“Your mother isn’t home.” The new voice breaks your chatter. The girls and JJ look up at you with wide eyes. You glance over from your window to another to see your step-father peeking his head out at the group and you. “You can just go out the front door.”

Kiara and JJ share a look as Sarah laughs. Your eyebrows furrow at his words. “You’re… you’re okay with this?”

He sighs, rubbing his face tiredly. “No. But you’re going to do it either way. I did a lot worse at your age than you’re doing now. Just… if your mom finds out, I didn’t know about any of this. Seriously, kid, I’ll throw you under the bus without a care.”

“Yo, your dads cool.”

“Step-dad.” You correct JJ. Usually, your mother would scold you for such a thing. There’s no step in a family, she would tell you. But it felt like a betrayal to your real father. You glance over at Anthony just in time to see a flicker of something pass through him.

He shrugs it off though, tapping the windowsill. “Just go through the front door before you break something.”

“Will—“ but you yell as you start slipping off the roof. The girls yell. JJ yells. You land in a thud, JJ’s arms wrapped around you as two tumble to the ground.

“Fuck, are you okay?” Anthony calls from the windowsill. When he gets no response, he waves his arm. “You’re fine. Don’t do drugs.” And he shuts the window.

You’re on your back now, looking up at the night sky. “Is she dead?” You hear Sarah ask.

“I wish I was.” You answer with a huff, your knees aching.

“Told you I’d catch you.” JJ hums with a smirk as he gets up off the floor, dusting off his cargo shorts and holding a hand out to you. “Come on. Pope’s drunk and you’re missing it.”

—

You’d never been to the boneyard before. Not to party, at least. Whenever there was a get together, a bonfire or a party, Scarlett would ask you to come with but you’d always say no. At some point, she stopped asking and you’d find out through Instagram that she was out with her cooler friends.

The bonfire is lit. There are people all over. People you’ve passed by all your years in Kildare but have never spoken to you. You felt the same towards the group you’re with but now… now they’re talking to you and laughing with you like they’ve all known each other for years.

You also never knew that Kook’s and Pogue’s could ever get along. But apparently they can when you’ve had a few cold ones. You’re sitting on a log with JJ on one side and John B on the other. Sarah’s sitting on John B’s lap, and you side eye it for a second, realizing that she and Topper really are done. You pay no mind to it afterwards and keep leaning up against JJ as he dramatically tells a story about his last time surfing, which was this morning, the kid living and breathing the sport.

Your eyes skim the grounds and your eyes immediately fall onto Rafe who’s standing around with his friends, beer at hand. Whatever his friends are saying is amusing him because he’s letting out a laugh, shaking his head and rubbing his eyes like he can’t believe it.

“She’s a pogue now.” JJ pulls you back into the group as he boasts about you. “Beat that Harlet girl.”

“Scarlett.” Sarah corrects the drunken guy.

“Whatever her name is. Can I say the b word?” He asks Kiara who shrugs lamely, taking a sip of her beer. “to beating bitches up!”

“JJ, why would you say that?”

“You just gave me permission!” He scoffs and turns back to you, hands squishing your cheeks and making you pucker up. “Look at that sexy shiner.”

You try to pull away from him with a laugh. If it were anyone else, the constant need to be touching you and being flirty would overwhelm you. But you’ve come to realize that he’s just an affectionate and flirtatious person. Plus, it’s very clear that he has his sights set on Kiara, with the longing looks he constantly sends her way.

“To my girlfriend!” JJ hollers far too loudly for your liking, eyes wide as you look at him, as he’s now dramatically standing on the log you were sitting on.

“N-not! Not his girlfriend!” You grab his hand and try to drag him to take a seat but he’s apparently a goddamn bulldozer when drunk.

Cleo and Pope are tending to the drunken guy when you find the chance to slip away. Luckily, you had brought yourself a sweater so walking down the shoreline at one in the morning isn’t the worst part of your night. It’s calm and cool now, the sound of chattering and music now becoming a distant noise, giving you the solace and warmth you need.

The path you’re on now is one you walked down with Scarlett by your side many times. It was never this late of course, always at a decent time with her dog on a leash before letting him run wild. You’d talk for hours. Despite the tension often felt from her remarks, you had a pleasant time. More than pleasant. Fun even. She’s a bad person. A mean person. A bully. But when it was just the two of you, she was just a girl. A girl with you. And you hate how easily she could have betrayed you.

A motion in the corner of your eye startles you out of your reminiscing thoughts. You see a figure rush between the trees and take notice of who it is. Rafe. If you were in a cartoon, you’d imagine a lightbulb drawn at the top of your head lit brightly. This was your shot. Your time to beg and beg until he agreed to take you under his wing.

With a small skip to your step, you follow after Rafe in between the few trees on the beach. You lose sight of him for a second before you spot him again. His back is facing you but what concerns you is how he’s kneeling to the ground. Carefully, you start approaching him.

“Hey,” you gently reach out and tap his shoulder. This startles him. And before you know it, you feel a thousand grains of sand in your eyes. You yell, hands immediately covering your eyes. “Oh my god! What the fuck?! What the fuck?!”

“Holy shit!” You hear him yell. The two of you are yelling now. You don't think you’ve ever heard such a big and tough man like him yell in the way he does. So high pitched. Or maybe that’s just you. But you’re in too much pain to any attention. “Why would you fucking creep up on me?!”

“I thought you weren’t okay!”

“Why wouldn’t I be okay?!”

“Cause you were kneeling on the floor like a freak!”

“How does that make me a—“

“I think I'm going blind! Oh my god! Oh my god! Oh my god!” You can’t help but cry out, unable to open your eyes fully because of the sand in them. “Why the fuck would you throw sand in my eyes?!”

“I thought I was being attacked!”

“I only touched your shoulder! Do you think an attacker would lightly tap your shoulder to attack you?! Take me to the hospital!” You’re screeching. You know this. But you can’t open your eyes and this means to panic. Or at least, it is to you.

He sighs, calming down. Or not. You can’t see anything, eyes shut tight. The way the sand grains feel in your eyes only drives you even deeper into a panic. “You don’t need to go to the hospital.”

“Then the eye doctor!”

“It’s one in the morning.”

“Oh my god, I’m never gonna see anything ever again! Do you know how much I like to see things?!”

“I’m assuming a lot?”

“A lot! Oh my—“

“Stop saying ‘oh my god’. Fuck, do you have any other phrase?”

You scoff, eyes still covering your eyes which wouldn’t be able to open either way. “Just help me!”

“Fuck, fine! I’ll help you!” You jump when his hand grabs your wrist, tugging one of your hands off of your face. You figured he would tug and drag you behind him but you’re pleasantly surprised that he’s carefully guiding you through the thick trees and what seems to be back to the boneyard. When your feet hit asphalt, you’re sure you’re in the parking lot, taking you to his truck.

“Just… stay here.” He advises you as your back presses up against the cold touch of a vehicle. You heard a car door click open, some scrounging, the door shuts and he’s back in front of you. You’re not sure what he’s doing as he stands across from you, eyes still shut tight. It’s quiet for a moment except for the sound of distant waves crashing.

“Hello?” You reach out shakily, unsure of where exactly he is. Your hand meets his face in a light smack and he pushes your hand off.

“Get off of me.”

“What the fuck are you doing just standing there? Help me!”

You hear him sigh heavily, the sound of his shoes on asphalt. You aren’t sure what you were expecting but his hand taking a hold of your face, big hand sprawled over your chin and onto your cheeks, puckering your lips out softly isn’t it. It’s oddly tender for a man who’s supposed to be abrasive. “I’m gonna need you to open your eyes for a second. Gonna flush ‘em out with water, alright?”

You have no words, you simply nod gently, opening your slightly burning eyes for him to flush them out. It takes a few gushes of water for your eyes to no longer feel grainy. The sleeve of your sweater is rubbing at your eyes tirelessly, the stinging unbearable. His hand grabs your wrist, pulling you away from your eyes again. “Stop doing that. It’s going to worsen it.”

You glare at him. The blurry version of him from how teary and red your eyes are. “It wouldn’t be bad in the first place if—“

“If you didn’t sneak up on me like a stalker.” His harsh words don’t deter you. His tone would have last week but not anymore. Normally, you'd feel a flutter of embarrassment or shame but after all that's happened in the past 48 hours, you can't find it in you to care.

“A stalker?! God, I just wanted to talk to you. You were kneeling over on the ground like you found a dead fucking puppy. Forgive me for wanting to check up on you.”

“This is a good lesson for you, kid—“

“Kid? Seriously?”

“A lesson to mind your own every now and then.”

You scoff but have no retort to throw back, tired and stinging eyes taking him in. His face is strong as usual, little to no emotion shown in them, even with the ridiculous sight of your extremely reddened eyes and roughed up face, he shows nothing. You wonder why he is the way he is for a second before snapping back into reality. “You owe me for this.”

“Is this that “make you hot“ bullshit?” He snorts out what you think is a laugh. But he would never so you can’t find it in you to stew over it.

“Yeah and wh—“

“I’m not making you hot.”

“Ugh, please! Look, I really need this! And you almost blinded me so you have to.”

“I don’t have to do shit. You put your nose in someone else’s business, that’s what leads to sand in your eyes.”

“Yeah, but—“ you try again but he easily shuts you up by putting a single hand up, palm to your face. A look of amusement flashes through his eyes when he realizes it actually worked and you’re too worked up to fight back. You’re about to speak and he’s about to decline and fight you again when another voice speaks up.

“Yo, fight club!” John B calls out to you, a sleeping Sarah on his back. Beside him, Pope and Cleo are placating a tearful JJ as he hangs off their shoulders between the two of them. Kiara is wearing a random hat that reads ‘Fish Fear Me’, probably stolen by JJ and now a trophy for her. “We’re leaving.”

You turn to speak to Rafe but he’s already gotten into his truck and with a loud sigh of defeat, you walk over to your new group of friends. Kiara brings her arm over your shoulder easily, putting the hat she had on top of your head with a bright smile. They’re talking about god knows what as your eyes turn back to Rafe’s truck one last time. And you’re not sure if you’re making it up but you swear your eyes meet through the slide glass before he drives off.

────────────────────────

“Jonah’s asking you to prom?” You speak after a few quiet moments. Jonah Carpenter. The hottest guy in school. The quarterback. The typical high school stereotype. Only, he’s not dating the head cheerleader. Scarlett’s been pining after Jonah since the eighth grade but the guy was always in his own world to pay attention to any girls.

And maybe that’s what drew you in. He wasn’t like the other guys in the academy. He cared about his grades. He gave his all to the sport he was passionate about. He wasn’t about lame hookups and harsh words like the other guys on the football team. He smiled at you while others sneered. He didn’t see you at all. Which is a lot better than the way other guys see you. You prefer it this way, even if late at night you picture romantic scenarios that you would die to share with him.

Scarlett nods, fixing her lip gloss using the mirror in her locker. Her makeup is flawless as usual, which sends another pang of envy to you. “I’ve been in his DM’s for weeks. I think I’m breaking down his walls.”

Your eyebrows rise at this. “He actually responded to you?” The look she sends you makes you tense. “I don’t mean it in a bad way, Scar. He’s just… him, you know? The last girlfriend he had was in the seventh grade.”

Scarlett shakes her head, waving you off, your words going in one ear and out the other. “I just have to wear him down. Men don’t know what they want until a woman tells them.”

Your nose scrunches at her words, reminding you of your mother. But you can’t say it didn’t work. She was a poor teen mom from the cut one day and married to the second richest man on the island the next. And there’s no better hustler than your mother.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she scoffs as she shuts her locker and pulls the strap of her bag up some more on her shoulder. “Look, you said it, he’s him. He’s a little dimwitted and oblivious.” You want to fight her words. He’s not. He’s smart. And kind. But it’d seem silly to do so. You’ve never had a single conversation with him and she’d point it out to you. “He just needs to realize I’m the girl for him.”

“Right.” You try to hide the judgement in your voice as the two walk side by side. The bell signaling the end of the day had rang a while ago but Scarlett had to stay behind for a cheer team meeting and she was your ride. Scarlett’s talking about god knows what as you make it out of the prestigious school, the sun belting down on the two of you.

The plaid uniform skirt you’re forced to wear blows in the wind but you pay no mind to it. You wear your uniform the way that an upright teacher would present to the school as a good example. Frumpy. Scarlet accessorizes her uniform. She rolls her skirt up at the top, showcasing her long and pretty legs. Cute buttons on her shirt that fits her perfectly.

“Sarah!” Scarlett’s loud and chirpy voice pulls you out of your thoughts. Sarah Cameron. Kook Princess. The perfect example of another effortlessly beautiful girl in Kildare. Sarah’s stunning hair blows with the wind as she waves to the two of you. You don’t respond, not when it’s meant for Scarlett.

The two of you walked over to the girl who was standing with her own friends. Her smile is bright and endearing, yours is awkward as you stand with her and your best friend. “Did you see the prom announcement?!” Scarlett squeals happily. “God, I’m so excited! Are you bringing Topper?”

Sarah shrugs and that catches your attention. They’ve been the talk of the academy for weeks. The top couple. The IT couple. They had been flirting for a while and made it official just a month ago. Scarlett had complained about it. Said the title should be for her as the head cheerleader. “Ugh, what? Are you guys fighting? But you’re so cute!” Her voice makes that high pitched tone that tells you she’s lying. She vies for the attention and title that Sarah holds.

“What about you?” You stare at her blankly until Scarlett nudges your side. This snaps you out of it, eyes widening for a split second.

“Uhm… sorry, were you talking to me?” You ask a little loudly, clearing your throat awkwardly.

Sarah lets out an amused laugh, nodding. “Duh, are you going to prom?”

You’re about to answer but Scarlett beats you to it. “No, she’s not. It’s not her thing, like, at all. I think she’s allergic to makeup.”

Your eyebrows furrow at her rude words, the energy turning awkward as Sarah looks between the two of you with a curious look. “Well… your thing can change, right? I hope to see—“

A loud honk of a car horn makes you jump in your spot, eyes turning to the source. “Sarah, get your ass in the car!” A strong voice calls out to the girl you were speaking to. A familiar grey truck was pulled in the parking lot, engine still running but the windows down to get a good view of the man.

Rafe Cameron.

Your mother tells you to get together with a rich Kook every single day. Begs you of it, actually. But Rafe is out of bounds. He’s trouble. Danger. Too much baggage, she whispers to you at Kook events. His reputation follows him like a shadow. Coke head. Drinker. Parties too much. Always at odds with his family.

You spoke to him once. You didn’t share many classes with him because he was two years ahead of you but your mandatory Spanish class was a mixture of all the grades. He asked for a pencil. He didn’t ask, actually, reached for the pencil on your desk and said he would be using it. You’ve silently held that against him for two years.

“Wait, Rafe!” Sarah yells back to him and it stuns you how little she cares about the eyes on her.

“Stop chit chatting and get the fuck in!” He yells back. You feel incredibly awkward. Maybe it’s the fact that you never had any siblings but this feels too… private to be doing out in public.

Scarlett and you share a look, one that speaks many words between the two of you. “Why are you being a dick?!” Sarah’s words make you speak up.

“Uhm… we should go.” You take a hold of Scarlett’s arm but she shakes her head as she scrolls through her phone.

“Fuck, one of the girls needs my help on our routine.” These words make you frown.

“But you’re my ride.” You sigh.

“You can ride with me.” Sarah’s words send a shiver of fear down your spine. The idea of getting in a car with Rafe Cameron terrified you.

“N-no, that’s fine. Really, I’ll—“ Scarlett interrupts you. Again.

“Don’t be silly, ___, you live too far to walk. Just accept.”

Sarah nods with a kind smile as she loops her arm with yours as if you two were friends. But you can’t be mean. Sarah starts dragging you away and you look back at Scarlett with a look of fear. You mouth a few words to her, begging her to save you. She just laughs you off, making a lewd motion with her two hands and mouth. You regret every telling her about your one sided beef with Rafe, now she’s running with it.

“Sarah, really, I’m fine.” You try to beg her. “I can, I can call my step-dad, really.”

“No, no, no need to bother him when my brother can take you home.”

Your heart stops when you stop at his car door. “You’re taking my friend home.”

You hear him scoff. “I’m not a fucking Uber.”

“Don’t be a fucking asshole, she lives far away.”

“I don’t give a fuck, Sarah. Get in.”

“Not unless she can.”

“Oh my god—“

“You’re gonna let a girl walk all the way home by herself and possibly be murdered—“

“Holy shit, shut the fuck up and get in the car! Both of you!”

You’re tense as you get in his truck. Your hands shake as you put your seatbelt on, unsure of what to say or what to do. This is the most awkward and anxiety inducing situation you’ve ever been put in. “Where do you live?” He questions roughly making you look up at him with a look of fear. He’s looking straight ahead at the road as he starts driving off.

“H-Hill-Hillary Hills.” The second biggest house in the OBX. Of course, the Cameron’s own the biggest. They own the biggest everything. Like yourself, your step-father seems to be in one sided competition with a Cameron.

This makes him look up into his rear view mirror and for the first time in the last two years, you two make eye contact. His eyes are strong, holding what seems to be very little emotion. You feel put on the spot, like there’s a limelight on you. You tear your eyes away and let them flitter around his truck.

“Your mom’s that MILF that’s always hitting on everyone?” A frown immediately falls onto your lips at his words, feeling the anxiety waft through you in waves.

“Rafe, are you fucking serious?” Sarah snaps at her older brother as you bite your bottom lip over how damn shitty that feels.

You can hear Rafe scoff but you can’t look at him. You want to be let out of this damn truck. You can’t breathe.

“Shit, I didn’t know you’d be sensitive about it. My bad.” His words feel like glass in your skin. You need to leave.

Sarah wants to cut the tension, clearly, so she speaks up. “Scarlett’s kind of a bitch.”

You shrug gently, hands holding onto the seat belt tight. “She can be… but she means well.”

You can feel his eyes on you as he speaks. “Who’s Scarlett?”

“Mind your business.” Sarah snaps at him before smiling over at you. “If I tell you something, would you hate me?”

Your eyebrows furrow at this. There’s a part of you that doesn’t want to hear it. It can’t be any good. But your curiosity wins. You nod, urging her to go on. “She was talking shit about you last week.”

Your blood runs cold. Your face falls and you’re sure you look unbelievably pale. Your best friend. The girl you thought was by your side, always, isn’t? “What did she say?” You ask with a small clear of your throat.

Sarah bites her bottom lip nervously as her eyes flicker around your face. “Do you really want to know what she said?”

You nod, trying your hardest not to look over at Rafe who’s eyes keep flickering over to you through the rear view mirror. “She said you were a scared loser who was just dragging her down. Said something about how you… you let your insecurities slow you down.”

“Jesus, Sarah.” You’re surprised to hear Rafe speak up about this.

She scoffs and smacks his arm. “It’s not like I said it about her. I actually defended you.” She looks over at you with a sad smile.

“Is… is that all she said?” Maybe you were naive to think that she really was your friend. But five years of constant hangouts, sleepovers, and long talks, you thought she’d feel something for you.

“I don’t feel comfortable repeating the other things she said.” Sarah admits and your stomach churns. You need to throw up.

“Now that shits gonna eat her up alive. Just tell her, instigator.” You can’t even pay attention to Rafe as he speaks.

“She said you were a big bitch who could crush anyone you come near. I mean… I think she meant the last part metaphorically. Oh my god, I’m horrible. I swear I don’t… I don’t think of you as—“

But you laugh. You laugh out loud. You can’t help it. The fucking irony. She spent countless nights crying to you about how she feels like a failure. How she can’t do anything in life correctly. And she thinks you crush people? She’s a fucking vulture and you can’t stop laughing.

Rafe and Sarah share a look before turning back to you. “You’re insane.” Rafe is the one to say such a thing to you but you can’t stop.

“Holy shit,” you cackle, wiping the tears of laughter that had fallen. You can’t even find it in yourself to be sad. You’re mad. You're enraged. You went around defending her, loving her and supporting her and she goes around and talks shit about you? You’re not sure you’ve ever felt anger like this. “That’s fucking hilarious.”

“I… I don’t know what to say.” You can tell the girl is being honest and you just nod and shrug. This visibly confused Sarah. “What are you gonna do about it?”

“Nothing.” Is your plain and simple answer. What are you supposed to do? Fight her? Trash talk her on social media? There’s nothing you can do.

Rafe’s loud scoff reverberates throughout the truck. “Your best friend was talking shit about you and you’re not going to do a single goddamn thing?”

Your attention turns to him, eyes meeting through his rearview mirror before he focuses on the road. “What am I supposed to do?”

Rafe sighs like this is a problem for him. As if he’s in your position. This bothers you. To have him be so bothered for you and annoyed at you is irksome. And if you were a bigger person, you’d speak up. But you’re not, so you stay silent.

“Scarlett Hillcrest, right?”

Sarah confirms his question by nodding. And he makes a u-turn. This raises some alarms within you. “What are you doing?” You speak in an almost panic.

“We just passed her house.”

“How do you know where Scarlett lives?” Sarah questions her brother in the front seat.

He shrugs and speaks nonchalantly. “I hooked up with her sister.”

Sarah makes a dramatic gagging sound and pretends to throw up all over his truck. A small smile finds its way to your lips at the drama she exudes. You never thought Sarah would be so… funny.

Rafe pulls up the house that you spent countless days inside of. The place where you ate dinner with her parents and siblings. Where you shared your deepest and darkest secrets to each other. And you start to feel that sadness creeping in. But it’s shoved away when Rafe tosses something at you and luckily, you catch it in time.

“Is this an egg?” The question tumbles out with a ludicrous tone.

“Why do you have eggs in your car?” Sarah laughs as she grabs a few as well.

Rafe shrugs lamely, “Rose made me pick some up on the way to pick you up.” The cars fully stopped moving and Rafe’s looking at you. He’s not glaring. Or trying to get a read of you. He’s just looking at you. And this oddly makes you feel confident. At this moment, he’s on your side. The scariest guy in all of Kildare is going to help you egg your ex-best friend's house. “Ready?”

And for the first time in your pathetic and less than thrilling life, you speak with confidence. “I’m ready.”

Your hand meets his as he helps you out of the truck, feet touching the ground, ugly plaid skirt fluttering around you. Sarah is snickering behind you, happily tagging along. The three of you don’t walk too far from his truck, for a quicker run back into it. “You should do the honors.” Sarah smiles at you. A genuine smile. Unlike the smiles that Scarlett gave you, full of pity and contempt.

You stare at the colonial home. The perfect lawn. The sunflowers and tulips that the two of you had planted to placate her mother about getting some sun. You two had giggled the afternoon away, even throwing some soil at each other and having to hose off outside. It was all fake. And a rage overcomes you. You grab two eggs and you throw them at her house. They land in two gross splats high up on her walls.

You laugh. A real and infectious laugh as Sarah tags along and starts throwing more and more eggs along with you. It’s surprising to you that even Rafe is egging this house alongside you and his sister. There’s a small turn to his lips but you can’t decipher whether it’s a real smile or not.

You don’t realize how close to the house you’ve gotten until the front door is swung open and out comes Scarlett’s mother. “Hey, you imbeciles!” She screeched.

“Fuck! Run! Run! Run!” Sarah laughs as you all turn and start running back to Rafe’s truck. Sarah easily jumps into the backseat of his truck and you’re almost there with her. At the last second, your shoe slips off and you land on the floor. You can’t even feel embarrassed as you turn to see that her mother is gaining on you guys.

The last thing you expected was a pair of strong arms around you, lifting you up. Actually lifting you up off the floor. It’s not just a tug. Rafe Cameron has picked you up off the floor, your feet not touching the floor. You have no time to think about this any longer when he helps you in the car. He slams the door and you see him disappear for a second before climbing into the driver's seat and speeding off. You turn in your seat and manage to see Mrs. Hillcrest run off into the street and shout at the leaving truck.

“That was…” Sarah breaks the silence. “So much fucking fun!” She starts loudly laughing.

Your heart is beating hard and fast. And for the first time in a long time, you’re not anxious. You don’t feel bad. You feel good. So damn good. Laughter begins to bubble out of you and the two of you fall into each other in a complete fit. You two can barely talk in between the laughter but you still share funny anecdotes, your sides aching.

A familiar shoe falls into your lap and you look up and over at Rafe who you had genuinely forgotten was there. “Feel better?” Your eyes meet his again and you don’t feel nervous like before. You don’t want to run away. Being in his truck feels freeing, no longer suffocating.

“Way better.” Your smile is bright as you answer him.

—

You had blocked Scarlett on every platform you had her on, severing all ties. You had cried while doing it when the adrenaline of egging her house left your body. To have someone you cared for deeply not care for you at all was a pain you never wanted to experience again.

Getting to school that morning filled you with dread but it had to be done. The idea of being alone, of no longer having her by your side was scary but you didn’t have that little self-respect. She hated you while all you did was love her. It was embarrassing.

“Uhm, what the fuck?” Scarlett had been leaning on your locker, standing up straight as she saw you. Her face is twisted up in confusion and anger. “You fucking blocked me on everything?”

You sigh as you stand across from her, a hand holding onto the strap of your backpack unbelievably tight. It feels like your only lifeline right now. “That’s what one does when you find out your friend is a lying bitch.” The words just slip out of you. You can’t control them. You can’t hold back. Not anymore.

Scarlett’s eyes widen and she gapes her mouth, like a fish out of water. Usually, you’d rush to her. Take care of her when she’s like this. But you can’t, not without looking even more pathetic. “What does that even mean? What the fuck did I do?”

“It means that I won’t drag you down anymore.” You throw her words back at her. “This big and insecure bitch won’t bother you anymore. Sound familiar?”

It visibly takes Scarlett a few seconds to catch up to what you’re saying. And you see her face fall. And for a second, you feel bad. And then she speaks. “What? Come on, I said that out of anger. You pissed me off that morning and I was just venting.”

“That’s how you vent about your best friend?” You scoff, the pity you felt for a moment being crushed and dusted away. “By calling her fat? Spewing hate about her?”

“Don’t act like you haven’t done the same.”

“I haven’t!” You snap, the anger now radiating off of you. People are watching now. Trying to get a good listen. “I’ve never talked badly about you because you were my best friend! Did you get on my nerves? Obviously, that’s bound to happen when you spend every day together but I’ve never disrespected you or called you names to others!”

“Okay, I get it.” Scarlett’s eyes nervously look around the two of you, clearly not wanting anyone to get into it with people around. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean for you to find out.”

You’re looking at the girl you held so close to your heart and you don’t recognize her any longer. All those days together catch up to you. Her snide remarks about your choice of meal at restaurants. The digs about how she can share clothes with her other friends. Her skinny friends. You had romanticized your friendship because you were scared of not having any. “That’s what you’re sorry for? You’re sorry that I found out you were talking shit about me?”

“Well…” she sighs loudly, crossing her arms over her chest defensively. “What do you want me to say? I was angry. It just came out!” Now it’s clear that they’re arguing and everyone has stopped to watch.

And you feel that wave of anger coming back. All the love. All the memories. They’re squashed. Looking around at the group, you let out a scoff. You point to a girl in your math class. “She calls you Tammy DumpTruck.” You point to a guy. “She calls you pepperoni.” She points to another girl. “She made out with your boyfriend and then lied to you when you cried to her.” Your eyes meet Jonah, his green eyes watching you the entire time. “And she doesn’t really like you. She's just using you because she thinks being with the quarterback will up her social status. She called you dimwitted and oblivious yesterday!”

Scarlett scoffs loudly, laughing. “Are you fucking kidding me? I call you a mean name and you start fucking exposing me?” She shoves your shoulder, your back back falling to the ground in a loud thud. There are murmurs around the two of you, no doubt already gossiping about the mean crap you exposed. “You think you’re so fucking innocent? You sat and listened to it all! Not once did you stand up for them while I said all this shit!”

Angrily, you shove her shoulders right back, her bag falling to the floor now. “Because you would bully me too! What the fuck was I supposed to do? You kept me on a leash like a fucking puppy!”

She shoves you again. “Oh, shut up, whiney bitch! You loved being my puppy! It’s the only way anyone ever knew you existed! You’d be nothing without me! You *are* nothing without me! Leaving my side is going to be the worst thing you’ve ever done! You’re gonna be a fucking weirdo loser with no friends!”

You shove her again and she’s pushed up against the lockers. She’s enraged but so are you. And there’s loud cheering around you two. “Fight! Fight! Fight!” Kids chant.

“And you’re going to be a trophy wife who will never achieve anything in life!” You yell right back at her. Low blow. She would tell you that was her biggest fear. But she knew yours too and she used it to talk behind your back. In your angered and muddled head, this was an eye for an eye. “You better enjoy the rest of your high school career because that’s the only time you’ll ever matter!”

“You stupid skank!” And hands are flying. She pushes you, smacking you. You shove her off of you and manage to get her to fall onto the floor, only she drags you with her. Now, the two of you are punching each other. Pulling hair. Scratching. You feel a pair of arms wrap around you while someone else tugs Scarlett off of you.

Scarlett’s screeching like a wild animal, wanting to be let go to keep fighting you. She's got a few scratches on her face, lip and nose bleeding. And you’re not any better, the same scratches, hair wild and your single nostril bleeding.

“Fake bitch!” You call out as you’re dragged away from her.

—

The sound of the phones ringing in the office is what’s keeping you at bay. The principal had called your mother but she didn’t pick up. Now, your step-father is on his way over to pick you up and sign a form to solidify your two week suspension. You’re not scared of your step-father. He’s more scared of you than anything but you are scared of your mother finding out. And you’re not ready whatsoever.

A soft voice breaks you out of your thoughts. “You look like you need this.” You look up and meet the pair of green eyes you’ve fantasized over.

Jonah is smiling softly at you. His plump lips turned up. Eyes crinkled gently. A wave of nervousness washes over you and you can’t speak as he holds out an ice pack for you. Shakily, you take it and place it on your forehead, the tender part that’s already bruising.

“Did she really say all that?” He breaks the silence as he stays standing across from where you sit on the office chair.

Gently, you nod. “Y-yeah.” Your voice cracks but you’re too tired and aching to care about it.

“Woah… I knew she wasn’t nice but I didn’t think she was a… bully.” He lets out a shaky laugh. You can’t look away from him while he speaks, not until he looks at you and you divert your eyes.

“Yeah… uhm… I didn’t even realize how shitty she was until… until yesterday.” You comment, leg bouncing up and down.

He takes this as his sign to take a seat next to you. You slowly scoot away from him, feeling shy and exposed with him. Even more so knowing that he saw it all. And how you spoke to him.

“I just… it’s funny that she thinks I’m the oblivious one, you know? She kept flirting with me through DM’s and I kept rejecting her and she wouldn’t take a hint. It was just kind of ironic.”

You snort out a laugh. “Yeah. Tell me about it. She got mad that I used her insecurity against her but I was supposed to be fine with her using mine.”

He exhales another small laugh. “Yeah. You guys… are ruthless.”

A small grin falls onto your lips, bringing the ice pack to your bruised lip to hide it from him. It’s silent again. It’s awkward. He clears her throat and speaks again, “I thought it was cool.”

You glance over at him with raised brows, breath quickening when his green eyes meet yours. “What you did. I thought it was cool.” The way his eyes flicker across her face, taking her in, makes her leg bounce more.

“Your mother is going to kill you.” The sound of your step-fathers voice cuts through your shared moment with Jonah.

Quickly, you hop up out of your chair and rush up to him. “Oh my god, Anthony. There has to be a way we can hide this. Please. Please. She’s going to murder me. This beating is going to be nothing compared to what she’ll do to me.”

The older man sighs loudly, rubbing the empty spot between his eyebrows. “Honey, your face is… messed up. God, how good did that little snob get you?” His hand falls to your chin, moving your head around to take a good look at the damage.

You scoff at his words and jokingly bring your fists up as if prepared to fight him. “You should see her face. More busted than mine.”

He rolls his eyes but there’s a playful smile on his face. “Okay, Ninja, let’s go.”

social media part!

After the tears have stopped and you have finished the water Cass brought you, you go back to work. Your head held high as you ignore JJ and any attempts that he may make to talk to you. Careful glances and quiet gossip still linger, but you do your best to ignore them. The newer customers are oblivious to what has transpired earlier in the day and greet you with familiar smiles and questions about the daily menu. The entire situation could have cost you your job, and you hate that you let it go that far south.

"Incoming," Cass mutters under her breath when she passes, and you look up from organizing the menus to see Rafe walking into the patio area. His eyes find you immediately, a severe look on his face, and you can tell he is looking over you. Your perfect makeup being ruined by your tears left you bare faced. A sense of relief washes over you when it becomes clear his path is to your side. The difference between how Rafe looks at others and the way he looks at you makes your head spin.

You clear your throat, pulling yourself back to reality as you drop the stack of menus onto the hostess stand. "Kelce told, didn't he?"

"He did."

You fidget with the corner of a menu, looking out at the mostly empty dining area. You did not blame Kelce. He did what his friend asked him to do, and the concern had been evident when he had left you in Cass's capable hands earlier. With the lunch rush over, there is not anyone for you to fixate your attention on, so you meet his gaze again. "Are you here to go golfing?"

"I am," he confirms, his voice low. Rafe moves around the hostess stand to touch you. His hands find their home on your waist, and his body presses against yours. "And you." He takes a few steps forward, forcing you to take steps back. Eventually, your back meets the paneled wall. It gives you a sense of privacy, with his wide shoulders blocking your view of the patio. "How are you?"

Horrible is what you want to tell him, but you do not. Looking down at your mostly empty wrists, you answer him the best way you can. "The pogues and I are no longer friends."

"I know."

You swallow the urge to cry again before you lift your chin to look up at him. "Do we have to go to that party tonight?" Your hand touches his chest, fingers toying with the buttons.

He shakes his head, hooking his finger under your chin to keep your gaze on him. Your smile is weak but there because he knows you well enough now that he can tell you want to run and hide away again.

"Can we be alone instead?"

"Yes," he whispers before dipping his head down. His lips brush yours briefly before he leans back to look at you. "Anything else you want?"

You lean up on your toes to kiss him. Him. The kiss tells him that plainly enough. You ignore the potential risk of losing your job for fraternizing with a member on top of the very public loss of friendship earlier. You keep kissing him until you have to end it. A smirk tugs at his lips.

His thumb skates over your jaw. "There's my girl."

You blush and bite your lip. "She is exhausted and ready to go home with you to decompress from this awful day."

He grins, dragging his thumb over your bottom lip. "Tanneyhill for tonight, okay?"

You smile, a nervous tingle starting in your stomach at the look in his eyes. "Can we have a movie night?"

He smiles, a quiet laugh leaving him. "Sure, Baby."

You remove your hands from his shoulders. "Perfect. Have fun golfing, okay? I'm fine here."

He smiles, a knowing look in his eyes. "I know you're fine. But I will kick his ass if he tries anything else with you."

You swallow and grasp his hand before he can move away from you. "No fighting today, Rafe, not here. Please."

He takes a step back, squeezing your hand, before going. He glances back once to check on you, and you shake your head at him for not promising to keep from kicking JJ's ass. You are aware of Cass's stare burning into the side of your face and the Cheshire grin on her face, but you choose to ignore her.

You fidget with the menus again until she gives up and returns to her happy place in the kitchen with the hot chef. A tiny smile on your face now that Rafe is here and practically kissed you better.

"Are you sure we are allowed in here?" You ask as you look around the pristine guest house. "We could always go to the party instead."

"No. No party." Rafe shakes his head, flipping certain lights on before venturing into the small kitchenette. "You asked for a movie night."

"I did," you confirm as you follow him. You lift yourself on the counter as he pours himself a little liquor and takes a sip. "Did you remember to bring the popcorn?"

"We have some here." Rafe opens the cabinets until he finds a bag and throws it into the microwave. He crosses the distance to be between your legs as it begins to cook. Warm palms caress the length of your thighs, and you shiver at the feel of him so close again. "Feeling better?"

You smile, looping your arms around his shoulders and nudging your face closer to his. "Getting there." You peck his lips. "I hate that the family room was taken tonight. I know you wanted to watch a movie there."

He kisses you, and you can taste the bourbon on his tongue. His hands tighten around your waist, pulling you closer until your upper bodies are smooshed together. You giggle into the kiss before brushing your nose against his.

"What movie did you pick?" He squeezes your thigh. The heat of his touch sears into your skin.

"Dirty Dancing," you whisper against his lips. "Patrick Swayze always makes me feel better."

Rafe laughs, and you join him before he pecks your lips.

You play with his hair, the strands soft between your fingers. "But don't worry, Swayze has nothing on you."

He shakes his head at your playfulness. "Popcorn is done. Go get the movie started."

You hop down and dive into the plush sofa once you have a comfortable throw blanket and the remote. Rafe emerges moments later with his bourbon, a popcorn bowl, and a soda for you.

After the movie begins, you both get settled, and you rest your head on his chest. His arm wrapped around you, keeping you close to him. "How many times have you seen this?" He asks as you hum the first few songs perfectly.

You laugh, tipping your head back to look at him. "I don't know."

He smiles, dragging his thumb across your bottom lip. Shivers rush down your spine, the feeling from earlier returning, and something seems to shift between you. A static type of feeling tethers between you. You lean up and kiss him. Your fingers twist into the hair at the back of his head. He deepens the kiss, and you hum at the taste of bourbon still on his tongue.

"Rafe…" You whisper against his lips. "Is there a bedroom here?"

He exhales, his breath fanning over your face. "Yeah, Baby."

You swallow, tightening your fingers in his hair. "Show me?"

He watches you for a moment, an unspoken understanding shared between you. His hand flexes against your stomach before he nods, clearing his throat. "Yeah, okay."

Shedding the throw blanket and moving the popcorn bowl to the table, you stand and pull him with you. The warmth of his large hands on your hips eases the nervous feeling growing inside you. He shuffles you to the closed door across the room.

"Through there."

Rafe does not push you. He lets you decide how far this understanding between you will go, and you make a mental note to thank him later. You reach out, hand trembling slightly as you enclose the knob and turn it to push it open. It is a simple classic white coastal design with a plush king sized bed against the far wall. The bed looks expensive and comfortable. The white linens make your heart skip a beat. Would they be ruined? You step into the room, and he follows you.

“Y/n…”

"Shh." You spin and press your finger to his lips.

Nothing is spoken for a moment. Instead, he lets you tell him everything you are thinking without a word. He shifts, digging his fingers into your hips before releasing his hold.

"I want you to be my first."

His eyes close, and you cannot help the smile that teases your lips.

"I want it to be you," you continue. "Even if everyone tells me otherwise. I want it to be you."

Rafe's fingers dig into your hips, and he kisses you like you will vanish if he stops. Reaching past him, you push the door shut before slowly proceeding to the bed. He follows, his lips glued to yours until the backs of your thighs hit the edge of the bed.

You slip out of your shirt, eyes glued to his every second they can be, and he stares back at you. Your chest rises and falls faster with each breath. Everything would change after tonight. A new level of intimacy is reached between you. Something you could not ever take back will be shared between the two of you. You reach to unclasp your bra, but he stops you.

Instead, he kisses a path up your collarbone and to your neck. You tip your head back, giving him better access, and a whine of need slips from your lips.

His arms wrap around your waist, and he lifts you onto the bed. Bringing his body against yours, he follows you deeper into the bed.

His nestles between your legs. He wants your first time as much as you want to give it to him. His fingers dig into your thighs as he rubs against you. Your breath hitches with each shift of his hardened length against your clothed center.

You litter kisses down his neck, hands brushing down his back to slip under his shirt. "I want you, Rafe. All of you." You look at him, searching his beautiful blue eyes for any sign of doubt from him, but there is none. "Everything has changed with you. The world looks so different now, and I love that. I like who I am with you." You nip his neck before trailing your lips up to the shell of his ear. "Do you want me to?"

"Fuck, y/n." He cups your face, pulling your lips back to his as he rolls his hips against you. "Do you feel that?"

You nod, biting your lip when he does it again. You reach down his back and pull his shirt off before tossing it away. Your hand presses to his chest as he leans down to kiss you again. Pants and desperate gasps leave you both as he touches you and continues to roll against you. His fingers are skilled as he reaches behind you to unclasp your bra. He slides the straps down your arms. His lips follow the path of one strap until it falls away.

He hooks his fingers around the waistband of your skirt and tugs it down. You lift your hips to let him tug it off you. Your panties follow next, and he stares at you, bare beneath him. So pretty and ready for him.

You reach for him, pulling him back against your body. Lips claim one another's, and you help him shed his shorts and underwear. His naked body presses against yours, and you continue to kiss like the other might disappear if you stop. His tongue searching your mouth distracts you from the bundle of nervousness building within you.

Rafe's hand slips between your legs. His finger rubs your clit, and you shudder against him. Moaning into his mouth. He slows his touch, slower and slower, until he is simply pressing his hand against you possessively.

"If you knew just how I have wanted this," he murmurs against your lips.

You shake your head, pecking his lips. "Believe me, I already know."

He does not say anything, and you can feel the sparks of anticipation shooting through your body. The press of his body against yours warms you to the core. Rafe's heart races under your palm, and you are sure yours matches his. He shifts, and his length briefly brushes against your inner thigh. He feels hot and hard, all for you.

"Are you sure you want this?" He asks, his voice strained from his effort to control this moment better for you.

"I'm sure."

You want to lay your claim on him just as much as he wants to have his claim on you. You are scared and desperate but also excited for this moment. Being with Rafe is easy. The pain and hurt from the past few weeks melt away when he is near you. This is the right choice, you know it is.

Rafe's body leaves yours, and you whine at the loss of him, but he returns seconds later, a condom held between his fingers. You exhale in relief that he is back and reach for it.

"I'll do it, Baby. Relax." He coos.

You nod, dragging your teeth over your bottom lip as you watch him open the foil packet before he rolls it on. A sharp intake of breath follows as he crowds you once more. That hard press of his body against yours returns that fuzzy feeling inside of you. You touch his chest and rest your palm over his heart, the thrum still there and matching your own.

"Relax, Baby."

You smile weakly before he pecks your lips. You could not relax, no matter how much you willed your body to do so. Rafe is here, and he is going to do what you carve for him to do.

His hand clasps your free hand and pins it against the mattress as he guides the tip of him into you. Your breath hitches, your body threatening to tighten as he sinks into you. An ache blooms in your lower stomach.

You whine, head tipping back, and you want to beg him to stop. It is too much; he is too much. But you stay silent, fingernails biting into the back of his hand and his chest. You want this. You want him. He shushes you. His gaze shifts between watching your face and watching himself sink into you.

"You haven't taken it all yet," he murmurs. You meet his gaze. Eyes widening at the realization of what you have gotten yourself into. "You're doing so good, Baby." He encourages you.

After a few moments, he sinks fully into you. You watch him and nod your reassurance before kissing him. He groans low in his chest, feeling you squeeze around him. The shift of your body against his adjusting his position inside of you. He withdraws inch by inch until only his tip is in you before sliding back in. "Mine."

"Yours," you whisper back as his hand wraps around your hip. The other is tangled with yours. His chest rises and falls rapidly. 

The next few times are the same, a whispered confirmation that you belong to him with each thrust back into you. And it is true. You belong to him. Every inch of you belongs to Rafe Cameron.

As he slides into you once more, he feels you take him a little more easily, and your hand presses to his chest again. "Mine."

Rafe smiles, dropping his mouth to yours, and he kisses you. "Yours." He combs your hair back from your face as he slowly begins to roll his hips. You could not say anything. Your lips part as small sounds that are not quite moans leave you. Gradually, small waves of pleasure crest into more, and you drag your hand down his back, nails raking across the muscled expanse. His chest presses to yours. His hands are fisting the sheet or your hip as he moves.

Rafe drives you straight into an orgasm, your body quivering under his, and your legs squeeze his hips. "Rafe," you gasp out, head tipping back as his mouth attaches to the soft curve of your neck.

Your orgasm encourages him to follow until he stills against you. His body presses yours down on the mattress, and his mouth finds yours. You shudder against him, feeling him still inside you, the sensitivity setting in.

He sits up on his knees to take off the used condom. Those blue eyes flicker up to you. You watch him, body damp with sweat and tingling in your post orgasm haze. "Are you okay?"

"I'm okay," you whisper and reach to touch his abs. Your nails track the lines and curves. "Are you?"

He bobs his head in confirmation that he is fine before exhaling as he tosses the condom into the trash can. "I have something for you."

"Oh?"

"It's in my room."

He lowers back into you. His lips claim yours, and you kiss him back. It would never be enough now.

Stroking your fingers through his slightly sweaty hair, you smile at him. "Shower with me first?"

After showering and getting dressed, Rafe holds your hand as you walk back to Tanneyhill side by side. Pizza cravings and his gift for you winning out from finishing the movie.

"Hey!" Sarah smiles at you when you both enter the house. "Did you guys leave earlier?"

"Yes, Sarah," Rafe responds, not even giving her a second glance as he tugs you into the kitchen. You cling to his hand but look over your shoulder at Sarah and John B.

Sarah's gaze flickers to you, a sad look washing over her face. "Y/n. Hey."

"Sarah."

John B watches you as well. His expression reflected his disappointment that you did not intend to come and talk to them.

"John B." You add before following Rafe to the kitchen. He watches you, waiting for you to say something, but you do not. Instead, you lean into him, and his arms find a home around your waist. "How soon until the pizza?"

"Ten minutes."

You smile, glancing around the kitchen. His lips press to the crown of your head.

"You feel okay?"

"I do," you confirm before tipping your head back to look at him. "I feel... happy. Thank you for giving me what I wanted."

He smiles before glancing as the doorbell rings. "Pizza is here early."

"Good, I'm starved!"

He chuckles and goes with cash in his hand to pay and tip for the pizza. Moments are he goes, Sarah enters the kitchen.

"Can we talk?" She asks.

You shrug, fidgeting with the tabs of the soda cans Rafe has already pulled out for you both. You do not look at her. It still stings to look at them and know how much they have hurt you.

"I'm sorry about what happened today," she breathes, leaning on the counter. "It was really lame of us to corner you at work. And even more lame of us to let you leave like that without hearing you out."

"It was."

She frowns, huffing. "I'm sorry that we did not listen to you, and I'm sorry JJ said those things."

"JJ's actions are not yours to apologize for," you whisper, looking up at her. "Those are his and his alone to apologize for."

She hums in agreement.

"And I don't think he will. He meant what he said. And I believe you all meant what you did too."

Rafe comes back in, the pizza box in his hands. His expression shifts to one of annoyance when he sees Sarah near you. John B shows up just behind Rafe to see what is going on and to make sure his girlfriend is safe. You are not ignorant of how they view Rafe after everything they have said and done.

"Can we please keep talking?" Sarah asks, her hand reaching for yours. Her fingers clasp around your hand desperately. "Please. Just us."

You exhale, glancing at Rafe, and he watches you as he drops the pizza box on the counter. He shrugs, glancing at John B, who lingers in the door. This is your decision.

"No," you say, lifting your chin in defiance. "No. Tonight I am with Rafe. We can talk another time."

Sarah nods before backing up as she lets your hand go. "Okay. Are you staying tonight?"

"She is," Rafe answers before you can.

"Tomorrow then?"

You hesitate, and she does not miss it.

"Please. Just us two. I will get breakfast in the morning, and we can have a dock picnic like old times, okay?"

"Okay," you relent. Memories of last summer's multiple dock picnics flash through your mind. You reach for Rafe. He comes, body pressing against yours as he stares at his sister and John B. It is clear the conversation is over, so Sarah turns, grasping John B's hand, and tugs him out of the kitchen back to the living room.

"Pizza!" You grin and reach for the box.

"I want to take it outside by the pool," he says, running his finger through your hair. "I have a present for you, remember?"

You smile at him, and he takes the box while you grab the soda cans and follow him out onto the patio.

"Do you need to go upstairs and get it?" You ask as you sit on the edge of the pool and dip your feet into the chilled water.

He joins you. His leg brushes yours. "I already did."

You lean into him, tipping your head back for a kiss. He kisses you, and then you feel something cool and metal slip around your neck. His fingers expertly secure the clasp before he releases you from the kiss to look.

It is a dainty gold chain, a gold token dangling from it and stamped onto the face are several wildflowers. All delicate and perfectly etched into the metal.

"It's beautiful!" You beam, skimming the tip of your index finger over the face of the token. Tears threaten again, and you meet his gaze. "How did you know about the wildflowers?"

Rafe shrugs, looking away from you to the marsh that is blanketed by night. "I saw you every summer working in that garden."

You bite your lip and reach for his hand and squeeze it.

"I've never seen someone so happy." A wistful look colors his face, and he turns his face to look at you. "I've never seen someone so happy to be doing manual labor in the hot Carolina sun."

You laugh before pecking his cheek. "Thank you, Baby." A faint blush colors his cheeks, and you can barely see it.

"We should eat." He offers, and you let the moment pass, knowing his comfort level is being pushed.

(Part Six)

Rafe’s arm tightens around your waist, pulling your back against his chest. His face nuzzling into the back of your neck. “Not yet,” you groan, fingers lacing through the spaces of his against your stomach. “’ is too early.”

“Someone is at the door,” he mumbles against your skin. 

“No,” you groan loudly, tightening the comforter around you. “It’s too early.”

He cannot help but to smile before his lips brush across the top of your spine. “Stay here.”

“Mmhmm,” you hum in satisfaction. The weight of his arm and the warmth of his body disappears. You snuggle deeper into your bed and wait for him to return to you. His side of the bed is already growing cooler. 

His voice calling through the house breaks through your hazy sleep and desperate desire for his return. “It’s JJ!” 

Your eyes snap open, and dread fills you. What could he want this early, and how were you going to handle having the two in the same space? You slip out of bed and hurry to the front door while tugging Rafe’s t-shirt down. Rafe holds the front door partially closed behind him as he talks to the unexpected visitor. “She’s happy, and you can’t stand that she is without you, can you? She’s finally getting what she deserves.”

“Rafe?” You question, wiping sleep from your eyes and easing the door open. He huffs in annoyance that you had to get out of bed despite your earlier wishes. But he lets the door handle go, and you slip underneath his arm to see JJ. Anger burns in his eyes, and he glares at Rafe, his jaw clenched so hard you are sure his teeth would shatter. “JJ?”

His attention snaps to you, and he shakes his head. “Really?”

“What are you on about?” You ask, tugging Rafe’s arm from where it is blocking the door frame and you from fully stepping out of the house. Once you do, he braces it against your body, keeping you inside the house despite your attempt to prevent that. “It’s early, JJ. What do you want?”

“I came to apologize!” He states harshly. His face screws up with his next words. His words are sharp, and it wakes you faster than a cold shower. His anger for you is clear in his face and his tone. “But it doesn’t look like you need one. All cozied up with your kook boyfriend. Is he worth it? Is it worth throwing your friends away for just sex?”

You roll your eyes. “Hardly, and not that I owe you an explanation, but he stayed over to sleep since my parents are out. Kind of like my best friend used to.”

It is like a punch in the gut for JJ, and he looks away, his jaw flexing under the weight of your accusation. Your words are just as sharp as his. The tension thickens the air between you. You do not back down as he expects, and instead, you stand your ground because you have done nothing wrong. 

“Besides, he is my boyfriend, and he can sleep over if he wants to.”

“Sleep, right,” JJ snorts, shoving his hands into his pockets. “You look like you slept all right.”

His eyes travel over Rafe, who is standing shirtless in low-slung joggers, and you in only his shirt and your underwear. The picture paints itself, but the image is false, and you know it. But JJ is angry, and he will not believe you no matter what you say, especially after the past few arguments between yourself and the other pogues. 

“Not everything is about sex, Jay!” You snap at him. “Some people do not constantly think about getting their dick wet.”

He rolls his eyes before glaring at Rafe again. “Is that why you are dating her? An easy lay?”

It is a cold shock to your system, the implication behind his words. JJ does not realize what he has said, or he does not care that he has. But you do, and so does Rafe. He tenses beside you, his body stiffening, and his hand fists against the door frame. Your hand presses against his abs to stop him, and he looks at you. The warning is clear on his face that one more insult from JJ about you and Rafe will make him regret it. You shake your head once; this is not the time to start a fight. Not here, not in your yard with the neighbors to see. 

But JJ is true to himself and will not let it rest. “You’ve forgotten all the shit he has done then. All the bullshit he and his kook buddies have put us through over the years. Just like that because he fucks you?”

You roll your eyes this time. You would not take the bait even if Rafe does as he tenses again. “Whatever, JJ. This does not seem to be shaping up to be much of an apology.”

He laughs, rubbing his hand over his face. “It’s because you are choosing a miserable future with this kook, who we both know is a drug addict, instead of your friends. Is that what you want?! To be a kook princess whose boyfriend cares more about coke than her?!”

“JJ!” You glare at him now, but his words have dug too deep, and Rafe’s fist connects with JJ’s face sending him down the front steps and onto the lawn. You gasp, but Rafe is faster than you are ready for as he slips past you with ease and charges after JJ. “Rafe, no!” 

JJ launches at Rafe after scrambling to his feet. Rafe catches him by the back of his shirt as JJ attempts to tackle him. Rafe throws him backward again, but JJ does not stop and neither spare a glance at you as they fight. JJ’s fist connects with Rafe’s jaw, and Rafe lands a punch to JJ’s abdomen. A blur of fists and insults mixed with curse words that would make your elderly neighbor gasp in horror if she heard them. 

You hear Rafe insult his paternity and taunt him about a future in prison while grabbing the collar of his shirt. And JJ retaliates by insulting his need for Daddy’s approval and how you will one day realize that Rafe is just a coked out piece of shit. Rafe’s fist strikes JJ’s face, busting his lip. 

It is a stupid idea to get between two fighting men, but no one else is here to help, and you would rather not end up with someone dead on your lawn. And with the way they are tearing into each other, you know they are both out for blood. 

You tense, hands gripping the hem of Rafe’s shirt as you leave the house and step off the steps. Rafe’s arm rears back in preparation to deliver another harsh blow to JJ’s face, but you catch his forearm. Your grip is tight but not harsh as you attempt to pull him back. He turns, glaring down at you, but then his expression softens when he sees the worry on your face. 

“Fuck you, Rafe!” JJ shouts at him, and you nudge your way around Rafe, pressing your back to his chest, and you glare at someone you thought you knew so much better. But he does not wither under your heated gaze. Instead, he pants, balling his hands up into tight fists again. JJ would not hit you, you know that, but in his current state, you are not sure if he does. 

“Stop it!” You yell at JJ. “That is enough!” Your body is a shield between them to stop the fight, and you hope it is enough. No matter how angry Rafe is, you know that he would not purposefully hurt you. You hope the same goes for JJ. “Go home! Now!”

His hands curl into his chest, his eyes widening at your demands. “Me?!”

“Yes!” You glare at him. “Go!”

JJ shakes his head. “So much for being your best friend, huh?” He waves his hand at Rafe. “You start fucking this kook, and now we can’t be friends? I should have known that when you did get a boyfriend, you would throw us all away, especially if he is a kook. You’re a liar, y/n! A kook’s slut and a liar!”

You gasp, recoiling into Rafe, and he attempts to grab your hips to move you out of the way. But you stop him. Your hands tighten on his to keep his touch there but to keep him away from JJ at the same time. Anger and hurt explode wave after wave inside of you, and you worry you will be the one to hurt JJ now. After all, he had been the one to teach you how to defend yourself properly. He knew you could punch him square in the face if you wanted to, and you were beginning to want to after all the insults he had hurled at you. 

“JJ Maybank! How dare you?!”

He shakes his head, jaw clenching. 

“You are so worried about me screwing Rafe that you do not see how you are treating me!”

“How I’m treating you?!”

“Yes,” you breathe, trying to calm down. “You have called me so many names and insinuated disgusting things about me that no friend would ever dare to do. Much less a best friend for ten years. Go away, now. I don’t want to see you or talk to you again. Go, JJ. You are not welcome here.”

“Fine!” He snaps, taking a step back. “Fine. You’re a kook now, anyways. I should’ve known better,” he mutters with a shake of his head and storms off. 

Deflating a little, you turn to Rafe and look at his face for any serious injuries. He stares down at you, worry creasing his forehead because he can see how much JJ’s words have chipped away at you. His hand brushes through your hair, an unspoken calmness spreading between you.

The sound of JJ’s motorbike starting and then fading as he drives away tells you that the fight is truly over for now. Rafe’s grip tightens around you before you attempt to put space between you and get a better look at him.

“Are you okay?” You worry over him, the tip of your index finger brushing a drop of blood away from the corner of his mouth. 

“Are you?” He asks, his hand trailing down your back. 

“No,” you whisper, the hard façade crumbling in the wake of your adrenaline dissipating. Tears collect in your eyes, and a frown tugs your lips down in disappointment. You try to ignore the burn of tears, but Rafe collects you in his arms, cradling you against his solid frame. 

“I’m sorry he spoke to you like that.”

“Thank you,” you mumble before pecking his cheek. “Can we go inside? The neighbors are probably staring.… I’m already not decent enough without becoming a crying mess right now.”

Rafe attempts a smile, but it fails as he lets you go and grasps your hand guiding you back inside the house. “Come on.”

“We should get you cleaned up before we do anything else,” you whisper, gripping his hand tightly after securing the front door. You lead him back to your bedroom before you sit him on the foot of your bed. He watches you struggle with your emotions as you head for your bathroom. Ignoring his worried gaze, you dig around until you have rubbing alcohol, antiseptic wipes, and bandages. He looks up from his bloodied knuckles when you emerge. “I would say shirt off… but.”

“You’re wearing it,” he states. The outer corners of his eyes soften, and his fingers brush over the cotton material. “I prefer it this way.”

You blush a little and hook your finger under his chin, tipping his head back. He looks up at you with a grin when you nestle yourself between his legs. 

“Ready?”

He stays where he is like a good patient, and you get to work. He sits as still as he can for you as you wipe the few smears and drops of blood from his face and chest. The cuts sting, and his hands shaking hands tighten on your hips when you brush the pad soaked with alcohol across his lower lip. You are sure his knuckles and jaw would be bruised come nightfall.

“Why do you have this stuff?” He asks when you begin to work on his knuckles. The middle finger’s knuckle is split open. 

“Umm…” You toss around the answer before glancing at him. He waits for your explanation, and your cheeks warm before you focus back on your task. “In the past, when Luke Maybank was hard on JJ, he’d come here afterward, and I patched him up.”

Rafe frowns, not liking the idea of you doing this exact task for the pogue that had just torn you apart with his words.

“But I guess he has Kie now, and you have me,” you attempt to soothe the burn of JJ’s anger toward you. “What about you? Are you okay?” You ask, your tone as gentle as you can make it with all the worry flooding through you. 

He nods, his tongue probing the inside of his cheek. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper and clean up the mess you have made with antiseptic wipes and the bandages for his knuckles. 

“I’ll be fine.”

“I know,” you toss the trash and move back to him. Your body slots between his legs, and you trace your index finger on his lips. “I hate this.”

He hooks his arms around your hips to shuffle you closer. Your noses are nearly touching from how close together you are. “I know.”

“Rafe,” you whisper, skimming your fingers through his unusually messy hair. His mouth hovers near yours, and you smile a little before leaning in and pressing your lips to his. He kisses you back, his large hands trailing down your sides to tuck under your shirt. His palms warm against your skin. And you run your finger through his hair, deepening the kiss. “I’m really sorry he said those things about you and that you had to do something like this to defend yourself.”

“I punched him for you, Baby, not me. No one should ever talk to you like that.”

You frown, brushing your fingertips across his jaw. “The pogues will talk him down, hopefully. I will be fine eventually. Your knuckles are going to be sore, and your jaw too, probably.”

“Worth it,” he mutters with a shrug. “He does not know anything about our relationship. None of them do.”

“You’re right,” you admit before pecking his lips. “No one does but us.”

He smiles before catching your chin between his index finger and thumb. He tugs your lips down to him for more. You giggle, hooking your arms around his shoulders, and kiss him just like he wants. 

“I want to try something….” You mumble against his lips. He waits for you to tell him. His hands stroke up and down the back of your thighs. “I want to try third base…”

Rafe laughs lightly, and you blush, biting your lip. 

“Is that not, right?”

“No, it is,” he reassures you. “But I want to hear it.”

“Oh.”

“Tell me exactly what you want,” he murmurs, shifting in his seat. You watch him, pulling your bottom lip between your teeth. “I want to hear it come from your mouth, pretty girl.”

You exhale, tightening your hands around his shoulders. “I want you to make me feel good.”

“How?” He asks, his hand cupping the back of your neck. His thumb strokes back and forth over your flushed skin. His touch and words encourage you to ask for what you want, what you need. 

“I want you to…” Nerves threaten to swallow you whole, and you clear your throat. “I want you to touch me down there… with your mouth.”

Rafe’s eyebrows rise in surprise, and you flush hotter. 

You clear your throat, biting your lip before nails scratch at his shoulders. “I want to belong to you intimately. I want you to understand how I feel right now.”

He leans into you, his breath mixing with yours, and the desperation in you turns him on more than you will ever understand. “You want me to fuck you?”

“Not yet,” you giggle, fingers pressing to his lips. “Eventually… yes, but right now, just these,” you murmur, tracing his lips with the pad of your thumb. “And maybe your tongue if you want.”

“Oh, believe me, Baby, I want to. ”Rafe’s lips part, and your thumb slips into his mouth. Your breath hitches, and your body tingles at the feeling of his tongue working over your thumb. He smirks before his teeth graze over the pad of your thumb. “Are you sure?”

Your breathing increases before you nod eagerly. “I’m sure.”

His hands hook around your thighs, and he lifts you. You laugh when he turns and drops you into your bed. His body moves over yours, and his fingers snake under his t-shirt that you now know you will keep forever to tug on your underwear. His breath fans over your hip. “This okay?”

“Yes.” You give him your assurance, combing your fingers through his hair before cupping his face. A smile spreads over his lips, and he tugs your underwear down and discards them. You bite your lip and grasp the hem of his t-shirt before tugging it up and over your head. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, layering kisses across your lower stomach and hip. “So fucking beautiful.”

“Rafe,” you plead, spreading your legs for him. He dips his head to press his lips to your inner thigh. His blue eyes find yours, and your heart skips a beat. “Please.”

“You’re mine, Baby, all mine,” he mumbles before pressing a kiss to your lower lips. You gasp, your fingers slotting through his against your thigh. Your free hand nestles into his hair, urging him for more because you want that. You want so much more from him. You want to belong to him in ways you had only ever had the opportunity to think about. 

Your eyes flutter shut, and you moan loudly, surprising you both when he drags his tongue over you and flicks it against your clit. He smirks, proud of how eager you are to be taken care of before he repeats his actions. You shiver, pressing down onto his face. 

“That’s it, Baby,” he encourages as he snakes his free hand down between himself and the mattress. He begins to palm himself as he tastes you. Your moans and cries of pleasure tell him just how much you are enjoying his attention.  

Rafe finishes before you do, and he holds you down, continuing until you are pushing him away from oversensitivity. He nips at your hip bone, leaving a small red mark that will bruise to claim you before he moves up your body. His lean frame presses you deeper into your mattress, and he layers his claim of kisses against your neck and up to your mouth. 

You shiver, brushing the tip of your nose against his. You are still panting, your body thrumming with the aftershocks, and it feels so good. “If I had known that it could feel like this, I don’t think I would’ve waited this long,” you whisper with a laugh against his lips. 

He laughs before pecking your lips once more. “This is only the beginning, Baby.”

You bite your lip, glancing down at his soiled pants. “Did you…?”

“Yes,” he answers, tangling his hands in your hair, and he kisses you like you are his life source. “You are fucking perfect, pretty girl.”

You kiss him back, pulling him closer to you, feeling every inch of him on your skin. Your nails rake down his back, and he nestles against you, already hardening at the feel of your naked body caged under his. 

“We should get cleaned up and dressed soon….” Rafe mumbles against your temple. “I want to take you to brunch before you go to work.”

And it is the truth, he does, but he also knows if you stay naked and pressed to him that he will only grow harder in desperation for you. 

You blush, running your hand down the length of his muscled arm. His words declaration that you were all his echoes in your mind as a teasing smirk plays at your lips. “All yours, huh?”

Rafe has dropped you off at the Island Club for work after brunch with a promise to see you later. Another party is tonight, and he wants you there, so you have agreed to be his date again. This time no pogues are allowed, not even Sarah. 

“How many more days until summer is over?” Cass groans as she refills a water pitcher. The Island Club restaurant is hectic for a Saturday afternoon — many of the wealthy locals choose to golf and socialize while the tourists take over their beaches.

“38,” you answer, collecting orders to take out to waiting patrons. “I’m keeping count.”

She laughs, nudging your hip with hers before collecting her plate. “Mrs. Johnson seems extra moody today, Ralph. Please tell me this is cooked how she likes!”

Ralph laughs from behind the grill. “It is Cass, I promise.”

She winks at him before sashaying out, and you giggle, shaking your head at them. 

“What?” Ralph asks, leaning down to look at you through the gaps in the shelving. A knowing smirk is already on his face. “Not all of us can date the kook prince himself.”

You roll your eyes, lifting the serving tray up. “Don’t try to pin this one on me. You two have been doing this dance for months. I’m just ready for you to ask her out on a date. You and I both know she’ll say yes.”

He laughs, flipping over a burger before turning the radio up. 

“As I said,” you retort and turn on the ball of your foot to take out the orders. You smile at your table as you drop off the four plates before letting them know you will return in a few minutes to check on them. 

“Hey!” Lexi, the hostess, smiles at you as she passes by with Kiara and Sarah behind her. After the initial wave of surprises passes, you attempt a smile for them, but it is only half-hearted. “Right here, ladies.” She directs them to an empty table in your section. They sit, and she places the menus down before coming toward you. Without realizing it, your face is not encouraging because she immediately frowns. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” You try to lie but fail. “I thought it was Elliot’s turn to be sat.”

“They requested you.”

You frown. “Great.”

“I thought you guys were friends…”

“We are,” you lie again, but better this time when you paste a bright smile on. “Thanks, I’ll take care of them.”

She bobs her head before going, only looking back once. You huff out a breath and dig out your notepad as you approach their table. 

“Good afternoon, ladies,” you put on your best customer service smile. “What can I get started for you to drink?”

“Lemonade, please,” Sarah smiles at you, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. The awkward tension flows between all three of you. 

“I would like the same,” Kiara responds, glancing at the menu. You smile and turn to go to get their drinks. At least they would be kind and easy to please. You spot JJ as he rushes past the bar to go outside and work the deck area. He does not see you, and you feel relief, not ready to address this morning with him at all. His face is bruised, and he sports a busted lower lip as does Rafe. If you had to be honest, you would admit that JJ looks worse, but you also know that it is because of how he had spoken to you in front of Rafe. 

“What happened to him?” Cass asks once she notices you are looking at him. Her gaze fixated on the blond pogue. “He looks like he had the shit beat out of him again.”

You clear your throat, punching in the lemonade order, and go to prep it. She follows eyebrows raised in concern at your lack of response. You typically knew everything about JJ, and this is no different, even if it could be counted as your fault that he looks like he does. At least you are sure that is how the other pogues would see it. But you try to remind yourself it is not your fault. JJ had spoken horribly to you, and he had dug his own grave by doing so. 

“Was it Rafe?”

You nod, glancing at her before filling their cups with ice and then lemonade. Hot shame washes over you from her next words. 

“What the fuck happened?”

“JJ said some things. Very unkind things, and Rafe stood up for himself and for me.”

Cass whistles low. “This is really fucked up if you aren’t talking to your two best friends out there, and JJ looks like he does. What did he say?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

She nods, crossing her arms over her waist. “I’ve got your back; you know that, right?”

You sag forward, hands bracing against the countertop. “Thanks, Cass.”

She frowns, her hand skimming up and down your back. “I’m sorry. If you ever need to talk, I’m here.”

You nod, squeezing your eyes shut before exhaling. “I appreciate that, but I’m just ready to get them fed and gone.”

She nods. “If you need me to take them, let me know.”

“Thanks.” You smile at her and peck her cheek before hurrying out with the two glasses. After checking on your other tables, you place them down in front of each girl. “Are we ready to order?”

“Yes,” Sarah responds, closing her menu. “House salad with house dressing. I would like grilled chicken added.”

“Same,” Kiara agrees with a tight smile. 

You jot it down before smiling at them. “I will get these put in and have them out shortly.” 

You turn to leave, pausing in your steps, when you spot JJ moving through the tables. He stares at you, and you see Kiara shift out of your peripheral. His hands brush over his black polo shirt, and his tongue toys with his injured lip. It looks painful and probably should be iced, but you have to tell yourself that it is not your responsibility anymore before you let yourself suggest it. You turn away, extending your time back to the kitchen, but you do not want to talk to him right now, if ever. His words of full of venom are echoing in your head. 

“Y/n, wait.” Sarah starts to get up. Her hand reaches for you. You step back with a shake of your head, trying to ignore the threatening sting of tears. “Please!”

“No, Sarah. I’ve told you I want to talk alone or not at all.” You answer sharply, hating how you have to be with her because of JJ’s presence. “How many times do we have to do this before our friendship is ruined?”

“Hey!” Kelce’s arm drops over your shoulders as he announces his presence. “What do we have here?”

A sense of relief tugs at you from their appearance. These are Rafe’s friends, and they would protect you if Rafe had anything to say about it. Topper smirks from your other side. His gaze fixated on JJ, daring him to try something. 

“Stay out of this Topper,” Sarah snaps at him. The unspoken rocky history from their failed relationship flaring up. “This has nothing to do with you.”

Topper laughs, glancing at Kelce and then at you before turning back to Sarah. “But it does… you see, your brother, her boyfriend, asked us to keep an eye out for her because he knew you pogues would try to pull some shit like this.”

You swallow, leaning into Kelce’s side for a little support. Rafe knew them better than you thought. He pats your upper arm before looking at Sarah. 

“Y/n?” Kiara begs from the other side of the table. Her body shifts to be between the three of you and JJ. “Please talk to us.”

“I’ve tried,” you state, an unexpected boldness spreading its wings inside of you. You were in your place of work, and you had Rafe’s friends protecting your back. They could not bully you here. You would not let them. “I’ve tried, and you guys won’t listen to me. You all only want to be heard and not actually participate in discussing this.”

“Because it’s Rafe!” JJ glares at you.

Your jaw clenches, hands fisting at your side. “He isn’t the one that called me a slut this morning, JJ! Don’t try to be innocent now. You were an asshole to him and me!”

Sarah’s lips open in surprise, and Kiara’s head whips to the side to look at her boyfriend. He has not told them the full story. He likely left out his part in starting the fight in the first place. 

JJ nods, looking away; the tip of his tongue probes at his injured bottom lip.

“You called me a slut, a liar, and said I was a kook,” you state, the harsh bitterness in your words pushing into his chest. His hand lifts to rub the spot right above his heart. Kiara and Sarah stare at him in shock. “You said you should have known better, so now you do.” You turn your attention to the other two with a sad smile on your face. Kiara shifts uncomfortably, her fingers fidgeting with her bracelets, and your eyes shift to the teal and white one you had braided for her last year. You lift your gaze to her, your eyes watering and your voice shaking as you speak. “I wish I was surprised that you are taking his side without talking to me, but I’m not. Not with you because you got JJ at the end of the day, and that is all you seem to care about now.” Kiara opens her mouth to protest, but you lift your hand, stopping her in her tracks. You turn your attention to Sarah, tears welling over in your eyes. “But Sarah, you have surprised me. I thought we were closer than this. Before all of this started, you would have asked me and heard me out.” She attempts to take a step closer to you, but you shake your head. “It’s too late to undo this damage. I think it is best if we all go our separate ways. I no longer want to be friends with you guys. I don’t know you anymore,” you whisper, reaching up to wipe the tear that rolls down your cheek before you untie the same matching bracelet you had with Kiara, along with the ones you shared with Sarah and the ones you shared with all the pogues. “Cass will be your server for the rest of your time here today. Please let her know if you need anything, Ms. Cameron or Ms. Carrera.”

You drop them on the edge of the table and take a step back before turning. Kelce goes with you, glancing at Topper. Without a word, Topper understands and blocks them from coming after you. Kelce leads you back to the kitchen, where Cass is waiting. She has a sad look on her face because she has watched the whole thing. 

“We’re around for a few more hours if you need us,” Kelce murmurs, patting your back. “We have a card game with Judge Holden in a few minutes and golf after. Rafe will be here for golf.”

“Thanks, Kelc,” you mumble, wiping the tears and exhaling a breath. “I appreciate it.”

“Anytime.” He pecks your cheek before leaving you in Cass’s capable hands. She hugs you, and you cling to her, trying not to fall apart now that you have officially lost your friends. 

“Take a break. Go sit in Raz’s office, and I’ll bring you some water in a minute, okay?” She cups your face with both hands. Her thumbs wipe the tears. “I’ll finish up your tables along with those two.”

“Thank you.”

She smiles weakly. “Want me to get Ralph to kick JJ’s ass?”

“No.” You laugh despite the tears and hug her again. She sways with you for a moment before releasing you towards Raz’s office. 

(Chapter Five)

He’s a playground bully with blue eyes and overgrown hair, his makeshift throne at the very top of the jungle gym.

Back then, he doesn’t have as many inches on you as he does now, but Rafe Cameron is still bigger and older than you, the new girl.

When you tug on a bit of jungle gym rope and cause him to teeter, you don’t mean anything by it. You’re just trying to get his attention so you can climb up the throngs too, enjoy the ten-foot-high view alongside him.

He scowls down at you, all narrowed eyes and dangling limbs.

“Who’re you?” He accuses, not asks.

“Hi,” you greet brightly, pulling on the rope again. “I’m Y/n. Can I come up too?”

His features remain the same, hard and defensive, a nine-year-old that hasn’t learnt how to share. “You’re new,” he states plainly.

“Yeah!” You agree, nodding enthusiastically. “What’s your name?”

Rafe doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he braces his knees and jumps down, landing just short of your brand new sneakers. A cloud of dirt settles on the white tips.

“You can’t go up there,” he instructs. “Ever. It’s my spot.”

You frown. “Says who?”

“Says me,” Rafe answers firmly, folding his arms across his chest.

“And who are you?” You ask, folding yours in tandem.

“Rafe,” he says. His scowl hasn’t left his face yet, only deepening when your lips pull down and tighten. It’s a frowning contest of will, and Rafe’s never one to back down from a fight.

Neither are you, as he’ll soon come to realise. The only boy his age that’ll confidently jump the ten feet without a scratch, he’s fairly used to wearing his so-called spot like a bravery badge. There’s no way he’s going to give it up just like that, especially not to a girl who’s shorter than him, smaller with pigtails and frill-hem socks.

Even if she has pretty eyes.

“Well, Rafe,” you throw back, straightening to your full height, scowling some more. Intimidation tactics that are useless on she-has-pretty-eyes boy. “You’re not the boss of me.”

“Yes, I am,” Rafe insists, crossing his arms tighter. “I live here. You don’t.”

“Yes, I do,” you argue, pointing to a walk-way in the distance. “Through there. I do.”

Rafe turns to where you’re pointing, his bully scowl deepening. “You’re lying.”

“No I’m not.”

“Are so.”

“Am not.”

“You have to be. I live through there, and I’ve never seen you around before,” Rafe decides with finality, his shoulders square as he pushes past you. He has that, older-than-you air about him that makes you fume; there’s no way you’re letting him dictate how you live your life, especially not with a mean-spirited attitude.

You huff and lift your nose to the air, catching a hold of the jungle gym ropes. “Maybe,” you mutter, already climbing up them, “you should pay more attention then.”

It takes you the same amount of time to clamber your way to the top as it does Rafe to turn around, now an eye-squint away with features that you think look chastened. You can see far above him, over fluffy treetops and slatted roofs, toward the blue shimmer of a sea blessed by sun.

“Hey!” He yells angrily, running back over. “I told you not to —”

He reaches the bottom of the jungle gym alarmingly quickly, small hands with more force than you’re used to pulling at the ropes below you.

You teeter dangerously, lurching forward and losing your balance at the last minute. There’s a nosedive before a muffled thud; the boy who has caused you to fall has broken it too, his back splintered with bark and dirt, his eyebrows scrunched up.

“Hey!” You scrabble off of him with aching knees and grazes on your palms, bottom lip beginning to tremble. “You hurt me!”

“You fell on me,” Rafe groans, propping himself up on scrape-red elbows. “I told you not to go up there. That’s what you get for not doing what I tell you.”

“I — I… I hate you!” You sputter out as vindictively as you can, eyesight a blur, limbs shaking as you stand.

“Yeah? Well I hate you more!” Rafe throws back, standing up too. There’s a fleeting moment where your seven-year-old brain looks over his longer legs, the bark-stained rips in his jeans. They look like they hurt — why isn’t he crying?

You sniff loudly and turn on your heel, breaking into a run toward the walk-way you pointed out earlier. Past the salt boxes along your Cul-de-sac, with lungs bleeding and wind whipping by your ears. Past the ice-cream truck, past the other children that live here, past the large, Tannyhill Estate that sits beside your house.

And when you hightail it to the kitchen, freshly bruised with tears in your eyes, your mother asks you what’s wrong, and you say, “Rafe did it.”

The same Rafe you re-meet at a barbeque the next day, the hybrid of an introduction and a housewarming hosted by your parents.

His eyes are the same, cold blue that they were the day before, but he’s sporting a new haircut, a two girl posse of younger siblings.

“See?” You say by way of greeting, jutting out your bottom lip obstinately. After the initial pleasantries, your parents have taken theirs inside, along with his youngest sister, Wheezie. “I told you I wasn’t lying.”

“You still shouldn’t have done it,” Rafe argues back, scowling meanly. “That’s my spot.”

You huff dismissively, throwing your palm in his face. “Talk to the hand.”

And when you push past him, shoulders square as can be, you hear six-year-old Sarah giggling, the noise loud and obnoxiously giddy.

She peels herself away from her brother to fall into your step, instead, limbs the same length as yours, soft hair in the same pigtails. Your equal.

“Can we be friends?” She asks significantly, wide eyes looking over your features.

You grin wide, unabashedly pleased. It’s the first time Rafe’s ever seen you smile, and his stomach lurches like there’s something in there fighting to break free. He scowls some more.

“Of course we can!” You exclaim excitedly, extending your pinky finger. “Best friends forever?”

“Forever,” Sarah promises, twining it with hers and squeezing.

Rafe’s rooted to the spot, watching you from a distance away, a one-sided staring competition. You find a patch of grass to sit down on cross-legged, and it’s only when you begin plucking daisies that he acquiesces.

Over the course of the summer, you and Sarah make close to a thousand daisy chains, stems twined together with precariously held petals. Rafe finds them everywhere — playground ledges, dining room tables, the sand on beach days, the deck on days in. And when he does, he remembers you, and crushes them in his hands, monkey-bar calluses his only accomplice. He hates them the way he hates you; he sees them, and they have a Pavlovian effect.

One night, when you’re camped out in Sarah’s backyard, he storms over to your blanket fort and throws one down. The air is thick and treacly, heavied by the smell of marshmallows and coconut sunscreen. Purple dusk on a grey roof, a sea of fairy lights below him.

He makes furious eye contact with you, and crushes the daisy chain with his bare-foot. When you frown, an odd sense of satisfaction bubbles up into his chest, his lower lip curling triumphantly.

With the sliding door open wide the way that it is, your loud giggle can travel into the living room freely, a Rafe-specific, video game distraction. He’s lost three games of Call of Duty to it; his best friend, Kelce, is unperturbed and victorious, and Rafe can’t quite understand how that is.

Isn’t the sound of your laugh as evasive to Kelce as it is to him?

“Stop littering in my house,” Rafe demands, narrowing his eyes at you.

You duck out of the fort and stand up tall, crossing your arms across your chest defensively. “It’s Sarah’s house too. She wants them there.”

Sarah peeks around your ankles, poking her tongue out at her older brother. “It’s not littering. They’re pretty.”

“She’s a bad influence on you, Sarah,” Rafe chastises.

“No she isn’t.” Sarah scowls argumentatively, the spitting image of her older brother. “You just don’t like that she stands up to you.”

Rafe scoffs incredulously, feeling the tips of his ears burn. “Whatever.”

For years, he associates nine with jungle gym scuffles and daisy chains in odd places. And then there’s ten, with the infamous handball fight and sand-castle brawl, eleven and the mystery of the missing Harry Potter book.

Twelve is pretending he isn’t too old to play stuck-in-the-mud, brutal, one-on-one tag games that last all summer long.

It’s the year that Ward bestows him with real, older brother responsibility, forcing him to accompany you and Sarah wherever you go.

“Oi!” He trails behind reluctantly, hands jammed into his front pockets. “Don’t go out too far, I’m serious.”

You turn your head, poking your tongue out at him. When your hair lags behind, pretty, wind-mussed locks that shine in the sun, Rafe notices. He thinks this is something that everyone notices, the subtleties in your appearance, the way your nose scrunches up when you’re making a face at him. He doesn’t think he’s looked over at Sarah all day.

“And what if we do, Rafe?” You hedge, challenging him.

Rafe’s heart lurches violently. It doesn’t matter that you say it in that derisive, high-pitched voice, every time you call him by his name he feels a little funny.

“I’ll tell dad,” he says firmly, narrowing his eyes at you. “He put me in charge.”

“Of Sarah,” you argue, folding your small arms over your chest. “Not of me. You can’t tell me what to do.”

“Of both of you,” he corrects. “It’s not like you have an older brother looking out for you.”

Sarah makes a face. “You never look out for me.”

“You think I want to be out here, Sarah?” He throws his arms up in the air exasperatedly, making his way toward the two of you. “I should be at Kelce’s, playing COD on the new PlayStation he got for his birthday.”

You match each step of his with one of your own, backing away with an arm linked in Sarah’s. Rafe’s eyes fall in tandem with your movements, his eyebrows raised, a warning.

“If you want us to stay close,” you say, voice full of mirth. “You’re going to have to keep up!”

And with that, you break into a run, Sarah’s slower legs causing your elbows to untangle, a one girl game of catch-me-if-you-can.

Of course, Rafe’s bigger, taller. He catches up with you a mere, few feet away from his sister, taking a hold of your wrist and tugging you backward.

His pinky finger touches his thumb when he clasps it, and it occurs to Rafe how much smaller you are than him. How important it is for him to look out for you.

Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, he reasons, like this makes any sort of logical sense.

Like hating you is first nature and protecting you is second.

“Get off me,” you grumble, wriggling out of his grasp.

“Stay put,” Rafe instructs, sending you a stern glare.

“No.” You braces your knees, slapping his forearm before breaking into a run again. “Tag! You’re it.”

He tags Sarah, who tags Rafe, who tags you, him again. Everyone else gets tired of playing, but you and him continue into the night. And then, over several days, back and forth until you’re locking yourselves into bedrooms, doubting shadows on the pavement, walking around the house with backs pressed to the wall, praying for sweet solace.

Pretty soon, the rest of the neighbourhood bans the pair of you from participating in games. Everything from hide-and-seek to bull rush is off limits; your competitive streaks are unbearable, even more so when they clash with each other.

You’re a sore loser. Rafe’s even sorer.

He’s just grateful that you’re only ever here for the summer; he doesn’t think he could stand you in the Outer Banks all year round. Having to go to school with you, deal with four seasons of bickering… he shudders to think what he would have done with himself; two months is more than enough time in your presence.

For the past three years, you’ve left the Outer Banks on the exact same day, in the exact same way.

Skipping to his front porch with your big backpack swinging, where his younger sister Sarah awaits farewell with outstretched arms. A big, squeezing hug, promises to call, and then, you always whisper something imperceptible in her ear. Every year, without fail, and Rafe absolutely hates it — a little because he can’t hear what it is, a lot because he doesn’t know why he cares so much.

From the ages of seven to nine, you don’t bother to say goodbye to anyone else. But at ten, having mastered the art of antagonising Rafe Cameron, you decide to leave him with something worse than plain silence.

“Bye, Sar,” you whisper into her hair, pouting as you pull away. “I’m gonna miss you.”

Her lips pull down in tandem, arms still held out around phantom you. “I’m gonna miss you more. Don’t forget me!”

“Never, ever,” you promise earnestly.

You turn around and walk down the porch steps, the wood sun-faded, your shadow skating down each wrung.

“Rafe!” You call out once you reach the bottom, looking up at his cracked open window.

He almost jumps, the curtain shivering as he clutches it in surprise.

“What?” He asks, sounding irritated, busy, as if he hasn’t been lurking right behind it to eavesdrop.

The sun is directly above the estate when he ducks his head out, creating a flyaway halo of yellow hair. It’s always longer at the end of summer than it is at the beginning; he’s going to get it cut when you’re gone, grow another inch or four when you’re gone. Your stomach feels funny.

“Do me a favour,” you say, frowning sternly, “and don’t be mean to your sister while I’m away.”

Rafe snorts derisively. “Do me a favour,” he mocks, “and don’t come back next year.”

“Aww,” you return, smiling saccharine sweet. “I know you’re going to miss me.”

“When hell freezes over, train wreck,” he throws back wryly.

Your expression falters, the nickname rolling over your skin like a sunburn. “Don’t,” you grit out, “call me that.”

“What?” Rafe lips pull up into a satisfied smirk. “A big, ugly, train wreck?”

“I hate you, Rafe Cameron,” you call back spitefully, sending him a furious glare.

“Didn’t ask,” he returns coolly, already retreating from his window-site spot. “Don’t care.”

——

Eleven.

It’s the staying up past bedtime and writing in your diary age, chipped nail polish and stringy bracelets, neon colours on slogan tees. It’s the flip-flop tan age, the Chinese whispers age, watching High School Musical for the first time, the strange, butterflies-in-your-stomach age.

For you, it’s the age that Rafe goes from boy to boy.

At thirteen, the cusp of teen and almost-grown-up, he’s four inches taller with brand new jeans and larger shoes. His hands are rougher than yours are, limbs somewhere between lanky and long. You begin to doubt that you’ve grown the inch pencilled into your bedroom wall, a once-proud apogee that now feels small.

Oh, and he’s gorgeous. It makes you kind of furious.

On the first day of summer, you race over to Tannyhill the minute you’re home, a force of nature on its way to her best friend, Sarah. But when your knuckles rap the large door, head just short of the knocker, it’s Rafe looking down his nose at you, not her.

It takes him by surprise too, the height difference. Thirteen’s been stressful enough as is — growing pains and wardrobe changes, confusing, terrifying feelings for girls in his class — without him also feeling like a giant all of a sudden.

It occurs to him he’s known you almost four years, now. A third of his life. His palms grow sweaty.

And then, you open your mouth to greet him, and he realises his hands have no business being this clammy.

“What are you, big-foot?” You ask crudely, raising your eyebrows up at him.

Rafe doesn’t say anything at first, his features changing in subtle ways — colder eyes, tightened lips. A powerful emotion rises up in chest; it’s thick as molasses, fiery, that whisper of wistfulness long gone within him.

He turns around without another word, sliding his phone out of his front pocket.

“Sarah!” He calls out, a wry, almost bored edge to his tone. “Your loser friend is here.”

For some reason, his dismissal feels worse than an insult would. You stand just short of the door ledge, a little slack jawed, a lot chagrined, watching the back of him disappear up the stairs. There’s far more brown on his head than there usually is, and you realise he hasn’t had his start-of-summer haircut this year.

An odd, nostalgic ache springs forth at the revelation.

And then, as quick as it arrived, it’s gone; Sarah appears at the end of the hallway, and your elated smile is all you want to focus on.

“You’re here!” Sarah squeals excitedly, running up to you and hugging you hard, a long awaited reunion with wind-chimes cheering in the background.

Her hair’s a salt-matted mess, skin sticky and a little scratchy, a canvas of sand on coconut sunscreen glue. When she draws back, her cheeks are flushed. “I missed you, I missed you, I missed you!”

“I missed you,” you insist, and then you frown a little, faux-reproachful. “Kind of mad at you, though.”

“What?” Sarah’s eyes widen worriedly. “Why?”

“Because,” you say, making a face, “you didn’t open the door for me. Had to see him before I did you.”

Sarah grimaces, a sheepish, half-scowl that exposes her bottom row of teeth. “I was on my way, I swear,” she insists, squeezing your arm apologetically. “But he’s been sulking around all day. Waiting.”

“For me?” You ask, raising your eyebrows skeptically. “Yeah, right.”

“I don’t get it either,” Sarah agrees, sighing defeatedly. “He’s been so moody this year… way moodier than usual. Dad says it’s cause he’s a teenager…” she pauses, makes a face, “…whatever that means.”

You frown apologetically, linking your arm in hers. “Doesn’t matter,” you decide. “He isn’t going to ruin our perfect summer.”

And you’re right, he doesn’t — he has his own summer to ruin.

Eleven is the first and only year where the age gap between the two of you feels so apparent.

Thirteen, for him, is a set of diametrically opposed firsts — first fight and first kiss, first girlfriend and first break-up over text.

You’re having an underwater, hand-stand competition with Sarah when you meet Blake Somerset. She’s a pretty girl with wide, amber eyes and her hand in Rafe’s, his bicep to her shoulder in a trendy, Brandy Melville outfit. Everything you want to be at thirteen, everything that you aren’t at the moment, an eleven year old in a plain one piece and stupid-looking swim goggles.

She makes you self-conscious. You blame Rafe Cameron.

“Get out,” he demands wryly, sliding his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose to glare at you.

An angry, blanching, goggle-shaped imprint circles your eyes. “Why?”

Rafe scowls irritatedly. “You’ve had your turn. It’s ours now.”

At ‘ours’, he holds up Blake Somerset’s hand, forcing you to look up at the way their fingers intertwine. An ugly emotion grows within the chambers of your heart, making you frown.

“No,” you attest, standing your ground. “We just got here.”

“Besides,” Sarah adds knowingly, narrowing her eyes at her brother. “You and Blake never hang out here, anyway.”

Rafe balks. His eyes flit to yours for a split-second, heat spreading over his cheeks like an impromptu game of connect-the-freckles. With a line of fire. He clears his throat. “All the more reason to give us space to hang out here.”

Blake speaks up then, turning to you with a voice smooth as honey. “Hi,” she greets, smiling brightly, something contagious about it. This is a thirteen year old girl who has already discovered the wonders of pretty privilege. “I’m Blake!”

“Oh.” Your eyes widen, almost affronted by her kindness. “Hi. I’m Y/n.”

Rafe’s brow pulls down, a narrow-eyed warning. “Don’t bother, Blake,” he sneers, looking directly at you as he says it. “She’s only ever here over the summer, anyway. Not worth getting to know.”

“That’s mean, Rafey,” Blake says reproachfully, frowning at him.

“Yeah, Rafey,” you mock, raising your eyebrows at him. “That’s mean.”

Rafe scowls some more, dropping Blake’s hand to take a step closer to the pool. “Was I talking to you, train wreck?”

“You were talking about me, big-foot,” you bite back spitefully, scrubbing the goggle mark on your upper cheek.

“You know that you have a house too, right?” He asks testily. “You don’t have to be in mine every hour of every day?”

“It’s Mr Cameron’s house,” you argue, jutting out your bottom lip obstinately. “Not yours.“

Rafe shrugs a same difference shrug. “It’ll be mine soon.”

“Or Sarah’s,” you argue.

“I’m older,” Rafe returns angrily, an edge to his voice as his jaw clenches.

Your hand drops. His jaw loosens a touch.

“And somehow,” you shrug, “still dumber.”

Rafe scoffs indignantly, shaking his head in defeat. “Come on, Blake,” he says, turning around and throwing his arm over her shoulder. “It’s not worth arguing with her. She never learnt how to share.”

“Hey!” You call sharply, quick to rise to his bait. “That’s — no way. You’re — you’re the one who doesn’t know how to share, from the stupid jungle gym to —”

“We can go to the beach, instead,” he adds loudly, talking over you as he walks away. “More privacy there. No unwelcome guests acting like they own the place.”

“I — I hate you, Rafe Cameron!” You fume, cheeks splotchy with heat, sun on chlorine.

You don’t think he hears it, because he doesn’t say it back.

This hasn’t been possible since he was nine years old. No matter how hard he tries, your voice tends to find him, wherever he goes. It’s like his brain is primed to pay extra attention to it without meaning to — you’re everywhere all at once, and maybe that’s why he resents your presence at Tannyhill so much.

Later, when he’s lying awake and staring at ceiling shadows, he reasons that he didn’t say it back because he knows that you wouldn’t have heard it. The words would’ve fallen on deaf ears — a lone tree in the forest that hits the ground without making a sound.

That’s what you are to him, now, a series of stupid excuses and contradictory emotions.

Summer overflows, drowning the months of June and July before it begins to ebb, leaving you a fresh repertoire of insults by the time August comes around.

The week before you’re set to leave the Outer Banks for another year, the dusk air cools, molasses-thick heat replaced with something more tepid. You’ve come to call this diminution six-day-long-sleepover weather.

On one such night, you find yourself alone in Tannyhill Estate, frozen just short of the kitchen where’s Ward’s voice keeps you rooted.

Sarah’s still in her room under a mountain of plush blankets, having declined to head downstairs for a glass of water with you.

Rafe’s on the other side of the door. Eleven is age that you come to find out how much braver he is than you’d once imagined.

“I mean — you’re thirteen, now, Rafe!” A frightening sound, like a hand making contact with the marble counter, hard. You realise that you’re holding your breath. “I expect more from you — from the name I’ve given you. Cameron. Do you know what that name stands for, what it means to the people on this island?”

“Dad, I…” The shake in Rafe’s voice makes you flinch.

“Get out,” Ward instructs sternly, a dangerous edge to his voice. “Clean yourself up before your sisters see you. I mean — honestly… is this the example you want to set for them, Rafe? Getting into fights and coming home way past curfew?”

A pause. You think you hear Rafe swallow thickly, before you realise that it’s your own throat that’s shifting, a nervous tick.

“ANSWER ME!”

“No — I… no,” Rafe stutters out quietly.

There’s deafening silence, before the dull thud of retreating footsteps. A few feet away, an aperture above the stairwell channels a silver neck of moonlight to the ground, a ceiling-to-floor beam.

It’s dim edges illuminate you in the shadows, not quite hidden.

Although, even if you were, you have a funny feeling Rafe’d spot you anyway.

When he does, he stumbles back in surprise, doleful features hardening. There’s a split second where his armour of austerity wavers.

“Eavesdropping too, now?” He accuses, folding his arms across his chest defensively.

Your eyes fall to his knuckles, reds that graze and purples that bruise. There’s a split-second where your hands ache, as though you’re hurt too.

“Getting into fights too, now?” You counter, equally-defensive, raising your eyebrows up at him.

He averts his gaze, jaw clenching. His eyes tremble with unshed tears, and it terrifies you. “None of your business, train wreck,” he mutters, hiding his hands in his armpits urgently. There’s a cut on his lower lip that’s crusted over, the tell-tale maroon of blood that’s earned it’s place.

A beat. You wait for Rafe to push past you, mutter something derisive and walk away. He waits for you to do the same.

Neither of you move.

“I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, you know,” you say quietly, the tension in the air palpable.

You think Rafe’s expression almost softens. It makes your palms sweat.

“It’s fine,” he dismisses roughly, running his fingers through his hair. “What did you want from the kitchen? Water?”

You clasp your hands behind your back, and they slide over each other, all warm and clammy. “You know,” you mumble, feeling brave. “It’s okay if you’re upset about what he said. I won’t tell anyone, I promise.”

And just like that, the thaw halts and reverses, re-freezing double time.

If there’s one thing Rafe won’t have, it’s you — this loud, unabashed, strong-willed girl — feeling sorry for him. If you’re loud and unabashed, he needs to be louder, bolder, with miles more will and enough self-assurance to outdo you. He needs you to think that nothing could ever phase him.

Not the taunting, not his father, not even you.

“I’m not upset,” he says fiercely, glaring at you. “And I don’t want your shitty promise. You — you don’t know me.”

Your earnest expression falters, replaced by something cruel, spiteful. “I don’t want to know you either,” you bite out, pursing your lips. “I — I was just trying to be nice, but I should’ve known that you wouldn’t know how to deal with it.”

“Yeah, I don’t,” Rafe says flatly, pushing past you. “We aren’t friends.”

You let out an indignant scoff, whirling around angrily. “And I don’t want to be, either. Ever.”

Rafe doesn’t bother turning around. His knuckles burn, his split lower lip too, and now, because of you, he has to deal with this funny ache in his chest on top of everything else.

“Good.”

“Good.”

——

Fourteen.

It’s the wispy mascara and strawberry chapstick age, thready crop tops over swimwear, sausages-or-legs Instagram stories on sun loungers. It’s the ripped denim age, the caramel Frappuccino age, going to your first, red solo cup party, the getting hit on by guys that are older than you age.

For sixteen-year-old Rafe, it’s the age that you go from girl to girl.

Fourteen and a little taller, a little more mature; he’s created a tradition out of opening the door for you before his sister can, and it’s the first year that he’s the one balking at the threshold, not you.

Suddenly, he doesn’t remember you being any other age. You look airbrushed around the edges, bruise free with enough exposed skin to make him sweat a little. He scrambles for purchase on something that he knows, something that he hates — the fact that your dress is too short, the fact that your lips are too soft.

If it isn’t already obvious, he thinks that you’re gorgeous. It makes him furious.

“Are you going to let me in, big-foot?” You ask, raising your eyebrows impatiently.

The taunt brings about a predictable scowl, his surprised expression slipping. With callous features hardening the way that they are, you’d never guess that his last thought was: have her eyes always been this pretty?

“Good to see nothing’s changed, train wreck,” he returns wryly, placing his hands either side of the doorway to prevent entry.

You roll your eyes at him, ducking under his bicep and forcing your way in. Despite growing a few inches over the course of the year, Rafe still towers over you, a solid wall of hatred and obstinance and muscle. A lot of muscle.

“And it never will,” you throw over your shoulder easily, not bothering to look back at him.

“Do you not have any other friends or something?” He goads, sauntering behind you. “Other families on this island to leech off?”

You whip back around angrily, arms crossed, nostrils flared. “Do you have any friends at all, Rafe?”

Rafe furrows his brow mockingly, pretending to look confused. “Oh yeah,” he sighs out, non-existent realisation dawning on his features. “You’re not actually from here, so I’ll explain —”

“Except,” you interrupt, irritation piquing, “that I didn’t ask, and I don’t care.”

“Basically, everyone here worships me,” he clarifies faux-sombrely, ignoring the sentiment. “So if I were you, I’d probably apologise and fall in line, princess.”

You scoff incredulously, sending him a glare. It occurs to Rafe that a part of him antagonises you for all this fierce, soul-deep eye contact.

“Worshipping you?” You echo, making a face. “Not only are you a total douchebag, but you’re also somehow delusional?”

“Aw.” Rafe clutches his chest dramatically, pouting down at you. “You think I’m a total douchebag? I’m touched.”

“Don’t get it twisted,” you say, narrowing your eyes warningly. “I don’t think about you, Rafe Cameron. I know that you’re a total douchebag as a fact.”

“You know what else I am?” Rafe asks, trying for disdainful as he looks you up and down. He lands somewhere between impassive and slack-jawed. “Bored of this conversation.”

He moves past you and toward the kitchen, and to the back of him, you say, “Oh how I’ve missed our little chats.”

Rafe knows you don’t mean it like that. His pathetic pulse lurches anyway.

“Yeah?” He asks.

“Yeah,” you reply dryly, turning away from him. “They serve as a good reminder of why I hate you so much.”

You leave no space for him to throw the words back at you, already checked out of the conversation and halfway up the stairwell.

Not that he’d ever do so, anyway. Where you’d brushed past him, the fabric of his t-shirt still smells like crisp bergamot, the sweet vanilla notes of your new perfume.

It’s all he’s able to focus on for the rest of the day.

Upstairs, Sarah squeezes you tight, and demands that the pair of you take a walk along the beach.

It’s how you find yourself on Theo Deverell’s radar that summer, find yourself receiving an invite to his party a few weeks later.

A handsome junior with a skateboard under his arm and ashen hair that hasn’t been cut in a while, he’s confident and kind, his sweet-talk thick molasses.

Like a flytrap.

Along with an invite to his party, Theo innocently requests that you arrive alone and not-so-innocently buys you handful of white claws. Unfortunately for him, he doesn’t take into account the fact that someone else at this party might recognise you.

Know you better than they know themself.

Rafe hears your laugh before he does your voice. It has that same, unabashed timbre it did when you were kids; loud and too-familiar, distracting. It first found him at nine years old and hasn’t left him since.

When he follows the sound to you, there’s a white claw in your hand, and Theo Deverell’s arm around your shoulder. If it wasn’t for that fact that this meant extenuating circumstances, he’s sure that he would have stolen a few more moments to look you over.

All of you, from your kind eyes to your pretty smile, the light skating along the column of your throat, the expanse of glowing skin between your singlet and raw-hem denim shorts.

Bare glowing skin. Kind eyes on scum of the earth, Theo fucking Deverell, pretty smile like a sunflower leaning into the wrong rays of sun.

Rafe’s jaw clenches like clockwork. You have no business being here — not with his friends, the people in his year, not in that outfit and definitely not with a white claw in your hand.

He asserts that it isn’t jealousy.

After all, his line of reasoning doesn’t touch the Theo Deverell effect at all; he’s just being protective over you, covering all of his bases.

If something happens and you get hurt, he’s the one that everyone will blame. Rafe decides to ignore the fact that when it comes to you, he’s his own harshest critic.

“Y/n.” He says your name like it’s an accusation, something rough, callous in his tone.

Your shoulders tense. The grip you have on your white claw tightens to a blanch, the muscles that move your jaw, too. When do you finally look over at him, he’s closer than his voice was, taller with broader-set shoulders, an angrier frown.

He tugs off his backwards cap distractedly, and your eyes move to his fabric mussed hair, longer than you remember. It suits him.

“What?” You defend coolly, narrowing your eyes at him.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he states, pinning you with a glare. Body heat and cologne rolls off his skin, cedar-wood with something spicier hidden within it. Cinnamon, you think.

“Why?” You argue, nostrils flaring. “Last I checked, this is Theo’s party, not yours. He invited me.”

Rafe’s gaze cuts to the aforementioned boy for the first time that night, a split-second power struggle. There’s an undercurrent of steel to his eye contact that makes Theo sweat a little.

“I’m taking you home,” he says resolutely, grasping your wrist. “Now.”

“What?” You scoff incredulously, quick to break free. “No fucking way. I’m staying.”

Keeping your eyes on his, you tip back the white claw and gulp down half the can. It doesn’t make your insides burn the way everyone says alcohol should; like a drink of soda, it slides down your throat with ease.

Your throat. Rafe’s gaze falls, the unmarked skin making him falter. Bathed in lemon-yellow light, your silver necklaces winks up at him, a taunt.

It makes him fucking mad.

“Whatever,” he mutters spitefully, downing his own drink just as easily. “Your fucking funeral.”

You roll your eyes, looking up at Theo and smiling your sweet, sore-cheek smile. For some, perplexing reason, this makes him even madder.

“Can I have another?” You ask, using a pleasant voice Rafe hasn’t heard before.

Theo nods without question, pulling open the fridge and handing you another. For a split-second, Rafe considers the consequence of giving him a shiner in his own kitchen.

Then, he goes back to channeling all of his anger onto you.

Since this definitely isn’t jealousy, he has no business being mad at Theo, even if said boy’s arm around your shoulder is begging to be broken. It’s you that’s at a party you shouldn’t be at, you drinking a white claw, you with the pretty smile — the siren smile.

The smile he’s never been on the receiving end of.

His head hurts. He crushes the can of beer in his hand like it’s nothing, and as he stares at you, disappearing onto the deck with Theo Deverell, you stare at everything but him.

It’s the first time since he was nine years old that he’s felt that ugly bubble of hatred in his gut. Not for you, though, of what he can’t have, even if he’d deny this if anyone were to ask.

It’s an hour before he finds you next.

There’s an alcohol induced slowness to his limbs by then, but his mind is sharper than ever, miles ahead of yours.

Skin warm and dew-damp, you’re sprawled out on the grass. Above you, the sky spins, a kaleidoscope of purple and indigo, darker streaks of dusk. And then, Rafe’s face.

He’s scowling, the way he always is. You’re alone.

“The fuck?” He loops an arm around your waist, yanking you up in a single, sweeping motion. “Why are you out here?”

Alone, he wants to add. It’s all he can focus on.

“The fuck?” You mock, words liquefying around the edges. “Why d’you always talk like s’that?”

“For fuck sake,” he mutters, cringing at the way your voice slurs. “How much have you had?”

You raise your eyebrows comically high, pretending to zip your lips and throw away the key.

Silence. Rafe’s rough fingers hold firm on your waist, all of your weight pushing into his forearm as you angle away. There’s a lot more skin-on-skin body heat this close, a lot more cologne and fierce eye contact than you can handle.

The closeness is burning hand-shaped holes into your skin. Large hand-shaped holes.

“Alright,” he announces firmly, straightening and pulling you up with him. “We’re leaving.”

“No,” you argue, more for the sake of it than anything else. “You’re leaving. M’staying.”

“Y/n,” Rafe warns, clenching his jaw. “You’re not staying here by yourself. You’re drunk.”

You make a face. “Why d’you care?”

Rafe chooses to ignore this question. A little because his focus is trained on moving your dragging feet forward, a lot because the answer to it is something that absolutely terrifies him.

And makes him furious. Amongst other things.

“Rafe, stop,” you whine, voice all messy and loud. “You — you’re not the boss f’me.”

“Didn’t ask.” He’s already shifted you from the backyard into the kitchen with surprising ease, rough hands on skin like a nectarine — soft and bare and easy to bruise. “Don’t care.”

Once inside, he pushes you toward the sink, reaching for an empty solo cup.

“Here,” he demands, thrusting it into your chest. “Have some water.”

He’s caging you against it with arms either side of you, your dim, kitchen window reflection making the proximity apparent. It makes you dizzier than the alcohol in your veins does, streaks your throat with the taste of bile.

“Don’t wan’t any,” you argue, frowning stubbornly.

“I’m serious,” he warns, turning the tap on and filling it to the brim.

“So m’I,” you throw back.

“Drink,” he instructs firmly, holding it out in front of you. Your eyes fall to it, faucet ripples making your face all soft and blurry.

And as you begin to shake your head at it, an acid-sour trill of vomit rushes out of your mouth, forcing Rafe to drop it back into the sink.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters exasperatedly, one hand steadying your waist, the other holding your hair back. There’s something to be said about the fact that Rafe hasn’t run for the hills at the sight of your puke; his broad torso hides you from view, a shield of armour hiding behind so-called hatred.

He adds, voice still low, “You really are a train wreck, huh?”

It’s the only sentence you remember of your conversation the next morning. Maybe this is because it’s the first time he’s used the insult in an affectionate way.

What you think is an affectionate way. All that booze on an empty stomach has probably messed with your naïve brain.

When you wake, it’s in your own bed with curtains drawn. The comforter you’re snuggled under smells of him, soap and musk pheromones that make your insides tumble. You feel sick.

There’s a note tucked under a glass of water on your bedside table, a blister pack of aspirin alongside it. It reads: for once in your life, can you just fucking do what I tell you to?

You feel sicker.

Like poison, it’s thrown directly into the bin. Like the plague, you avoid Rafe Cameron for the rest of summer break.

——

Sixteen is the first job age, branding you a visor-wearing cart girl on the Island Club green.

Having graduated from the Academy this year, it’s also the last summer before Rafe moves for college. You aren’t sure what this means for him, whether the frat he inevitably joins will lead him elsewhere for subsequent breaks.

Away from you. The thought makes your heart feels too heavy for your ribcage, tight and wrung through, a sinking deadweight.

When eighteen-year-old Rafe first sees sixteen-year-old you, he’s on the course with his best friend, Kelce. You’re manning the drinks cart a distance away, laughing this high-pitched, saccharine sweet laugh as an older man exchanges beers for some cash. It’s a new sound falling from lips he’s known half his life, a fresh coat of gloss making them shine. Your skin looks fresh, sunscreen soft.

“Oh shit!” Kelce exclaims, following Rafe’s gaze to your figure. “Isn’t that Y/n?”

He jogs toward you without waiting for an answer, forcing a reluctant Rafe to do the same.

“Guess they’re just hiring anyone nowadays, huh?” He calls out a little urgently, winning the race for your attention Kelce didn’t know he was participating in.

You turn toward him and your customer service smile slips, pretty features hardening to a scowl.

“Find another cart girl,” you demand, folding your arms across your chest. “I’m not serving you.”

“And I’m not giving you any of my service,” Rafe scoffs, halting in his tracks too close, the way he always does.

It makes him difficult to ignore, which you hate. Your gaze skates over his broad shoulders and chiseled torso, sleeve-taut biceps that become solid forearm, rough hands in rougher golf gloves. His blue eyes are unblinking, fierce, bright as the sun despite his cap shielding from it.

Your gaze shifts to Kelce in a hurry.

“Hey, Kelce,” you say amiably, smiling at him. “Anything I can get you?”

“Your number?” Kelce jokes, grinning back.

Rafe’s jaw tightens, an unnameable emotion rearing it’s ugly head. As his younger sister’s best friend — as a girl that he hates — you’re strictly off limits to him.

By proxy, you’re also strictly off limits to his best friend.

“When did you start, anyway?” He cuts in furiously, glaring down at you.

You sigh warily, sending Kelce an apologetic look.“Last week,” you say in a clipped tone.

“Why?” Rafe demands.

“What do you mean, why?” You throw back, scoffing indignantly. “Because I’m old enough to get a job, now? Because I wanted some extra cash?”

“What?” Rafe hedges, raising his eyebrows. “To go shopping with your one friend on the island?”

Outrage rolls over your skin like a heatwave, making your cheeks burn. “What do you care?” You return angrily, nostrils flaring. “This doesn’t concern you in any way.”

It does when your presence is capable of throwing him off his game. It does when he has to watch you flirting for tips everyday.

Besides, why would you possibly need a job, anyway? Theoretically, Rafe could pay for everything that you wanted and then some.

“It does if you refuse to serve me when I’m here,” Rafe says.

You falter, clenched jaw acquiescing by a margin.

“Right,” you reply curtly, plastering on a smile. “Was there anything you wanted, Rafe?”

“Aw.” Rafe pouts mockingly. “The waitresses at the Club normally call me sir.”

Your smile tighten to a grimace. “Don’t fucking push it, Cameron.”

“Mr Cameron,” Rafe chastises, biting back a smirk. “I’d love a beer, princess. Think you can manage that?”

“And I’d love for you to leave me the fuck alone,” you snarl back, forced pleasantries long forgotten. “But unfortunately, we don’t always get all the things we want in life.”

“Now, now.” Rafe raises his eyebrows warningly, his gaze cascading over your features without meaning to. “You wouldn’t want me to go inside and complain about the gorgeous cart girl with no manners, would you?”

You blink. “Gorgeous cart girl?”

Rafe’s expression falters, his slanted jaw slackening. “Cart girl,” he amends quickly, almost tripping over his words. “I said cart girl.”

“Whatever,” you mutter, ducking your head awkwardly. “If you aren’t going to buy something I can actually sell you, I’m leaving.”

You turn around and climb into the driver’s seat of the drinks cart, switching on the ignition and leaving the two boys in your dust.

When you do so, Rafe realises a few things.

The first, that not letting his eyes stray from your pretty face to your cleavage is an invaluable lesson in self-control. The second, that you’re the same height as his heartbeat, your smaller hands the size of a single chamber within it. The third that your ass looks fucking criminal in a golf skirt, and the fourth? That you’re beginning to make him furious for the all wrong reasons.

Kelce breaks the silence first.

“Holy shit,” he wolf whistles, “when did Y/n become such a baddie?”

“Never,” Rafe grits out, cutting him a stony glare. “Don’t let me hear you say that shit again, Smith. I’m not fucking playing.”

“Woah, relax tough guy,” Kelce replies, raising his eyebrows knowingly. “I’m just stating facts. You know that I’d never actually go there.”

“Good,” Rafe says grimly. “Because she’s off limits.”

“Right.” Kelce eyes Rafe warily. “The real question, though… when are you going to make a move on her?”

“What?” Rafe’s head shoots up in a panic, his expression somewhere between helpless and incredulous. “The fuck are you talking about?”

Kelce scoffs. “The fact that you’re in love with her, obviously.”

Rafe’s heart lurches.

“You’re delusional,” he mutters, shaking his head exasperatedly.

“Whatever you say, bro,” Kelce responds with a shrug. “She’s fucking hot. If I were you, I’d be tying her down before some other guy on this island gets the chance.”

Though the mere thought of this has him seething, he attests that it isn’t jealousy.

Just self-preservation, or something. He doesn’t need some deadbeat with empty promises thirsting over a girl he’s known since he was a kid.

Over the course of the next few weeks, interactions with Rafe at the Club drop to a minimum. Though he’s often there when you are — his golf cap cycling between sitting forwards and backwards on his head — you always seem to catch him in the middle of a conversation. With his friends, other patrons, the waitresses that swoon over him in the break room. Everyone but you. You begin measuring the days apart with his hair, the length the tawny locks grow past the head of his cap.

Somewhere between long and overgrown, the tip jar begins collecting wads of cash with your name taped around them. At first, you think someone’s playing a prank with counterfeit bills; it’s only after they’re properly checked that you gratefully accept them.

To your chagrin, the waitstaff who know of the mystery tipper refuse to reveal their name. After a while, you begin taking the money without question; you presume it’s the old widower who meets you at hole nine every Friday, a little lonely, a lot wealthy. There’s no one else you know endowed with that much disposable income.

No one else apart from everyone in the Cameron family, anyway.

The next time you see Rafe, you’re trying hard to understand something that’s very clearly out of your depth.

“Trust me, darlin’, the clean’s real essential,” the mechanic continues seriously, overplaying the importance of a trivial add-on. “Without it, your car’ll break down within the year.”

“But…” you trail off, frowning bemusedly, “…I mean, my dad only bought it a few months ago —”

“These newer models,” the mechanic explains, raising his eyebrows haughtily, “they need more maintenance. Got bigger engines with —”

“Isn’t it a V Dub Golf, Cam?” Asks a voice behind you. “Shouldn’t need anything done to it for at least a few years.”

It’s deep, a little gravelly around the edges, with a subtle, Southern twang that’s so familiar it hurts a little.

Rafe’s always had this way of garnering the attention of a room without needing to raise his voice.

“Well,” the mechanic balks, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. “Uh… shit, I mean, there’s been talk of the suspension on these Volks going bust —”

“Right,” Rafe says steadily, coming up beside you. “I think she’ll take her chances, though, bud. The service on its own should be fine.”

He folds his forearms over the front counter staunchly, an air of resolve to the way he holds himself. It makes you feel nervous and relieved at the same time, as if that’s in any way possible.

Oh, and furious. He’s a wall of body heat with one too many inches on you, his bicep knocking your shoulder, his sharp jaw shepherding your gaze. There’s a shadow of stubble that trails to his Adam’s apple, steely, blue eyes that almost have you drowning.

Your chin falls as you sink, hitting his forearm where it rests on the counter. The contact sends a shockwave-like jolt to your skin, and you shoot back up in a hurry, glowing with embarrassment.

Don’t drown, swim, you chastise in your head.

“At the end of the day,” the mechanic named Cam says, sending you a meaningful glance, “it’s up to you, darlin’. Did you want me to throw in the clean?”

You can feel Rafe’s eyes on your features, his closeness makes your heart stutter a little.

“Uh,” you pause, chewing on your bottom lip absently. “I — maybe not, anymore. Thank you.”

Rafe’s gaze slides to your mouth as it moves without meaning to. Your pretty mouth. He begins scrambling for an excuse to stay this close, this counting-your-worry-lines proximity for a little while longer.

“Alrighty then,” Cam agrees, his Southern drawl kicking in. “Should take two hours, ‘roundabout.”

You nod and smile swiftly, handing over your keys and watching him retreat. It’s only once he’s out of sight that you peel away from the counter, refusing to make eye contact with Rafe as you do so.

“I had that handled,” you say stubbornly, turning your back on him.

“You’re welcome,” he returns dryly, stepping in front of you so that you’re forced to look up.

When you do, a pause. Somewhere within your too-weak glare, Rafe swears he spots a gleam of something softer, diffident gratitude hidden within pretty irises.

It makes his bones ache.

He knows that he’s the one taunting a thank-you out of you, but the last thing on Rafe’s mind is actually getting any sort of credit. The only reason that he even stepped in in the first place is because that’s his job — your best friends older brother, and all of that. Not to mention, he refuses to watch someone else take advantage; he’s the only person that’s allowed to do that, make a fool out of you and be able get away with it.

“Whatever, Rafe,” you mutter, tearing your eyes away again. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

For a split-second, he seriously considers saying, kissing you.

And then you add, “Following me?” in this cruel, defensive tone that has him deftly swallowing the words.

“Newsflash, princess,” he chides, rolling his eyes. “You’re not the only person on the island with a car that needs servicing.”

“What?” You goad. “Your little douchebag patrol posse too busy to run this errand for you?”

“Nah,” he returns wryly, raising his eyebrows. “Gotta do this one myself, make sure they don’t get swindled the way you were about to.”

Your jaw tightens, eyes narrowing angrily. “Like I said, I had it handled.”

Rafe’s noticed, that when you fume, you step closer to him without meaning to.

So maybe he’s goading you on purpose. So what? One look over your pretty, up-close features and his chest is a mess.

“Honestly,” he tuts, shaking his head tiredly. “What would you do without me?”

You pretend to think. “Oh, I don’t know,” you say, knitting your brow mockingly. “Maybe like, be at peace?”

“I’m on your mind that much, huh?” He asks, pressing his tongue against his cheek.

You force a breath out through your nose furiously, attempting to push past him. But he’s taller than you, stronger, catching you wrist just short of an arms length away.

Where his personality is abrasive, his touch is anything but. It’s featherlight like he thinks he’ll ruin you if he holds firmer. Your soft palms sweat.

“Hey, relax,” he chides, not letting go. “You gotta wait here till your car’s done, remember?”

Normally, you’d scowl at his holier-than-thou tone, but the juxtaposition of his careful hands and sloven words has your mind veering off track.

“So?” You bite back, forcing yourself to pull away. “I’m not staying here with you. I’ll go on a walk or something.”

Rafe frowns. “No,” he instructs. “You stay. I’ll come back.”

“Stop doing that,” you reply frustratedly.

“Doing what?” Rafe asks.

“Doing…” you trail off, forcing another breath out through your nose, “…doing me all these favours I didn’t ask you to do. I don’t want to be indebted to you, okay? Fucking quit it.”

Rafe balks. An unreadable emotion flickers over his once-amused features, painting them a rueful shade of grey.

“I’m leaving for me, not for you.” A pause. “You’ve never owed me anything, Y/n.”

He’s gone before you’re able to decipher his expression, find the cause of his sudden change in demeanour.

He doesn’t come back, the way he said he would. It’s a week before he returns to the car mechanic at all, long enough for you to have forgotten about the exchange.

——

Seventeen is the first year that Rafe doesn’t have a date to Midsummer’s.

Maybe this is because it’s also his first year away from home — setting Rafe up has always been Ward’s prerogative, and without the face-to-face, manipulating his son is a little more difficult. Maybe it’s because Rafe’s finally standing up to his father — heir to the Cameron Development empire or not, he’s sick of every girl he takes out being a business transaction.

Or maybe, it’s something else altogether. Maybe turning nineteen and going to a college out of state has forced Rafe to re-examine how he feels about Kildare Island.

The people on it. Person.

On Midsummer’s day, the weather is faultless.

A big, yellow sun coasts over the horizon, irradiating rows of hydrangeas and buttery-white peonies, the brilliant decorations that bedeck the venue. Prematurely hung fairy-lights dangle from green trees, the bright glare making them shine.

Rafe arrives at the Island Club a little before you do, blue skies melting woven periwinkle onto his suit blazer. He knows, from a phone conversation he overheard between you and Sarah, that you’re probably going to be late, so he doesn’t bother searching for you when he does.

Not that he’d actually do anything if he found you, anyway. It’s just that the promise of your closeness keeps him sane.

There’s a time lapse between when you do finally arrive, and when Rafe realises that you have. He’s sneaking a second flute of champagne when he spots you; you’re outside, and he’s in, the crystal-clear sliding door a hindrance.

Seeing you is like having the wind knocked out of his lungs.

You’re wearing a pearly slip of paper-thin satin, the silky fabric cascading down your figure like a waterfall. A gleaming, silver chain loops around your neck, and in your hair, a ribbon of artificial daisies glow. Like when you were seven. Rafe’s poor heart stutters.

And just when he’s sure he can’t catch a break, his legs lead him to you of their own accord — two magnets sucked into a field of charge.

Of course, this makes him furious.

“Nice of you to finally grace us with your presence, princess,” he greets sardonically, halting just short of your figure.

You’re leaning against a tall pillar on the deck, its column bedecked with a garland of ruby roses. At the sight of him, you hurry to straighten, smoothing over the sides of your pearl-white slip.

“And here I thought,” you throw back, narrowing your eyes up at him, “that I’d be lucky enough to get through tonight without having to talk to you.”

“Who else would you talk to?” Rafe’s gaze falls, skidding at your pretty lipgloss, again where your silver chain kisses your neckline. “Me and Sarah are the only two people you know here.”

“How can you be so sure?” You argue stubbornly, folding your arms across your chest.

The barely-there fabric of your slip creases when you do so, enough cleavage spilling over to make Rafe balk a little.

He coughs. “I just am, alright?”

You scoff. “You’re so fucking full of it.”

“Aw,” he pouts, still looking over you absently. “You really think so?”

It’s your cat-and-mouse game on autopilot. Both of you take turns throwing glib insults at the other, stalling. Maintaining this maddening, look-don’t-touch inch between you.

“I would,” you answer, scowling. “Except that I don’t actually think about you at all.”

“Right,” Rafe says, raising his eyebrows. “Why were you late, anyway?”

You scowl harder. “How do you know that I was late?”

“Sarah was complaining about it,” Rafe lies. An inscrutable something flickers over his features, and you realise that he’s standing close enough for you to notice.

Even in heels, he has several inches on your figure, solid shoulders and chiseled torso in soft periwinkle that makes you falter. You swear, as he waits for you to answer, that the fingers in his right hand twitch forward and flex, dropping back down in a hurry.

A trick of the light, you suppose.

“Well,” you answer, jutting out your bottom lip. “It’s really none of your business.”

“Actually, since the event is honouring my father —”

“JJ!” You call out suddenly, forcing Rafe’s voice to break off mid-sentence. “What are you… how are you here?”

JJ? Rafe falters. As in the same, dirty-blonde deadbeat that’s pogue-side and fucking insufferable?

Before he can so much as open his mouth in protest, the younger boy enters Rafe’s peripheral vision. He’s wearing a waiter’s uniform on his figure and a grin on his face, his unkempt hair a wind-mussed mess.

You’re smiling in tandem. Rafe feels his throat close up.

“Shhh,” he hushes, his blue eyes full of mirth. “I’m ‘working’ the party, alright? Don’t worry your pretty little head about it.”

You laugh, and Rafe’s heart lurches. “Whatever you say, J,” you reply, shaking your head bemusedly. “A request, though?”

JJ mock curtsies, fixing you a faux-sombre look. “Anything, m’lady.”

“Can I come with?” You ask sweetly, eyeing Rafe warily. “Not in the mood to stick with present company.”

JJ turns to Rafe then, a silent but fierce battle of wills. “Of course,” he responds after a beat, knowing the older boy wouldn’t lay a hand on him with you around. “C’mon.”

The satin of your slip sways over your heels as you disappear, giving the appearance of a girl that’s floating out of sight, not walking.

A pretty girl, with wide, stubborn eyes and a frown that makes Rafe ache, in his stomach, in his bones, in the stupid, you-shaped cavity within his ribcage. He downs his flute in a single, deft gulp, tearing through the crowd in search of something stronger than champagne.

—

open the door

You’re already downstairs, filling a glass tumblr with water when your phone dings.

It’s the first anyone’s heard from Rafe since your squabble at Midsummer’s earlier that day; a little after 10 pm now, he’s hasn’t been accounted for for at least a few hours.

This realisation, paired with the laconic tone of his text, cloys with your stomach, a heavy vessel of cement. For the first time in your life, you don’t hesitate to do what he says.

When you creak open the door, Rafe’s figure is silhouetted by a moonless sky, dim, doleful stars your only source of illumination.

He can’t stand still. There’s a rumpled bow tie at his collar, sleeves pushed up and blazer thrown over his shoulder slovenly. Gel long gone, his hair’s a dishevelled mess — strands sticking up at odd ends, falling into his line of sight so he’s forced to blink them away.

Or try to, with these wide, all-pupil eyes that have your stomach dropping.

“You’re high.” Too harsh for a greeting, too weak-sounding for an accusation.

“Can I come in?” He asks, swallowing thickly.

You hesitate, gaze moving over his features tentatively. It occurs to you that, even on cocaine, that fond, attentive part of your brain still finds him attractive.

It’s infuriating.

You shake your head firmly, shooting him an exasperated look. “Are you kidding? No fucking way.”

When you attempt to shut the door in his face, he stumbles closer, barring you from doing so.

“Wait — no — shit, please?” He begs. “I — I’ll sleep on the floor. On the deck. Anywhere. I just… I had nowhere else to go.”

You sigh tiredly. “Your house is right next door, Rafe.”

Rafe falters, something harried, worrisome, washing over his face. “I can’t go there.”

A pause. The absence of light has your figure blurring around the edges, but Rafe has so much of you committed to memory that this fact is irrelevant.

You’re wearing PJs he hasn’t seen in years, this tired, out-of-reach glow to your limbs that has him reeling, struggling for air. Face scrubbed clean, exposed skin everywhere he looks, and this close, he swears he can see every frown line that etches your features.

It’s like you’re iridescent. He’s never used that word before, probably never will again, but in this moment, Rafe swears it’s the only one that makes sense.

You exhale again, stepping away from the door to allow him in.

“Fuck… thank you,” he mumbles sheepishly, his movements jagged, sloven. He follows you down the hallway and into the living room, collapsing onto the couch with sigh of his own.

You look him over with uncertainty, chewing on your bottom lip. “Do you need food, or something? Water?”

He lifts his head, parts of his face illuminated by the silver-white streak of the blinds, a barcode of guilt. “Go to sleep, Y/n,” he replies quietly. “I don’t need you worrying about me, on top of everything else.”

You scoff, folding your arms across your chest defensively. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

A pause. “That you deserve better than that. Me.”

There’s dense, sludge-like tension in the air, rising to the ceiling like heat before dropping, slinking through the floorboards and pulling you down with it. More silence. You don’t realise you’re holding your breath until you open your mouth, your response to him a heavy whoosh of air.

“Why’re you high, Rafe?” You ask quietly.

His head drop agains. “Go to sleep, Y/n.”

“I’m not sleepy,” you lie.

“Neither am I.”

“Tell me,” you try again, a little firmer, a little more urgent. “You… it’s the least you could do.”

“Fuck, Y/n,” he groans out frustratedly, roughing his fingers through his hair. “You really wanna to play that game? Why were you hanging with those pogues the entire night?”

“I — huh?” You stutter, eyes widening in surprise. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Don’t do that.” You hear Rafe swallow again, his voice low. “You know exactly what it has to do with everything.”

Another beat. The sludge-like tension returns and roots you to the spot, preventing you from removing yourself from the situation.

Preventing you from moving closer, too. You murmur, “How come you didn’t go to Kelce’s?”

“Because,” he breathes out softly, like he’s only just admitted it to himself, “you’re the one that’s always on my mind, not him.”

Your stomach somersaults. “What?”

“Goodnight, Y/n.” Rafe turns away from you, pulling his legs up onto the couch and exhaling again. “I’ll be out of here before you wake up.”

He lets his eyelids droop and his breathing slow, and you stare at him until you’re sure he’s actually falling asleep.

As you watch him, a million different should dos whizz through your mind. You should get him a blanket, a pillow, move him into the guest room, you should stay.

You do none of them, nor do you get a wink of sleep the entire night. Somewhere between morning twilight and dawn, you hear him creak open the front door, leaving without a trace.

——

“Thanks, Rose,” Rafe hears you say, your sweet voice travelling over from the kitchen. “Yeah, no, I’m super excited about it. A little far from home, but it’s been my first choice since forever.”

“That’s wonderful to hear, my dear,” Rose’s voice answers pleasantly. “You’ll have to make time to visit when you can.”

“Yeah,” adds Sarah faux-sternly. “Just because your parents are selling the beach house doesn’t mean you stop coming here, okay? I don’t care if you’re going to a college across the country, you’ll always be an Outer Banks girl, whether you like it or not.”

It’s as though someone’s dropped a two-tonne rock into Rafe’s stomach. He begins to rush forward slovenly, his gait jagged, desperate to take him into the kitchen.

He walks into it just as you say, “I will, I swear,” in this soft, earnest voice that makes him honest-to-God yearn.

It’s enough commotion to garner your attention, your eyes growing wary as they look over his figure. “Oh,” you say, overplaying your disinterest. “It’s just you.”

For the first time in eleven years, Rafe Cameron doesn’t bite.

“Since when are your parents selling your house?” He demands, not asks.

A pause.

It occurs to Rafe, as he takes inventory of your features — all the smooth planes and pert ridges, the furrow in your brow, the shine of your lips — that he can’t remember a time where he hasn’t thought you were beautiful. He’s spent half of his life antagonising you, being antagonised by you, and it occurs to him that he can’t remember a time where he’s ever actually meant it.

You’re eighteen-years-old, now; he met you when you were seven. Something in Rafe’s chest careens. It occurs to him that it’s the same, heart-lurching feeling your seven-year-old smile had once given nine-year-old him.

You raise your eyebrows at him. Rafe decides in that moment that he isn’t going to bite ever again.

“Since last week?” You answer defensively.

“And when,” Rafe takes a steady step closer, “were you going to tell me?”

The pair of you glare at each other. In the silence, Sarah and Rose share a knowing look too, the pair of them peeling away from the kitchen table carefully.

“Sarah, sweetie,” Rose says, raising her eyebrows meaningfully. “Do you mind helping me sort through the washing?”

“Not at all,” Sarah answers quickly, springing into action.

They bee-line for the door before you can so much as protest, leaving a tension that’s palpable in their wake.

You swallow it down before forcing out a sigh, slipping out of your seat and moving past him. “Didn’t think I needed to.”

The side of your wrist nudges his, shooting tendrils of heat straight to your chest. And then, it’s Rafe’s touch making your skin burn, his rough palm making contact with yours.

“Y/n,” he murmurs helplessly, turning you back to him. “You can’t drop a bomb like that on me and just leave like it’s fucking nothing.”

Your breath hitches, gaze dropping to where your fingers are intertwined. “Like I said,” you say weakly, refusing to make eye contact. “Didn’t think you’d care.”

Rafe cares. Rafe cares a lot.

Rafe’s feels like he’s cared about you longer than he’s been alive.

“Do you care?” He asks quietly, dipping his head to eye level. “About moving, I mean. Do you care about the fact that you won’t be here next summer?”

With me, he wants to add. Won’t be here with me.

You swallow nervously, forcing yourself to meet his gaze.

He’s looking down at you with the same, ocean blue irises he had when you first met him. Eleven years on, several inches more height difference and several inches less personal space, you realise that they also still make the same, fond mess of your chest.

Your mind reels. You try to remember the conclusion of any of the arguments you’ve had over the years.

You can’t.

You realise that what you can remember are the small details, the subtleties anyone else would forget — the way his hair’s grown over time, the parts of his body most susceptible to a sunburn.

For Rafe, it’s the way your pretty smile’s gotten prettier. It’s the number of times your eyes have narrowed in an argument, the neckline of every single one of your dresses. He remembers the forgettable things — when you swapped out that Victoria’s Secret perfume for something more mature, when you first wore that lipgloss that smelled like peaches and vanilla.

When you smiled at him, for the first time ever. Rafe remembers the first time you called him by his name instead of an insult.

“Of course I do,” you mumble. “I’ve spent more summers here than I can count on both hands.”

“Do you care about the fact that I will?” Rafe steps closer. His hand is still in yours, refusing to let go. “The fact that we aren’t going to be in the same town at all, next year?”

Your heart stutters. “Rafe —”

“Because I do,” Rafe interrupts, his other hand moving up to your face. He cradles your jaw gently, reverentially, his rough skin at odds with his barely-there touch. “I care about the fact you won’t be in the Outer Banks and I fucking will. I mean… shit, Y/n, summer won’t be summer without you here.”

Your eyes widen, sitting somewhere between bashful and surprised. “What?” You ask weakly, feeling your knees buckle. “You… we — you hate me.”

“You can’t actually believe that,” Rafe says, a little exasperated.

“And I… I mean — we drive each other fucking crazy,” you add in a rush. His callused thumb swipes over your cheek softly, and you sigh. It’s a tired sound. Longest eleven years of your fucking life.

“It’s maddening,” Rafe agrees softly, drawing closer still.

Lips an inch from yours, now, less than, there’s cinnamon and cedar-wood everywhere.

“Makes me fucking furious,” you mumble absently. “You make me fucking furious.”

“Fuck, so do you.” His voice sounds rough around the edges, strained. Spearmint breath fans over your too-warm skin. “Do you have any idea the effect you have on me, Y/n?”

There’s a brush of lips on yours, just. You say, “Probably not.”

“All I’ll say,” he murmurs, this close to kissing you, “is that you aren’t the one that’s a train wreck, train wreck. It’s me.”

And then he’s pressing his lips to yours fully, urgently, his other hand finding purchase on your waist and squeezing hard. The way he pulls you to him is sloven, pleasurable, a teeth-scraping pressure that has you gasping for air. He backs you up against a wall like he’s afraid that you’re going to escape his grasp, sometimes hard, sometimes soft, so-called hatred melting into a fierce need for more.

Rafe Cameron kisses you like he’s wanted to do it since he was nine-years-old.

And when he drags his mouth along your jaw, down your neck, it’s to create a bouquet of careless, purple bruises — he needs everyone to know that you’re his, and he isn’t going to share, the same way he’d once refused you a spot on the ten-foot-tall jungle gym. His rough hands are worse, grappling for bare skin everywhere they roam, your own palms skating up his chest to his shoulders.

When he pulls away for air, you wrap your arms around his neck tightly.

“Right,” you murmur, smiling coyly. “You’re still big-foot though, big-foot.”

“Shit,” Rafe breathes out a laugh, his cheeks flushed, his lips bruised. “That nickname made me so fucking angry when we were kids.”

“You made me so fucking angry when we were kids,” you return.

“And how about now?” Rafe asks, his voice a little messy from all of the kissing. “How do I make you feel now, Y/n?”