Everyone in the Outer Banks knew who Rafe Cameron was. The name carried a certain kind of weight — the kind that made people lower their voices and look away when he walked past. He was power and chaos all tied up in one dangerous package. People said Rafe had no heart, no conscience, no weaknesses.

But they were wrong.

He did have one. You.

You were the girl who never broke rules, never raised your voice, never touched anything darker than the golden glow of a summer afternoon. You were light — soft, warm, untouchable. The kind of girl people protected, not the kind who learned to protect herself.

And that’s exactly what scared Rafe.

Because the moment people found out that the unbreakable Rafe Cameron cared about someone like you, they’d go after you just to hurt him. He knew it. He hated it. So he decided to do something about it.

The sun hung low in the sky, bleeding orange through the trees. The air smelled of salt and gun oil, a strange mix that somehow felt like him. You stood a few feet away from Rafe, nervously twisting your fingers as he loaded a small pistol.

“I can’t believe you’re really making me do this,” you said, trying to laugh, but your voice wavered.

Rafe’s blue eyes flicked up to meet yours. “I’m not making you do anything,” he said evenly. “I’m teaching you how not to die if someone ever decides to come for you.”

That shut you up.

He walked over, slow and deliberate, and handed you the gun. It felt heavy — colder than you expected. You blinked down at it like it might explode in your hands.

“I don’t even know how to hold it,” you admitted, your voice barely a whisper.

“That’s why I’m here.” Rafe’s tone softened a little. He moved behind you, his chest brushing your back, his hands sliding over yours to adjust your grip. “Not too tight,” he murmured. “You’re not strangling it. Just… firm.”

Your breath hitched when his fingers brushed along yours, guiding your stance.

“Okay,” you whispered. “What now?”

He pointed at an empty plastic bottle sitting on a tree stump a few yards away. “See that?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re gonna hit it.”

You blinked. “Rafe, I can’t even hold this thing right. I’ll probably—”

“Stop.” His voice cut through your panic — calm but commanding. “Don’t talk yourself out of it before you even try.”

You nodded, exhaling shakily.

He placed one hand on your shoulder, the other still covering yours. “You line up the front sight with the target. Like this.” He leaned in, guiding the barrel until it faced the bottle. “Now keep your arms straight — elbows soft. Don’t lock them.”

You did as he said, but your hands were trembling.

“Hey,” he murmured, noticing. “You scared?”

You hesitated, then nodded. “A little.”

He exhaled slowly, his voice dropping low. “Good. You should be. Fear keeps you sharp. But you can’t let it control you. You control it.”

You tried to steady your breathing, but your heart was racing too fast.

Rafe pressed a little closer, his lips near your ear. “On three, you’re gonna pull the trigger. Don’t jerk it — just squeeze slow. Got it?”

You nodded again.

“One…” His voice was steady. “Two…” The world seemed to quiet around you — just the wind, the sound of your heartbeat, and Rafe’s voice. “Three.”

You pulled the trigger.

The shot rang out, sharp and startling. The gun kicked back hard in your hands, making you stumble. Rafe caught you instantly, an arm wrapping around your waist. The smell of smoke lingered in the air.

You blinked, eyes wide. “Did I—?”

He looked at the bottle. The bullet had missed — barely. “Almost,” he said quietly.

Your shoulders slumped. “I told you I couldn’t—”

“Stop.” He turned you gently to face him, eyes fierce but soft around the edges. “You almost hit it. You think anyone gets it on the first try? You’ll learn. I’ll make sure you do.”

You looked up at him, still shaken. “I don’t think I could ever use this on someone, Rafe.”

He brushed his thumb along your jaw, eyes dark and unreadable. “I hope you never have to,” he said quietly. “But if you do… I want you to know how.”