind their own business. I know it. I've been there before, with friends, with boys whose names I've already forgotten.

*One hour,* I reply. *Don't be late.*

He sends back a thumbs up. I stare at it for a moment, then shove my phone back in my pocket and try to remember how to breathe.

---

The bar is dark and cool, a relief from the summer heat outside. I spot Rafe immediately, tucked into a corner booth, nursing a beer. He looks up when I walk in, and I watch his eyes travel down my body, quick and involuntary, before snapping back to my face.

He noticed. He always notices. He just pretends he doesn't.

"Hey," I say, sliding into the booth across from him.

"Hey."

I order a drink from the waitress. Something fruity and cold. I need the sugar. I need the distraction.

"So," I say, once we're alone again. "What did you want to talk about?"

Rafe stares at his beer. He's quiet for a long time, long enough that I start to get nervous. When he finally speaks, his voice is low and rough.

"Last night."

"What about it?"

"I... I shouldn't have stayed."

I keep my face neutral. "Why not?"

"Because it's not... it's not appropriate."

There it is again. That word. Appropriate. I want to laugh. I want to scream. I want to grab him by the shoulders and shake him until he sees that appropriate has nothing to do with anything.

"It was just sleep, Rafe. Siblings do that."

"Not... not like that."

"Like what?"

He looks at me then. And I see it. The confusion. The conflict. The thing he can't name, can't acknowledge, can't even think about without wanting to crawl out of his own skin.

"You know what I mean," he says.

I don't answer. I just take a sip of my drink and wait.

"I'm your brother," he says. "We can't... I can't..."

"Can't what?"

"Sarah." His voice breaks on my name. "Please."

I should stop. I should let him off the hook. I should pretend I don't know what he's talking about, that I haven't been thinking about him in ways that would make our parents disown us, that I don't lie awake at night dreaming about his hands on my skin.

But I'm tired of pretending.

"Please what, Rafe? Please stop making you feel things you don't want to feel? Please stop being the only person who actually sees you?"

"Sarah..."

"You're not stupid. You're not blind. You know what's happening here."

He shakes his head. "Nothing's happening."

"Something's been happening since we were kids. You just won't let yourself see it."

He's on his feet before I can finish the sentence. He throws some bills on the table and he's gone, out the door, into the sunlight, and I'm left alone in the dark with my drink and the echo of his footsteps.

I should feel bad. I should feel guilty. I should feel anything other than the satisfaction that's blooming in my chest.

But I don't. Because I saw it. In that moment before he ran, I saw it.

He knows. He's always known. He's just been running from it.

And I'm done letting him run.

---

I don't go back to work. I text my manager and tell her I'm sick, and I drive home with the windows down and the music loud, and I think about Rafe's face when I said what I said. The way his eyes went wide. The way his breath caught in his throat.

He's scared. That's good. Fear means he's paying attention.

When I get home, the house is empty. Dad's at the office, Mom's at some charity thing, and Rafe. Rafe's probably at the beach, or at one of his friend's houses, or anywhere that isn't here. Anywhere that isn't near me.

I take my time walking up to his room. I've been in here a hundred times before, but it feels different now. Charged. Like the walls are holding their breath.

His room is messy. Clothes on the floor, empty bottles on the nightstand, a half-eaten bag of chips on the desk. The bed's unmade, sheets tangled, and I can smell him on the pillows. That cologne. That scent that's just him.

I sit on his bed and I look around at the evidence of his pain. The dark circles under his eyes that never go away. The way he flinches when Dad raises his voice. The way he drinks to forget, to escape, to feel something other than the weight of being a Cameron.

He's drowning. He's been drowning for years. And no one's noticed. No one's tried to save him.

Except me.

I'm the only one who sees him. The only one who understands. The only one who loves him enough to pull him out of the darkness.

Even if he doesn't want to be saved.

Even if he fights me every step of the way.

I lie back on his bed and close my eyes, and I breathe in the scent of him, and I let myself imagine what it would be like. What it will be like. When he finally stops fighting. When he finally admits what we both know.

He'll be mine. Completely. Finally.

And I'll be his.

I stay there for an hour, maybe two. Just breathing. Just waiting. And when I finally leave, I make sure to leave something behind. A small thing. A pair of my underwear, tucked under his pillow.

He'll find them. He'll know they're mine.

And he won't be able to stop thinking about it.

---

The next few days are a study in avoidance.

Rafe won't look at me. He won't be in the same room as me. He leaves for work before I wake up and comes home after I'm asleep. He's building walls, higher and thicker than ever before, and I let him. For now.

I'm patient. I can wait.

But I'm also busy.

I start small. Little things that no one else would notice. I leave my hair in his bathroom, long strands that cling to the shower wall. I move his things around, just slightly, so he knows someone's been in his space. I borrow his t-shirts and wear them to bed, and I don't wash them before I put them back.

He notices. I can tell by the way he looks at me, quick and confused, like he's trying to figure out a puzzle that doesn't have all its pieces. He knows something's happening. He just doesn't know what.

Good.

I want him off-balance. I want him uncertain. I want him thinking about me even when he's trying not to.

And it's working. I can see it in the way he watches me when he thinks I'm not looking. The way he lingers in doorways, like he's waiting for something. The way his hands shake when I get too close.

He's cracking. Slowly. But he's cracking.

---

The first real test comes on a Friday night.

Dad's having a party. Some business thing, clients from New York, the kind of people who wear boat shoes and talk about their portfolios. Mom's been planning it for weeks, and the house is a flurry of caterers and florists and people who've been hired to make everything look perfect.

I'm supposed to be helping. I'm supposed to be the good daughter, the one who smiles and charms and makes everyone forget that the Cameron family is held together by lies and alcohol and the desperate hope that no one looks too closely.

But I have other plans.

I wait until the party is in full swing, until the champagne is flowing and the music is loud enough to cover the sound of my footsteps. Then I slip upstairs, to Rafe's room.

He's not there. I knew he wouldn't be. He hates these parties, hates the way Dad parades him around like a show pony, hates the way everyone looks at him like they know he's a disappointment. He's probably at the beach, or at a bar, or anywhere that isn't here.

But he'll come back. He always comes back.

I make myself comfortable on his bed, and I wait.

---

He comes home at midnight.

I hear the front door open, the sound of his footsteps on the stairs. I hear him pause outside his door, and I know he's sensed something. Something's different. Something's wrong.

He opens the door, and he sees me.

I'm lying on his bed, wearing nothing but one of his t-shirts and a pair of lacy underwear that's definitely not meant for sleeping. The shirt is long enough to cover me, barely, but I've positioned myself so that it rides up, showing off the curve of my hip, the length of my legs.

"Sarah." His voice is strangled. "What the fuck are you doing?"

"Waiting for you."

He doesn't move. He's frozen in the doorway, his hand still on the doorknob, his eyes fixed on me like he can't look away. I watch the way his throat moves when he swallows. The way his fingers tighten on the door.

"You need to leave."

"I don't want to."

"Sarah..."

"Rafe."

I sit up slowly, letting the shirt ride up even more. I'm not wearing a bra. I can see him notice, can see the way his eyes drop for just a second before he forces them back up.

"You've been avoiding me," I say.

"I've been busy."

"Liar."

He flinches. Just a little. Just enough.

"I know you've been avoiding me," I continue. "I know you're scared. I know you think this is wrong."

"It is wrong."

"Is it?"

He doesn't answer. He just stands there, looking at me like I'm something he can't have, something he shouldn't want, something that's going to destroy him.

I get up from the bed and walk toward him. Slow. Deliberate. I watch his eyes widen, watch his breath catch, watch his whole body go rigid with tension.

"You feel it too," I say. "I know you do. I've seen the way you look at me."

"I don't..."

"You do. You've always looked at me that way. Even when we were kids."

He shakes his head. "That's not... that's different."

"How?"

He doesn't have an answer. He just stands there, trapped, and I move closer. Close enough to touch. Close enough to feel the heat coming off his skin.

"You're the only one who sees me," I whisper. "The only one who understands. And I'm the only one who sees you. The real you. Not the version you show everyone else."

"Sarah, please..."

"I love you, Rafe."

The words hang in the air between us. I've never said them out loud before, not like this, not with this meaning. But I've felt them for years. I've carried them with me, a secret I've kept from everyone, including myself.

He stares at me. His eyes are glassy, his jaw tight, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. He looks like he's about to break.

"You can't," he says. "You can't love me. Not like that."

"I already do."

"Then stop."

"I can't."

"You have to."

"I won't."

He makes a sound. Something between a groan and a sob. And then he's moving, pushing past me, grabbing his keys from the dresser.

"I have to go," he says. "I can't... I can't be here right now."

"Rafe..."

"Don't." He turns to look at me, and I see it. The pain. The confusion. The desperate, aching want that he's trying so hard to hide. "Just... don't."

And then he's gone, out the door, down the stairs, and I hear the front door slam behind him.

I stand there for a long time, alone in his room, surrounded by his things, breathing in his scent.

He'll be back. He always comes back.

And when he does, I'll be waiting.

---

The party ends at two in the morning. I hear the guests leaving, the sound of cars pulling out of the driveway, the murmur of goodbyes. I hear Mom and Dad come upstairs, their footsteps heavy with exhaustion and champagne.

I'm back in my own room by then, lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. I can't sleep. I never can when things are unsettled.

There's a knock at my door. Soft. Hesitant.

I know it's not Rafe. He's still gone, probably driving around the island, trying to outrun himself. This is someone else.

"Come in," I say.

The door opens, and Mom steps inside. She's still wearing her party dress, a sleek black thing that makes her look younger than she is. Her makeup is smudged, her hair coming loose from its careful updo.

"Hey, sweetheart," she says. "I saw your light on."

"I couldn't sleep."

She sits on the edge of my bed, and I see the exhaustion in her face. The lines around her eyes. The way her hands tremble slightly, the way they always do after a few too many glasses of wine.

"Are you okay?" she asks.

"I'm fine."

"You've been quiet lately. Distracted."

I shrug. "Just tired."

She looks at me for a long moment. And I wonder what she sees. Does she see the daughter she raised, the perfect little princess who's supposed to marry a nice boy from a good family and live happily ever after? Or does she see something else? Something darker?

"You know you can talk to me," she says. "About anything."

I almost laugh. Almost. Because if she knew what I was thinking, what I was feeling, what I was planning, she'd have me committed. She'd pack me off to some boarding school in Switzerland and pretend I never existed.

"I know," I say instead.

She leans down and kisses my forehead. Her lips are cool against my skin, and I smell the wine on her breath.

"Get some sleep," she says. "Things always look better in the morning."

She leaves, closing the door behind her, and I'm alone again.

Things always look better in the morning. That's what she said. But she's wrong. Things don't look better in the morning. They look the same. The only difference is that in the morning, you have to face them.

I close my eyes and think about Rafe. About the way he looked at me. About the way he ran.

He'll come back. He has to.

Because wherever he goes, whatever he does, he can't escape me. I'm in his blood. I'm in his bones. I'm the thing he can't stop thinking about, even when he tries.

And soon, he'll stop trying.

Soon, he'll stop running.

Soon, he'll be mine.

---

The next morning, I wake up to a text from Rafe.

*I'm sorry about last night.*

I stare at the words for a long time, trying to read between the lines. Sorry about what? Sorry he ran? Sorry he left me alone? Sorry he can't admit what he feels?

*It's okay,* I reply. *I understand.*

Three dots. Then: *Can we talk?*

*When?*

*Tonight. The beach. Our spot.*

Our spot. The place we used to go when we were kids, when the world was too much and we needed somewhere to hide. A stretch of sand on the south end of the island, hidden by dunes, invisible from the road. We haven't been there in years.

*I'll be there,* I say.

*Good.*

I put my phone down and smile.

He's ready. He doesn't know it yet, but he is. He's ready to stop running. Ready to stop fighting. Ready to admit what we both know.

And when he does, everything will change.

---

The day passes slowly. I go through the motions, work, errands, small talk with Mom about the party. But my mind is elsewhere. Always elsewhere. Always with him.

At sunset, I drive to the beach. The sky is a riot of color, orange and pink and purple, bleeding into the ocean like a wound. I park my car and walk through the dunes, my feet sinking into the sand, the wind whipping my hair around my face.

He's already there.

He's sitting on the sand, his back to me, staring out at the water. He's wearing a hoodie and jeans, his hair messy, his shoulders hunched. He looks small. Vulnerable. Like a boy who's been carrying too much for too long.

I sit down next to him without a word. We're close enough to touch, but I don't reach for him. Not yet.

"I'm sorry," he says, without looking at me. "For last night. For running."

"I told you, it's okay."

"It's not." He finally turns to look at me, and I see the pain in his eyes. The confusion. The desperate, aching want that he's been trying so hard to bury. "None of this is okay."

"Rafe..."

"I've been thinking about what you said. About... about how I look at you."

"And?"

He takes a deep breath. "You're right."

The words hit me like a wave. I've been waiting so long to hear them, dreaming about them, planning for them. But now that they're here, I don't know what to do.

"I don't know when it started," he continues. "I don't know how it happened. But you're right. I look at you differently. I've always looked at you differently."

"Rafe..."

"I've tried to stop. I've tried to tell myself it's wrong, that you're my sister, that I shouldn't feel this way. But I can't. I can't stop."

I reach out and take his hand. His fingers are cold, trembling, but he doesn't pull away.

"You don't have to stop," I say.

"We can't..."

"We can."

"It's wrong."

"Who says?"

He looks at me, and I see the war in his eyes. The part of him that wants to run, to hide, to pretend this isn't happening. And the part that wants to stay. That wants me.

"Everyone," he says. "Everyone would say."

"Everyone doesn't have to know."

He's quiet for a long moment. The waves crash against the shore, a steady rhythm, like a heartbeat. The sky darkens, the colors fading to gray, and we sit there in the twilight, holding hands, on the edge of something we can't take back.

"What are you saying?" he asks finally.

"I'm saying I love you. I've always loved you. And I know you love me too."

"I don't..."

"You do. You just won't admit it."

He pulls his hand away. Stands up. Paces in the sand, his footsteps uneven, his breathing ragged.

"This is insane," he says. "This is... this is fucked up."

"Maybe. But it's real."

"It can't be."

"It is."

He stops pacing. Turns to look at me. And I see it. The moment he breaks. The moment he stops fighting. The moment he lets himself want what he's been wanting for years.

"Sarah," he says, and his voice is broken, desperate, raw. "What are we doing?"

I stand up and walk toward him. Slow. Deliberate. I stop when I'm close enough to feel his breath on my face.

"We're doing what we've always wanted to do," I say. "We're finally being honest."

He stares at me for a long moment. And then he moves.

His hands cup my face, rough and desperate, and his lips find mine. The kiss is messy, hungry, full of years of denial and longing. I taste salt on his lips. Tears. Mine or his, I don't know.

I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him closer, and he groans against my mouth, a sound of surrender, a sound of defeat. He's mine now. Completely. Finally.

And I'll never let him go.

---

We stay on the beach until the stars come out. We don't talk about what happened. We don't need to. We just lie on the sand, tangled together, and listen to the waves.

But I know this isn't the end. It's the beginning. The beginning of something that will consume us both. Something that will burn us alive.

And I don't care.

Because he's mine now. And I'm his.

And nothing else matters.