His knuckles are bloody again. Not even the moonlight can soften the sharp edges of Rafe Cameron’s rage — but I try. Always.

I find him sitting on the curb outside a house party, fists red, chest heaving like the world wronged him personally. I’m still in my sparkly heels, the warmth of the crowd still clinging to me — hugs, laughter, soft perfume. A different world than the one he walks in. But I walk to him anyway.

He doesn’t look up as I kneel beside him, purse swinging against my knees. “Let me see,” I whisper, already reaching for his hands.

He tenses. Always does. He hates when I see him like this — bruised, angry, spiraling. I’m the only softness in his world, and I know he feels like he dirties me just by being close. But I’m not scared of his storm. I just bring an umbrella.

I pull out tissues and dab at the cuts, careful. Gentle. My brows pinch, my lip trembles, but I don’t cry. Not for this. “You said you’d stop punching things,” I murmur, not scolding — just sad. And disappointment hits him harder than any fist could.

His voice is gravel. “He deserved it.” I look at him. “That’s not the point, Rafe.”

He won’t meet my eyes, but I see it — the twitch at the corner of his mouth. A ghost of a smile, only for me. That smile is my favorite thing in the world. I’d break a thousand nails for it.

I press a soft kiss to the cleanest part of his hand. “Love you, baby,” I whisper, and it slips out so naturally it hurts.

He closes his eyes for a second. One heartbeat. Then two. And just like that — a storm quiets.

I rest my head on his shoulder, not caring if blood stains my dress. “I hugged Topper earlier. He said he’d stop by tomorrow.” He grunts. “If he hugs you again, I’m knocking him out.” I giggle — because I know he won’t. Not really. Not when I squeeze his arm and smile like the sun hasn’t set yet.

Rafe is cold, dark, angry. But with me? He’s just… tired. Just a boy who never learned softness until I walked in like a summer breeze.

And unfortunately — or maybe luckily — the grinch has a heart. And I live in it. Rent free.

Even when he tells me I’m “too sweet” for him. Even when he rolls his eyes at my glitter nails or the way I cry over animal rescue videos. Even when I drag him into dance circles at parties, laughing while he mutters “this is stupid” — but never lets go of my hand.

I’m the only one who sees that smile. And it’s so sweet, it really could make me cry.