You walk along the sidewalk, the sun warm on your skin, the salty ocean breeze in the air. Everything feels peaceful—too peaceful for the frustration swirling in your chest.

Then you pass Tannyhill.

Yelling. Sharp, angry. Ward.

The front door swings open, and Rafe storms out. His hands drag down his face, wiping at his eyes too forcefully. Tears? No way. Not Rafe Cameron.

But his clenched jaw, his uneven breaths—he looks wrecked.

Not confident. Not untouchable.

Just human.

Your feet hesitate on the pavement. You shouldn’t care. It’s Rafe Cameron—rich, cocky, always acting like the world is his playground. Whatever just happened in that house, whatever Ward said to him, it’s none of your business.

And yet, you don’t move.

Rafe doesn’t notice you at first. His hands shake slightly as he shoves them into his pockets, pacing down the steps. His breathing is uneven, and for a moment, he looks lost—like he doesn’t know where to go, like he doesn’t know what to do.

Then his eyes lift, locking onto yours.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. Rafe just stares, unsure if he’s embarrassed or angry you saw him like this. Then he scoffs, trying to pull himself together.

“Didn’t know I had an audience,” he mutters, rubbing a hand over his jaw. His voice is rough, like he hasn’t spoken in hours. Or like he’s been yelling.

You shift on your feet. “I wasn’t—”

“Yeah, whatever.” He exhales sharply, looking away, shoulders tense. “Forget it.”

But you can’t.

Because the way his hands are still clenched, the way his jaw is still tight, the way his eyes, even as he looks away, are slightly red-rimmed—everything about him is screaming that something is very wrong.

And against your better judgment, against everything you know about him, you take a step closer.

“Rafe,” you say quietly.

He freezes. Not because of the name—people say his name all the time—but because of the way you say it. Not mocking. Not annoyed. Just… real.

And for the first time, you think he might actually let his guard down.