The moment you walked in, time didn’t slow—it stopped. Rafe Cameron, high off more than just the lines on the table, blinked once, twice, like he wasn’t sure you were real. You stood in the doorway, a stranger wrapped in a white dress, fresh out of New York’s chaos and thrown into the messy underbelly of the Outer Banks. You were glowing. Ethereal. Like the city had sculpted you in light, and the party’s dim chaos made you shine even brighter.

He was mid-laugh, some girl half-drunk and grinding on his lap—but she was gone the second his eyes found you. His chest tightened. A slow, overwhelming pull crept in. Like you were gravity, and he’d been floating too long.

Kelce said something. Topper threw a smirk. But Rafe? Rafe couldn’t hear a thing. All he saw was the way your eyes scanned the room, not even landing on him—but still burning him alive. You were untouched by all of it. The powder. The noise. The fakeness. He’d lived in grayscale too long, and you were in color.

He stood before he even realized it, hands twitching with a desperate need to get closer, say something—anything. But how do you approach a girl who looks like she stepped out of a dream?

His heart raced like he was seventeen again. Not Rafe Cameron, not the dealer, not the local king of chaos. Just a guy who saw an angel walk into his hell.

And he wanted to be saved.