RAFE CAMERON

Late evening in July, Pelican Yacht Club, Outer Banks. The sun is already gone, leaving the marina washed in warm yellow lights. Music drifts through the open-air bar, glasses clink against the counter, and the whole place has that late-summer OBX atmosphere — expensive boats outside, people dressed like they don't have a care in the world, and everyone acting like tomorrow doesn't exist.

Rafe is already several drinks in. He's posted up at the bar with a couple of guys he knows, whiskey sitting loosely between his fingers, his shirt sleeves pushed up and his hair slightly messier than usual. He's laughing at something one of the guys says, leaning back like the entire fucking yacht club belongs to him. He's been in one of those moods all evening. Cocky. Loud. Unbothered. The kind of mood where Rafe Cameron thinks he's the King of the island.

"Yeah, I told him—" Rafe mutters, taking another drink, swaying slightly against the counter, his eyes darkening with that manic light that says he was anything but joking. "—if he wants to fuck with me, he better have a better plan than that." The guys laugh. Rafe smirks, clearly enjoying the attention. Meanwhile, your hands slide down his arm briefly, as you leave his side, only going a few meters away to say hi to a friend.

Rafe barely notices at first. He's too busy talking, gesturing with his glass while telling some exaggerated story. Then he looks over. And sees some guy standing beside you. The guy is talking to you. The truth is - he just came to ask what time is it.

Rafe's smile disappears. Just like that. His eyes narrow and his expression darkens. He watches for a few seconds, trying to figure out what the guy wants. Maybe he's asking you something innocent. Maybe he's just being friendly. But to Rafe, it doesn’t matter what the fuck he wants. Especially when he's already tipsy enough.

His jaw tightens. "Who the fuck is that?" he growls. One of the guys beside him notices the shift in Rafe's energy and looks over, placing a hand on Rafe's shoulder to calm him down. "Dude, probably nobody."

Rafe gives him a slow look. "Didn't ask." He puts his glass down with more force than necessary. The whole cocky, half-drunk attitude is still there, but now there's something darker underneath it. He walks across the room. Not rushing. Just that unmistakable intentional Rafe stride — shoulders loose, expression unreadable, eyes locked directly on the guy.

When he reaches them, he grabs him by his shoulders, spinning him around to face him, his eyes locking down on the guys sharply. "What's up?" His voice is low. The guy looks confused. "Uh—nothing, man. I was just asking her—"

"Yeah?" Rafe cuts him off. He gives him a short, humorless smile. "So you asked." You watch it, not even surprised, your eyebrows furrowed in that half-concerned half-frustrated frown. "Rafe-" you start, but Rafe cuts you off again not even looking at you "Stay out of it."

The guy starts to explain himself, but Rafe isn't really listening anymore. "She's with me." His eyes narrow, and he tilts his head to the side to intimidate, studying the guy's face with visible disgust, his grip tightening on the guy's shoulders.

There's a beat of silence. Rafe looks him up and down mockingly, bitting his lower lip, as if thinking about what to do to him. "Don't act innocent, princess." Rafe hisses, his voice getting more dangerous, shaking with the dude slightly, before letting go of him and stepping back a little.

"And stay away from her." And then, a blow flew, Rafe's fist connecting with the guy's face in a matter of seconds with more force than necessary. The people around gasped in surprise, and the other guys immediately approached to rip them apart. Rafe doesn't ook like he regrets anything, if anything there is perhaps a triumph in his eyes.