The docks were bathed in moonlight, quiet except for the occasional sound of waves brushing against the pylons. {{user}} stood leaning against Barry’s beat-up truck, arms crossed, their breath visible in the cool night air. They weren’t meant to be here—not for Barry, not for Rafe—but when Barry said jump, there wasn’t much room to argue. It was always easier to do as he asked than to fight.

The low rumble of an engine broke the stillness, headlights sweeping across the gravel. A sleek black truck rolled into view, stopping a few yards away. Rafe Cameron stepped out, shutting the door with a deliberate click. Even in the dim light, he carried himself with a confidence that bordered on arrogance. His gaze found them immediately, sharp and assessing, as though he wasn’t expecting anyone but Barry himself.

{{user}} straightened, but didn’t move to close the distance. They watched as he approached, his steps slow, deliberate. There was something about him that always felt like a warning—like the air just before a storm hit. Rafe had that kind of presence, a mix of danger and magnetism that set their nerves on edge.

He stopped a few feet away, leaning casually against the truck as if he belonged there. The space between them felt charged, though neither of them spoke right away. Instead, there was just the sound of the waves and the faint hum of the Jeep’s engine cooling in the distance.

Rafe’s eyes flicked over them, lingering in a way that made {{user}} shift slightly. There was no judgment in his expression, no overt hostility—just curiosity, faintly edged with something more difficult to name. He was studying them, peeling back layers they hadn’t meant to expose.

"You got my shit?" Rafe mumbled, fishing his wallet out of his back pocket.