it was the kind of night that swallowed the world whole. the sky, a bruised shade of charcoal, grumbled as the first lash of rain began its assault. outside, the wind screamed, tearing through the coastline like it was seeking something—anything—to destroy. the pelican yacht club, usually humming with idle chatter and clinking glasses, had grown silent, its emptiness almost louder than the storm. the air smelled faintly of salt and polish, mingling with the sharp metallic tang of impending chaos.

you stood behind the bar, wiping down the last glass of the night, your movements brisk but careful. the news anchors’ warnings about the hurricane still echoed in your head. you’d thought you could finish before it struck—had gambled, perhaps foolishly, with the shifting skies. now, the building trembled faintly under nature’s wrath, and you were left counting the seconds between lightning flashes and thunderclaps.

the door slammed open, rattling the shelves and shaking the silence loose. rafe cameron stepped inside, drenched and breathing hard, his hair plastered to his forehead. the lightning outside cast sharp, fleeting shadows across his face, hardening his expression into something unreadable but heavy with irritation. he kicked the door shut behind him with more force than necessary, muttering something sharp under his breath.

his eyes landed on you, and his jaw tightened. his gaze lingered just long enough to make his thoughts clear—of all people, it had to be you. he shook his head slightly, rainwater dripping from his fingertips as he dragged a hand through his hair and approached the bar. he didn’t bother to sit, didn’t bother to hide the way his shoulders tensed.

“for fucks sake.” he mumbled to himself, pinching the bridge of his nose with frustration directed at both your presence and the ruthless storm.