The bass thumped through the walls, shaking the floors of Barry’s rundown house. The party was packed—drunken laughter, the clink of bottles, the sharp scent of smoke in the air. You weren’t even supposed to be here. But Rafe Cameron had texted you, a simple come find me, and you couldn’t say no.

You found him in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, a half-empty bottle in one hand and something worse in the other. His pupils were blown, his jaw clenched too tight.

“Rafe.” You grabbed his wrist, but he barely looked at you.

Barry snickered from the corner. “Your girl’s here to save you, bro.”

“Shut up,” you snapped, but Barry just laughed and walked off.

Rafe finally met your eyes. “What are you doing here?” His voice was low, rough.

“Looking for you,” you admitted. “Rafe you shouldn’t be doing this.”

He scoffed. “Why not?”

Before you could argue, someone bumped into Rafe—some Kook he already hated. The next second, fists were flying. Glass shattered. Someone yelled.

“Rafe, stop!” You grabbed his face, forcing him to look at you instead of his bleeding knuckles. His chest rose and fell hard, but his hands dropped.

You slipped your fingers into his. And for once, he let you lead him away.