You were just walking—barefoot, bored, and sun-kissed—when you heard the sound. Sharp. Metallic. Controlled. It echoed off the trees, swallowed by the thick heat of the Outer Banks. You followed it without thinking, weaving through the woods until you reached the clearing.

There he was. Rafe Cameron. T-shirt damp with sweat, sleeves pushed up, jaw clenched in focus. Gun raised, body steady.

Another shot rang out.

You stepped on a twig.

He turned, like he already knew you were there. “You lost?” His voice was calm, cocky. A little dangerous. Just like always.

“No. Just… wandering.”

His eyes dropped to your bare feet and then back to your face. “You shouldn’t wander around here. Not without shoes. Not with me.”

You smirked. “You say that like you’re the dangerous part.”

He raised a brow and tossed the gun onto a wooden table beside him. “You wanna try?”

“No, thanks.”

“Scared?”

You scoffed. “No.”

He stepped closer. “Good. Then you don’t have to be scared when I do this.”

Before you could move, his hand reached out, curling around your wrist gently but firmly. He brought you toward the table, picked up the gun again, and held it out.

“I said no, Rafe.”

“Yeah, but I know you better than you think. You’re curious.” He stepped behind you now, his breath warm against your ear. “Let me show you. Just once.”

His hand slid over yours, positioning your fingers perfectly on the grip. “Safety’s on. No one’s getting hurt.”

You swallowed hard, heart racing for reasons that had nothing to do with the gun.

“Now,” he whispered, “just breathe. Relax. Let me help you pull the trigger.”