Rafe Cameron Imagines

Lord of the Dance Beach🤍

It started with your mom suggesting a "low-key family hangout."

So obviously, that turned into an entire day at the beach with enough food for thirty people, a Bluetooth speaker that somehow never stayed connected, three folding tables, eight mismatched beach chairs, and both your family and Rafe's arriving like they were the cast of a reality show.

Rafe pulled up late in the black truck, windows down, sunglasses on, hair a little windblown. He hopped out like he wasn't twenty minutes late and said, "What's up, party people?"

Your dad muttered something under his breath.

Your mom clapped. "Rafe, honey, you made it!"

"Unfortunately," your brother whispered.

You looked at him. "Shut up. He brought the drinks."

That shut everyone up real quick.

—

The sun was high, the beach packed, and the two families had fully taken over one side of the shoreline. Your youngest cousin was trying to bury Rafe in the sand. Your aunt was fighting with his sister about whether or not watermelon counted as a "hydrating snack."

You sat on your towel, sunglasses pushed up in your hair, laughing as Rafe finally escaped the sand trap and staggered dramatically toward you.

"I nearly died," he said, flopping beside you. "Your cousin is ruthless."

"She's six."

"She's terrifying."

You passed him a water bottle. "You survived."

He smirked. "Barely."

Then, from the speaker nearby, an upbeat Irish-sounding song started playing. Like—violins, flutes, drums. Intense. Celtic energy.

Rafe blinked at the sound. "What the hell is that?"

"My mom's playlist," you muttered.

"Oh God."

And then came the worst moment of all: your uncle, beer in hand, stepped into the center of the sand and started Riverdancing.

Like full-on, arms-stiff, feet-flying Irish step dancing.

Rafe stared. "No."

You buried your face in your hands. "Yes."

"Why is this happening?"

You peeked through your fingers. "Because we accidentally ended up at Lord of the Dance Beach."

He laughed so hard he nearly fell backwards. "That's the worst name I've ever heard."

"It's the most accurate."

Soon, your uncle was joined by your dad and his dad, both trying to follow the steps. Someone cheered. A stranger nearby joined in. And suddenly, your family beach day had turned into a half-drunken, saltwater-soaked performance of Riverdance 2025.

"I don't think I'll ever recover from this," Rafe whispered. "My dad is dancing."

"Stop. You love it."

"I love you. That's different."

You leaned your head on his shoulder. "Still counts."

He kissed your forehead. "I'm gonna have nightmares about your uncle's footwork."

"You should."

—

Hours later, after your siblings and his had passed out under umbrellas and the dance party had turned into lazy bonfire prep, you and Rafe walked along the edge of the water. Just the two of you, salt clinging to your skin, sand between your toes.

"Your family's not that bad," Rafe said. "For a group of Irish dancers."

You bumped your shoulder against his. "Yours isn't that bad either. Your sister taught my cousin how to do a cartwheel and then threatened to sue her when she didn't land it."

"She gets that from me."

"Obviously."

You walked in silence for a moment, waves lapping at your feet, sky going soft and pink above.

"I like this," he said. "Not just the beach. But all of it. You and me. The families. The mess of it."

You looked up at him. "Even Lord of the Dance Beach?"

He smiled. "Especially Lord of the Dance Beach."