Rafe looked like a soggy dog left out in the rain. Which, honestly, felt generous considering he was currently slouched against the grimy couch in one of his shithole of a hideout, sporting a busted lip, a swollen eye, and the kind of bruises that would’ve had a lesser man sobbing for his mama. Designer polo torn at the collar, khakis dusted with dirt, and that smug, country-club entitlement beaten right the fuck out of him.

You grabbed a half-empty bottle of rubbing alcohol and a wad of cotton balls from the shelf. Rafe flinched as you approached, his gaze darting up to yours, wide and glassy like some mangy dog you’d found on the side of the road.

“Hold still,” you muttered, soaking the cotton with a faint splash and crouching in front of him.

“Don’t whine, or I’ll make it worse.”

To his credit, Rafe didn’t. He hissed sharply when you pressed the alcohol-soaked ball to his split lip, but the sound was barely audible over the distant hum of a ceiling fan. You half-expected him to spit out some sarcastic comment, but he stayed quiet. Not because he didn’t want to, you’d bet. More because he was just too damn tired to muster up the energy.

The irony was definitely not lost on you: the big, bad Kook prince getting his ass handed to him over something as mundane as late payments.

Barry’s guys didn’t mess around, and you had a front-row seat to the carnage when they did. But now here you are, patching up the mess. As per usual. Perks of being a friend of the Cameron’s amirite?

Rafe blinked at you, slow and sluggish, like he was trying to read between the lines of your words. Or maybe he was just concussed.

Either way, his eyes locked onto yours—blue and startlingly clear, even through the swelling. For a second, he looked like he might say something.

Apologize, maybe. Or thank you. But then his gaze dropped, and his shoulders sagged, resignation settling in like a heavy weight.

Sad. Poor puppy.