The sight of Rafe Cameron passed out on your couch made your stomach twist.

It wasn’t the first time, but that didn’t make it any easier. His shirt was rumpled, half-riding up to reveal sharp ribs and bruised skin. His arm dangled off the edge, fingers twitching slightly, and his breathing was slow—too slow.

You lingered near the doorway, hesitant to step closer. The whole room smelled like sweat, smoke, and something sharper, something chemical that made your throat tighten.

Barry just laughed behind you. “Yeah, well… that mess pays in cash.”

You ignored him, eyes locked on Rafe’s still form. He looked… bad. Worse than usual.

“Is he even breathing right?” you asked, your voice quieter than you meant it to be.

Barry took a lazy sip of his beer. “He’s fine. Just rode it a little too hard tonight.”

Your fingers twitched at your sides. You wanted to believe your brother. Wanted to believe that he’d wake up in an hour, groggy and grumpy but fine. But the way his chest barely moved had unease creeping up your spine.

You sighed, stepping forward despite yourself. You crouched beside the couch, watching his face—too pale, lips slightly parted. Hesitantly, you reached out, fingers brushing against his wrist, feeling for the faint beat of his pulse.

Still there. But sluggish.

“Damn it, Rafe,” you muttered under your breath.

You should walk away. You should. But instead, you grabbed the throw blanket off the back of the couch and draped it over him, exhaling sharply.

“You’re worrying for nothing,” Barry muttered.