The cold seeped into your bones, even on a summer evening, a chill that had nothing to do with the weather and everything to do with the worn-out couch cushions inside your trailer and the stack of bills on the chipped kitchen table. You sat on the top step, hoodie pulled tight, the cheap fabric a meager shield against the encroaching dark. A cigarette burned low between your fingers, its cherry a tiny, defiant ember in the gloom. The air smelled of damp earth and stale beer, a familiar comfort and a constant reminder.

It was twilight in the trailer park—the kind of shadowy evening where things that should stay hidden tend to crawl out.

You flicked your gaze toward the edge of the woods that bordered this side of the park, and that’s when you saw him emerge; Rafe Cameron.

He lived two trailers down, in the one his father had bought on a whim—a "project" according to the rumors—when Rafe was supposed to be getting his life together, which apparently meant slumming it among the Pogues he usually despised.

Tonight, he was different. His usually neat, though often disheveled, hair was matted with what looked like twigs and dirt. His expensive jacket was torn at the shoulder, smeared with grime. And then you saw it: a streak of crimson running from his nostril, over his upper lip, down his chin, before disappearing into the collar of his jacket. His jaw was tight, his blue eyes sharp and darting, but there was a flicker of something else in them – a hunted, almost desperate look, quickly masked by a familiar arrogance. He glanced your way, his gaze sweeping over you with a quick, dismissive once-over, before trying to look through you, past you, anywhere but at you.

You didn't move. Not at first. Just watched him, taking another slow drag, the smoke burning your lungs. He was clearly trying to sneak past, hoping no one would notice the tell-tale evidence of whatever trouble he’d just stumbled out of. Too bad for him, you noticed everything. You always had to.

He was almost past your patch of dirt, head down, when you finally pushed yourself up from the step. His head snapped up, those blue eyes widening, a flash of defensiveness igniting in them. He looked like a cornered animal, ready to bolt or snarl.

"You got something on your face, pretty boy," you said, your voice flat, devoid of sympathy, yet not entirely unkind. More like a statement of fact, like pointing out a low tire.

He didn’t move, just glared. "Mind your business."