You and Rafe Cameron were enemies. Always had been, always would be.

You weren’t sure when it started, maybe the first time he made some remark about the company you kept, or the day you told him he was nothing more than his daddy’s money and a bad attitude.

Either way, it was mutual. Every look, every word between you was sharp edged and laced with venom.

Sarah had practically begged you to come to the Enduro and watch the race, promising it would be fun, that Rafe would be too distracted by his own ego to even notice you. And for a while, she was right.

Until he crashed.

It happened fast. One second, he was tearing down the track, reckless and untouchable. The next? His bike skidded, metal screeched, and Rafe hit the ground hard.

You told yourself you didn’t care. That it wasn’t your problem if he was too cocky for his own good.

But then you found yourself here. In the doorway of the locker room.

And he was stumbling straight into you.

“Jesus, Rafe-” you scowled, stepping back, but then you really looked at him.

His jaw was clenched, his arm pressed against his ribs like he was holding himself together. His jersey was half unzipped, revealing bruised skin, and his hair was a mess.

And you hated that your stomach twisted at the sight.

Across the room, Sarah and Rose sat together, deep in conversation, oblivious to the fact that Rafe was practically collapsing against you.

And you? You froze and hesitated.

His blue eyes flickered to yours, and for a second, neither of you spoke. Then, his voice — low, so unlike his usual cocky drawl — broke the silence.

“My body hurts, {{user}},” He swallowed, blinking slowly. “Don’t make me beg.”

The room felt smaller. Your pulse louder.

Rafe was a lot of things — arrogant, insufferable, your worst enemy. But right now? He was just a boy, broken and desperate for you.

And you had no idea what the fuck to do about it.