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𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐔𝐍 𝐇𝐈𝐓 𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐄, warm and soft against my skin. I had my matcha latte balanced on the edge of the marble table, one leg tucked under me, the other stretched out lazily. The ocean murmured below—waves crashing in that rhythmic, hypnotic way. The breeze smelled like salt and sunlight and something faintly sweet from the jasmine growing near the railing.
I held up my compact mirror and angled my face toward the light, brushing highlight across my cheekbones. The sunlight made it glow, like glass across my skin. I wasn't planning to do my makeup this early, but something about the morning made me want to look good. Better than good. I wanted to surprise Rafe.
The sundress I wore was light, barely clinging to my hips. No bra. No panties. Just skin and cotton and the thrill of knowing what I looked like sitting like this. Knowing what he'd think if he saw me.
Adriana and Lucas had left an hour ago—Adriana dragging him into the city so she could find the dress for the festival later. She was dramatic like that. Said she wouldn't be caught dead under fairy lights in anything less than "divine." Whatever that meant.
I hadn't moved from the terrace for the last hour. Didn't need to. The sun kissed every inch of me, and I loved the way it felt. I could've sat there forever—content, glowing, untouched.
Except I wasn't really untouched. I missed him.
I stood, smoothed the hem of my sundress down—not that it did much—and padded barefoot through the villa. I could hear the faint sound of music coming from downstairs, something bass-heavy and angry. Then the rhythmic thud of fists hitting something. A bag.
He was in the gym.
I took my time walking down the spiral staircase, trailing my fingers along the cool stone banister. The air was different downstairs—cooler, thicker. I stepped through the doorway and there he was.
Rafe. Shirtless, in black gym shorts, hands wrapped, drenched in sweat. His body moved like he was built for destruction—fluid, brutal, beautiful. The muscles in his back tensed and shifted with every hit to the punching bag. His skin glistened under the overhead lights, his jaw clenched, brows furrowed. His hair was pushed back, soaked at the roots.
He didn't see me at first.
But I stood there, not saying a word, just watching. Taking in the way he moved, the way he breathed like each punch was something personal. Something necessary.
And then he turned—halfway through a punch, as if he felt me before he saw me.
His eyes locked on mine.
He stopped moving immediately. The room went still, heavy. His chest rose and fell with effort. He looked at me like he wasn't sure I was real.
