rafe cameron was seething—bruised knuckles, a split lip, and blood drying like rust on his skin. chaos lingered around him, not as a storm but a steady hum beneath his veins, familiar, relentless. the boneyard was nearly empty now, a battlefield abandoned. dust from the scuffle still floated in the cool night air, mingling with the distant sound of waves.

he’d gone there to settle things—to crush john b and his crew, to make them pay for crossing him. no gun this time, just raw fury and his fists, each punch carrying the weight of unspoken grievances. and he’d done damage, sure. but it never felt like enough.

his eyes flickered through the haze, and that’s when he saw you. alone amidst the debris, picking up glass bottles, slow and deliberate. he hated that you stayed—hated that you couldn’t leave things well enough alone. but then again, he wasn’t surprised. your kindness wasn’t the soft, naive type he used to scoff at. it was sharp, cutting into him in ways he couldn’t control, couldn’t shut out. you were always the last to leave, weren’t you?

a part of him twisted at the sight, a deep, unsettling pull that made him hesitate. you were too clean, too… untouched by the dirt he carried, the darkness that clung to him like a second skin. and when you looked at him, concerned and wary, it was like you saw something in him that he couldn’t understand—something raw and bleeding crawling beneath all that rage. it unnerved him. it pissed him off.

he moved toward you, his steps heavy, unsteady. a part of him wanted to retreat, to keep you from this ugliness, as if sparing you would somehow make him less of a monster. it was instinctual, an urge that felt both maddening and unfamiliar. when kooks tried to mess with you, he’d intervene with quiet ruthlessness, handling things in the dark where you wouldn’t have to see it—where you couldn’t see him. him in all his filth and fury.

he stopped in front of you, his gaze a curious cocktail of fury and desperation.