You’ve never been graceful. That much is clear as you stumble backward over your own untied shoelace, arms flailing like a cartoon character before your hip collides with the edge of the kitchen island in Tannyhill Manor. A sharp gasp escapes your lips—more from surprise than pain—and you instinctively grab your side, eyes squeezing shut.

And then there’s laughter.

Deep and just a little teasing, it rolls through the air like thunder after a storm. You open one eye to find Rafe leaning against the counter, phone momentarily forgotten in his hand, blue eyes crinkling at the corners as he watches you from under the shadow of his buzz cut.

"Again?" he hummed, voice low and amused. He pushed off the counter and walked over. "How many times is that this week? Five? Six?"

"Shut up," you muttered, cheeks warming as you try to straighten, only to wince when pressure hits the newly forming bruise. "It’s not that funny."

He crouched down in front of you, sudden and serious now, his teasing smile fading. His hands gently pry yours away from your hip. “Let me see.”

You sighed, knowing better than to argue.

His fingers brushed the tender spot, feather-light, and you flinched.

“Bruise is already forming,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. “You’re gonna have a nice purple love letter from the island for the next week.”

“I’ll survive,” you teased, trying to lighten the mood. He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a crumpled twenty and pressed it into your palm.

“For ice,” he said. “And chocolate. Or whatever the hell girls crave when they’re nursing injuries.”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m not that dramatic.”

“No?” He stood up, pulling you up with him, one arm wrapping firmly around your waist to steady you. “Because last time you stubbed your toe, you made me watch The Notebook and cry with you.”

“That was art,” you protested.

Rafe just rolled his eyes and grabbed a bag of frozen peas from the freezer and wrapped it in a dish towel before he pressed it gently to your hip.

“Better?” he asked.