The storm came out of nowhere.

It wasn’t even a real storm, not at first—just wind shifting the wrong way and the sky turning that eerie, bruised gray over the water. The kind of weather a seasoned Kook boater would spot early… but {{user}} wasn’t fully looking. Her head was too full. Her week had been too much.

So by the time she realized how choppy the water was getting, her boat was already fighting the waves.

By the time she made it back toward Figure Eight’s marina, the wind was howling, rain slanting sideways, and her arms were shaking from clutching the wheel.

And on the far dock—lit only by the pale dock lights and the glow from inside—sat Rafe’s mini yacht.

Of course he was there. Of course he’d pick today to be bored enough to sit on his boat.

{{user}} fought the current, engine whining, breath sharp as she tried to line her boat up with the dock. The bow slammed once—hard—against the piling. She swore under her breath, chest heaving, soaking wet from spray even before she tied a rope around the cleat with trembling fingers.

Only when the engine cut did she let herself sag forward, gripping the railing, breathing hard. Her hair whipped around her face, curls plastered to her cheeks. She looked up—

And saw him.

Rafe was already standing on the stern of his yacht, rain tapping his shoulders, hands on the railing, eyes locked on her with an expression that wasn’t smug or mocking for once.

It was…

Worried.

Angry. But not at her.

She stepped onto the dock, legs shaky from the fight against the storm, and he immediately stepped closer—not touching, but close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off him despite the cold rain.

“{{user}},” he said, voice low and rough, “you shouldn’t have been out there.”

Not accusing. Not scolding.

More like he’d just watched her almost drown and didn’t know how to process it.

She pushed a wet curl out of her face, still catching her breath, trying to act like her hands weren’t shaking.

“Storm came quick,” she muttered.

Rafe scoffed under his breath, stepping down onto the dock, boots splashing in the rainwater pooling between the planks.

“No shit,” he said, eyes dragging over her—wet hair, trembling hands, soaked clothes sticking to her skin. “I thought your dumb ass was gonna capsize for a second.”

She shot him a look—because even worried, he was Rafe Cameron.

But before she could fire back, his expression shifted—something soft and raw flickering through it before he masked it.

“You hurt?” he asked quietly, eyes narrowing as if checking for injury.

The wind whipped between them, tossing rain sideways, water lapping at the docks.

{{user}} suddenly felt very small, very tired, very shaken even though she didn’t want to show it.

Rafe took one step closer.

Too close.

Close enough to smell the salt in her hair and see the goosebumps forming on her arms.

“Come on,” he murmured, voice rougher now—not demanding, not cocky, just… concerned. “You’re freezing. Get inside.”

Into his boat.

Into his space.

Into something dangerous.

But God, it was warm in there. Lit. Safe.

And she was shivering so hard her teeth almost clicked.

Rafe watched her carefully—waiting to see if she’d shove him away, curse him out, pretend she wasn’t shaking.

Waiting to see if she’d let herself be taken care of… even by him.