「 ✦ IN DEEPER ✦ 」

────

THE HMS POUGE DRIFTED lazily along the water, its occupants basking in the golden glow of the rising sun. MJ sat cross-legged at the bow, a hand braced against the edge of the boat to steady herself. Her arm—poorly wrapped in a bandage by Kiara the night before—rested against the edge of the boat. She had tried to shake off the throbbing pain, but it gnawed at her with every bump of the boat. Her twin, JJ, lounged nearby, shirtless and carefree, flicking his lighter open and shut in a repetitive rhythm. The others were scattered about—Pope stood next to John B at the wheel, while Kiara perched on the edge, her toes skimming the water.

MJ hadn't gone home after last night's chaos, deciding she'd rather sleep on John B's lumpy couch than risk Luke, her ad, noticing her injury. JJ, as usual, hadn't made any effort to check in at home either, though she doubted their dad even noticed they were gone. They didn't talk about it, but both twins understood—home wasn't home for either of them.

"Yo, you guys see that?" JJ's voice cut through the quiet, drawing everyone's attention. He nodded toward a sleek, pristine boat gliding toward them.

"That's the Malibu 24-MXZ," JJ announced, his grin wide. "World's finest wake-setter."

MJ glanced up, sliding her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose to get a better look. The boat sparkled obnoxiously in the sunlight, and she immediately hated it. "Looks like it should come with a soundtrack of trust fund douchebags bragging about their golf scores," she muttered, loud enough for the others to hear.

"Two hundred grand. Easy," JJ continued, ignoring her as he admired the boat.

"We picked the wrong parents," Pope said, shaking his head.

"Speak for yourself," MJ snapped. "Some of us didn't pick at all."

Her words hung in the air for a moment before Kiara broke the tension, her voice sharp. "That's Topper and Sarah."

MJ's head whipped toward the boat, her body tensing as she saw them. Topper, with his stupid backward hat and smug grin, had one arm slung around Sarah's waist. Sarah looked the part of a picture-perfect Kook—blonde hair catching the light, oversized sunglasses perched on her head.

"Of course, it's him," MJ spat, her voice dripping with disdain. Her hand curled into a fist against the edge of the boat. She hadn't forgotten the last time she'd run into Topper—or the insults he'd thrown her way.

As the Malibu approached, the tension on the HMS Pogue ratcheted up. Sarah stood near the bow of their boat, her gaze sweeping over the Pogues with barely disguised judgment. Topper leaned against the side, looking smug as ever.

"Do they even know how to drive that thing, or did they just pay someone to do it for them?" MJ called out, her voice cutting through the air like a blade.

Topper's head turned toward her, his smirk widening. "Still got that mouth on you, huh, MJ?" he sneered. "Guess you're just as trashy as your brother."

JJ sat up straighter, his jaw tightening, but MJ beat him to it. She stood, ignoring the sharp pain in her foot, and pointed a finger at Topper. "Say that again, Topper. I dare you."

"Relax, Maybank," Topper said, his smirk unflinching. "No need to get all worked up. Just calling it like I see it."

The words hit their mark, and MJ's blood boiled. She stepped toward the edge of the boat, her balance wavering but her glare unwavering. "Better a Pogue than a spoiled little daddy's boy who wouldn't last a day outside Figure Eight."

"Careful, MJ," Sarah said suddenly, her voice cold. "You don't want to say something you'll regret."

"Funny, coming from someone who replaced her friends like handbags," MJ shot back, her eyes narrowing on Sarah. "What's it like, Sarah? Playing house with Captain Privilege over there?"

Topper's smirk faltered for the briefest second, and JJ let out a low whistle, clearly impressed by MJ's venom.

"Alright, that's enough," John B said, stepping in before things escalated further.

"Whatever," Topper muttered, turning back toward the wheel of his boat. "Enjoy your little fishing trip, losers."

As the Malibu sped off, MJ dropped back onto the cooler, fuming. JJ tossed her an approving look, his grin wide. "That was brutal. Even for you."

"He deserved worse," MJ muttered, adjusting her bandana and glaring at the wake left by Topper's boat. The ache in her foot had nothing on the fire burning in her chest.

The HMS Pogue drifted lazily along the water, its occupants basking in the golden glow of the rising sun. MJ sat cross-legged at the bow, her injured arm cradled in her lap. A makeshift bandage, hastily wrapped by Kiara the night before, wound from her wrist to her elbow. Now and then, she flexed her fingers to test if the pain had dulled, but the sharp throb stubbornly remained.

Her twin, JJ, lounged nearby, shirtless and grinning, flicking his lighter open and shut in a rhythm that somehow managed to be both calming and irritating. Kiara dangled her feet off the edge, the water splashing against her legs, while Pope leaned against the railing near John B, who steered the boat with one hand and held an energy drink in the other.

MJ shifted, letting out a frustrated sigh as her bandaged arm brushed against the side of the boat. The others caught her wince, their attention momentarily turning her way.

"You're seriously gonna go to work like that?" Kiara asked, raising an eyebrow.

MJ rolled her eyes behind her sunglasses. "What's the alternative, Kie? Sit around and hope my arm magically heals itself while bills pay themselves?"

"You're waiting tables at the country club, not performing surgery," Pope said, crossing his arms. "I'm pretty sure a doctor's note trumps a shift."

"Yeah, especially if you tell them it was from, you know"—JJ smirked—"rescuing orphans or fighting sharks or something."

"Real subtle, JJ," MJ muttered, glaring at him. "And for the record, I'm not calling in. I need the money."

"Dude, it's one shift," Kiara argued. "If you show up like this, they're just gonna send you home anyway. You're not exactly fit for waitress duty with a busted arm."

MJ sat up straighter, irritation flashing across her face. "It's not that bad."

John B turned the wheel slightly, his voice calm but pointed. "You couldn't even hold your drink earlier without wincing. How are you planning to carry trays full of champagne for rich people who'll complain if you so much as breathe wrong?"

"I'll manage," MJ shot back, her tone sharp. "I always do."

The group exchanged looks, each of them sensing there was more to her stubbornness than just pride.

"MJ," Pope said carefully, "you know it's okay to take a break, right? It's not like the world's gonna end if you skip one shift."

"Yeah, call in sick," Kiara added. "Your boss will survive."

MJ clenched her jaw, avoiding their gazes. "It's not that simple."

JJ narrowed his eyes, studying her closely. "Why not? You're acting like the world will end if you miss a night of serving overpriced appetizers."

She opened her mouth to respond, but the words caught in her throat. How could she explain that she didn't have the luxury of a "break"? That the money she made tonight wasn't for groceries or gas but to keep Berry off her back?

"I just... I need the tips," MJ said finally, her voice quieter now. "End of story."

Her twin frowned, leaning forward. "MJ, what's going on? Because this doesn't feel like just 'I need gas money.'"

"I said I'm fine," she snapped the edge in her voice cutting through the air. "Can we drop it now?"

Kiara sighed, throwing up her hands. "Fine, whatever. But don't come crying to us when you drop a plate of escargot and get yourself fired."

JJ tilted his head, his grin returning despite the tension. "And when that happens, I'm calling dibs on the epic meltdown."

"Thanks for the support," MJ muttered, shoving her sunglasses back up her nose.

John B cleared his throat, steering the conversation—and the boat—away from the brewing argument. "Just... be careful, okay? If you need anything, you know we've got your back."

MJ's shoulders relaxed slightly, but she didn't look at any of them. "Yeah, I know."

She stared out at the water, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of her bandage. The truth sat heavy in her chest: she wasn't just going to work for tips. She was going because she didn't have a choice. Berry didn't care about excuses or injuries. All he cared about was the money she still owed, and if she didn't pay up soon... well, she didn't want to find out what would happen next.

────

After their run-in with the enemy out in the marsh, the teens piled back into the van, tension high but excitement sparking in the air. Following JJ's lead, they drove into Figure Eight, eventually rolling up to a sleek hotel that looked wildly out of place for their ragtag group.

"Alright, keep a lookout. We're behind enemy lines," JJ announced, pulling a gun from his waistband.

"Dude, seriously?" John B groaned, reaching to take the weapon from him. "Put it back."

"What?" JJ shrugged, holding onto the gun tightly. "You can never be too careful."

"Yeah, because sneaking into a hotel with a gun is not suspicious," Pope deadpanned, leaning against the van's window frame.

"Thank you, Pope," John B added, giving JJ a pointed look.

JJ ignored them, still inspecting the gun as if he hadn't heard a word.

MJ, his twin sister, rolled her eyes from the passenger seat. "You know, you're gonna end up on the news one day with this crap." She turned to JJ, her expression somewhere between exasperation and amusement. "Put it back before you get us all arrested."

"Hey, you're supposed to have my back," JJ shot back with a smirk.

"Oh, I do. Just not when you're being stupid," MJ replied, leaning in to swipe the gun out of his hand. Before he could protest, she opened the van door and tossed it onto one of the seats, well out of his reach.

"Problem solved," MJ declared, crossing her arms and raising an eyebrow at her twin.

Pope clapped in mock celebration. "Finally, some sense in this family."

JJ threw MJ an exaggerated glare. "You're lucky you're my sister. That was uncalled for."

"Uh-huh," MJ said, unbothered. "What's uncalled for is you trying to bring a gun into a four-star hotel. Now let's go before someone notices we don't belong here."

JJ grabbed a plastic badge off the dashboard with a dramatic flourish. "Can't forget my badge," he said, holding it up for everyone to see. "Professional busboy."

"More like a professional dumbass," MJ muttered under her breath, earning a stifled laugh from Kie.

The group exited the van and followed JJ through the back of the hotel. They weaved their way through a busy kitchen, where JJ seemed to know everyone.

"Andrew!" JJ called out to one of the chefs, grinning like he owned the place.

"JJ, man, not now," the guy responded, shooing him off with a ladle.

"Mama L!" JJ yelled to a woman carrying a tray of food, reaching out to snag a bite.

She swatted his hand away. "No, JJ. I don't have time for your nonsense today."

MJ bit back a laugh as JJ pouted dramatically, then threw a wink over his shoulder at her. "See? They love me here."

"Uh-huh. Love you enough to call security in about two seconds," MJ quipped, nudging him to keep moving.

Eventually, JJ led them into a room with rows of computers. "Here we are, Pogues. The internet. You're welcome."

"The internet!" Pope cheered as they rushed to the screens, none of them, except Kie, having had access to Wi-Fi in weeks.

"Move over," JJ said, hovering behind Pope as he sat down at a computer. "I need to check on my Insta models."

"We don't have time for that," Kie scolded, elbowing him aside.

While John B dug through his backpack, Pope started typing in coordinates. MJ leaned over Pope's shoulder, watching the map load on the screen.

"Coordinates, please?" Pope asked.

"34° 57' 30" north. 75° 55' 42" west," John B read aloud, pointing to the map as it zoomed in on their target.

"Boom. Continental shelf, right there," John B said, tapping the screen.

JJ whistled, leaning closer. "That's close. Doable."

"How do you know?" MJ asked, giving him a skeptical look.

"Salvage yard," JJ said, his voice dripping with confidence. "They've got a drone that can go down a thousand feet. 360 camera and everything. It's perfect."

"Can we even get that?" MJ raised an eyebrow.

JJ shrugged. "Well, Dad's grimy hands would've gotten it, but... turns out showing up to work shitfaced gets you fired. But it's still there. In the impound yard, out back."

"And how much is on this wreck again?" Kie asked, crossing her arms.

"Four hundred million," John B replied casually.

"Four hundred million dollars?" Kie repeated slowly.

Pope stood abruptly, knowing where this was going. "Nope. Nope. Not doing this." He blocked the door, arms spread wide.

MJ rolled her eyes. "Pope, move."

"No."

"Pope," she warned, already stepping closer. "I'm not above dragging you out of the way."

He sighed but didn't budge. MJ gave him a pointed look before shoving him aside with ease, the door swinging open behind her.

"See? This is why I'm the favourite twin," JJ teased, following her.

"Keep telling yourself that," MJ called over her shoulder, leading the way. For all her complaints, she wanted the treasure just as badly. That kind of money could get her—and maybe even JJ—off this island for good.

The rest of the group filed out behind them, leaving Pope shaking his head. "Can't we do anything legal for once?" he muttered, trailing after them.

────

The tension was thick in the air as they drove through the gates of the impound yard. Kie was crouched beside MJ, carefully re-wrapping a makeshift bandage around MJ's injured arm. The girl winced in pain every time Kie touched the jagged cut, earning soft apologies from her friend.

"Thanks, Kie," MJ muttered, forcing a small smile even though her arm throbbed painfully. She avoided looking down at it—it already felt bad enough without seeing how mangled it was.

Kie nodded, still not entirely sure what to say after what had happened. "Are you sure you're okay?" Pope asked, concern written all over his face.

"Yeah, because if you're not, we can come back another ti—" John B started, eyeing her through the rearview mirror.

"I'll be fine. I swear, it's okay. Let's just... let's just go." MJ cut him off, shaking her head. Her arm was not fine, but she wasn't about to let her friends stop everything for her. Drawing attention to Luke—or worse, CPS—was the last thing she needed right now.

The van pulled up into the impound yard, and John B opened one of the side doors so Kie could hop out.

"You got this. Don't worry," John B said from the driver's seat, offering a small nod.

"It's not me I'm worried about," Kie whispered, glancing back toward MJ through the window before walking toward the gate where the impound lot owner resided.

"I know," John B replied, his jaw clenching.

Kie disappeared ahead, and John B backed the van into a spot farther away. The four teens piled out, dashing to hide behind a long piece of scrap wood while keeping an eye on Kie's progress.

The silence between the group left MJ feeling on edge. The last thing she wanted was for everyone to tiptoe around her. "So, John B," MJ said, breaking the tension as she raised an eyebrow, "how's it going with Kie?"

John B hesitated, clearly still distracted by earlier events. "Uh... well, it's not awkward, weird, or anything," he said after a moment.

She snorted. "You shouldn't have listened to JJ."

John B laughed softly, some tension breaking. "You're right. That's my stupidity, though."

"I thought she was into you," JJ muttered, his tone dry.

"Ehh." Pope tilted his head, his expression not entirely agreeing.

"So, Kie gave you the Heisman?" MJ teased, a faint smirk on her lips as she tried to keep the mood light.

"Oh, no question. Yeah," John B nodded, keeping his eyes on Kie in the distance.

"Maybe she's into someone else," Pope added, drawing curious looks from the group.

The teens fell silent again, waiting for their cue to run. When the gate began to close behind Kie, they darted into the salvage yard. MJ, wincing slightly from the movement, trailed behind JJ as they made their way to one of the storage units.

JJ grabbed the lock and began twisting the numbers into what he thought was the combination. "C'mon," he muttered, yanking at the lock when it didn't budge.

"Do you have the right numbers?" Pope hissed, looking around nervously.

JJ shrugged, shaking his head. "Alright, so I might have the wrong numbers," he admitted, clearing his throat.

Before anyone could respond, a German Shepherd appeared, barking loudly as it sprinted toward them.

"Oh, hell no," MJ muttered, stepping back instinctively, her injured arm pinned to her side.

John B didn't hesitate to duck behind the storage unit, leaving the others to deal with the dog.

"Good boy, stay," Pope tried, holding his hands out as if reasoning with the dog might help.

"Yeah, sure. Because talking to it's gonna work," JJ said sarcastically before bolting.

MJ groaned, clutching her injured arm as she sprinted after JJ. "Pope, run!" she called over her shoulder.

The dog barked louder, tearing after them. JJ's eyes darted around, finally landing on a boat propped up on wooden supports. A ladder leaned against its side, providing a quick escape.

"Up here!" JJ shouted, gesturing for MJ to follow as he climbed up first. MJ scrambled up after him, gritting her teeth against the pain in her arm.

The two ducked under the boat's railing, panting heavily as the dog barked below.

"What's that, Tebow? What you got, huh?" a man's voice called out, sending a wave of panic through the pair.

"Whoever's up there, you better come on out! I mean it!"

MJ glanced at JJ, her eyes wide. "What the hell do we do?" she whispered, her good hand clutching his shirt for balance.

JJ stood slowly, raising his hands in surrender. "Don't shoot! It's me—JJ. Luke's kid," he said, his voice steady despite the situation.

MJ stayed crouched, watching him in disbelief. "JJ, what are you doing?" she muttered.

JJ ignored her, continuing his performance. "My dad made me," he said, his voice shaking as he began weaving a story about being forced to steal. Tears welled up in his eyes, his acting so convincing that MJ momentarily wondered if there was some truth to it.

The man finally sighed, lowering his guard.

"Why the fuck is your sister here?" he asked, motioning to MJ.

Before JJ could answer, MJ blurted, "Twin shit, you know? Package deal!"

JJ shot her a quick look but nodded along. "Yeah, she's with me," he added.

The man sighed, shaking his head. "Come on down, you two."

They climbed down cautiously, the man muttering about how he "almost killed them." MJ stayed quiet, her mind racing as they walked back toward the van.

"You nailed that," MJ said after a moment, nudging JJ with her uninjured shoulder.

JJ smirked, tossing an arm over her. "So did you."

────

Later that night, the heavy bass of the music pounded through the walls of Zaza and Kenyon's house. It wasn't just a party—it was chaos. People spilled out onto the lawn, cars were parked haphazardly along the street, and the air was thick with smoke and the sharp tang of alcohol. Inside, the house was alive with shouting, laughing, and the telltale signs of a wild rager.

MJ leaned against the kitchen counter, her injured arm tucked protectively at her side. She wasn't supposed to be here, not after the day she'd had. But Zaza had begged her to come. "One night to forget everything," her friend had said, flashing that disarming grin of hers.

MJ had agreed, against her better judgment.

Across the room, she spotted Kenyon, already several drinks in, dancing sloppily with a group of people she didn't recognize. Zaza was perched on the arm of a couch, holding court with a few guys MJ instinctively knew to avoid. They looked too sharp, too calculating—the kind of men who didn't just party for fun.

MJ shifted uncomfortably, wishing she'd stayed home.

"MJ!" Zaza's voice cut through the noise as she waved her over. MJ hesitated but made her way across the crowded room.

"Look who finally decided to join the fun!" Zaza teased, her words slightly slurred. She gestured to the table in front of her, where a thin line of white powder was neatly arranged. Kenyon grinned, already leaning down to take his turn.

"Zaza..." MJ's voice was cautious, her stomach twisting.

"It's just a little bump," Zaza said as if that explained everything. "Kenyon's fine. Look at him!"

Kenyon straightened up, sniffing hard and wiping his nose. "See? No big deal." His pupils were blown wide, and he looked too energized, too twitchy.

"I don't know," MJ said, stepping back slightly.

"Come on, MJ," Kenyon said, his tone goading. "You're always so uptight. Loosen up for once. It'll help with... you know, everything." He waved vaguely at her arm and the air as if her entire life could be fixed by a line of coke.

"I don't think—"

"MJ," Zaza interrupted, her voice sharp. "Don't be lame. Everyone's doing it."

The words hit MJ like a slap. Everyone's doing it. The phrase dragged her back to high school, to JJ daring her to jump off a pier, to the countless times she'd had to prove she wasn't just "the responsible twin."

The room felt too loud, too crowded. Zaza's expectant gaze bore into her, and Kenyon's grin was unnerving. She didn't want to look weak. Not here, not tonight.

Hesitantly, MJ sat down. Zaza handed her a rolled-up bill, her smile triumphant. "See? That's my girl."

MJ leaned down her heart racing. The powder burned as it hit her nose, and for a moment, the world seemed to tilt. People cheered around her, and someone clapped her on the back.

But then everything started to blur.

The music grew distant, the faces around her melting into a haze. Her head felt light, hand er body disconnected. MJ tried to stand, but her legs buckled, and darkness closed in.

When MJ woke up, her head was pounding, and the taste of something bitter lingered in her mouth. She blinked against the harsh light, her vision slowly coming into focus. She wasn't in Zaza's house anymore.

The room was dingy, with peeling wallpaper and a single flickering lightbulb overhead. MJ's heart leapt into her throat as she realized she was lying on a threadbare mattress, her arm still throbbing beneath the dirty bandage.

Voices murmured nearby. She turned her head, spotting two men in the corner of the room. They were hunched over a table, counting stacks of cash and dividing small baggies of powder.

Her stomach churned.

"Hey, she's awake," one of the men said, his voice sharp.

The other turned, his gaze cold and calculating. "Took you long enough."

MJ sat up quickly, her head spinning. "Where am I?" she demanded, her voice shaky.

"Relax," the first man said, leaning back against the table. "You're at Zaza's. Just... the quieter part of the house."

She looked around, her pulse racing. This wasn't Zaza's. Not really. This was the part of the party she'd never wanted to see—the part with drug dealers, debts, and danger.

"I—I need to go," MJ stammered, swinging her legs off the mattress.

The second man stepped forward, blocking her path. "Not so fast. You had a good time, didn't you? Now it's time to pay up."

"Pay up?" MJ repeated, her voice rising in panic. "I didn't—I didn't buy anything!"

"That bump wasn't free, sweetheart," the man said, his smile cold.

MJ's breath quickened. She searched for an escape, for anything she could use to get out of this. But the door was blocked, and her injured arm made fighting back nearly impossible.

"Look," she said, her voice trembling, "I didn't know—please, just let me go. I'll—I'll get you the money later."

The first man laughed. "That's not how this works."

MJ's chest tightened, the air in the room feeling suffocating as the two men stared her down. Their expressions were unreadable, but the weight of their intentions bore into her. She tried to push past the panic flooding her veins, but her mind felt sluggish, her injured arm throbbing as if to remind her how vulnerable she was.

"You've got a habit of running up tabs, don't you?" the taller one said, stepping closer. His voice was smooth, almost mocking.

MJ froze. "What are you talking about?" she managed, her voice cracking slightly.

The second man leaned against the table, arms crossed. "Don't play dumb. This isn't the first time you've sampled the goods, sweetheart. Remember last month? That little party down by the docks?"

MJ's blood ran cold. She did remember—or at least, parts of it. A few lines, Zaza's coaxing voice, the rush that followed... and the sinking realization the next day when she'd learned the powder hadn't been free.

"I—I was going to pay you back," she stammered.

The taller man smirked. "Yeah? You're running out of time."

"I don't have the money right now," MJ admitted, her voice trembling. She hated how weak she sounded, but the truth was glaringly obvious.

"Then we'll figure something else out," the man said, his tone dark. He gestured toward the table, where another line of powder was already prepared.

"No," MJ said quickly, shaking her head. "I can't—"

The man cut her off, grabbing her good arm with a vice-like grip and pulling her toward the table. "You don't get to say no. You don't get to sample shit and walk away without paying your dues."

MJ struggled against him, but he was stronger. Her injured arm throbbed as she stumbled forward, her stomach twisting as she stared down at the white line in front of her.

"Do it," the other man demanded, his voice sharp and threatening.

MJ's breath hitched. Her head was spinning, her thoughts a tangled mess of fear and regret. She could feel her body trembling, her heart pounding so hard it felt like it might burst out of her chest.

"I—I can't," she whispered.

"Do it, or this gets worse," the taller man snarled, his grip tightening painfully on her arm.

MJ felt the tears well up in her eyes as she leaned down, her mind screaming at her to stop, to fight back, to do anything but this. But she didn't see a way out. Her body felt like it was moving on autopilot, her survival instincts kicking in as she inhaled the powder.

The burn was instant, sharp and searing as it hit her sinuses. Her head snapped back, her vision blurring as the room seemed to spin.

"Good girl," the taller man sneered, finally letting go of her arm.

MJ stumbled back, her legs feeling like jelly. Her mind was foggy, her thoughts scattered and incoherent. She barely registered the laughter from the two men as they shoved a small baggie into her pocket.

"Consider that a reminder," one of them said. "Next time, bring cash."

MJ didn't respond. Her body felt heavy, her limbs uncoordinated as she stumbled out of the room. The music from the party hit her like a wave, the bass pounding in her ears as she tried to navigate the crowded house. Faces blurred together, voices overlapping in a cacophony of noise.

She felt detached like she was watching herself from outside her own body. Her injured arm hung limp at her side, the pain dulled by the substances coursing through her veins.

The hallway felt endless as she staggered forward, her shoulder bumping into strangers who either ignored her or shot her annoyed looks. MJ barely noticed. Her mind was too clouded, her body too weak to care.

She pushed open a door at the end of the hall, desperate for air, for something that wasn't this suffocating nightmare.

Instead, she found him.

Rafe Cameron.

He was leaning against the railing of the porch, a cigarette in one hand, his other wrapped loosely around a glass of something dark. His sharp features were illuminated by the flickering porch light, his expression unreadable as he turned to look at her.

"MJ?" he said, his voice cutting through the haze like a blade.

She froze, her knees buckling slightly as she gripped the doorframe for support. The world felt like it was tilting, her vision swimming as she tried to focus on him.

"What the hell happened to you?" Rafe's tone was a mix of curiosity and suspicion as he pushed off the railing and stepped closer.

MJ opened her mouth to respond, but no words came out. Her throat felt dry, her mind too scattered to form coherent sentences.

Rafe's eyes narrowed as he took in her dishevelled appearance—the bloodstained bandage on her arm, the faint white residue under her nose, the way she was barely able to stand.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered, grabbing her by the shoulders to steady her. "You're a mess."

"I need..." MJ's voice was faint, barely audible over the pounding music and the ringing in her ears. "I need to get out of here."

Rafe's grip tightened slightly as he studied her face, his expression hard to read. "What did you take?"

MJ shook her head weakly, tears welling in her eyes. "I didn't—"

"Don't lie to me," Rafe snapped, his voice cold.

MJ flinched, her body trembling under his touch. She felt like she was falling apart, her carefully constructed walls crumbling as the weight of everything threatened to crush her.

Rafe sighed, his grip loosening as he looked over his shoulder. "Come on," he said, his voice softer this time. "Let's get you out of here before you make things worse."

Rafe led MJ down the steps of the porch, his grip firm but not rough as he guided her through the chaos of the party. The music was deafening, a pounding rhythm that made MJ's head spin even more. Her legs felt like they didn't belong to her, her steps stumbling and erratic. If Rafe hadn't been holding onto her, she would have collapsed right there on the gravel driveway.

"Keep moving," he muttered, his voice low and tense. His eyes darted around, scanning the crowd for anyone who might notice them. "You don't want anyone seeing you like this."

MJ barely processed his words. Her mind was foggy, her thoughts disjointed and sluggish. The weight of the night pressed down on her, suffocating and inescapable. She hated how small she felt under his touch, how much control he seemed to have at this moment.

"Where are we going?" she slurred, her voice barely audible over the noise.

"Away from this shitshow," Rafe replied curtly. He pulled her toward his truck parked on the edge of the yard. The bed of the truck was littered with empty beer cans, and the faint smell of gasoline lingered in the air.

He opened the passenger door and practically hoisted her inside, her body too weak to resist. She slumped against the seat, her head lolling to the side as she tried to focus on her surroundings.

Rafe got in on the driver's side, slamming the door shut and starting the engine. The truck rumbled to life, the sound vibrating through MJ's chest. She blinked slowly, her vision swimming as she looked over at him.

"Why are you helping me?" she asked, her voice cracking. She didn't trust him—how could she? Rafe Cameron, of all people. The guy who thrived on control, on power, on watching people squirm under his gaze.

Rafe didn't answer right away. His jaw tightened as he pulled out onto the dark road, his knuckles white as he gripped the steering wheel. The only light came from the glow of the dashboard, casting sharp shadows across his face.

"Maybe I don't feel like letting you OD in front of me," he said finally, his tone clipped. "Not exactly something I want on my conscience."

MJ let out a hollow laugh, the sound bitter and sharp. "Didn't know you had one."

Rafe's eyes flicked toward her, cold and calculating. "Careful, MJ. You're not exactly in a position to be mouthing off."

Her laugh died in her throat, replaced by a heavy silence that filled the cab of the truck. She turned her gaze to the window, watching the trees blur past in the darkness. Her arm throbbed, the pain cutting through the haze in her mind. She wondered if she should have gone to a hospital instead of a party if things would have turned out differently if she'd just stayed home. But the thought was fleeting, swallowed up by the fog of her intoxication.

The truck came to a sudden stop, jolting MJ forward slightly. She blinked, trying to make sense of where they were.

Rafe's truck rumbled down the dark, winding road, but instead of pulling onto the isolated dirt path MJ vaguely recognized, he veered toward a more familiar route. Her hazy mind registered they were heading toward Figure Eight. She shifted in the seat, her arm throbbing and her head spinning.

"Where... where are we going?" she slurred, her words heavy.

"My place," Rafe said shortly, his eyes fixed on the road.

MJ tensed, or at least she tried to. Her muscles felt like jelly, and every movement felt sluggish. "Why?"

"Because you're in no shape to go anywhere else," Rafe replied, his tone sharp. "You want me to leave you in some ditch, or worse, back with those dealers? No? Then shut up and sit tight."

She wanted to snap back, but the words didn't come. She slumped against the window, the cold glass pressing against her burning skin. The familiar sight of Rafe's house loomed closer, its pristine white facade glowing in the moonlight.

When they pulled up to the driveway, Rafe cut the engine and glanced over at her. "Can you walk, or do I have to carry you?"

MJ glared at him through half-lidded eyes, trying to summon some strength. "I can walk," she muttered.

But when she tried to step out of the truck, her knees buckled beneath her. Rafe was at her side in an instant, his arm wrapping around her waist to steady her. She hated how much she had to lean on him, how her body betrayed her.

"Yeah, sure, you're fine," he said sarcastically, hauling her toward the front door.

Rafe unlocked the door and led her inside, the cold air from the AC hitting her like a wall. The house was eerily quiet, the only sound the faint creak of the floorboards under their feet.

"Sit," Rafe commanded, guiding her to the plush couch in the living room. She sank into it, her head falling back against the cushions as her vision swam.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked weakly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Rafe didn't answer immediately. He disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a glass of water, which he thrust into her hands. "Drink," he ordered, ignoring her question.

Her fingers trembled as she took the glass, spilling some of the water on her lap. She managed a few sips, the cool liquid soothing her dry throat.

Rafe sat down on the coffee table in front of her, his elbows resting on his knees as he studied her. "You owe someone money, don't you?"

MJ froze, the question cutting through the fog in her brain like a knife. "What?"

"Don't play dumb, MJ," Rafe said, his voice low and dangerous. "I saw the way those guys looked at you back there. Like you were a walking payday. How much do you owe?"

Her heart pounded in her chest, a mix of fear and shame washing over her. "I... I don't know," she admitted, her voice shaking.

Rafe scoffed, leaning back. "Of course, you don't. You're in over your head, and you don't even know it."

MJ's eyes darted to the floor, unable to meet his gaze. She hated how right he was, how stupid she felt.

"What are you gonna do?" she whispered.

Rafe tilted his head, a smirk playing on his lips. "That depends. Are you planning on getting yourself killed, or are you gonna let me help you?"

"Help me?" she repeated, her voice laced with disbelief. "Why would you do that?"

He leaned closer, his eyes narrowing. "Because if anyone's gonna ruin you, MJ, it's not gonna be some lowlife dealer."

Her stomach twisted at his words, the weight of them settling over her like a suffocating blanket. She didn't know if it was a threat or a twisted promise.