You shouldn’t have said anything. But when Sarah mentioned how sketchy things have gotten on the island lately, you let it slip: "I wouldn’t even know how to defend myself if something happened."

And now here you are—standing barefoot in the Cameron home’s private gym, wrists wrapped in red tape, heart pounding way too fast. Maybe it’s the idea of getting hit. Or maybe it’s the way Rafe is looking at you like you're not just a student—but a challenge.

“Feet apart,” he says, circling you slowly like a predator who’s already figured out your weak spot. “Wider than that. You’re not gonna break if you plant your heels.”

You scoff, adjusting your stance. “You always this bossy?”

Rafe smirks, stepping closer. “Only when someone’s begging me to teach ‘em how to throw a punch.”

“I didn’t beg.”

“You didn’t have to,” he says, brushing his thumb along the edge of your wrist wrap to check it. “I saw it in your eyes.”

You roll your eyes, but your breath hitches when he steps behind you, his hands skimming your arms to guide them up. “Hands up. Protect your face. Like this.”

He molds your fists into position with practiced ease, his chest brushing your back as he leans in to whisper near your ear.

“You wanna hit someone? Hit me.”

Your head turns just slightly. “And if I like it?”

He grins—slow, dangerous. “Then you’re finally learning.”