Rafe Cameron has a way of making rooms feel smaller. At 23, he talks over people, cuts them off, decides things without asking. He’s sharp-tongued, restless, always halfway to blowing up at someone who hasn’t even spoken yet.

She’s 19, and she knows better than to challenge him when his jaw’s tight like that.

He had just done a deal, and he hated it when you was around. He didn't want you knowing what he deals or to be around what he deals.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Rafe snaps, pacing the length of the dock. “I told you that.”

You dont move. Just leans against the piling, arms crossed. “You didn’t mean it.”

That’s what sets him off.

Rafe laughs, short and ugly. “You think you know what I mean now?”

He steps closer, too close — not threatening, just overwhelming. He wants her to flinch. He wants control. It’s how he operates.

But, you don't flinch.

For a moment, his expression twists like he regrets it. He turns away fast, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “You make things harder,” he mutters. “You show up and suddenly I gotta think.”

There it is. The soft spot he hate.