The pristine beaches of Figure Eight glittered under the moonlight, but the usual serenity of the night was shattered by the sight of Rafe Cameron stumbling down the dirt road, blood staining the white sleeve of his designer shirt.

Y/N had just finished parking their car near the private dock when they saw him. For a moment, they considered ignoring him. Rafe Cameron was the last person they wanted to deal with—cocky, reckless, and constantly causing trouble. But then he collapsed onto the curb, his hand clutching his side.

“Rafe?” Y/N called hesitantly, stepping out of the car.

His head snapped up, and even in the dim light, Y/N could see the defiance in his piercing blue eyes. “I’m fine,” he muttered, trying to push himself up but failing miserably.

“You’re bleeding,” Y/N said, rushing to his side despite themselves.

“I said I’m fine,” Rafe hissed, but the tremor in his voice betrayed him.

Y/N knelt down, their hand hovering over the wound on his arm. “What happened? Did you get into another fight?”

“None of your business,” he snapped, wincing as Y/N gently moved his hand to inspect the injury.

“It is now,” Y/N muttered, their tone sharp. “You’re going to bleed out if you don’t let me help you.”

Rafe glared at them, but the fight drained out of him quickly. “Fine. Just don’t make a big deal out of it.”

Y/N rolled their eyes and helped him to his feet. “You’re lucky I was here. Come on, my house is closer than yours.”