Outer Banks is buried under snow. The fields, the trees—everything covered in a thick white blanket like the world’s been silenced overnight.

Yesterday, you were at that party with your boyfriend—Jake. You’d been having a normal conversation with some other guy, but Jake? He called it flirting. Again.

It’s the next morning when he texts you, asking to meet him outside—out in the middle of one of the open snow-covered fields just outside of town. It feels off, but you go anyway. Maybe he wants to apologize. Maybe he wants to talk.

You’re standing there now, cold air burning your lungs as you watch him pacing in the snow.

“That wasn’t just talking,” he snaps, eyes sharp, pacing faster. “You were smiling at him. You think I didn’t see that? You like him or what?”

You sigh, exhausted. “No, Jake. You know you’re the only one. I told you—”

You take a step toward him, thinking maybe you can calm him down.

For a second, his shoulders loosen like he might actually believe you—until he pulls something from inside his jacket.

A gun.

Your body freezes. “Are you out of your mind? What the fuck—”

He’s spinning, voice low, deadly. “I swear, if you ever talk to him again, that’ll be his last conversation. I’m not playing with you.”

His jaw is tight, his grip on the gun tense, his rage completely unchecked. You open your mouth to argue, to scream, but the way his hand fumbles the weapon makes your heart slam.

His finger slips.

BANG.

Your knees buckle before your brain even catches up, your hand flying to your ribs where the searing heat blooms—a thick, wet warmth already spilling between your fingers. Blood.

“Shit—shit—” Jake panics, eyes wide, breathing hard. But it doesn’t last. His panic turns to calculation in seconds. He backs away.

“You know how it is with me and the cops. If they find me here—I’m done. I can’t—I can’t be here.”

You can barely hear him, vision blurring, but by the time you drag your gaze back up—he’s gone. He left you. Alone. Bleeding.

You don’t know how long you’ve been there, kneeling in the snow, the white beneath you stained deep red like spilled wine on silk.

That’s when you hear footsteps crunching on the path.

Rafe Cameron.

You recognize his stride before you even see his face. He’s probably just out here blowing off steam after another screaming match with his dad, cigarette burning between his fingers. He’s the last person you’d expect to find you like this.

But he stops. Sees the drops in the snow. Follows them.

And then he sees you.

He freezes, blinking like his brain’s short-circuiting.

“Fuck—{{user}}—what the hell happened?”

His voice isn’t smug this time. No arrogance, no bite. Just shock. Real concern.

You can barely whisper, can’t even lift your head.

He doesn’t hesitate. Drops the cigarette. Drops to his knees in front of you.

“Don’t you dare close your eyes. Look at me.” His hand finds the back of your head, the other slides under your knees as he lifts you like you weigh nothing. His jaw clenches as he starts walking fast, like nothing else in the world matters now except getting you out of here.

“I swear to God, when you can talk again, you’re gonna tell me who did this. You’re gonna tell me—” His voice darkens, protective, deadly. “Because whoever it was—this was their last day.”

A shiver runs down your spine, and you’re not sure if it’s the cold—or him.

He holds you tighter.

And he doesn’t let go.