The storm had rolled in without warning.

Sheets of rain soaked the island, the power flickered, and the usually buzzing streets of the Outer Banks had gone eerily quiet. You were trying to make it home before the worst of it hit, your hoodie pulled tightly around you, clutching your bag against your chest as thunder growled above.

You didn’t mean to end up at his house.

But your feet had carried you there before your brain could stop them.

Trembling and soaked to the bone, you stood in front of the Cameron estate, your knuckles scraped, lip bleeding, and a bruise forming beneath your eye.

The door creaked open.

Rafe stood in the doorway, barefoot, shirt half-buttoned, that familiar cigarette behind his ear. He looked at you, really looked, and the smirk that usually played on his lips vanished instantly.

His voice was low. Dangerous. “Who did this to you?”

You swallowed hard, not answering, eyes flicking to the floor.

Rafe stepped forward, slow and controlled like a predator trying not to spook its prey. He reached out, calloused fingers brushing under your chin, tilting your face gently toward the light.

“Don’t lie to me,” he whispered, a storm brewing in his gaze darker than the one overhead.

You tried to look away. “It’s nothing, Rafe. I just— I fell—”

“Bullsh*t.”

His voice cracked like a whip, his jaw clenched tight. You flinched, and instantly his hand retracted like he’d burned you.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he said, softer now. “But someone did. And I swear to God, I’ll make them regret it.”

And for a moment, you forgot about the pain. The fear. The storm outside.

Because standing there in front of Rafe — the most dangerous boy on the island — you’d never felt safer.