The storm slammed into the boat with a force that felt personal.
Waves pounded the hull. Metal groaned. Thunder cracked like the sky was splintering in half. Somewhere above, boots stomped across the deck, shouting voices lost in the wind. You were locked in what had to be the smallest room on the damn boat — some leftover supply closet, maybe. Barely enough room for two people, and unfortunately, the person taking up half that space was Rafe Cameron.
He sat with his back against the wall, leg stretched out, blood drying on his temple. He looked like he’d been in a fight — and knowing him, he probably had.
You leaned against the opposite wall, arms crossed tight, jaw set. You weren’t panicking. Not really. But your muscles were tense, coiled, braced for something worse. The boat kept rocking harder, and every few seconds it felt like the floor dropped out from under you.
Rafe tilted his head lazily, eyes drifting to you.
“You’re awfully quiet.”
“Trying not to throw up,”
you muttered.
He scoffed.
“What, you scared?”
“No. Just annoyed.”
You glanced sideways at him.
“Mostly by you.”
He smirked, blood smeared down the side of his cheek, like the chaos outside only made him feel more alive.
“Right. Because you had such a solid plan. Remind me again—what was the exit strategy?”
“Pretty sure the part where you started a fight with a guy twice your size wasn’t in it.”
“Guy touched me.”
“He bumped into you.”
“Same thing.”
You rolled your eyes and leaned your head back against the wall, letting out a slow breath. The storm roared louder, the boat groaning as it tilted hard to one side before leveling out again. You didn’t flinch, but your nails dug slightly into your arms. Just enough to ground yourself.
Rafe caught it.
“You good?”
he asked, not exactly out of concern — more like curiosity.
“I’m fine.”
“You look tense.”
“I’m locked in a floating tin can in the middle of a storm with you,”
you said evenly
“Of course I’m tense.”
That got a low laugh out of him.
“Could be worse.”
“How?”
“You could be locked in here alone.”
You let out a short breath — not quite a laugh, but not far from it either.
“You’re so full of yourself.”
“And you’re full of shit if you think you’re not freaked out right now.”
You looked at him, deadpan.
“You’re bleeding.”
He wiped at the blood with the back of his hand, smearing it.
“And still hotter than anyone you’ve ever been locked in a room with.”
You gave him a long, unimpressed stare.
“Delusion’s a hell of a drug.”
He shrugged, cocky grin unfading.
“Whatever helps you sleep tonight.”
The silence after that stretched. The storm hadn’t let up. You could feel it in your chest, the pressure of it, the way the boat tipped harder than it should. Not enough to panic, but enough to piss you off.
Your jaw clenched. You shifted positions. Said nothing.
Rafe, of course, noticed.
“You’re pacing inside your own head,”
he muttered, voice flatter now.
“Worse than actually moving.”
“I’m not spiraling.”
“Didn’t say you were.”
You raised a brow at him.
“Then stop watching me like I am.”
He didn’t answer immediately. Just studied you for another beat, and then dropped his head back against the wall with a sigh.
“Look, just… chill,”
he said finally.
“The storm’ll pass.”
“You sound so confident.”
“I’ve been in worse.”
His tone was edged, but not dramatic — just matter-of-fact.
“You hold your ground, the ocean always gives up first.”
You gave him a look.
“That poetic crap supposed to be reassuring?”
He shrugged.
“I don’t do reassuring.”
“No kidding.”
The boat pitched hard again. Something above creaked like it might come loose. You both instinctively reached out to steady yourselves — him against the wall, you gripping the side of the shelf bolted to the floor.
“You sure they’re not gonna just toss us overboard?”
He gave you a crooked smile, blood on his teeth.
“If they try, I’m using you as a flotation device.”
“Try it,”
you said, straight-faced.
“I bite.”