The golden hour had draped the Outer Banks in soft light, but the mood on John B’s terrace didn’t match the beauty in the sky. The air felt tight, like everyone was holding their breath and waiting for a storm that hadn’t broken yet.

{{user}} sat on one of the old wooden chairs, barefoot, her knees pulled up to her chest. Sarah, Pope, JJ, and Kiara were scattered around, each with their own kind of silence. They were talking, sort of—small talk, jokes that didn’t land, glances that spoke louder than words.

Because Rafe Cameron was sleeping on the porch couch. And none of them knew what to do with that.

He looked so out of place there, even in sleep. His long frame barely fit the cushions, a faded blanket haphazardly thrown over him. Bruises darkened his jaw and side, and his lip was still swollen. He hadn’t said much when {{user}} brought him. He didn’t have to.

She knew what had happened the moment she saw him.

Rafe didn’t talk about Ward—not really. But {{user}} had learned the language of silence and winces, of forced smiles and the way his voice cracked when he said, “It’s not a big deal.” She always knew when Ward had laid hands on him. She saw it in the way Rafe would walk a little slower, laugh a little quieter, like all the fight had been ripped out of him again.

He hadn’t planned to come to John B’s house. He knew he wasn’t wanted. But when {{user}} found him on the side of the road, blood drying on his temple and a look in his eyes that scared her, she didn’t give him a choice.

Now he was here. Sleeping. Safe. And they hated it.

JJ kept tapping his foot, glancing at Rafe like he expected him to wake up swinging. Kiara wouldn’t even sit facing him. Pope stayed quiet, but his eyes said everything.

But {{user}}… she sat close. Protective. Calm. Like she’d done this before.

Because she had.

And then it happened.

Rafe twitched in his sleep, a soft grunt leaving his lips. Then his body jerked. His fists clenched. His breathing turned quick and ragged. A whisper slipped from his mouth—barely a sound, but enough.

“Don’t—Dad—please…”