You and Rafe Cameron had never really had a beginning. No first meeting, no moment where everything changed—just a slow, constant existence in each other’s lives, like something inevitable. Your families were tied together through business, dinners, expectations. So you grew up side by side. Same summers, same arguments overheard through thin walls, same pressure dressed up as privilege.

Back then, he used to watch you like you were something fragile. Always a step ahead, always turning back. Protective in a way that didn’t ask permission.

Then he got older. And things got louder.

Now he was the version everyone whispered about—the one from Outer Banks people thought they understood. Parties, drugs, fists through drywall, blood on his knuckles more often than not. His father’s voice still echoed in him, even when he wasn’t around. Especially then.

And you—somehow—you stayed.

Not close like before. Not really. Messages instead of late-night drives. Distance that pretended to be casual. But when he texted “come tonight”, no explanation, no softness, you knew what it meant.

He missed you. He just didn’t know how to say it.

—

The music hit before you even reached the house. Bass vibrating through the ground, voices spilling out into the night. You hesitated at the gate for half a second—just enough to feel it.

That quiet certainty.

Something’s going to go wrong.

And then you saw him.

Leaning against the porch railing, half in shadow, half in the flickering yellow light. Waiting. Not talking to anyone, not moving—just there, like he’d been standing in that exact spot the entire night.

For you.

His eyes found you immediately.

And something shifted.

Rafe pushed himself off the railing, walking down the steps with that loose, careless stride that wasn’t careless at all. Not tonight.

“Thought you weren’t coming,” he said, voice rough, like he hadn’t used it much.

You shrugged, crossing your arms. “You didn’t exactly ask nicely.”

A faint smirk, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah. Well.”

Silence stretched. Not awkward—just heavy.

Up close, you could see it. The tension in his jaw, the slight shake in his hands he tried to hide by shoving them into his pockets. His eyes were too bright, too sharp. Like something inside him was already boiling over.

You exhaled slowly. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” he snapped too quickly.

You tilted your head, unimpressed. “Rafe.”

That did it. The name. The tone.

His jaw tightened. “I said it’s nothing.”

“Right,” you muttered. “So you dragged me out here for nothing.”

You turned slightly, like you might leave.

His hand caught your wrist before you could take a step.

Not hard. But firm enough.

“Don’t,” he said, quieter now.

And there it was.

Not anger. Not yet.

Something worse.

You looked down at his hand, then back up at him. “Then don’t lie to me.”

For a second, you thought he might explode. You saw it—flashing behind his eyes, that familiar spark of violence, of losing control. But then his grip loosened, just slightly.

“I just—” He ran a hand through his hair, pacing once, like he didn’t know what to do with himself. “I needed you here, alright?”

It came out frustrated, almost angry. Like even that admission pissed him off.

You softened, just a little. “Okay.”

That seemed to calm him. Barely.

A shout broke through the music behind you. Loud. Aggressive. Someone calling his name.

Rafe’s entire body went still.

You followed his gaze to a group near the doorway—tense, watching, waiting. Trouble. The kind he never walked away from.

“Rafe,” you said quietly, already knowing.

His expression hardened in an instant. Walls slamming back into place. “Stay here.”

“Or what?” you shot back. “You’ll handle it?”

He stepped closer, voice dropping. “I mean it. Don’t get involved.”

You let out a short, humorless breath. “That’s funny, coming from you.”

Another shout. Closer now.

His jaw clenched, eyes flicking between you and them. Torn for half a second.

Then he moved.

And you knew—

this was the part where everything went wrong.