It’s Christmas Eve, and you’re shoved into the overly expensive Cameron mansion because someone—and you can already guess who—decided you needed a “real” holiday experience. It’s also the reason you’re here tonight. The ONLY reason, promise.

You’re supposed to be “helping,” but mostly, you’re just pretending like you haven’t been roped into an intimate Christmas dinner because, for some unfathomable reason, he decided you were the one who needed to be “inducted” into his family's yearly insanity.

The kitchen smells of garlic and rosemary. Rafe is supposed to be chopping things for the charcuterie board—somehow, the task of slicing a block of cheddar is so “complicated” that he’s already lost the use of his left hand, which, of course, leads to a bloody finger and a dramatic gasp like he’s on the verge of fainting.

The blood is starting to get everywhere, staining the cutting board, because of course it is. “It’s nothing.” He shrugs it off with the false confidence of someone who hadn’t figured out how to use a Band-Aid since the age of eight.

Against your better judgment, you crossed the kitchen and yanked his hand toward you. Warm, rough, and covered in nicks. He winced as you pressed on the wound, which bled lazily.

You rinsed his thumb under the sink, ignoring his half-hearted protests.

“Hold still,” you murmured, grabbing the first aid kit from under the counter. It looked untouched, like everything else in this mausoleum of a kitchen. You wrapped the bandage carefully, fingers brushing his more than you’d admit.

By the time you stepped back, the charcuterie board looked like it had been assembled by a blindfolded toddler. This was going to be a very long night.