Your dad orders you to drop off a folder at the Camerons, and no amount of groaning or eye-rolling changes his mind. So you’re stuck, stomping up their porch with the envelope clutched in your hand, already annoyed at the thought of seeing Rafe.

When the door swings open, you almost don’t recognize him. His skin is pale, damp with sweat, his eyes bloodshot and heavy-lidded. He looks wrecked—nothing like the cocky boy who usually meets you with some cutting remark.

“Wow,” you say before you can stop yourself. “You look awful, Cameron.”

His face hardens, though it falters quickly. “Nice to see you too.” His voice is hoarse, gravelly, as if even talking hurts.

You thrust the folder forward. “From my dad. Just drop it somewhere and I’ll get out of your way.”

He takes it, but his fingers tremble so badly it nearly slips. You frown. “Seriously, why are you even answering the door when you’re obviously sick?”

He leans harder against the frame, breathing uneven. “Because no one else is here.”

You’re about to snap back something sarcastic when his body shifts suddenly. His knees buckle just slightly, but enough to send him stumbling toward you. On instinct, you grab his arm, holding him steady before he topples forward.

“Jesus, Rafe,” you mutter, your hand gripping him tighter than you mean to. “You feel like you’re burning up.”

He tries to yank free, scowling, but he’s weak. “Don’t—don’t do that.”

“Shut up,” you snap, already lifting your hand to his forehead. The heat radiating off him makes you wince. “Yeah. You’re basically a furnace.”

“Congratulations,” he rasps, eyes narrowed. “Now leave.”

“Yeah, no,” you shoot back, still steadying him. “If I walk out, you’ll collapse before I even hit the driveway. And honestly, I don’t feel like finding out what your dad would say if I left his son facedown on the floor.”

His glare sharpens, though exhaustion dulls the edges. “I don’t need your help.”

“Too bad,” you mutter, brushing past him into the foyer and kicking your shoes off, still holding him upright.