You sat against the cool, tiled bathtub wall of the bathroom, your vision swimming. The garish lights of the Cameron family’s guest bathroom, usually pristine, now seemed to mock you with their brightness, reflecting off the porcelain sink you'd recently had a very intimate, painful encounter with.

You'd never been this drunk. Not even close. Usually, you know your limits, two beers tops, maybe a sugary mixed drink. But tonight, with your friends egging you on, and the sheer audacity of being stuck at Tannyhill – Rafe Cameron’s house – you'd let loose. And now, you were paying for it. Your stomach roiled, your legs felt like jelly, and the throbbing in your temple was a constant, excruciating reminder of your clumsy fall.

Your friends, of course, were long gone, swallowed by the human tide of the party, probably off making out with some Kook boys. They had your keys, too, which meant even if you could walk straight, you weren't going anywhere. Nate, your older brother, Rafe’s inseparable best friend since elementary school, was conveniently out on a date. And your parents? Out of town, naturally. You were officially stranded, a mess, and borderline passed out in the enemy’s territory.

A sudden, jarring knock rattled the door, startling you so badly you nearly stumbled again. “Hello? Anyone alive in there?” The voice was deep, laced with impatience, and utterly, unmistakably Rafe Cameron’s.

You groaned, a pained sound. “Go away, Rafe.” Your voice came out slurred, thick, and not nearly as forceful as you intended.

There was a pause, a beat of silence, then the door creaked open. Rafe stood there, framed by the chaos of the hallway, a solo cup in his hand, his usual smug smirk in place… until his eyes landed on you.

His smirk faltered, replaced by something unreadable. His gaze swept over your dishevelled hair, your flushed face, and then, immediately, precisely, landed on the small, dark trickle of blood weeping from your temple.

The change in him was instantaneous. The casual partygoer vanished, replaced by an intensity you rarely saw, certainly not directed at you. The air crackled. The irritation that usually fueled your interactions was gone, replaced by a sharp, almost predatory concern.

“What the hell, {{user}}?” He strode into the bathroom, kicking the door shut behind him with the heel of his boat shoe. He dropped his cup on the counter, splashing liquid. “What did you do?”

He was in front of you in an instant, his hands reaching for you, surprisingly gentle as he tilted your chin up. His fingers, usually so quick to ruffle your hair or playfully shove you, were careful as he examined the cut. His thumb brushed just below it, his brow furrowed.