#obx preference

Your head throbbed dully when you cracked your eyes open, the sunlight pouring in through the thin gap in the curtains and hitting you square in the face like it had something to prove. You groaned quietly, hand lifting on instinct to shield your eyes as if that would undo the damage already done. You didn’t need to reach for your phone to know what day it was—you could feel it in your bones, in the way your chest tightened before you were even fully awake.

The muffled conversation drifting through the thin chateau walls only confirmed it, every laugh and half-whisper carrying far too clearly into the spare room. You dreaded this day. That was probably why you couldn’t remember last night at all. You’d thought drinking might blur the edges of the calendar, smear the date into something forgettable. Instead, it just left you with a splitting headache and a hollow gap where your memory should’ve been, and right now, that felt like a mercy. Whatever happened last night didn’t follow you into this morning, and you decided you didn’t care enough to go looking for it.

“Hey, call me back when ya get this…” The voice crackled through your phone’s speaker, slurred just enough to make your stomach drop, like the universe had impeccable timing and a cruel sense of humor. You sighed, patting around the tangle of sheets and pillows for your phone, your chest tightening with each second it took you to find it. “…Or really, when you’ve got a minute. We really need to talk. You never seem to have any time for me anymore.” The words were painfully familiar, the tone almost rehearsed, and by the time you finally found your phone buried under a pillow, the voicemail was already unraveling exactly the way you remembered from last year. “Wait—y’know what? Maybe just forget it. ’Cause by the time you get this, your number may be blocked.” Your mother’s voice lingered even after the message ended, wet and shaky and lodged somewhere behind your eyes. You didn’t even check the screen. You just tossed the phone across the room like it had burned you, listening to it clatter uselessly onto the cluttered floor before you slumped back against the mattress. A shaky breath left your lips as you scrubbed a hand down your face, the ache in your head dull compared to the weight pressing into your chest.

You lay there longer than you meant to, staring at the ceiling while the low murmur of the pogues’ conversation filtered in from the living room. You knew you couldn’t avoid them forever. Eventually, you forced yourself upright, your right leg protesting sharply from the knee down as you stood. You stretched anyway, jaw tight, as if rolling your shoulders might shake loose the heaviness sitting in your lungs. It didn’t. When you finally pulled the spare room door open and padded down the hall, the conversation in the living room cut off so abruptly it almost made you laugh. Almost. Ten pairs of eyes snapped to you the second you appeared in the archway, and you paused there, swaying slightly, offering a half-hearted, “Mornin’,” like that might convince them to act normal.

Kiara nodded first, a small, careful gesture, and JJ grunted beside her, both of them looking unmistakably guilty. Pope and John B followed with smiles that didn’t quite land, lips pressed too tight, eyes too serious, and you nearly groaned at that alone. They did this every year. Every single time, like ritual. Sarah, though—Sarah stared at you like she was balancing on the edge of a decision she’d already made. You saw Kiara’s hand settle on her shoulder, a quiet warning, but Sarah shook her head, muttering something under her breath before she sprang up from the couch. She crossed the room quickly, her smile cautious but bright, hands landing warmly on your biceps before you could stop her.

“Look, I know, okay?” she started immediately, words tumbling out fast, like she was afraid you’d shut her down if she paused too long. “I know what you’re gonna say. You don’t even have to say it—I already know the drill. We’ve known the drill for, like, two years now, and we never pressed.” She glanced over her shoulder, rolling her eyes as if remembering something. “Well—except last year, with the custom cupcake that just said ‘bday.’ Which I still think was a crime,” she added, shooting JJ an accusing look. “But this year’s different. You’re literally the first legal adult out of all of us, and I just—” She cut herself off, face scrunching as she shook you gently, undeterred by the scowl pulling at your mouth. “The best friend manual does not allow me to let this day pass with just a couple beers and a birthday blunt.”

“Sarah—” you tried, your voice rough and unused, but she leaned in closer, shaking her head again.

“Something small,” she insisted softly. “I swear. Just us and a couple people by my pool. And don’t even start with the money thing because I already kind of… bought everything.” She winced, sucking air through her teeth like that sealed your fate.

“It’s barely eleven a.m., Sare,” you muttered when she finally paused, rubbing your temples. “Can I just get a glass of water and a Tylenol before making… decisions?”

Her expression softened immediately, that familiar flicker of pity flashing across her face before she could stop it. “I know it’s your dad and all,” she said quietly, hands dropping to her sides. “But you don’t have to make this day all about him. I mean, we’ve got your twenty-first coming up too, and yeah, maybe your frontal lobe will be developed by then,” she added with a weak smile, “but still…”

She trailed off when Kiara stepped up behind her, murmuring something low about not knowing the full story. “I know the full story, Kie,” Sarah whispered back, firm but gentle. You squeezed your eyes shut, the sound of your own breathing suddenly too loud, and turned toward the kitchen before you could say something you’d regret. The cool tile beneath your feet grounded you as you reached the sink, bracing yourself against the counter while the faucet ran. The water was cold and steady, and for a moment, with the chatter muted behind you, you let yourself pretend that was enough to wash the day away.

Your jaw stayed clenched as you leaned over the sink, the porcelain cold beneath your palms, the sound of running water filling the space where your thoughts kept threatening to spill over. The glass rattled faintly when you set it down, fingers trembling just enough to piss you off, and you stared at your reflection in the dark window above the counter instead of the people behind you, because you already knew what you’d see if you turned around—careful eyes, pity dressed up as concern, that familiar, suffocating brand of love that always showed up on this day whether you asked for it or not.

You swallowed the water too fast, the ache behind your eyes flaring in protest, and muttered, “I’m not making it about him,” even though no one had said his name out loud, voice low and defensive like you were arguing with the walls. “I’m just… tired. And hungover. And I don’t wanna be paraded around like this is some kind of victory lap.”

“You’re not being paraded,” Sarah insisted immediately, too quick, which only proved your point, her voice following you as you reached for the medicine cabinet and fumbled for the bottle with shaking fingers. “It’s literally just us. And okay, maybe Topper for like five minutes because he already knows and he’ll be offended if I don’t invite him, but I swear he won’t stay.” A pause, then softer, more careful. “You don’t have to smile. You don’t have to make a speech. You don’t even have to stay long. Just—don’t disappear today, okay?” That did it. That cracked something open in your chest that had already been sore when you woke up, and you let your forehead rest briefly against the cabinet door, eyes squeezing shut as Kiara cleared her throat behind Sarah like she was trying to anchor the moment before it tipped too far.

“We can keep it low-key,” Kie added gently, stepping closer, her presence less invasive somehow, like she knew when to give you air. “No surprises. No singing if you don’t want it. We’ll just hang out, swim a little, get food. Normal stuff.” JJ shifted on the couch, you could hear the leather creak, and when he spoke his voice was rough, stripped of its usual bravado. “I already promised not to do anything stupid,” he said, then winced. “Okay, anything extra stupid. Cross my heart.” Pope snorted despite himself, and even John B let out a quiet breath of a laugh, but the sound faded quickly, like everyone was afraid of pushing their luck.

You finally turned around, bottle of Tylenol clenched in your hand, and leaned back against the counter, scanning their faces one by one like you were committing them to memory against your will. “I don’t want a cake,” you said flatly. “And if anyone says ‘happy birthday’ like that—” you gestured vaguely, fingers curling in mock enthusiasm, “—I’m leaving.” Sarah nodded rapidly, hands up in surrender. “Deal. No cake. No chanting. No weird speeches about how proud we are of you for surviving another year.” Her mouth twitched despite herself. “Maybe just… burgers. And beer. And the pool.” She watched you carefully, waiting for the final verdict, and when you sighed again—long, resigned, tired—it felt like the room exhaled with you.

“Let me shower,” you said finally, pushing off the counter. “And don’t—” your voice wavered just slightly before you steadied it, “—don’t make a big thing out of it.” Sarah smiled, softer this time, relief shining through as she stepped back to give you space. “Scout’s honor,” she promised, even though she had never been a scout in her life. As you padded back down the hallway, the ache in your leg flaring with every step, you could still hear them murmuring behind you, the conversation picking up again in hushed tones, and for the first time that morning it didn’t feel quite as cruel. Just inevitable.

Just like most things in your life, really. It was like the moment you were born, you were fated to run away from things and stall the process of addressing or taking accountability for them. And the anger that you carried in the process? Soul crushing. And that part of you, that one that seemed to claim to be the one holding the common sense, usually wearing your mother's voice, told you that it wasn't that deep. That you making a big deal out of not celebrating your birthday was just too much.

Your father didn’t die. He didn’t drown chasing some salt-stung fantasy, didn’t vanish into the ocean with a poetic excuse people could lower their voices for. That was the part that clawed at you every single day. He didn’t dramatize his leaving, didn’t slam doors or make speeches or cry into your hair like it hurt him too. He just… disappeared. A note left on the fridge, held up by a magnet that barely clung, curling at the corners like it had already given up.

No happy birthday. No shaking you awake that morning, no awkward hug, no promise to “do something later.” Just gone. As if he’d never missed his October football games to take you trick-or-treating anyway, never spent weeks crouched beside you on the dock teaching you how to tie a line properly, hands patient around yours as he said, “Slow down, kiddo. It’s not goin’ anywhere.”

You remembered your sweet sixteen with a clarity that still made your chest tighten. That was the day you found out he’d remarried—found out there had even been a divorce to begin with. You, sweet and stupid and blissfully unaware, left without so much as breadcrumbs to piece it together. You’d drifted away from the bonfire that night, the laughter and music fading into background noise as you lay back in the sand, staring up at a sky that didn’t care, phone glowing too bright in your hands.

A family photo had popped up on your feed like a cruel joke. His face—older, lined, but softer than you remembered it being under the harsh trailer lights—smiling beside a woman you didn’t know, an arm slung around a boy who looked nothing like you. “Day out on the boat with my favorite son,” the caption read, obnoxious emojis tacked on like salt in an open wound. You remembered whispering, broken and small, “I didn’t even know you had another one,” as if the screen could hear you.

The Pogues said you blacked out that night, that you didn’t remember much past the second bottle, but that wasn’t true. You remembered that hour on the beach too clearly. The way the vodka burned going down, the way it mixed with the salt of your tears until you couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. You remembered JJ asking, “You okay?” from somewhere far away, his voice warped and worried, and you remembered lying through your teeth, nodding and saying, “Yeah. Just tired.” In a way, your father was dead. Because the man who used to stand at the small kitchen table, staring helplessly at your mother while she cried for the hundredth time that she “didn’t mean to come home late,” that man wasn’t your dad anymore. Your dad existed somewhere else now—far away, flattened into pixels and captions, trapped inside a Facebook post where he smiled like he hadn’t left anything unfinished behind.

And sixteen-year-old you? She stayed. She stayed on that beach, on that island, letting the cut fester long before she even finished high school, learning too early that girls like her didn’t really get clean exits. They didn’t get closure or explanations or fresh starts. They just learned how to carry the absence quietly, year after year, every birthday a reminder that being left didn’t always look dramatic. Sometimes it looked like a fridge note curling at the edges, a phone screen lighting up at the wrong moment, and a voice in your head that kept asking, What did I do that made it so easy to go?

By the time the weight of it all loosened its grip on your chest, you were standing under the shower, water beating down on your shoulders hard enough that it almost felt intentional, like you deserved the sting. Steam fogged up the small bathroom, blurring the cracked mirror until your reflection was nothing but a vague outline, and you stayed there longer than necessary, letting the heat sink into your muscles, letting the ache settle somewhere quieter. You scrubbed at your skin until it went pink, washed your hair twice like it might rinse the memory out too, and when you finally shut the water off, the silence rushed back in just as loud. You wrapped yourself in a towel, forehead resting briefly against the cool tile as you exhaled, then pulled it together the way you always did—mechanically, efficiently, like feelings were something you could leave behind in the drain if you tried hard enough.

By the time you got to Tanny Hill, dressed in something light and sun-appropriate, hair still damp and curling at the ends, something had shifted. There was movement now, purpose. Laughter floated down the hallway, doors opened and closed, and when you stepped outside into the bright OBX afternoon, Tannyhill was already alive with it. The pool shimmered under the sun, painfully blue, and the Pogues were scattered around the yard like they’d been doing this their whole lives—which, in a way, they had.

JJ was standing on a chair he absolutely shouldn’t have been standing on, stringing up cheap party lights between two poles while Pope stood below him, arms crossed, muttering something about electrocution and liability. “Relax,” JJ shot back, squinting up at the wire, “If I die, it’ll be iconic. Very on-brand.” “That’s not comforting,” Pope replied flatly, but he didn’t move to stop him.

Kiara was by the table near the pool, laying out mismatched decorations with focused care, chewing on her bottom lip as she tried to make it all look intentional rather than thrown together last-minute. “I swear,” she said when she noticed you, straightening up with a small smile, “Sarah went full Pinterest mode and then panicked halfway through.” As if summoned by her name, Sarah popped up from behind the bar area with a roll of streamers looped over her arm, eyes lighting up the second she saw you. “You showered,” she said like it was an accomplishment, like she’d been holding her breath until you did. “Good. Great. That means you’re officially committed now.” You snorted despite yourself, grabbing the end of the streamer she handed you. “I never said that,” you murmured, but you took it anyway, fingers already helping her tie it off along the railing.

The air felt different out here—lighter, sun-warmed, humming with the low buzz of cicadas and the distant crash of waves. Someone had put music on, something easy and familiar, and for the first time that day, your shoulders eased just a fraction. You moved around the pool with them, holding ladders steady, tying knots, passing drinks back and forth, letting yourself exist in the in-between moments where no one was asking you to feel anything deeper than here. At one point, John B nudged your shoulder gently, nodding toward the half-inflated float drifting lazily in the pool. “You want me to blow that up or… emotional support?” he asked, half-smiling. “Dealer’s choice,” you replied, and he laughed, the sound grounding in a way you didn’t comment on.

For a while, it almost worked. The sun on your skin, the sound of your friends arguing over balloon placement, Sarah declaring, “It’s a vibe, trust me,” like it was law. You let yourself believe that maybe this year could be different—that maybe this birthday could just be a pool, and cheap lights, and people who stayed. And standing there at Tannyhill, damp hair clinging to your neck, fingers sticky from tape and sunscreen, you let yourself breathe into it, even if just for the afternoon.

The afternoon bled into early evening so seamlessly you barely noticed it happening, the sun dipping lower until everything at Tannyhill was washed in that warm, honeyed glow that made even chaos look intentional. Despite all your earlier protests—despite the way you’d dug your heels in about not wanting anything big—you found yourself genuinely startled by how many people had shown up. What was supposed to be small and almost private had ballooned into a full-blown Sarah Cameron–style pool party, the kind that felt like it had a gravitational pull of its own.

Cars lined the drive and spilled onto the grass, music thumped from speakers that definitely cost more than your monthly groceries, and the pool was crowded with bodies, laughter ricocheting off the water and stone like it always did here. You hovered near the edge for a moment, red cup sweating in your hand, watching it all with a faint crease between your brows, equal parts overwhelmed and quietly touched.

“I told you,” Sarah said triumphantly, appearing at your side like she’d been waiting for this exact expression. She leaned into you, bumping her shoulder against yours, eyes bright as she scanned the crowd. “You can’t half-ass a birthday at Tannyhill. It’s against the law. Ward Cameron Law, section… everything.” You huffed a weak laugh, shaking your head. “This was supposed to be, like, ten people,” you pointed out, gesturing vaguely toward the pool where JJ was already attempting some kind of reckless jump off the side, Pope shouting at him to stop like it had ever worked before. “I said small, Sarah.” She waved you off, unapologetic. “This is small. I didn’t even invite half the people I know,” she said, then paused, squinting at you. “Okay, maybe I invited them indirectly. But still.”

You moved through the crowd slowly, people you barely knew clinking cups with you, shouting happy birthdays over the music, some of them calling you by nicknames you didn’t remember earning. Every “happy birthday” landed differently—some light, some heavier—but none of them felt cruel, and that alone surprised you.

Kiara looped an arm through yours at some point, pressing a cold drink into your hand. “You okay?” she asked quietly, eyes searching your face in that way of hers. You nodded, then hesitated, then nodded again more firmly. “Yeah,” you said, meaning it more than you expected. “I think I am.” She smiled softly at that, squeezing your arm before letting you go, already being pulled away by someone asking for help with the grill.

As the sky darkened, the string lights flickered on, reflected in the pool like scattered stars, and the music softened just enough to let conversations overlap instead of collide. You found yourself laughing—actually laughing—at something dumb JJ said, felt Pope press a cupcake into your hand with a sheepish grin. “It says ‘bday’ this time too,” he admitted. “But I spelled it myself, so.” “Progress,” you teased, and he rolled his eyes, smiling anyway. Standing there, surrounded by noise and warmth and people who chose to show up, you felt the ache in your chest loosen just a little more. It wasn’t perfect, and it didn’t erase anything—but for the first time that day, maybe even that year, it felt survivable.

The night kept unfolding whether you were ready for it or not, layers stacking gently instead of crashing down the way you’d braced yourself for all day. Someone turned the music up again once the sky fully darkened, bass thrumming through the ground beneath your bare feet, and the pool lights clicked on, turning the water that impossible electric blue that made everything feel a little unreal.

You sat on the edge for a while, feet dangling in the cool water, letting the contrast seep into your skin while voices drifted around you—half-heard jokes, laughter breaking out and fading again, the clink of bottles, the splash of someone getting pushed in fully clothed. JJ surfaced nearby at one point, hair plastered to his forehead, pointing an accusatory finger at John B. “You’re dead,” he announced dramatically, and John B just raised his hands, grinning. “Worth it.”

Sarah circled back to you eventually, this time calmer, her earlier buzz mellowing into something softer as she sat beside you, knees drawn up to her chest. “See?” she said quietly, nudging your knee with hers. “Not so terrible.” You watched the ripples spread across the pool before answering, eyes following the reflection of the lights as they wobbled and steadied again.

“Yeah,” you admitted, voice low. “I hate that you’re right.” She laughed under her breath, leaning her head briefly against your shoulder. “You can hate it tomorrow,” she said. “Tonight you just have to exist.” The simplicity of that landed harder than anything else she’d said all day, and you swallowed, nodding once.

Later, when the crowd thinned just a little—when people started drifting toward the fire pit or disappearing inside for drinks—you found yourself standing near the fence, arms folded loosely around yourself, the noise dulling enough for your thoughts to creep back in. Kiara joined you without a word, handing you a hoodie that smelled faintly like laundry detergent and smoke.

“You’re gonna get cold,” she said simply. You slipped it on, exhaling as the warmth settled over your shoulders. “Thanks.” She leaned beside you, gaze trained on the pool. “You don’t have to be okay about everything tonight,” she added after a beat. “Just… thought I’d say that.” You glanced at her, something tight easing in your chest. “I know,” you replied. “I think that’s what’s making it okay.”

As the hours slipped by, the party softened around the edges, laughter quieter but no less genuine, conversations stretching longer and deeper. You caught snippets of stories you’d heard a hundred times and a few you hadn’t, found yourself smiling at memories instead of bracing against them. At some point, someone shouted your name again—another toast, another cheer—and you lifted your cup, rolling your eyes but smiling anyway.

For the first time in a long while, the date didn’t feel like a wound being poked. It still ached, still existed, but it wasn’t the only thing in the room.

And how foolish were you to think the day was going to pass without anything happening. Your unsteady feet carried you through the thinning crowd near the pool, offering soft smiles as you passed a cluster of kooks doing shots and pointing at you with loud, sloppy enthusiasm, before you slipped away toward the kitchen like you needed air more than another birthday cheer. It was quieter in here, the music dulled into a distant thrum by the walls, the laughter outside softened until it felt like background noise instead of something pressing in on you.

You leaned back against the counter, eyes dragging over the clutter—colorful solo cups stacked crookedly, half-empty beer bottles sweating onto the granite, a stray lime wedge abandoned near the sink—and you already knew you’d be helping Sarah clean tomorrow, both of you groaning through hangovers and pretending this mess wasn’t yours.

You pulled a red cup from the clean stack, poured vodka without measuring, topped it off with whatever orange juice was left in the carton, ice clinking loudly despite your attempt at quiet, and lingered there longer than necessary just to let the silence settle. Even though the party was technically yours, at Tanny Hill of all places, you hadn’t seen Rafe once. Not upstairs, not by the pool, not even a half-assed text lighting up your phone.

A small, traitorous part of you kept circling that fact, poking at it, wondering why he hadn’t bothered to say happy birthday—why he hadn’t at least made an appearance. The other part of you, sharper and meaner and still clinging to every reason you’d ever had to resent kooks like him, insisted it was better this way. Cleaner. Safer. You were just starting to convince yourself of that when the kitchen door creaked open.

Your heart did something stupid, hopeful, before you even turned around, like muscle memory hadn’t learned its lesson yet. You looked anyway—and it wasn’t Rafe. It was JJ, swaying slightly as he slipped inside like he was afraid of waking someone, grin already pulling at his mouth, eyes glassy and bright in that way that meant he’d had just enough to be honest and not enough to be careful.

“There you are,” he said quietly, like he’d been looking for you on purpose, closing the door behind him with exaggerated care. “I was startin’ to think you fell into the pool and no one noticed.” You huffed a weak laugh, lifting your cup a little. “That’s reassuring,” you muttered. “Glad to know I’d go out dramatically.”

He leaned against the opposite counter, arms folding loosely, gaze flicking over your face like he was taking inventory, like he was checking in without saying it out loud. “You okay?” he asked after a beat, voice softer than it had been all night. You shrugged, noncommittal, staring into your drink.

“Define okay.” That earned you a quiet chuckle as he nodded. “Fair,” he said. “I just—” He stopped himself, tongue pressing briefly to his bottom lip, eyes dropping to the cup in your hands before lifting back to your face. “I know you hate all this birthday shit. I didn’t wanna make it worse.” Something about that tightened your chest, and you swallowed, shoulders loosening just a little. “You didn’t,” you said. “You never do.”

Silence settled between you again, but it wasn’t awkward—just heavy, loaded with things neither of you were saying. JJ shifted closer without really acknowledging it, close enough now that you could smell the familiar mix of chlorine and cheap beer on him, could feel the heat of his body bleeding into your space. “I meant what I said earlier, y’know,” he added quietly. “About being glad you were born. Even if the day sucks.” You finally looked at him then, really looked, and your voice came out softer than you meant it to.

“Thanks,” you said. “That actually… means more than the pool party.” His grin flickered into something else at that, something less cocky and more uncertain, like he wasn’t sure what to do with the moment now that it was here.

Your eyes lingered on JJ’s relaxed features, and it felt like standing on the edge of something sharp and inevitable, the air between you charged in that quiet, unmistakable way that always betrayed you around him. The look in his eyes was too intense to be casual, too soft to be harmless, and your heart did what it always did—leaned toward him without asking your permission first. Neither of you moved for a second too long.

Your cup lowered to the counter, plastic clicking softly against stone, and his hand lifted, hesitated, then brushed your wrist like he was testing the ground before stepping onto it. “C’mere,” he murmured, not quite a question, not quite a demand. You didn’t answer—you just closed the small distance between you, even as a voice in the back of your head screamed that this was a bad idea, that you knew better. The kitchen suddenly felt too small, too quiet, like it was holding its breath with you.

“Happy birthday, sugar…” he whispered before leaning in, the words warm and familiar in a way that made your chest ache. The kiss was tentative at first, careful, like you were both bracing for impact, but it deepened quickly, slipping into something that felt natural in a way that almost scared you. His hand came up to cradle your jaw like he’d done it a hundred times before, thumb brushing your cheek with unconscious tenderness, and for a moment the party outside ceased to exist entirely. The bass thudding from the speakers, the laughter, the splashing water—it all disappeared, swallowed whole by the soft clink of ice in your forgotten cup and the steady, grounding beat of your heart finally doing something other than hurting.

And then it hit you. Your eyes snapped open, and you pulled back—not abruptly, not dramatically, but too calmly for the panic sparking sharp and sudden in your chest. When you’d fallen in love with JJ, this was the moment you’d imagined in stolen daydreams and late-night what-ifs: him kissing you, crossing that invisible line of your friendship with something soft and meaningful, a birthday wish finally coming true. But standing here now, lips still tingling, all you felt was wrong. Not butterflies. Not relief. Just a strange, hollow twist in your stomach, like you’d stepped slightly out of sync with the world. Like this kiss broke a rule you couldn’t name, even if it was one you’d been wishing to break for years.

JJ noticed immediately. He always did. His hand fell from your face, brow furrowing as he searched your expression, the drunken haze in his eyes clearing just enough to make room for concern. “Hey,” he said quietly, voice dropping. “What’s wrong?” You swallowed, shaking your head once as if that might organize the mess in your thoughts. “I—I can’t,” you started, then stopped, exhaling slowly. “This… we shouldn’t have done that.” His jaw tightened, and he glanced away for half a second, like he already knew what you were going to say but needed to hear it anyway. “Because of Kie,” he murmured, not accusing, just stating it. You nodded, guilt crawling up your spine. “Because of Kiara,” you echoed. “Because she’s my friend. Because she’s your girlfriend. Because this isn’t who I wanna be.”

He scrubbed a hand over his face, blowing out a breath, leaning back against the counter like the weight of it had finally caught up to him. “I didn’t plan it,” he said, quieter now. “I swear. I just—saw you in here, and you looked… I dunno. I wanted to be there.” You laughed softly, humorless. “You’re always there,” you said. “That’s the problem.” He looked at you then, really looked, eyes shining with something conflicted and raw. “You think this is easy for me?” he asked, not angry, just tired. “You think I haven’t thought about this before?” The words hit harder than the kiss had, and you closed your eyes briefly. “That’s exactly why it has to stop,” you replied. “Before it turns into something worse.”

Silence settled between you again, heavier this time, filled with everything you weren’t saying. Somewhere outside, someone laughed too loudly, the sound jarring and out of place. JJ straightened, nodding once like he was forcing himself back into reality. “Yeah,” he said after a beat. “You’re right.” He offered you a small, crooked smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Guess I owed you a better birthday moment than… moral panic in the kitchen.” That earned a weak smile from you. “I’ll survive,” you said. “I always do.”

He hesitated, then leaned in just enough to rest his forehead briefly against yours, a quiet apology wrapped in the gesture. “Happy birthday,” he said again, softer this time. When he pulled away and slipped back toward the door, leaving you alone with your thoughts and your untouched drink, you couldn’t tell which hurt more—the kiss, or the fact that it felt like a goodbye you’d been postponing for years.

When he left the kitchen, the silence rushed back in to take his place, thicker now that you were alone with your thoughts. They weren’t as jumbled as you expected—still sharp, still uncomfortable, but clearer. Your body knew what just happened wasn’t good, even if the part of you that had loved JJ for most of your life was screaming that this was exactly what you’d been wishing on candles and shooting stars for years. A simple kiss. Not reckless, not secretive in some dark room—just him murmuring happy birthday, sugar like it had lived in his head as long as it had lived in yours. Gentle. Earnest. The kind of thing you used to think would change everything.

And maybe you would’ve let it deepen. Maybe you would’ve followed him somewhere quieter, let the night stretch and soften and pretend, just for a few hours, that the world would allow it. If it weren’t for Kiara. And—much harder to swallow—if it weren’t for Rafe. Because no matter how much you told yourself you hated him, his face kept intruding, uninvited and vivid, slipping into your thoughts like it belonged there.

Your mind betrayed you by comparing: JJ’s careful hesitation against the way Rafe never hesitated at all, the way Rafe’s hand fit against your jaw like it was muscle memory, the way his kisses shifted between desperate and lazy depending on the night, the mood, the fight beforehand. You hated that comparison. Hated that it even existed. Hated that the kiss you’d waited years for felt… quieter.

That realization sat heavier than the guilt. You were guilty—you’d kissed your best friend’s boyfriend, even if only for a heartbeat—but it felt worse knowing your heart didn’t do what it was supposed to do. Worse knowing that some part of you had measured JJ against someone you weren’t supposed to be thinking about at all. You swallowed it all down with a mouthful of vodka-orange juice, grabbed your cup, and stepped back outside, letting the noise and lights swallow you before you could think too hard about it.

The string lights felt blinding after the dim kitchen, laughter crashing back into you in uneven waves. People were still lingering, still celebrating like the night hadn’t cracked open for you at all. Your eyes betrayed you immediately, finding JJ without effort. He was beside Kiara, head bent to whisper something into her ear, smirk easy and familiar, like nothing had happened. Like the kitchen had never existed. You looked away before the ache in your chest could sharpen, forcing yourself to breathe, to move.

Sarah found you quickly, clearly past the point of subtlety, arms wrapping around you as she grinned. “There she is,” she announced, loud and proud. “The birthday girl survived.” John B and Pope followed close behind, mid-argument about a beer pong game they apparently won “in your honor,” and for a while—almost half an hour—the night steadied itself again. Cards were passed around, someone shoved a plastic tiara onto your head after a winning round, and you even laughed, real laughter, the kind that didn’t feel forced.

When you stood to grab another beer, adjusting the crooked tiara as you did, you barely took two steps before someone moved into your path. The shift in the air was immediate, like the music dipped just enough for you to notice the change.

“Wow,” came the familiar voice from directly in front of you, low and edged with something sharp. “How heartwarming.” Rafe stepped into your path, the music and chatter dimming around him like the world knew to give you space. “The party too,” he added, eyes dragging from your face to your mouth and back again, accusatory in a way that made your stomach drop.

Your realization came a beat too late, heavy and unwelcome. He’d seen it. Or enough of it. Your jaw tightened as you straightened, instinctively aware of who might be watching. “Not here,” you muttered, stepping closer so your words wouldn’t carry. “What do you want, Rafe?”

He let out a humorless laugh, leaning in just enough to look intimate without actually touching you. “You always say that,” he replied quietly. “Funny how that rule only applies to me.” You bristled, eyes flicking past him to the crowd. “You don’t get to do this,” you hissed. “Not tonight.”

“Didn’t stop you,” he shot back, voice dropping even lower. “Didn’t seem to mind breaking a few rules yourself.” Your chest tightened. “You don’t know what you saw.” He tilted his head, eyes hard now. “I know enough.” There was a pause, stretched thin. “Guess I just wanted to know,” he continued, softer but no less cutting, “if that was part of the celebration too.”

You swallowed, anger flaring hot. “You don’t get to question me,” you said, a strange sense of guilt twisting in your chest.

Something flickered across his face—frustration, something wounded—and he straightened, jaw working. “Right,” he muttered. “Semantics.” Then, quieter, just for you: “Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me, angelface.”

“This isn’t about you,” you snapped. “So don’t make it that.” He laughed under his breath, humorless. “Everything with you ends up being about me eventually,” he replied quietly. “Or maybe I just notice when you look like you’re trying to convince yourself of something.” That made you falter, just for a second, and he saw it. His gaze softened a fraction—not kinder, but more dangerous. “Enjoy your party,” he added quietly. “Happy birthday, by the way.”

Then he stepped back, melting into the noise and lights like he’d never stopped the night at all, leaving you standing there with your drink, your tiara, and the uncomfortable certainty that the day wasn’t done with you yet.

Rafe didn’t walk away far—just far enough to look like he had, to anyone paying half attention. He stopped near the edge of the pool, back half-turned to the crowd, shoulders tense in a way you recognized too well. The music swelled again, laughter filling the space he left behind, but it all felt artificial now, like someone had turned the saturation up too high. You stood there for a second longer than necessary, pulse thudding, before forcing yourself to move past him toward the cooler, hands shaking just enough that you cursed under your breath.

You cracked open a beer you didn’t really want and took a long sip anyway, mostly to give yourself something to do with your mouth. When you straightened again, Rafe was watching you over the rim of his own cup, eyes unreadable, expression locked into that lazy composure he wore like armor. You hated how easily he slipped into it. Hated how easily it got under your skin. “Relax,” he said when you caught his gaze, voice pitched casual, like you weren’t standing on a fault line. “I’m not gonna cause a scene. It’s your birthday.” The way he said it made it sound like a concession rather than kindness.

You scoffed quietly, stepping closer so your words wouldn’t carry. “You already did,” you replied. “You didn’t have to say anything.” His mouth twitched. “Didn’t say much,” he countered. “Just pointing out the obvious.” You shook your head, anger and something more fragile tangling in your chest. His jaw tightened at your guilty silence and the slight slur in your words, eyes flicking briefly toward where JJ and Kiara were laughing with Sarah. “You think this is easy for me?” he asked quietly. “Watching you pretend like I don’t exist?”

“That’s not what I’m doing,” you shot back. “I’m trying to survive tonight without blowing up my life.”

He laughed under his breath again, shaking his head “Yeah,” he said. “Funny how that never includes me.” The words lingered between you, heavy, before he exhaled and looked away, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “Look,” he added, lower now. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I know that. I just—” He stopped himself, shaking his head. “Doesn’t matter.”

It mattered, though. You could feel it in the way the night no longer fit the way it had half an hour ago, in the way your chest ached with things left unsaid. “You don’t get to disappear and then reappear just to remind me you’re watching,” you said, voice quieter but no less firm. He met your eyes again, something raw slipping through the cracks this time. “Then stop giving me things to watch,” he replied.

Before you could answer, Sarah’s voice rang out from across the pool, calling your name again, bright and insistent. You flinched, the spell breaking. Rafe stepped back instinctively, distance snapping into place like it always did. “Go,” he said, already retreating into that familiar detachment. “Be the birthday girl.” You hesitated, then turned away, heart heavy, knowing you’d both return to your roles for the rest of the night.

And there it was—that familiar, low-slung ache of guilt you knew far better than you ever knew how to stay angry. It settled in your chest with practiced ease, tightening every time your eyes found Rafe again, lingering at the edges of the scene like he couldn’t quite force himself to leave it. The way he hovered made you feel exposed, like you’d been caught doing something you weren’t supposed to, something quietly unforgivable. And maybe kissing JJ was wrong—with Kiara existing in the equation like a hard, undeniable truth—but so was being in love with him in the first place, and no one had ever handed you a rulebook for that. Rafe of all people wasn’t one to surround himself with morally righteous choices, and you knew that better than anyone who smiled at him from across a pool.

No—this wasn’t about judgment. It never was with him. You could see it too clearly in the way his eyes flickered when they met yours, that sharp, almost juvenile spark of hurt, like a kid realizing too late that the person he wanted picked someone else for the swing set. Like you’d betrayed him specifically in those few seconds you’d let yourself kiss JJ back, rewrote something without asking permission. You’d both gone off-script, somewhere along the way. The careful routine you’d built—keeping your nights with Rafe sealed off from your daylight with the pogues—had dissolved quietly, insidiously, somewhere between prolonged eye contact that lingered too long after sleeping together and him washing your hair after shower sex. Things that felt dangerously domestic. Things that didn’t belong in something that was supposed to be temporary.

You hadn’t even noticed when you started getting reckless with it. Texting him when things went quiet on the HMS, when JJ was distracted and Kiara was asleep against the rail. Catching yourself staring at Sarah a second too long because her smile curved the same way his did. Letting Rafe exist in spaces he was never meant to occupy. And now—now your stomach churned unpleasantly as you made your way back toward the pogues, smile fixed in place, pulse skittering, no idea how you were supposed to slip back into the easy rhythm of the night like nothing had shifted off its axis.

JJ glanced up first when you rejoined them, brow creasing just slightly. “You good?” he asked, voice casual but eyes searching your face, before flicking to Rafe just long enough to keep you on edge. You nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Just—too much vodka,” you said, lifting your cup like proof. Kiara smiled at you, warm and unsuspecting, and the guilt flared sharper for it. Sarah slung an arm around your shoulders, laughing about something Pope had said, and you let yourself be pulled into it, the noise, the movement, the illusion of normalcy.

But you could still feel Rafe’s gaze like a weight between your shoulder blades.

Later—too late to pretend it was accidental—you felt him again, closer this time, clearly not able to allow himself not to press further. “You gonna keep pretending I’m not here?” he murmured, passing behind you under the cover of laughter and music, not looking at you as he spoke. Your breath caught. “I’m not pretending,” you whispered back, keeping your smile trained on Sarah. “I’m surviving.”

He huffed quietly, “Looks like you’re doing just fine.”

You finally turned then, just enough to catch his eye. “Don’t,” you said, barely audible. “Not tonight.” His jaw tightened, but he nodded once, sharp and controlled. “Right,” he replied. “Your night.” The words sounded like a reminder he was giving himself more than you.

As he slipped away again, swallowed by the edge of the party, you were left standing there with the awful, sinking realization that no matter how hard you tried to fold yourself back into place, something fundamental had already cracked—and it was only a matter of time before it showed.

The night softened the way it always did when people started to peel off in twos and threes, laughter fading into yawns, the music lowering from something meant to be heard to something meant to be background. Cups were abandoned along the pool’s edge, string lights swaying gently as the breeze cooled the leftover heat of the day, and you felt the slow, inevitable exhaustion settle into your bones.

Sarah was already halfway gone, her energy flickering like a dying sparkler, clinging to you and Kie both as she declared, for the fifth time, that this had been “the best birthday ever, no contest,” before John B finally convinced her it was time to get upstairs. You helped gather a few things—empty bottles, discarded towels—mostly just to give your hands something to do, your mind still too loud even as the party quieted. Every now and then your eyes flicked instinctively toward the house, toward the darkened corners of the yard, half-expecting Rafe to reappear like a bad habit you hadn’t quite kicked. He didn’t. That somehow made it worse.

By the time the last of the pogues said their goodbyes, Pope promising to text you tomorrow and JJ flashing you a grin that lingered just a second too long before Kiara tugged him away, the night felt hollowed out. The silence after them was heavy, pressing in around the pool like it was trying to make you sit with everything you’d been avoiding. Sarah looped her arm through yours as you headed inside, her steps uneven.

“You’re not driving anywhere,” she slurred lightly, pointing a finger at your chest. “You’re staying. Birthday rule.” You let out a tired laugh. “Wasn’t planning on it,” you admitted, voice softer than you meant it to be. Upstairs, her room was already dim, fairy lights casting a warm glow over the mess of clothes and makeup scattered across her vanity. She kicked off her shoes and flopped onto the bed with a groan. “I swear, I’m never drinking again,” she muttered, then immediately added, “Okay, maybe until next weekend.”

You changed quietly, borrowing one of her oversized shirts without asking—something soft and familiar that smelled faintly like her perfume and sunscreen. Sitting on the edge of the bed, you checked your phone out of habit, heart stuttering when you saw no new notifications. No message from Rafe. No follow-up. Just silence, deliberate and loud in its own way. Sarah noticed your stillness even through her haze. “Hey,” she said gently, rolling onto her side to look at you. “You okay?” You hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. Just… tired.” She studied you for a second longer, like she wanted to say more, then sighed and patted the pillow beside her. “C’mere. Tomorrow you can tell me whatever that look is about.”

You lay down beside her, staring up at the ceiling as the house finally settled, every sound amplified in the quiet—the distant hum of the fridge, the soft creak of wood as it cooled. Sarah was asleep within minutes, breathing slow and even, one arm thrown over your waist like an anchor.

You let your eyes close, exhaustion eventually outweighing the noise in your head, but even as sleep tugged at you, your thoughts drifted back to the night—to JJ’s hesitant smile, to Rafe’s wounded stare, to the way everything felt just slightly off-kilter now. Tanny Hill had always felt like borrowed space, like somewhere you passed through but never stayed.

Despite the way your head was spinning, your body heavy with the kind of exhaustion that should’ve knocked you out instantly, sleep refused to come. You lay there staring at the faint glow of fairy lights on Sarah’s ceiling, every thought circling back to the same place until it made your chest feel tight. The knowledge that Rafe was under the same roof, breathing the same recycled air, and that none of it had been said out loud gnawed at you relentlessly.

The hurt in his eyes replayed itself on a loop—too sharp, too personal to be brushed off as just another messy moment between you. This silence was different from the ones you’d grown used to, the comfortable, unspoken agreements that followed nights tangled together, when neither of you reached out because that was the rule. This one felt unfinished, like a sentence cut off mid-word.

Eventually, you gave up. You carefully untangled yourself from the mess of blankets and Sarah’s arm draped over your waist, moving with clumsy gentleness, bare feet whispering against the wooden floor. She shifted and mumbled something incoherent as you slid free, but didn’t wake. You stood there for a second, steadying yourself, then slipped out into the hallway and pulled the door shut behind you, heart already beating too fast for no real reason.

You didn’t actually know where you were headed—maybe the kitchen for water, maybe straight to Rafe’s room, maybe nowhere at all—but when you lifted your gaze down the dim corridor, the universe finally seemed to blink in your favor. Rafe was stepping out of his room at the same time, shoulders tight, movements jerky as he fumbled with his lock like he’d already lost patience with it. He looked wired and closed-off, the way he did when he’d had too much to drink or too many lines alone with his thoughts.

He didn’t see you at first. And then he did—but only for a fraction of a second, eyes skimming past you as if looking any longer might crack something open. He walked by without stopping, jaw set, like he was actively choosing not to acknowledge you. Panic flared before you could stop it. “Where are you going?” The question slipped out shakier than you meant it to, your feet carrying you forward on instinct as he reached the top of the stairs. He paused, just barely, shoulders stiffening.

“Out,” he muttered, not turning around, the word clipped and final like it was all he was willing to give. The dismissal stung more than you expected. “Rafe,” you pressed, following him down the stairs anyway, one hand grazing the banister to keep your balance. “It’s— it’s late.” He let out a quiet, humorless scoff, finally glancing back at you as you reached the bottom step, eyes unreadable in the low light. “Didn’t stop you earlier,” he said flatly, and the words landed with enough weight to make you stop short.

Outside, the night air was cool and damp, sobering in the worst way. He headed toward the driveway without waiting to see if you were keeping up, lighting a cigarette with hands that shook just enough to be noticeable. You trailed after him, barefoot on the concrete, feeling a little stupid and a little desperate all at once.

“You’re just gonna leave?” you asked quietly. He exhaled smoke through his nose, eyes fixed ahead. “Didn’t say that,” he replied, nonchalant to the point of cruelty. “Just need air.” You swallowed, hugging your arms around yourself as you stopped a few feet away from him. “You didn’t even look at me,” you said, the need to be seen bleeding through your voice despite your efforts to keep it casual.

“Don’t need to,” he murmured, the words thrown over his shoulder like an afterthought. “I already know how gorgeous and bitchy you look.” The comment should’ve sounded lazy, teasing, but his voice was too clipped, too tight around the edges for the nonchalance to be anything but a lie. He kept walking as if he hadn’t said anything at all, long strides crunching against the gravel, lifting the cigarette to his mouth and inhaling like the smoke was the only thing keeping him stitched together. You followed without thinking, barefoot and slightly unsteady, the cool stones biting into the soles of your feet as if to remind you that this wasn’t a dream, that you were really trailing after him like this.

When he reached his truck and veered toward the driver’s side, you stopped just in front of it, forcing him to either acknowledge you or walk straight into you. He chose the former, halting short with a sharp exhale, eyes flicking down to you before dragging back up like he was taking stock of the damage.

“What are you doing?” he asked quietly, not unkind, but guarded, like he already knew the answer and didn’t want to hear it anyway. You shrugged, the motion small and defensive. “Talking to you,” you said, too honestly. “You kinda made that hard upstairs.”

He scoffed under his breath, tapping ash onto the gravel and leaning back against the side of the truck, metal creaking softly under his weight. “Yeah, well. I figured you had enough conversations for one night,” he replied, gaze drifting pointedly back toward the house, toward the dark windows and the people inside who didn’t know a thing about the way your chest tightened at the implication.

“That’s not fair,” you said, stepping closer despite yourself, arms wrapping around your middle. “You didn’t even let me explain.” He laughed then, another short and clipped sound, shaking his head as he looked down at the cigarette between his fingers. “Explain what?” he shot back, finally meeting your eyes again. “That it didn’t mean anything? Or that it did, but just not enough?” The words weren’t loud, but they cut deeper than shouting ever could. You opened your mouth, then closed it again, frustration bubbling up as your throat tightened. “It wasn’t like that,” you insisted, voice wavering just slightly. “And you know it.”

He studied you for a long second, eyes searching your face like he was trying to decide whether to believe you or not, jaw flexing as he worked his tongue against the inside of his cheek. “I don’t know anything,” he said finally, pushing off the truck and dropping the cigarette under his boot. “That’s kinda the problem.” He stepped closer too now, close enough that you could smell the smoke and the familiar clean edge of his cologne, his presence filling the space between you in a way that made your pulse spike. “You disappear on me all day, I walk in and see that, and I’m just supposed to… what? Pretend it doesn’t get under my skin?” His voice dropped at the end, frustration bleeding through despite his best efforts to keep it contained.

You shook your head slowly. “I didn’t disappear on you,” you said, softer now. “You didn’t come looking.” That made him flinch, just barely, like the words landed somewhere tender. He let out a breath through his nose, eyes dropping to the gravel between your feet. “Maybe I didn’t think I was allowed to,” he muttered.

The admission hung between you, fragile and unsteady. You took another step closer, close enough now that your toes brushed his boot. “Rafe,” you said quietly, his name a plea whether you meant it to be or not. He looked back up at you, something raw flickering across his face before he masked it again, shoulders squaring as if bracing for impact. “Don’t,” he warned softly. “Not like that. Not if you’re gonna make this harder than it already is.”

You didn’t know if it was the alcohol still buzzing through your veins or the way his shoulders went rigid, but something in his tone felt final, like a door being shut carefully but with intent. Not slammed—worse than that. Like he’d already decided to step back before you even realized you were losing ground.

He turned toward the driver’s side, keys already in his hand, and the sight sent a sharp spike of panic straight through your chest. “I didn’t kiss him!” you blurted, the words tumbling out too fast, your voice shaking as your hands came down against the front of his truck—not hard, just enough to stop him, to anchor him there for one more second.

He froze. The night seemed to hold its breath with him, the distant music from the house fading into something dull and far away. Slowly, he turned back to look at you, brow furrowing like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right. “What?” he asked, flat, guarded. You swallowed, throat tight, fingers curling against the cool metal beneath your palms. “I didn’t,” you repeated, softer but firmer now. “I pulled away. Before it—before anything happened.” You watched his face closely as you spoke, the way his jaw clenched, the way his eyes searched yours like he was trying to find the lie hidden between the lines.

He scoffed under his breath, running a hand through his hair, pacing a step away before stopping again. “I saw you,” he said quietly. “Don’t do that. Don’t tell me I didn’t see what I saw.” You shook your head immediately, stepping toward him again despite the way he instinctively leaned back. “You saw a moment,” you shot back, frustration creeping into your voice. “Not the whole thing. Not how wrong it felt. Not how fast I stopped it.” Your chest rose and fell unevenly, emotion bleeding through every word. “You think I’d stand there and lie to your face about that?”

His silence stretched, heavy and uncomfortable. He looked away again, staring out into the dark like it might offer him clarity. “He’s with Kiara,” he muttered, almost to himself. “And you’re—” He cut himself off, exhaling sharply. “This is exactly why I didn’t wanna do this.” That hit harder than you expected, your stomach dropping. “Do what?” you asked, quieter now. “Care?”

He turned back to you at that, eyes flashing. “Don’t put words in my mouth,” he said, though the bite in his tone was dulled by something dangerously close to hurt.

You stepped closer again, close enough that there was barely any space left between you. “Then tell me what you meant,” you said, voice trembling despite your effort to steady it. “Because right now it feels like you’re already leaving.” He looked down at you, really looked this time, and for a second the mask cracked—just enough for you to see the conflict underneath. “I don’t know how to do this halfway,” he admitted finally, voice low. “And I don’t know how to stand there and watch you almost choose someone else and pretend it doesn’t tear something up inside me.” His words hung between you, raw and unpolished, and your chest ached at the honesty of them.

“I didn’t choose him,” you said immediately. “I came after you, didn’t I?” He huffed out a humorless laugh. “Yeah,” he replied. “You did.” His gaze softened just a fraction, thumb worrying at the edge of his keys. “That’s the problem.”

You opened your mouth to protest again, the words already lining up on your tongue, but he didn’t give you the chance. His gaze softened for half a heartbeat before twisting again, something wounded flashing across his face like he hated himself for letting it show. “You came after me because you know you can’t have him,” he said, voice low but sharp enough to cut. The way he emphasized me sounded like it physically hurt him, like he was pressing on a bruise he refused to admit existed.

“The whole premise of… us,” he continued, gesturing vaguely between the two of you, “was that you were in love with him and couldn’t have him ‘cause of Kiara. That’s how this started. And now you’re trying to play damage control. Trying to salvage what you know you can have.” His jaw clenched, eyes never leaving yours. “Which is me.”

The words hit you harder than you expected, knocking the breath out of your lungs in a way the alcohol hadn’t managed to. “That’s not—” you started, but your voice faltered, frustration and panic tangling together. You shook your head, stepping closer despite the way he stiffened instinctively. “You think I came after you because you were… convenient?” you asked incredulously, hurt seeping through your tone. “You think I don’t know how fucked up that sounds?” Your hands curled into fists at your sides, nails biting into your palms like you needed the grounding. “If this was about having something easy, Rafe, I wouldn’t be standing here barefoot at four in the morning begging you to talk to me.”

He scoffed, turning his head away again, staring out over the dark stretch of lawn like it might offer him an answer. “You don’t get it,” he muttered. “You never do.” That stung, sharp and unfair, and you felt it flare in your chest.

“Then explain it to me,” you snapped, voice cracking despite your best effort to keep it steady. “Because from where I’m standing, it feels like you’ve already decided what I am to you, and you’re punishing me for it.” He looked back at you then, really looked, eyes dark and unreadable. “I’m not punishing you,” he said quietly. “I’m protecting myself.”

You laughed softly, bitter and tired, the sound wobbling on its way out. “By walking away?” you asked. “By pretending this doesn’t mean anything?” He flinched at that, just barely, and it told you everything. You took another step closer, lowering your voice. “I didn’t stop that kiss because of Kiara,” you admitted, the truth burning on your tongue. “I stopped it because it didn’t feel right. Because all I could think about was you.” His breath hitched, subtle but unmistakable, and his grip tightened around his keys. “You don’t get to decide my intentions for me,” you continued, eyes shining. “And you don’t get to reduce whatever this is to something I’m settling for.”

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The night pressed in around you, heavy with things neither of you seemed ready to say out loud. Finally, he exhaled slowly, shoulders slumping just a little, like the fight had gone out of him. “You make it really hard to leave,” he admitted, voice rough. You swallowed hard, heart thudding painfully in your chest. “Then don’t,” you said softly. “Not like this.”

He stayed where he was, keys still clenched in his fist, shoulders tense like he was bracing for impact even though you weren’t touching him. The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable, broken only by the faint sound of cicadas drifting from the marsh.

Rafe dragged a hand down his face, frustration etched into every sharp line of him. “You don’t understand what you’re asking,” he said finally, voice low and strained. “If I don’t leave right now, I’m not gonna be able to pretend this doesn’t get under my skin.” He glanced at you again, jaw flexing. “And that’s a problem.”

You shook your head, a humorless smile tugging at your lips. “Since when do you pretend?” you asked quietly. “You’ve never been good at that.” You took a cautious step closer, close enough that you could smell the smoke clinging to him, the familiar cologne underneath it that made your chest ache. “I’m not asking you to forgive me for something I didn’t do,” you added. “I’m asking you to stop deciding I’m the villain in a story you helped write.”

He huffed out a short laugh, but there was no amusement in it. “Helped write?” he repeated, incredulous. “You walked into my life already in love with someone else. You made that real clear.” His eyes searched your face like he was looking for cracks, for proof. “I knew what I was signing up for. Doesn’t mean I like how it feels now.” He looked away again, shaking his head. “Seeing you with him—” He stopped himself, lips pressing together. “Doesn’t matter if you kissed him or not. The fact that I even had to ask myself that makes me feel fucking stupid.”

Your throat tightened, guilt curling low in your stomach. “I never wanted to make you feel that way,” you said, voice softer now. “And I’m not asking you to be okay with it overnight. I just—” You hesitated, then forced the words out. “I don’t want you to disappear on me because you’re scared of wanting more.”

His gaze snapped back to you at that, sharp and defensive. “Don’t psychoanalyze me,” he snapped. “You don’t get to pull that card.”

“Then stop acting like this doesn’t matter,” you shot back, matching his tone despite the tremor in your hands. “Because it does. You do.” The words hung between you, fragile and exposed. He stared at you for a long moment, chest rising and falling faster now, like he was fighting himself. Finally, he muttered, “You make everything complicated,” but there was something tired in it, something close to honesty. You swallowed, nodding once. “Yeah,” you said softly. “I know. So do you.”

You could feel it in the way his body stayed angled toward the truck, keys still clenched in his fist like an anchor, like if he loosened his grip even a little he’d cave and do something he’d regret. A part of you hated how small you felt in that moment, how desperate it made you to be the one asking him to stay, to smooth this over, to keep him tethered to you when you’d spent so long pretending you didn’t care if he walked away.

Scared, more than anything, of finally admitting to yourself that Rafe mattered, that he wasn’t just some kook you slept with in secret and tried not to think about in daylight. “Don’t leave…” you said quietly, the words slipping out before you could stop them, your voice trailing off as you fought the urge to add a please you weren’t sure he’d survive hearing.

The night pressed in around you, humid and heavy, cicadas buzzing somewhere in the dark, your head spinning in an unpleasant way. Maybe it was the alcohol still swimming in your veins, or the weight of your birthday sitting ugly in your chest, but the feeling was achingly familiar—too close to that night on the beach when you were sixteen, when the loss of your dad had lodged itself between your ribs and refused to move. That same hollow panic, that same fear of being left behind without warning. Maybe that was what had your fingers curling into the hem of your shirt now, what made the thought of Rafe driving away feel unbearable in a way you didn’t want to examine too closely.

Rafe exhaled slowly, shoulders dropping just a fraction like your words had knocked the wind out of him. He didn’t turn right away, just stood there staring at the side of his truck, jaw tight, thumb worrying at the edge of the key fob. “You can’t say it like that,” he muttered finally, voice rough. “Like I’m the bad guy for needing some space.” He glanced back at you then, eyes sharp but tired, conflicted in a way you didn’t see often. “You don’t get to pull me back every time I try to walk away.”

“I’m not trying to trap you,” you said quickly, stepping closer without realizing it, bare feet scuffing against the gravel. “I just—this feels like you’re punishing me for something I didn’t even do.” Your voice cracked despite your efforts to keep it steady. “And yeah, maybe I am selfish for not wanting you to leave, but I don’t think I can pretend this doesn’t hurt just to make it easier for you.”

He ran a hand through his hair, frustration bleeding through the gesture. “You think this is easy for me?” he snapped, then caught himself, tone dropping again. “I’m trying not to blow up in front of your friends. I’m trying not to say something I can’t take back.” His eyes flicked to the house and then back to you. “You don’t see it, but you have this way of making me feel like I’m always one step behind, like I’m the fallback option when everything else gets messy.”

“That’s not fair,” you said softly. “You’re not a fallback. You’re—” You stopped yourself, swallowing hard, the rest of the sentence too dangerous to finish. “You matter to me,” you settled on instead, quieter but honest. “More than I let on. And I know I’ve been shitty about that.”

For a long moment, he didn’t say anything. The keys jingled faintly as his grip finally loosened, his shoulders slumping as if the fight drained out of him all at once. “You don’t make this easy,” he said again, but this time it sounded less like an accusation and more like a confession. He turned to face you fully now, eyes searching your face. “I don’t know how to do this halfway,” he muttered again, as if he was ashamed of the admission. “And I don’t know how to protect myself from wanting more than you’re ready to give.”

You shook your head, teeth worrying at the inside of your cheek like the intimacy of the moment could be undone if you focused hard enough on the dull sting. “I just…” you trailed off, the words collapsing under their own weight, and you took a step back before your body betrayed you and reached for him out of habit. “Explaining myself right now is more than I could give you in these four months,” you admitted quietly, a tired honesty bleeding through the alcohol-softened edges of your voice.

“I didn’t want you to leave thinking I was gonna discard you now that JJ decided to act on his feelings,” you rushed on, the explanation tumbling out fast and uneven, like if you didn’t get it all out now you’d lose the nerve. “I didn’t kiss him. He kissed me and I—” you inhaled sharply, chest rising like you’d just run uphill. “It felt wrong,” you whisper-shouted, frustration cracking through. “And you think I’m just settling for the convenient option when you’re not that anymore. Haven’t been for a long time.”

The silence that followed stretched thin and painful, the night pressing closer as if it was listening. You could feel tears threatening at the corners of your eyes, hot and humiliating, a reminder that you were unraveling in front of someone who still looked like he was halfway out the door. You lifted a hand toward his truck, the gesture loose and defeated. “You can go,” you said softly. “I just didn’t want you leaving still thinking I was the villain here, trapping you in second place when there’s no first place anymore.” Your shoulders lifted in a weak shrug as you stared past him, fighting not to blink. “It’s just you.”

Rafe didn’t move right away. His jaw worked like he was grinding his teeth, eyes fixed on you with something raw and unguarded flickering behind them. “You don’t get to say that like it doesn’t mean something,” he muttered finally, voice low. “You drop that on me and then tell me I can go?” He shook his head, a humorless huff escaping him. “You’re really bad at letting people leave, you know that?”

He took a step closer, then stopped himself, hands flexing at his sides like he didn’t trust them. “You think I don’t know I’m not convenient anymore?” he asked, quieter now. “That’s the problem. I stopped being convenient and started being… this.” He gestured vaguely between the two of you. “Something that gets under my skin. Something I can’t just turn off.”

Your gaze finally lifted to meet his, tears glassing your eyes despite your best efforts. “I didn’t ask you to feel that way,” you said, voice small but steady. “But I’m done pretending I don’t either.”

That did it. He exhaled slowly, shoulders sagging as the tension seemed to drain out of him all at once. “Fuck,” he murmured, running a hand down his face. “You really know how to mess with my head.” His eyes softened when they landed back on you, lingering on the way your hands trembled slightly at your sides. “I don’t think you’re evil,” he said at last. “I think you’re scared. And selfish sometimes. And confusing as hell.” A beat. “But not that.”

“Of course I’m scared,” you muttered, your gaze flicking away on instinct as if eye contact alone might make this too real, too heavy to hold. Your arms wrapped around your middle defensively, thumbs digging into your ribs. “This—” you gestured between the two of you, the space charged and fragile, “—I mean, you spent your whole life acting like you’re better than me and my friends. I’m just scared you’ll turn around one day and… I don’t know. Drop the act. Stop allowing me all this.” Your voice wavered despite your attempt to keep it steady. “All the bitching, all the comfort you let me take without ever asking for anything back.”

He laughed then, but not sharply, not cruelly—more like he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. It startled you, the sound warm and almost fond, and he looked away as he did it, tongue pressing to the inside of his cheek like he was biting back entire paragraphs. “I am better than your friends,” he said plainly, the words delivered with that familiar Rafe bluntness, the same tone he used when he was needling the Pogues about class and territory and lines drawn in the sand since childhood. “Not just because they’re from the Cut or because they work shitty jobs. I just am.”

Your brows furrowed, a reflexive response, but you didn’t snap back. Something in the way he said it—too calm, too detached—kept you quiet. His gaze drifted back to you then, and whatever smugness you were bracing for never came. Instead, his eyes were soft, almost careful, like he was handling something that could shatter if he pushed too hard.

“So that’s why you…” you started slowly, suspicion creeping in despite yourself. “Because you think you’re better than me? Like some fucked up power play?” Your head tilted as you studied him, searching for the angle, the trick. His hands came up before you could step back, cradling your face gently but firmly, thumbs pressing into your cheeks just enough to force your attention back to him, to keep you from slipping away into your head.

“No, angel,” he said quietly, simply, and he held your gaze for a long moment before continuing. “You really think I’d allow you all that if I thought I was better than you?” His thumbs shifted slightly, grounding, steady. “All the pestering. You tearing through my life, not sparing a single good thing I had before stomping all over it and still somehow putting me in second place while you’re at it?” A breath left him, rough but controlled. “You think I’d let you do that if I looked down on you?”

His hands didn’t leave your face when he shook his head, slow and deliberate. “Not you,” he said, voice lower now, stripped of bravado. “Never you. Never once have I thought I was better than you.”

The words settled heavy in the space between you, and suddenly the years made sense in a way that made your chest ache. The way he’d always been there on the edges—too sharp, too loud, too much—but watching. The way his cruelty never quite landed on you the same way it did on everyone else. The way he’d orbit without ever stepping fully in, like he was afraid of being seen wanting something he wasn’t supposed to have.

He dropped his hands then, but he stayed close. “You don’t see it,” he added quietly, almost to himself. “You never did. You were always too busy surviving, too busy being… you.” His mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “I just learned early on that if I stood too close, I’d get burned. So I stayed loud. Stayed arrogant. Stayed everywhere else.”

His eyes lifted back to yours, unguarded now in a way that felt more dangerous than any anger. “Letting you take from me isn’t charity,” he said. “It’s the only way I’ve ever known how to keep you close without asking for something you didn’t know how to give.”

The night felt quieter after that, like even the crickets had paused. And for the first time, the fear twisting in your chest wasn’t just about being left—it was about realizing how long he’d been standing there, waiting, without ever demanding you turn around and look at him.

He swallowed, jaw tightening like he’d said more than he planned to, and for a moment you thought he might retreat again—lock it back up, crack a joke, open the truck door and leave. Instead, his gaze drifted past you, over your shoulder, toward the dark stretch of Tanny Hill and the house looming behind you, like the past was laid out there whether he wanted it or not.

“Do you remember the dock behind the old bait shop?” he asked suddenly, voice quieter now, almost careful. “Before they tore it down. You were—what—ten? Maybe eleven.” His lips twitched faintly, the memory tugging at something softer. “You had that ugly yellow life vest on. Too big for you. Thing damn near swallowed you.”

You frowned, the image surfacing slowly. “I fell in,” you said, uncertain. “Everyone laughed.”

He nodded once. “Yeah. You did.” A breath left him through his nose, something like a huff. “But before that—before you slipped—you were standing there arguing with that old fisherman about how knots worked. Like you knew better than a guy who’d been doing it for fifty years.” His eyes flicked back to you, fond despite himself. “You were so serious about it. So pissed he wouldn’t listen.”

Your chest tightened.

“I remember thinking,” he continued, voice low, “that you were the bravest person I’d ever seen. Not loud. Not trying to be anything. Just… stubborn. Refusing to back down even when you were clearly out of your depth.” He paused, fingers flexing at his side. “Then you fell in, and everyone laughed, and I remember being so mad about it. Not at you. At them.”

You stared at him, heart thudding.

“I jumped in after you,” he added, like it was an afterthought. “Didn’t even think about it. Got yelled at by my dad for ruining my shoes.” He scoffed quietly. “Worth it.”

You remembered then—the cold water, the panic, the way someone’s arms had wrapped around you and hauled you back up onto the dock, spluttering and embarrassed and furious at the tears burning your eyes. You’d never really looked at who it was. Just a blur of blond hair and sharp words and hands steadying you until you stopped shaking.

“You told me not to cry,” you murmured.

His mouth curved faintly. “Yeah. Told you crying pissed me off.” He shook his head. “Real smooth, Cameron.”

Silence stretched between you again, but this time it wasn’t sharp. It was full. Heavy with years you’d lived side by side without ever lining up the memories the same way.

“That was the first time,” he said quietly. “Not the first time I noticed you. Just the first time I knew I was screwed.” He glanced down, then back up, eyes steady. “You’ve always had this way of walking straight into things that scare you. And I—” He exhaled. “I’ve spent most of my life trying to control everything. People. Outcomes. Myself.”

His gaze softened, almost rueful. “You were never something I could control. So I stayed close enough to watch. Close enough to catch you if you fell again.”

The keys were still in his hand, but they hung loose now, forgotten. And standing there in the cool night air, with the house behind you and the past stretched out between you like a tide line, it finally clicked—not as a confession, not as a demand, but as something quieter and more devastating.

He hadn’t been circling you for four months.

He’d been doing it for years.

It gutted you even more, sharpened the dull sting of guilt that had been sitting in your chest all night, the kind that didn’t burn hot but ached steadily, relentlessly. The realization that he’d let you believe he was thriving off the crumbs you left behind—late-night texts, bodies tangled in the dark, moments you convinced yourself were disposable—felt cruel in hindsight. Especially knowing that to him, those crumbs had weight. Meaning. That getting to have you, even briefly, even under stupid, messy, childish circumstances, wasn’t casual in the slightest. It was something he’d been careful with in a way you hadn’t noticed because you didn’t know to look.

Your silence seemed to please him. Not in a smug way—more like he liked watching the gears turn behind your eyes, liked knowing you were finally trying to line up the version of him you thought you knew with the one standing in front of you now. He knew you’d never fully understand it, never feel the exact gravity of his side of things, but the attempt mattered. After a beat, he spoke again, brows pinching together as if he wasn’t quite sure where to place his feet in the past without tripping over it.

“I had this slingshot,” he started, voice low, almost distant. “Something I begged my dad to let me win at the fair. Supposedly for Sarah.” A humorless breath left him. “Of course, she scrunched up her face and said she’d rather play with her brand new dollhouse.”

You huffed softly despite yourself, and he glanced at you, the corner of his mouth twitching before he looked away again. “I liked it,” he continued. “It was something I earned without money. No credit card, no last name attached. Just… me.” His fingers curled slightly, as if remembering the weight of it. “So I carried it everywhere. Learned tricks. Showed it off. Thought it made me special.”

His gaze dropped to the gravel, voice darkening. “One afternoon I got bored. Started launching rocks at random shit inside the house. Lamps, picture frames. Stupid kid stuff.” He paused. “Ended up chipping the handle of this vase my dad’s grandma owned. Old. Ugly. Apparently priceless.”

Your stomach sank.

“I panicked,” he admitted quietly. “Didn’t want the slingshot taken away. Didn’t want the lecture. So I turned it just right, figured no one would notice.” A bitter smile tugged at his lips. “The maid found it while dusting. Told my dad. At first he thought she broke it.”

His jaw tightened, teeth grinding. “She was scared. Thought she’d lose her job. So she told him she’d seen me messing around with it.” He inhaled slowly, steadying himself. “He called me into his office that night. Started talking about responsibility. About class. About how men like us don’t blame the help.”

You could already see it, the room, the desk too big for a child.

“He slapped me,” Rafe said flatly. “Not a warning. Not a tap. A real slap. Like you’d hit another grown man.” His hand lifted unconsciously to his jaw, fingers brushing skin like it still remembered. “I didn’t cry. Didn’t make a sound.”

Your chest ached.

“My mom found me at the top of the stairs later,” he went on, voice softer now. “She kept saying it wasn’t my fault. Ran her fingers through my hair like she was trying to memorize me.” His eyes flicked away. “That was the day before she left.”

The words settled heavy between you, and for a second all you could hear was the distant hum of the island at night.

“A few days later,” he continued quietly, “I saw you. You were sitting on the steps outside my house. Your dad had left after another fight with your mom. Temporary, everyone said.” He scoffed faintly. “You were younger than me. Still had those old sneakers with the busted soles. Dirt on your knees.”

You swallowed.

“And I remember thinking…” He shook his head slowly. “It felt less lonely. Seeing you there. Like maybe it wasn’t just me. Didn’t matter that your mom scrubbed my floors. Didn’t matter that we came from opposite sides of the same damn island.” His eyes lifted to yours then, unguarded. “We were both waiting for someone who didn’t come back the way they were supposed to.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was reverent. You stepped closer without realizing, toes brushing his shoe.

“So when I tell you I never thought I was better than you,” he said quietly, “I mean it. You were the first person who ever made me feel like I wasn’t alone in this place. Like I wasn’t the only one pretending everything was fine.”

His voice dropped, almost careful. “And I guess I never really stopped holding onto that.”

He didn’t say anything after that, just reached for your hand like it was the most natural thing in the world, fingers warm and familiar as if they’d been doing this for years and had simply forgotten. He led you quietly up the side path, gravel crunching softly beneath your bare feet, every step deliberate, careful. The house loomed ahead, all white columns and dark windows, asleep and unaware. He paused at the door, glancing back at you with something unreadable in his eyes—half warning, half invitation—before easing it open, slow enough that the hinge didn’t dare betray him.

Inside, the air was cooler, heavier, carrying the faint scent of salt and expensive cleaner. You moved through the house like ghosts, shoulders brushing as you passed down the hallway, his hand hovering at the small of your back without quite touching, guiding you away from creaky floorboards and spots he knew too well. The intimacy of it made your chest tighten more than any confession had—this quiet, practiced care, the way he kept checking behind him to make sure you were still there. When he finally pushed open his bedroom door, the click was soft, final, sealing you into a space that felt untouched by time.

His room was dim, moonlight spilling in through the window and cutting silver lines across rumpled sheets and posters that had survived every version of him. He leaned back against the door once it was closed, exhaling like he’d been holding his breath the entire walk in. “You’re okay?” he asked quietly, not looking at you yet, like he was afraid the answer might crack something open.

You nodded, setting your feet on the familiar rug, the room suddenly feeling too small and too big all at once. “Yeah,” you murmured. “Just… processing.”

A soft, almost disbelieving huff left him. “Yeah. Me too.” He finally looked at you then, eyes dark in the low light, stripped of the sharpness he wore so easily in daylight. “I didn’t plan on telling you any of that tonight.”

“I’m glad you did,” you said, and it came out steadier than you felt.

Something shifted in his expression at that—relief, maybe, or something closer to surrender. He crossed the room in a few slow steps, stopping just short of you, like he was giving you space even now. “You don’t owe me anything,” he said quietly. “Not because of tonight. Not because of… history.”

You lifted your chin, meeting his gaze. “I know.”

The silence that followed was different here. Softer. Charged. He reached out then, fingers brushing your wrist, tentative, asking without words. When you didn’t pull away, his hand curled more securely, grounding. He guided you to sit on the edge of the bed, perching beside you after a moment, shoulders nearly touching.

“I used to lie awake in this room,” he admitted, voice low, “thinking if I stayed quiet enough, nothing bad could find me. Guess I never really grew out of that.” He glanced at you, something vulnerable flickering across his face. “Feels different with you here. Every time.”

You let your shoulder lean into his, just slightly. “You don’t have to be quiet with me.”

For a second, it looked like that might undo him. He nodded once, jaw tight, and stayed there with you—no rush, no demands—just two people sitting in the dim, listening to the steady rhythm of each other’s breathing, like the night itself was finally giving him permission to rest.

You watched Rafe quietly, really watched him, like you were trying to commit his face to memory in a way you’d never allowed yourself to before. These were the same features you’d seen twisted into sneers and sharp smiles, the same mouth that had spat cruel words at you and your friends without hesitation—now calm, almost soft, painfully familiar after four months of stolen nights and half-lit rooms. You didn’t want to admit how well you knew him like this, how your familiarity hadn’t come from conversations or daylight honesty, but from watching him up close when everything else fell away.

You’d memorized him in pieces. The faint freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose, the ones you teased him about whenever you were feeling brave enough, because they made him look younger, less intimidating than he liked to pretend he was. His hair, usually left untouched when he was with you, no gel, no careful styling—just messy strands that fell into his eyes until he shoved them back impatiently. And that small scar above his left eyebrow, the one you’d traced with your thumb more than once without ever asking where it came from, because some part of you already knew the answer would circle back to Ward, to raised voices and hands that struck too hard.

You exhaled slowly, the breath trembling despite yourself. It was strange—how fearless you’d always been when it came to touching him, to pulling him closer or asking for more with nothing but your body, yet how fragile this felt now. Your voice came out softer than you meant it to, still faintly slurred from the alcohol warming your veins. “Can I kiss you?” you asked, eyes flicking to his mouth and then back up again, almost shy.

His head tilted toward you, a lazy, knowing smile tugging at his lips. “That’s new,” he murmured. “Since when do you ask?”

You swallowed, fingers curling into the hem of his shirt. “Since now.”

He studied you for a second too long, gaze sharp but unreadable, then clicked his tongue softly. “What, JJ didn’t do it right?” he teased, voice low and smug. “Gotta come check if Cameron kisses better?”

Your cheeks burned instantly. “Rafe—”

“I’m kidding,” he cut in, though his smile sharpened, jealousy flickering behind his eyes. “Mostly.” He leaned a fraction closer, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him, the quiet tension humming just under his skin. “You looked a little too comfortable with him back there.”

Your heart thudded. “You didn’t seem to mind.”

He scoffed quietly. “Doesn’t mean I liked it.” His gaze dropped to your mouth again, lingered. “Still wanna kiss me?”

You nodded, barely perceptible, and that was all it took.

He moved first, slow at the start like he was giving you one last chance to pull away, his shoulder brushing yours as he leaned in. His hand came up to your jaw, thumb pressing lightly under your chin, tilting your face toward his. When his mouth finally met yours, it wasn’t careful for long. The kiss deepened almost immediately, needy and unguarded, like he’d been holding himself back all night and finally snapped. His lips were warm, firm, moving against yours with a hunger that made your knees feel weak, breath hitching as he kissed you like he meant it.

He shifted closer without breaking it, your sides touching now at the edge of the bed, his free hand bracing against the mattress beside you as if grounding himself. You could feel the tension in him, the way he kissed you like he was afraid you might disappear if he didn’t. When he finally pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breathing was uneven.

“See?” he murmured, lips brushing yours again, softer this time. “Still mine.”

His words hung in the air between you, a claim you couldn't deny even as part of you rebelled against it. Still mine. The possessiveness in his voice sent a shiver down your spine, equal parts thrilling and terrifying. You'd started this arrangement as some twisted revenge, a way to soothe your wounded pride after JJ chose Kiara, but somewhere along the way, the lines had blurred beyond recognition.

You leaned back slightly to look at him properly, your fingers still tangled in his shirt. "And what if I don't want to be yours?" you challenged, though your voice lacked conviction.

Rafe's expression hardened almost imperceptibly, a flicker of that familiar Kook superiority crossing his features before softening again. "Too late for that," he murmured, his thumb stroking along your jawline. "You've been mine since that first night at the bonfire when you looked at me like you actually saw something beyond the 'prince of Kooks' bullshit."

Your breath caught. He wasn't wrong, though you'd never admit it. That night—three months into your secret arrangement—had been different. He'd found you crying after seeing JJ and Kiara kissing on the beach, and instead of his usual cruel remarks, he'd sat beside you in silence for ten full minutes before offering you a handkerchief that smelled faintly of expensive cologne and something uniquely Rafe.

"You were an ass that night," you said weakly.

"Always am," he agreed without apology, then surprised you by pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. "But not to you. Not anymore."

The admission hung between you, fragile and dangerous. Four months of stolen moments, of hooking up in empty guest rooms and his truck when you were supposed to be elsewhere—none of it prepared you for this honesty, this vulnerability in a man who built walls higher than the Cameron estate.

"Why me, Rafe?" you asked, the question slipping out before you could stop it. "Out of everyone, why bother with some Pogue you supposedly can't stand?"

His hand moved from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair as he studied you with an intensity that made your heart race. "Because you never looked at me like everyone else does," he said finally. "Not like I was a prize or a monster, just… Rafe. Even when you hated me, you saw me."

Before you could respond, he was kissing you again, deeper this time, pouring years of unspoken feelings into it. His other hand slid around your waist, pulling you flush against him as he deepened the kiss. You responded instinctively, months of secret encounters making your bodies perfectly attuned to each other despite the emotional distance you'd maintained.

When you broke apart, both breathing heavily, Rafe's eyes were dark with emotion. "Stay tonight," he said, not as a command but as a request. "No sneaking out before dawn, no pretending this doesn't mean anything."

The offer terrified you. Staying meant crossing a line you'd carefully avoided, acknowledging that this had become more than just a physical arrangement. It meant facing the complicated feelings you'd developed for a man your friends would never accept, a man whose family represented everything your group stood against.

"Rafe, I can't—" you started, but he cut you off with another soft kiss.

"Just tonight," he murmured against your lips. "Let me have you for a whole night. No sunrise escape."

You hesitated, torn between the safety of your established boundaries and the undeniable pull toward something more with him. As you looked into his eyes—those same blue eyes that had watched you with growing intensity over the past months—you realized you were already in too deep to pretend this was just physical anymore.

With a nod that felt both like surrender and liberation, you agreed. "Just tonight."

His answering smile was genuine, reaching his eyes in a way you rarely saw. "Good," he said softly, already maneuvering you both onto the bed. "Because I'm not done proving you're still mine."

When you both settled onto the bed on your sides facing each other, Rafe didn't go in for another kiss. His hand rested on the curve of your waist, gently watching you silently like he was waiting for you to make the first move. But you didn't, at least not yet. You just watched him, a calm and almost sad look on your features now that the silence had settled.

You hesitated again, even with the vodka coursing through your veins, your mouth awfully dry as you swallowed hard in the silence of the room. "I miss my dad, Rafe.." you mumbled, words mashed by the hand resting under your cheek. His expression turned solemn, brows furrowing slightly before his hand lifted to brush your cheek. "I know, angel.." he murmured, his voice uncharacteristically gentle as his thumb stroked your skin. Three years. Three years since he'd walked out on your fifteenth birthday, leaving behind nothing but a half-eaten cake and a little girl with bruised knees from skateboarding all day. Today, you were eighteen, and the absence had become a physical ache, a hollow space in your chest that nothing seemed to fill—not even the distraction of Rafe's body against yours in the dark.

Rafe shifted closer, the mattress dipping slightly as he propped himself up on one elbow to look down at you more fully. The moonlight filtering through his bedroom window caught the silver in his eyes, making them seem almost translucent in the dim light. "Happy birthday," he said softly, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw with a tenderness that still surprised you sometimes, even after all these months. You flinched slightly at his words, the reminder of what day it was hitting you like a physical blow.

"Don't," you whispered, turning your face away from his touch. "Please don't say that."

"Sorry," he murmured, gently turning your face back toward him. "I just thought… I mean, it's still your birthday, right? Even if…" he trailed off, not needing to finish. Rafe knew the story—how your dad had left on this exact day three years ago, how you hadn't heard from him since except for a few sporadic emails in the first year that eventually stopped altogether.

"It's just a day," you said, though the tremor in your voice betrayed you. "It doesn't mean anything."

"It means something to you," Rafe countered quietly, his thumb stroking your cheek. "I can see it in your eyes. You've been off all night, even before you started drinking."

You didn't deny it. How could you? When you'd woken up this morning, the first thought that crossed your mind was that you were now legally an adult, yet you still felt like that fifteen-year-old girl watching her father pack a bag with tears in her eyes. The Pogues had tried to make it special—John B had "borrowed" a cake from the Wreck, Pope had decorated the Chateau with streamers, even JJ had attempted to make you a gift out of driftwood that had fallen apart before he could give it to you. But all you could think about was how your dad had promised to be there for every birthday, how he'd broken that promise on the one that mattered most.

"He promised," you said softly, tears welling in your eyes despite your best efforts to hold them back. "He promised he'd never miss a birthday, and then he left on mine. Didn't even have the decency to wait until the next day."

Rafe's expression hardened, a flash of anger in his eyes that you recognized was directed at your absent father, not at you. "Fuck him," he said bluntly. "Anyone who walks out on their kid—especially on their birthday—doesn't deserve to be missed."

"Easy for you to say," you mumbled, though you knew Rafe understood abandonment better than most. "Your dad might be an asshole, but at least he's still here."

"Is he though?" Rafe asked bitterly, his hand moving from your cheek to tangle in your hair. "Because it feels like I'm talking to a ghost most days. At least your dad had the decency to leave instead of sticking around to remind me every day that I'm not good enough."

The raw pain in his voice made your heart ache. You'd never talked about your fathers like this before, never crossed into this territory where you acknowledged the parallel wounds that somehow bound you together despite your different worlds. Without thinking, you reached up to cup his face, your thumb tracing the sharp line of his jaw.

"We're quite the pair, aren't we?" you murmured, managing a weak smile. "The Pogue princess and the Kook prince, both daddy issues extraordinaire."

Rafe's lips curved into a genuine smile at that, the first one you'd seen from him all night. "The Pogue princess," he repeated, his voice dropping to that low register that made your stomach flutter. "I like that. It suits you."

"Shut up," you said, though there was no heat behind it. "You know I hate when you call me that."

"No you don't," he teased, leaning closer until his lips were just inches from yours. "You love it. You love that I see you as royalty even when you're running around with those delinquents."

"They're not delinquents," you protested weakly, already melting under his proximity.

"Could've fooled me," he murmured, then captured your lips in a kiss that was surprisingly gentle, almost reverent. This was different from your usual encounters—no urgency, no desperation, just a slow, deliberate exploration that felt more like comfort than passion. When he pulled back, his eyes were soft.

"Make a wish," he said quietly.

"What?"

"It's your birthday," he explained, his fingers stroking through your hair. "Make a wish."

You hesitated, then closed your eyes. The first wish that came to mind was the one you'd made every year since he left—that your dad would come home, that he'd walk through the door with an apology and a promise to never leave again. But as you lay there in Rafe's arms, you realized that wasn't what you wanted anymore. Or at least, not all that you wanted.

When you opened your eyes, Rafe was watching you with an intensity that made your breath catch. "What did you wish for?" he asked.

Instead of answering, you leaned in and kissed him again, deeper this time, pouring all your complicated feelings into it. Rafe responded immediately, his hand sliding from your hair to your back, pulling you flush against him as the kiss deepened. This was what you knew, what you'd come to rely on—the way your bodies fit together, the desperate need that transcended the complicated world outside this room.

When you finally broke apart, breathless, Rafe's eyes were dark with emotion. "Tell me," he murmured, his forehead resting against yours. "What did you wish for?"

You hesitated, then decided to be brave. "I wished," you said softly, "that for once, I could have something that's just mine. Something that doesn't remind me of what I've lost."

Rafe's breath hitched slightly, his eyes closing for a moment as if processing your statement. When he opened them again, there was something new there—something fragile and hopeful that made your chest ache with affection.

"You already have that," he said quietly, his voice thick with emotion. "You have me."

The simplicity of his statement, the raw honesty in it, was more overwhelming than any grand declaration could have been. And as you lay there in his arms, the moonlight casting shadows across the room, you realized with terrifying clarity that your wish had already come true. Somewhere along the way, in the stolen moments and secret encounters, Rafe Cameron had become yours—completely, irrevocably, and terrifyingly yours.

And wasn't that ironic? That the thing you avoided the most ended up happening anyway? Or maybe Rafe had been yours all along and he was just waiting on the sidelines for you to catch up. Either way, you couldn't sit there and lie to yourself that Rafe hadn't become a constant in your life. A fucked up, volatile and unstable constant but one nonetheless. He spent nights drying the tears that either JJ or your mother welled in your eyes, without even asking for anything in return, his expensive shirts stained with your mascarand cheap body glitter as he held you until your sobs subsided into hiccups.

He never once asked you to stop snorting lines, smoking blunts or stop at one bottle, instead watching with those intense blue eyes as you self-destructed, his presence a silent acknowledgment that he saw you—really saw you—in all your damaged glory. He always hovered just far enough at parties, enough to inevitably be there when you'd stumble away from the party commotion to drive you away safely, his truck appearing like magic when your vision started to blur and the world began to tilt on its axis.

It wasn't romantic or romance-worthy, not the kind of affection you spent most of your middle school years dreaming and reading about in dog-eared paperbacks hidden under your mattress. But he stayed loyal. Even when you threw empty bottles at him, screaming names when you both knew you'd just end up fucking him anyway. Even when you'd ignore and sneer at him in public, letting your friends talk bullshit about him when his marks were littered all over your body like a roadmap to your own betrayal.

"Remember that time you tried to fight Topper?" Rafe murmured against your hair, his fingers tracing patterns on your hip bone as if reading your thoughts. "At the beach bonfire last month?"

You winced at the memory, the shame still fresh despite the weeks that had passed. "He was talking shit about John B."

"He always talks shit about John B," Rafe countered with a low chuckle. "But you don't usually try to drown him for it."

"He said John B's dad was a coward who ran off and left him," you defended weakly, though you knew Rafe was right. The memory was hazy at best, a blur of cheap beer and misplaced loyalty that had ended with you being physically dragged away by Pope while Topper sputtered and coughed up saltwater.

"And you took that personally because?" Rafe prodded gently, though he already knew the answer.

"Because he was right," you admitted quietly, the confession tasting like betrayal even as you said it. "John B's dad left him. Just like mine left me. It's different, but it's the same."

Rafe's hand stilled on your hip, his expression softening in the dim light. "Yeah," he agreed after a moment. "It is the same. But Topper didn't say it because he gives a shit about abandonment issues. He said it to get a rise out of you, and it worked."

"I still should've—" you started, but he cut you off with a soft kiss.

"No," he murmured against your lips. "You should've let me handle it."

The implication hung between you—that Rafe had defended John B, had stepped between you and Topper before things could escalate further. It was a strange dynamic you'd fallen into, where Rafe protected your friends from his friends while you protected your pride from the complicated feelings he stirred in you.

"Why do you do that?" you asked softly, pulling back slightly to look at him properly. "Why do you help them when you hate them?"

"I don't hate them," he countered, though the skepticism in your expression must have been obvious. "Okay, maybe I hate Maybank a little—"

"A lot," you corrected with a small smile.

"A lot," he amended, returning your smile. "But the rest of them… they're just kids trying to survive, same as us. And if hurting them hurts you, then what's the point?"

The simplicity of his logic caught you off guard. In your world, everything was complicated—loyalties divided, secrets kept, lines drawn in the sand that you both crossed and retreated from depending on the day. But Rafe, for all his volatility, had a surprisingly straightforward way of looking at things when it came to you.

"You're not as much of an asshole as you want people to think," you observed quietly, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw.

"Don't tell anyone," he murmured, catching your hand in his to press a soft kiss against your palm. "I have a reputation to maintain."

The joke fell flat in the charged silence that followed, both of you acutely aware of the truth beneath his words. Rafe worked hard to maintain his reputation as the Kook prince, as the ruthless heir to the Cameron empire who cared for nothing and no one. But you'd seen behind the mask—had been one of the few people allowed to see behind it—and what you'd found was both more terrifying and more comforting than you wanted to admit.

"What are we doing, Rafe?" you asked softly, the question slipping out before you could stop it. "This thing between us… what is it?"

Rafe's expression tightened almost imperceptibly, the familiar walls going up in his eyes before he forced them down again. "It's whatever you want it to be."

"That's not an answer," you countered quietly, though you knew why he was hedging. Defining what you had meant acknowledging its existence, meant giving it power over you both.

"Yes, it is," he insisted, his voice firm as he shifted to prop himself up on one elbow, looking down at you more fully. "It means that however fucked up this is, however much it doesn't make sense to anyone else, it's ours. And that's enough for me."

The raw vulnerability in his eyes made your chest ache. This was the side of Rafe that no one else saw—the desperate boy beneath the Kook prince facade, the abandoned child seeking connection in the only ways he knew how. This was the Rafe who held you through nightmares, who cleaned you up when you drank too much, who never judged you for the darkness that lived inside you.

"But is it enough for me?" you whispered, the question as much for yourself as for him.

"It could be," he answered softly, his thumb stroking your cheek. "If you let it."

The offer hung between you, heavy with unspoken meaning. Four months of this—of secret encounters and stolen moments—had somehow led to this strange intimacy where you could show each other the broken parts you kept hidden from everyone else. Where Rafe could be gentle and you could be sad, and neither of you had to pretend.

Before you could respond, he was kissing you again—deeper this time, pouring all his complicated feelings into it. Rafe responded with equal intensity, his hand sliding from your hip to your back, pulling you flush against him as the kiss deepened. This was what you knew, what you'd come to rely on—the way your bodies fit together, the desperate need that transcended the complicated world outside this room.

When you finally broke apart, breathless, Rafe's eyes were dark with emotion. "Stay," he said again, though this time it sounded less like a request and more like a plea. "Not just tonight. I mean… stay. Here. With me."

The offer was everything you'd secretly wanted and everything you knew you couldn't accept. Your life was with the Pogues, with JJ and John B and the rest of them. Rafe existed in the shadows of your world, a secret you kept even from yourself most days.

"Rafe, we can't—" you started, but he cut you off with a soft, lingering kiss that tasted of vodka and unspoken promises.

"Just think about it," he murmured against your lips. "That's all I'm asking."

You didn't answer, couldn't answer, so you just kissed him again, pouring all your conflicted feelings into it. Rafe responded with equal intensity, his hand sliding from your waist to your back, pulling you flush against him as the kiss deepened. This was what you knew, what you'd come to rely on—the way your bodies fit together, the desperate need that transcended the complicated world outside this room.

His kisses became a little messier as the conversation faded out, neither of you capable of any sort of serious discourse for the night. They shifted between your lips, chin, your flushed cheeks. Everywhere Rafe's lips could reach, in a manner so familiar when you knew he was done pretending to be mad at you. "I thought you were gonna leave tonight.." he murmured at one point and your fingers stilled their movements through the hair at the nape of your neck in confusion.

"What'dya mean..?" you murmured when his kisses shifted away from your lips again, allowing you to speak, even if it was muffled and breathless from his body half draped above yours. "You were the one on the verge of leaving less than an hour ago.." you chuckled softly.

He hummed, like your words were unimportant compared to the kisses he was busy planting all over your face. "Yeah, but i thought you were gonna.." he trailed off like he was losing his train of thought, "I dunno.. Ditch this thing between us for Maybank, now that he kissed you and all.." He didn't stop kissing you, didn't allow you to respond clearly as his hands roamed over your thighs and occasionally slipping just under the hem of the baggy t-shirt Sarah had borrowed you, inching closer to the sleeping shorts just to tease you. "Are we gonna have a conversation or…?"

"Do you wanna keep having vulnerable conversations?"

"I would if you'd let me speak.." you scoffed, half amused, half already affected by his touch. "You can talk if you want.." he mumbled under his breath dismissively, fingers still roaming under the hem of your sleeping shorts.

You tried to push against his chest, to create the space needed for a serious conversation, but your arms felt heavy, your resolve melting with every lazy circle his thumb drew on your inner thigh. The rough callus on his skin was a delicious friction against your sensitive flesh, a familiar sensation that already had your breath hitching. "Rafe, we actually need to talk about this," you managed, though your voice came out breathier than you intended, betraying your body's eagerness. "About JJ, about what happens when people find out—"

"God, you're so boring when you're being responsible," he groaned dramatically, pulling back just enough to look at you with mock exasperation. "It's my favorite girl's eighteenth birthday and you wanna have a board meeting about Pogue drama? Lame." He punctuated his complaint by nipping at your bottom lip, his hand sliding further up your thigh, his thumb hooking under the leg of your shorts. The fabric was thin, worn soft from countless washes, and you could feel the heat of his palm through it.

"I'm not being boring, I'm being realistic," you shot back, though your voice wavered as his knuckles brushed against the edge of your panties. The lace was already damp, a fact you were sure he was well aware of. "He's my friend, Rafe. You can't just—"

"I can," he interrupted smoothly, his lips trailing down your neck. His other hand pushed the hem of Sarah's t-shirt up, exposing the skin of your stomach. His fingers splayed across your belly, possessive and warm. "And I will. Watch me." He didn't wait for a response, his mouth finding that spot just below your ear that made your whole body tense up. His teeth grazed the skin, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to send a jolt straight down your spine.

"You're such a child," you breathed, but your hands were no longer pushing him away. Instead, they were gripping his biceps, feeling the firm muscle beneath his shirt.

"Yeah, but you like it," he smirked against your skin. His fingers finally, finally, pushed the flimsy barrier of your panties aside. The first touch of his fingertips against your bare, slick folds made you gasp, your hips jerking involuntarily. "See? You don't wanna talk. You wanna play."

"Rafe…" It was a warning, but it sounded more like a plea. He took it as encouragement. His middle finger traced a slow, maddening line from your entrance up to your clit, circling the swollen nub once, twice, before retreating. It was a tease, a deliberate withholding of what you were starting to crave desperately. Your thighs fell open a little wider, an invitation you couldn't stop yourself from giving.

"Tell me you want me to stop," he whispered, his voice low and husky right next to your ear. "Tell me you'd rather discuss JJ Maybank's feelings right now, and I'll stop. I'll get you a glass of water and we can talk all night."

You hated him. You hated how well he knew you, how he could dismantle your resolve with a few simple touches. "I hate you," you whimpered, turning your head to capture his lips in a messy, desperate kiss.

He chuckled into your mouth, the vibration of it humming against your lips. "Liar." And then he pushed one long finger inside you. The intrusion was slow, deliberate. He didn't stop until he was buried to the knuckle, his palm pressed flat against you. He held it there for a moment, letting you adjust, letting you feel the fullness of it. You could feel the slight ridge of his callus, the heat of him, the sheer possession of the act.

"Still wanna talk?" he asked, his voice a smug rumble. He curled his finger slightly, stroking that sensitive spot on your front wall, and your eyes rolled back in your head. A soft, broken moan escaped your lips.

"Asshole," you gasped, as he began to move. It was a slow, torturous rhythm. Out, almost all the way, leaving you feeling empty and wanting, before sliding back in, deep and steady. His thumb found your clit, pressing down as his finger curled inside you. The dual stimulation was almost too much, a current of pleasure running through you so strong it made your toes curl.

"What's the matter? Cat got your tongue?" he teased, his own tongue tracing the shell of your ear. He added a second finger, stretching you, filling you more completely. The stretch burned slightly, a delicious ache that only added to the building pleasure. "Or is it just my fingers?"

"Shut up," you managed to get out, your voice breathy and thin. You rocked your hips against his hand, trying to increase the pace, to take control of the rhythm, but he just chuckled and slowed down even more, his movements becoming lazy and deliberate.

"Nuh-uh," he tsked. "I'm driving tonight. You just lie there and look pretty." He shifted his weight, propping himself up on his elbow so he could watch you. His blue eyes were dark, fixed on your face, on your parted lips and flushed cheeks. He loved watching you fall apart, you knew that. It was his favorite power trip. He scissored his fingers inside you, spreading them wide before curling them again, hitting that spot with unerring accuracy. "You're so fucking wet for me. Were you thinking about this when Maybank was kissing you?"

The question was meant to provoke, to knock you off balance, but you were too far gone to care. "No," you lied, the word barely a whisper.

"Liar," he repeated, his thumb beginning to move in tight, fast circles over your clit. The sudden change in pace made you cry out, your back arching off the bed. "You were. You were wishing it was me. Admit it."

And in a sense you hated that he was right. Hated that the main reason why the kiss felt wrong, was because you were thinking about Rafe.

"Rafe, please…" You didn't even know what you were begging for anymore. For him to stop talking? For him to stop teasing? For him to finally let you fall?

"Please what?" he demanded, his voice rough with his own desire. "Please make you come? Is that what you want?" He curled his fingers just right, pressing hard against that spot inside you while his thumb worked your clit mercilessly. The combination was devastating. The coil of pleasure in your belly tightened to an almost painful degree, your muscles locking up as the tension built.

"God, yes," you sobbed, your hands fisting in his sheets. "Please, Rafe, please…"

"That's my girl," he growled, and with a final, perfectly timed curl of his fingers and a hard press of his thumb, he sent you flying over the edge. Your orgasm crashed through you, a blinding, all-consuming wave of pleasure. You cried out his name, your body convulsing around his fingers, your vision whiting out. He didn't stop, working you through it, prolonging the pleasure until you were a trembling, oversensitive mess beneath him, begging him to stop.

When you finally came back to yourself, panting and boneless, he slowly withdrew his fingers. He brought them to his lips, his eyes locked on yours as he tasted you, a smug, possessive look on his face. "See?" he murmured, leaning down to kiss you softly, a stark contrast to the intensity of moments before. "Much better than talking."

He didn't give you a chance to recover, to come down from the high he'd so expertly sent you on. Before the last tremor had even subsided, he was moving, shifting his body down the bed with a predatory grace that made your breath catch. His lips left yours, trailing a path of fire down your chin, over the frantic pulse in your neck, and across your collarbones. He paused to nip at the delicate skin just above the fabric of Sarah's t-shirt, leaving a small, possessive mark that would be a bitch to hide tomorrow.

"Rafe," you breathed, your hands coming down to tangle in his hair again. The strands were soft between your fingers, a stark contrast to the rough, demanding way he was touching you. "What are you doing?"

He looked up at you from under his lashes, his blue eyes dark and mischievous. "Celebrating your birthday," he said, his voice a low rumble against your stomach. "It's tradition, right? Birthday girl gets whatever she wants."

"And what if I want you to stop talking?" you challenged, a lazy smile playing on your lips.

He chuckled, the sound vibrating through your entire body. "Funny, that's exactly what I was thinking." With that, he hooked his fingers in the waistband of your sleeping shorts and panties, pulling them down your legs in one smooth, deliberate motion. He tossed them carelessly over the side of the bed, leaving you completely exposed to his gaze. The cool air of the room felt like a shock against your overheated, still-sensitive skin.

He didn't give you a moment to feel self-conscious. He settled between your thighs, his hands pushing them open wider, his grip firm and unyielding. He took a moment to just look, his eyes roaming over you with an intensity that was both unnerving and incredibly arousing. It was a look of ownership, of appraisal, like a connoisseur admiring a prized possession.

"You're staring," you accused softly, your cheeks flushing.

"Can you blame me?" he shot back, his thumbs stroking the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, dangerously close to where you wanted him most. "You're a fucking masterpiece. Especially all flushed and wet like this. All for me."

"Rafe, please," you whimpered, your hips shifting restlessly. The teasing was becoming unbearable. You were still sensitive from your first orgasm, but a new wave of desire was already building, a desperate, aching need for more.

"Please what?" he asked, though he knew damn well what you wanted. He loved hearing you beg, loved knowing he had you at his mercy. "Use your words, birthday girl."

"Please… just…" You couldn't finish the sentence, too embarrassed to say the words out loud.

He smirked, a slow, confident curve of his lips. "As you wish." And then he lowered his head, and the world narrowed to the feeling of his mouth on you.

The first touch of his tongue was a shock. He was slow and deliberate, starting with a broad, flat stroke that had you crying out, your back arching off the bed. His hands held your hips down, preventing you from moving, forcing you to take everything he was giving you. He explored you with his mouth, learning every fold, every sensitive spot, his tongue a masterful instrument. He alternated between long, slow licks and quick, fluttering flicks against your clit, never letting you settle into a rhythm, keeping you on the edge, a trembling, desperate mess.

"Fuck, Rafe," you gasped, your fingers tightening in his hair, holding him to you. The feeling was overwhelming, a pleasure so intense it was almost painful. He hummed against you, the vibration sending another jolt through you. He knew exactly what he was doing, the bastard. He knew how to take you apart piece by piece, how to reduce you to nothing but sensation.

"You taste so good," he murmured, his voice muffled against you. "Better than I remembered. And I think about this a lot." He sealed his lips around your clit and sucked, hard, and you saw stars. Your entire body tensed, your thighs shaking as the pleasure built to an impossible peak. He slipped two fingers back inside you, curling them to find that spot again, and began to pump them in time with the movements of his tongue.

The combination was devastating. It was too much, too intense, too perfect. You could feel another orgasm building, stronger this time, a tidal wave gathering in the distance. "Rafe, I'm… I'm gonna…" you managed to get out, the words broken by gasps and moans.

"Let go," he commanded, his voice rough with desire. "Come for me. I want to feel it."

That was all it took. With a final, hard suck and a perfectly timed curl of his fingers, he sent you flying over the edge again. This orgasm was different from the first. It wasn't a sharp, blinding crash, but a slow, rolling wave of pleasure that washed over you, leaving you trembling and breathless in its wake. You cried out his name, your body convulsing around his fingers as he worked you through it, prolonging the pleasure until you were completely spent.

He didn't stop immediately, but slowed his movements, his tongue gentling, his fingers stilling inside you. He placed soft, open-mouthed kisses against your thighs, your stomach, any bit of skin he could reach, as if worshipping your body. When you finally came back to yourself, panting and boneless, he slowly withdrew his fingers and crawled back up your body, a look of smug, male satisfaction on his face.

He hovered above you, his forearms braced on either side of your head. "Happy birthday," he murmured, before leaning down to kiss you. You could taste yourself on his lips, a heady, intimate flavor that made your stomach clench all over again. It was a dirty, possessive kiss, a claim, and you kissed him back with equal fervor, your arms wrapping around his neck to pull him closer.

"Best birthday ever," you whispered against his lips, when you finally broke apart, both of you breathless.

He smirked, his eyes dark with promise. "I'm not done yet."

But he didn't move to take things further. Instead, he shifted his weight, settling beside you on the bed, his hand resting possessively on your stomach. He propped his head up on his hand, his eyes roaming over your face, your body, with a look of lazy satisfaction.

"What?" you asked, a self-conscious blush creeping up your neck. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Like what?" he countered, though he knew exactly what you meant.

"Like you just won the lottery or something."

"Maybe I did," he said, his thumb stroking circles on your skin. "I mean, look at you. All fucked out and flushed because of me. It's a good look on you."

"You're ridiculous," you scoffed, but you couldn't help but smile. You turned onto your side to face him, the t-shirt you were wearing twisting around your waist. "And full of yourself."

"I'm full of a lot of things right now," he smirked, his eyes dropping to your lips. "But you're not complaining."

You weren't. You couldn't. He had a way of unraveling you, of taking all the sharp edges and complicated feelings and turning them into nothing but pure, unadulterated pleasure. It was a dangerous, addictive kind of magic.

"So, what's next, Mr. Cameron?" you asked, your voice teasing. "What's the next part of my birthday celebration?"

"Well," he said, pretending to think about it. "I could fuck you until you can't walk straight. Or we could raid the kitchen and find that expensive champagne my dad thinks is hidden. Or..." he trailed off, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw. "We could do that again. I'm not sick of the taste yet."

Your breath hitched at his words, a fresh wave of desire washing over you. You were exhausted, your body still humming with the aftershocks of your last two orgasms, but the thought of him doing that again, of his mouth on you once more, was almost too tempting to resist.

"Rafe," you breathed, not sure what you were trying to say. Stop? Please? Again?

He just smirked, knowing exactly what you were thinking. "Don't worry," he murmured, leaning in to kiss you softly. "We'll save round three for later. I think you need a break."

He wasn't wrong. You felt like you could sleep for a week, boneless and sated in a way you hadn't been in a long time. But as you lay there in his arms, the moonlight casting shadows across the room, you knew you wouldn't be sleeping anytime soon. Not with Rafe Cameron next to you, his hands already beginning to roam again, his lips finding yours in a kiss that promised the night was far from over.

He didn't give you that break. His lips, which had just been soft and teasing, turned demanding against yours, his tongue delving into your mouth with a possessive sweep that left no room for argument. His hand, which had been resting innocently on your stomach, slid down, his fingers tangling in the patch of hair between your legs before one slid inside you again, testing your readiness. You were still swollen and sensitive from your last orgasm, and the intrusion made you gasp into his mouth.

"Thought you said I needed a break," you panted, when he finally let you come up for air. Your hips were already rocking against his hand, a traitorous betrayal of your words.

"Changed my mind," he growled, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through your chest. He curled his finger, stroking that spot inside you that made your whole body clench. "And besides, you didn't really want a break, did you? You're already soaking my hand again."

"Asshole," you moaned, but there was no heat in it, only a desperate, aching need. You were insatiable for him, a fact he took great pride in.

Instead of letting him dictate the next move, you saw your chance. With a surge of energy, you pushed against his chest, using his surprise to your advantage. He fell back against the pillows with a soft "oof," a look of shock and then amusement crossing his face. Before he could recover, you swung a leg over his waist, straddling him. The hard, hot length of him pressed against your dripping core, and you both groaned at the contact.

"Well, look at you," he smirked, his hands coming to rest on your hips, his thumbs stroking the skin there. "Taking charge. I like it."

"Don't get used to it," you shot back, rising up on your knees. You reached between you, wrapping your hand around his thick cock. He was rock hard, the tip already leaking with pre-cum. You gave him a slow, deliberate pump, enjoying the way his jaw clenched, his eyes darkening with lust. "This is my birthday, remember? I get what I want."

"And what do you want, birthday girl?" he asked, his voice strained as you rubbed the head of his cock through your slick folds, teasing him, torturing him.

"I want this," you whispered, and then you sank down on him, taking him all in in one slow, smooth movement. The feeling of him filling you up this way, deep and unrelenting, stole your breath. You stayed there for a moment, your head thrown back, your hands braced on his chest as you adjusted to the incredible stretch. You could feel every inch of him, every pulse and throb inside you.

"Fuck," he groaned, his grip on your hips tightening. "You feel so fucking good like this. So goddamn tight."

You started to move, a slow, torturous roll of your hips that had you both gasping. You set the pace, rising up until just the tip of him was inside you before sinking back down, taking him as deep as you could. The t-shirt you were still wearing was thin and damp with sweat, clinging to your skin. Rafe's hands were everywhere, roaming up your sides to cup your breasts, his thumbs brushing against your hard nipples through the fabric, then sliding around to grab your ass, guiding your movements, urging you to go faster.

"That's it, ride me," he commanded, his voice rough. "Take what you need. Show me how much you missed this cock."

You leaned forward, changing the angle, and cried out as he hit that spot deep inside you. Your movements became more frantic, more desperate, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. You were chasing your release, your body moving on pure instinct. But just as you felt the familiar coil of pleasure begin to tighten in your belly, he stopped you.

His hands clamped down on your hips, stilling your movements. "Not yet," he growled. Before you could protest, he sat up, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you flush against his chest. The new position was devastating, driving him even deeper inside you. Your legs were wrapped around his waist, your arms around his neck, your bodies pressed together from chest to groin.

"My turn," he murmured against your lips, and then he started to move. He used his strength to lift you, almost pulling you off his cock before slamming you back down.

The movement was brutal, efficient, designed to shatter you. He used the strength in his arms and core to lift and drop you, his hips snapping up to meet yours on every downward stroke. The angle was punishing, driving him so deep you could feel him in your stomach, a breathtaking, overwhelming fullness that stole the air from your lungs. Your bodies were slick with sweat, the thin t-shirt you still wore a useless barrier between your chests. You could feel the frantic beat of his heart against yours, a frantic, primal rhythm that matched the pounding he was giving you.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice a harsh growl against your ear. When you didn't respond, too lost in the haze of pleasure, he grabbed a fistful of your hair at the nape of your neck and pulled, forcing your head back. "I said, look at me."

Your eyes fluttered open, and you were met with the intense, burning blue of his. His face was a mask of raw concentration and lust, his jaw clenched, his lips parted. "Who's fucking you like this?" he demanded, his thrusts becoming harder, more erratic. "Was it Maybank? Did he make you feel this way? Did he make you soak his sheets like a dirty little slut?"

"No," you sobbed, your nails digging into his shoulders. "Only you, Rafe. It's only ever been you."

"Damn right," he grunted, satisfied. He released your hair, his hand moving between your bodies to find your clit. He rubbed it in tight, harsh circles, the stimulation almost too much on top of the relentless pounding. "This is my pussy. My favorite fucking birthday present. And I'm gonna unwrap it over and over again tonight."

The coil in your belly tightened to an almost painful degree. Your muscles locked up, your thighs trembling where they were wrapped around his waist. You were so close, teetering on the edge of a precipice, ready to fall into the abyss.

"Rafe, I… I can't…" you whimpered, your voice breaking.

"Yes, you can," he growled. And then, in a move that made you cry out, he flipped you. He somehow managed to roll you both over without pulling out, ending up with you on your back and him looming over you, his arms braced on either side of your head. The new position allowed him to go even deeper, and he took full advantage, slamming into you with a renewed, ferocious energy.

He hooked his arms under your knees, pushing your legs back towards your chest, folding you in half. The position was utterly exposed, completely vulnerable, and it sent a fresh jolt of arousal through you. You were completely at his mercy, spread open for him, and the look on his face told you he knew it.

"Fuck, look at that," he breathed, his eyes glued to where his body was disappearing into yours. "Taking me so deep. You were fucking made for this, weren't you? Made to be on your back for me."

He started talking then, a stream of filthy, possessive words that pushed you closer and closer to the edge. He told you how good you felt, how tight you were, how he was going to fill you up until you were dripping with him. He told you he was going to fuck the memory of any other man out of your head, until all you could think about was his cock, his mouth, his hands.

"Come on, birthday girl," he panted, his rhythm starting to falter, his own release clearly approaching. "Come for me. Let me feel that tight little pussy come all over my cock. Give it to me."

His words were your undoing. With a silent scream, your body arched off the bed, and you came harder than you ever had in your life. It was a violent, all-consuming orgasm that ripped through you, leaving you shaking and sobbing, your vision whiting out. Your walls clenched around him, a rhythmic pulsing that seemed to go on forever.

"Fuck, yes," he roared, his own control shattering. He thrust into you one last time, burying himself to the hilt as he came, his hot release flooding you. He collapsed on top of you, his full weight pinning you to the bed, his face buried in the crook of your neck. You could feel his heart hammering against your chest, his ragged breaths ghosting across your skin.

For a long moment, you just lay there, a tangled, sweaty mess of limbs, the only sound in the room your combined panting. He was still inside you, a heavy, comforting presence. You wrapped your arms around his back, holding him close, your fingers tracing random patterns on his damp skin.

Eventually he lifted his head, blue eyes softened and heavy in that way they only ever were after, when the sharp edges dulled and whatever he’d been bracing himself against finally let go. He leaned in again, slower this time, kissing you deep and unhurried, like he was saying things he didn’t have the words—or the nerve—for. “Happy birthday,” he murmured against your mouth, breath warm, forehead resting briefly against yours.

You smiled, lazy and loose and content in a way you hadn’t expected tonight to give you. “It definitely is now,” you answered quietly, fingers still curled into the sheets like you were anchoring yourself there.

When the silence returned, it wasn’t awkward, just familiar. Routine creeping back in, that strange post-intimacy rhythm you both pretended didn’t mean anything. Rafe shifted first, pulling away and sitting on the edge of the bed with his back to you, shoulders rolling like he was shaking something off. You watched him peel the dark polo over his head, toss it aside, rake a hand through his hair until it stood up in uneven tufts, all muscle memory and ease. He reached for the pack of cigarettes on the nightstand without even looking, like it was part of the ritual—one he only ever allowed himself when you stayed. He never smoked otherwise; said it was pointless, smelled bad, easier to just borrow someone’s vape or disappear into a bathroom stall at a party. But with you, afterward, he always did this. Balcony door cracked open, cigarette lit, you stealing a few drags while pulling your clothes back on before slipping out of his room like nothing lingered.

This time, though, you didn’t move. You stayed sprawled across his bed, eyes tracing the broad line of his back, the familiar dips and planes you knew too well now. That’s when you noticed it—the faint bruise blooming under his ribs, yellowed at the edges like it wasn’t fresh, but not old enough to be forgotten either. Marks on Rafe weren’t unusual; you’d seen split lips he never bothered to ice, knuckles scraped raw, shadows under his eyes that had nothing to do with sleep deprivation. Still, something in your chest tightened. “What was it this time?” you asked softly, carefully skirting around Ward’s name like it might detonate if spoken aloud.

Rafe froze for half a second, cigarette paused between his fingers. He exhaled slowly through his nose, then leaned forward, forearms resting on his thighs. “You counting now?” he muttered, tone light but guarded, like he was testing whether you’d push.

“Not like that,” you said, sitting up a little, pulling the sheet higher around you without thinking. “Just… asking.”

He scoffed quietly, finally lighting the cigarette and taking a drag before answering. “Wasn’t a big thing,” he said, eyes fixed on the floor like it held the safest version of the truth. “Just him getting pissed. Same old.”

You didn’t respond right away, and he felt it—the weight of your silence settling between his shoulder blades. He glanced back at you, blue eyes flicking up briefly. “Don’t,” he added, softer. “Don’t make that face.”

“What face?” you asked.

“The one where you start looking at me like I’m gonna shatter if you breathe wrong.” He huffed out a humorless laugh. “I’m fine.”

You shifted closer, careful not to crowd him, your voice still gentle. “You don’t have to sell it to me.”

That earned another pause. He took a longer drag this time, smoke curling around him as he leaned back slightly, resting one hand on the mattress near your thigh without looking. “He just… doesn’t like being questioned,” Rafe said eventually, the words slow, measured. “And I questioned him.” A beat. “About money. About Sarah. About things that aren’t supposed to be my business.”

You swallowed. “They are your business.”

“Yeah,” he muttered, “try telling him that.”

The room went quiet again, not heavy, but stretched thin, like the truth was lying between you both and neither of you wanted to be the one to poke it. He stubbed the cigarette out halfway, like he’d lost interest, then rubbed a hand over his face. “It’s not like it used to be,” he added, almost like an afterthought. “He doesn’t hit me like when I was younger. Just… grabs. Shoves. Makes sure I remember where I stand.”

Your chest ached at that, a dull, familiar pain. “And where’s that?” you asked.

Rafe glanced at you again, expression unreadable, then looked away. “Where I always am,” he said. “Useful. Replaceable. Loud enough to blame when something goes wrong.”

You didn’t answer with words this time. You just reached out, fingers brushing his wrist where it rested on the bed, grounding without demanding. He let you. Didn’t pull away. Didn’t lean in either. Just sat there, letting the contact exist, the conversation stretch and breathe instead of snapping shut like it usually did.

After a moment, he exhaled, shoulders sagging just a fraction. “You’re gonna hate me for saying this,” he said quietly, “but tonight was… good. Like, actually good.”

You looked up at him. “Why would I hate you for that?”

“Because it makes everything else louder,” he replied, voice low. “Makes it harder to pretend I don’t notice the difference.”

The words settled between you, unspoken things humming beneath them, neither of you rushing to break the moment—even if you both knew morning would come eventually, dragging reality back with it.

The ache in your chest flared sharp and sudden, the last echoes of pleasure dissolving and leaving something far more exposed in their wake. Whatever haze the orgasms had wrapped you in fizzled out, and all that was left was the rawness of the night pressing in from every direction—the kiss with JJ replaying unwanted, the hollow space your father left behind, the weight of Rafe’s father lingering in the room even when he wasn’t there, and Rafe himself sitting just out of reach. Your eyes burned before you could stop it, tears swelling without a clear origin, only a heavy convergence of everything that hurt. But they centered on his words, on the way he said them so casually, like this was just the natural progression of things. Like his father becoming less physical over the years was supposed to count as mercy.

You knew it was a lie. You’d seen the evidence too many times to buy it—the bruises caught in passing when he leaned over you, the way he flinched when his split lip brushed against yours mid-kiss, pretending it was nothing. Your mind, cruel and unhelpful and still swimming in alcohol, dragged up the image of little Rafe instead—the boy with the slingshot, the chipped vase, the slap he hadn’t braced for but took anyway. The kid who learned early that flinching only made it worse.

“Don’t do that.” Rafe’s voice cut in, low and hollowed out by an exhausted sigh, like this wasn’t how he expected the night to unravel.

You shifted on the bed, sitting up straighter, dragging your hands over your face like you could wipe the emotion away before it spilled. Your gaze flicked anywhere but him. “Do what?” you asked, voice unsteady, already giving yourself away.

“Don’t pity me,” he snapped quietly, the word coming out sharp and bitter, like it tasted wrong in his mouth.

Your head shook immediately, brows knitting together as you looked back at him. “I’m not pitying you,” you said, trailing off when his posture stiffened even more, shoulders squaring like he was bracing for impact. “I’m just—”

“Just what?” he cut in, finally turning to face you fully, blue eyes hard now, defensive walls slamming back into place. “Getting all sad-eyed because you heard a fucked-up story? Because you think you know how it feels?”

“That’s not fair,” you shot back, heat creeping into your voice despite the tremor underneath it. “I didn’t say I knew. I didn’t say anything.”

“You don’t have to,” he scoffed, standing abruptly and pacing a step away from the bed, fingers threading through his hair in agitation. “I can see it all over your face. That look. Like I’m something broken you stumbled onto by accident.”

“I’m reacting because I care,” you said, softer now, but no less firm. “That’s not pity.”

He laughed then, short and humorless, shaking his head. “Yeah? Well it feels the same from where I’m standing.” He gestured vaguely at his chest, then at you. “I didn’t bring this up so you could sit there and feel sorry for me. I’m not asking for that.”

“I’m not offering it,” you insisted, swallowing past the lump in your throat. “I just… don’t like hearing you talk about it like it’s normal. Like it doesn’t hurt you.”

His jaw clenched, teeth grinding for a moment before he answered. “It doesn’t help me to pretend it hurts,” he said sharply. “That’s the part you don’t get. Sitting in it, letting it ache—that doesn’t change anything. It just makes it heavier.”

Silence stretched between you again, tense and fragile all at once. He finally looked back at you, expression conflicted, anger still flickering but dulled now by something closer to fear. “I don’t need you to fix it,” he added, quieter. “And I don’t need you looking at me like I’m some kind of tragedy.”

You nodded slowly, even as your eyes burned. “Okay,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “But you don’t get to tell me not to feel something when you drop all of that on me.”

That stopped him. He exhaled, long and frustrated, shoulders sagging just a fraction. “This is why I don’t talk,” he muttered. “Everything turns into a thing.”

“Maybe it was always a thing,” you replied gently. “You just got really good at pretending it wasn’t.”

He didn’t answer right away. He just stood there, caught between snapping back and sitting with it, the defensiveness still there—but thinner now, cracked enough to let the truth breathe.

The silence pressed in again, thick and uncomfortable, until you shifted on the bed and finally broke it, your voice careful but edged with something raw. “You didn’t have a problem talking when it was about my mom’s boyfriend,” you said quietly, eyes lifting to him. “You got… emotional. Angry. Protective. You kept asking questions you already knew the answers to.” Your fingers curled into the sheets. “You knew something was off. You felt it.”

That did it. His head snapped up, whatever fragile calm he’d managed to pull together cracking clean through. “That’s not the same thing,” he shot back, harsher than you expected, words coming fast like he’d been waiting to unload them. “Don’t twist it.”

“I’m not twisting anything,” you insisted, sitting up straighter despite the way his tone stung. “I’m saying you don’t get to shut this down just because it’s about you.”

He let out a sharp laugh, pacing again, agitation rolling off him in waves. “No,” he snapped, turning on you abruptly. “You wanna know what this is? This is you projecting. You don’t actually give a shit about my dad right now—you’re thinking about yours. Or the lack of him. Or whatever anniversary of trauma this day is turning into for you.” His jaw tightened. “It’s your birthday. That’s why you’re digging. That’s why you’re suddenly all emotional.”

Your chest tightened painfully. “That’s not fair,” you said, voice cracking despite yourself. “Just because it’s my birthday doesn’t mean none of this matters.”

“It does to you,” he countered, eyes sharp. “Because everything lines up tonight. Your dad leaving, JJ kissing you, me being an asshole with a fucked-up family—it’s all bleeding together and you don’t know where to put it, so you put it on me.”

You stared at him, stunned. “I didn’t ask for any of that,” you whispered.

“I know,” he said immediately, the edge still there but something softer slipping through. “But don’t pretend this isn’t tangled up in your own shit too.” He ran a hand down his face, frustration etched into every line. “You wanna talk about my dad because it’s safer than talking about yours. Because mine’s still here to be angry at.”

The words landed heavy, and for a moment neither of you spoke. Your throat burned. “That doesn’t mean I’m wrong for caring,” you said eventually. “Or that it doesn’t hurt to hear you talk like being hit less is some kind of win.”

His shoulders slumped just a fraction, anger draining into exhaustion. “I didn’t say it was a win,” he muttered. “I said it’s what it is.”

“And that’s the part that scares me,” you replied softly. “How used to it you sound.”

He looked at you then—really looked—and whatever he saw made him look away again. “You don’t get it,” he said, quieter now, but no less guarded. “If I let myself feel all of that every time someone brings it up, I wouldn’t function. I wouldn’t be… me.”

You swallowed hard. “Maybe that’s okay sometimes.”

He scoffed, but there was no humor in it. “Not for me.”

The room fell quiet again, heavy with unsaid things, the kind of quiet that didn’t mean the conversation was over—just that both of you were too close to something dangerous to keep pushing without consequences.

You let the quiet sit for a beat longer, then exhaled shakily and pushed yourself up a little, the sheet sliding down your shoulder as you faced him more fully. “You know what’s ironic?” you asked, voice steadier than you felt. “You were the one who asked me to stay. Not just tonight—stay stay. You said you didn’t want this to just be… sneaking around and pretending it didn’t matter.” Your fingers twisted together in your lap. “You asked for something real, Rafe. And now every time it gets even remotely close to that, you shut down.”

He stiffened, but didn’t interrupt.

“You can handle fucking me, you can handle keeping me, you can handle watching me walk out of your room every other night,” you went on, the words tumbling faster now. “But the second I try to talk to you—actually talk—you act like I’m pulling teeth.” Your mouth curved into a humorless smile. “Or you deflect. Like you always do.”

His jaw tightened. “I don’t deflect.”

“You do,” you said gently. “You redirect. You change the subject. You give me things.” Your eyes flicked to the nightstand, then back to him. “Like that.”

He followed your gaze, and for a second something unreadable crossed his face. He didn’t argue. Instead, he turned, reached for the small gift bag you hadn’t even noticed before, and held it out toward you without looking. “Just—take it.”

You hesitated, then reached in, fingers brushing against cool metal. When you pulled it free, your breath caught despite yourself. A switchblade—sleek, familiar in weight—but new. The handle gleamed softly in the low light, angel wings etched into the metal, delicate and sharp all at once.

“…Rafe,” you murmured.

“You lost yours,” he said, too quickly. “In my truck.”

Your eyes snapped up to him. “I know where I lost it.”

He didn’t look away. “I kept it.”

The admission landed heavier than the gift itself. You turned the blade over in your hands, thumb tracing the wings, the symbolism not lost on you—how he’d always called you angel like it was a dare, like it scared him as much as it soothed him. “So this is what,” you asked softly, “an apology?”

“No,” he said immediately. “It’s… insurance.” He huffed a short breath, rubbing at the back of his neck. “It’s me saying I don’t forget shit. Even when I don’t know how to talk about it.”

You swallowed, throat tight. “You know you don’t have to buy your way out of opening up to me.”

“I’m not,” he snapped, then sighed, the fight draining out of him. “I just—this is easier. This I know how to do.”

You looked down at the blade again, then back at him. “But it’s not what you asked for,” you said quietly. “You didn’t ask me to stay so you could keep giving me pretty weapons and avoiding the hard parts. You asked because you wanted this to mean something.”

His eyes flickered, guilt flashing there before he masked it. “You think I don’t know that?”

“I think you’re scared of it,” you replied. “Scared that if you let me see all of it, I’ll leave anyway.”

For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, almost reluctantly, he sat back down on the edge of the bed, close enough that your knees brushed. “You don’t get how backwards my head is,” he muttered. “Every time I start to feel like this is real, like you’re not just gonna disappear on me, something in me wants to ruin it first.”

You reached out without thinking, resting the switchblade on the mattress and placing your hand over his. “Then stop trying to protect yourself from something you already asked for.”

He looked at your joined hands like they might burn him. “I don’t know how to do this without fucking it up.”

Your lips curved sadly. “Neither do I. But you don’t get to keep me and keep me at arm’s length.”

author's note: hello pillowtalk nation, since i started uni i suck at posting. this was supposed to be symbolic as fuck, given it's the 8th chapter and it's y/n's birthday, i was gonna post this on MY bday since it was the 8th january but i got wrapped up with exams and clubbing and i forgot. yo girl turned 20 so the bday blues here are organic. jj is being reckless like usual and rafe still wants a relationship while simultaneously being scared of talking about shit with y/n. i would be too the girl's a mess. we got daddy issues, a cute gift, good smut? i hope, some jj action and some childhood angst. i hope you enjoyed this chapter and i promise i'm getting back on my posting grind, i love you all and i hope you're still here reading 💕🥹

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────୨ৎ────── .✦

JJ groans and tosses his head back. He’s lounging in the wooden chair as if it’s a comfortable Lay-Z-Boy. “Mr Sunn, can we just admit to each other right here and now that me getting a diploma ain’t ever gonna happen?”

Mr Sunn’s eyebrow quirks. He clasps his hands together atop of his desk. “You might be willing to give up on your education but I’m not. And until the day comes around that I am, you’re going to have tutoring.”

JJ stares begrudgingly at Mr Sunn like a sulking child. Tutoring? Come on, man. It felt as laughable and as useless as gifting a paralysed person a treadmill. 

“When’s this tutoring gonna be?” JJ reluctantly asks. 

“Every week on a Wednesday.”

“In September?”

“Starting next week.”

“Next week?” JJ gapes. Mr Sunn nods. “Mr Sunn, next week is the start of summer vacation. I ain’t gonna be educating myself during summer vacation. I think that’s actually against one of the human rights or something.”

“It isn’t. Maybe you’d know that if you actually attended class,” Mr Sunn remarks, almost smug. JJ rolls his eyes and mutters under his breath. 

“Summer vacation?”

“If you stop your moaning and bitching, you’d hear more about the conditions of it.”

“Oh, goody. Please do tell.”

There’s a warning in the look Mr Sunn shoots JJ that has him rolling his eyes again. Glancing off out the window, he sighs. The football field is devoid of life save for the birds pecking at the grass. There’s no bustling in the halls, no students in the classrooms. JJ was the lingering student on Friday after school, subject to the conversation with Mr Sunn per request at the end of class. It had been almost thirty minutes; the start of the discussion had been a delightful monologue delivered about JJ’s failing grades and concerning marks. That had followed into this downright hideous discussion of tutoring. 

“I’ve assigned a student who’s more than happy to give you tutoring. Like I said before, every Wednesday at one in the afternoon - unless exceptional circumstances occur.”

“Like me not wanting to get outta bed?”

“Like being in the hospital for a traumatic brain injury,” Mr Sunn corrects with a levelled look. JJ scoffs. Close enough, in his head. “She’ll tell me if you’ve attended the session, and if you stayed for the full time allocated–”

“--Wait, she? Who the hell–” Another pointed look that has JJ clearing his throat. “Who the heck is this tutor?”

Mr Sunn glances down at the papers laid out in front of him (many of which are evidence of JJ’s poor grades). “A Miss L/N.”

JJ’s brows furrow as he flicks through his mental rolodex of classmates at his school. The last name rattles around his brain until he finally finds a picture. His face falls. “Y/N?”

Mr Sunn nods. “She’s a stellar student.”

“She’s a brown-nosing bore.”

“Don’t think comments like that are very necessary, Maybank,” Mr Sunn warns. JJ doesn’t much care. 

JJ used to be in the same class as you last year but you had been in the background of JJ’s life since kindergarten. Kildare was a small county. Nearly every classmate traced back to the beginning of childhood. New students were rare and most seemingly went to Kook academy. He hadn’t interacted with you much, if at all, but he could place you pretty well. You always abided by the dress code; always attended class; always handed in your homework on time; always stuck up your hand in class; always got the answers right; and always aced the exams. You were on some of the nerd teams at school - chess and mathletes - and JJ was certain he’d seen you in the marching band at a football game he was dragged to a few years back. A textbook goody-two-shoe know-it-all: that’s what you were. The only defining story that JJ had of you was from Pope, who held a half-joking, half-serious grudge against you following a loss at a spelling bee in middle school. You’d won and JJ wondered if it was Pope’s villain origin story. The word ‘chromotosis’ was still a tender spot (and one JJ liked to poke from time to time). 

JJ laughs humourlessly, becoming increasingly annoyed with the situation. “Mr Sunn, you can’t be serious! I’d rather have you just tutor me instead!” 

“Well, I’m going to enjoy my summer vacation after spending the year teaching your classmates.”

JJ doesn’t let the omission of ‘you’ from his sentence bother him too much. It was valid. JJ was a failing student. He attended school fleetingly. Homework was nothing more than a theoretical concept in his world and tests were his mortal enemy. The letter ‘F’ had become a best friend, with ‘D’ and ‘C’ close companions. Learning didn’t come easy to him, not in the way it did for John B and Kiara, and especially not in the way it was for Pope. Everything took him longer. Reading, writing, equations, retaining information. It didn’t help that most of it didn’t interest him, either. Besides, JJ found it hard to sit still for long in the classroom. He got fidgety and restless. The outside world called to him through the window: the song of the waves, the tweeting in the trees. JJ was good with practical things like handiwork and mechanics. That was the profession he’d venture into more than likely, so what was the point in breaking his back over a pointless high school degree? 

Sighing, JJ rakes his fingers through his unruly hair. “Look, Mr Sunn, I’m gonna level with ya. I don’t think there’s much point in me getting a degree. I don’t give a crap about history or English or maths or any of that bullshit. And I don’t need it, a’right? I mean, you gotta know that, surely?” Before Mr Sunn can answer, JJ’s leaning in and digging through the papers. He retrieves one of his report cards and points at Mechanics. “Look! See! I’m pretty decent at stuff like that! Why can’t I just drop the rest and focus on that and be done with it?”

Mr Sunn sighs and smiles sympathetically at JJ. He takes the report card back and talks as he straightens out the papers. “I wish I could do that for you, JJ, but the state requires you to take all the core classes to graduate with a diploma. It might not mean much to you now, but trust me when I say that you’ll open so many more doors in your life if you apply yourself and finish school.”

There’s an unfamiliar sincerity in Mr Sunn’s words when he tells JJ, “You might not think you can do it, but I know you can. With some extra help, you can graduate, JJ.”

JJ holds Mr Sunn’s gaze for a long moment. Swallowing, JJ is disbelieving of the next words that leave his mouth in a resigned sigh. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

The First Lesson 

Your pencil taps rhythmically on the table as you glance at the clock on the wall for the eleventh time. Ten minutes late. Sighing, annoyed, you pick up your phone and text your best friend, Esme. 

Huffing out another breath, you return the phone to the table and busy yourself with reviewing the resources you’d brought. 

When Mr Sunn offered you the summer part-time job of tutoring, you thought - frankly -that it would be a piece of piss. Give some lessons to some snotty little stressed out middle schooler and earn fifteen bucks every Wednesday? Where do I sign? But that fantasy was soon broken. Instead of an innocent child struggling with algebra homework, it was JJ Maybank. JJ’s reputation preceded him like Jay Gatsby. He was a prolific class skipper. When he did attend, it was usually to disturb the lesson with childish jokes until he wound up in the principal’s office and, most likely, detention. He spent quizzes blowing raspberries, tapping his pencil and gazing out the window. Teachers stopped bothering to ask him if he finished his homework. Outside of that, you knew him to be a womanizer, a petty thief, and an adrenaline junky. The only notable interaction you had with JJ had left a bad taste in your mouth. You tried to forget about it, pushing it into the back of your mind, but the name always brought back the memory of that one day in class. That one passing remark that changed your opinion of JJ in a split-second. Following all of that, fifteen dollars - whilst still enough to have you agree to tutoring - did not feel like an even trade for dulling your brain cells for one hour in his company. 

Good news was that he wasn’t going to show, it seemed. Silver linings. Bad news? No JJ - no payout. 

As your eyes glance over the textbook photocopy to ensure it didn’t cut any information off, the door to Mr Sunn’s classroom swings open. You startle and look up, half expecting to see the security guard asking you what the hell you’re doing here. Instead, your eyes land on JJ Maybank. He’s talking as he walks over to the table you’ve claimed. 

“You would not believe how good the weather is out there today, holy shit,” he rambles as he pulls out the chair opposite you. “It’s fucking golden, Goddamn.”

You’re unsure what to say. Instead, you watch as JJ sighs and relaxes in his seat. One of his arms is tossed over the back of it; his legs manspread comfortably. Hair pressed under a beige cap, scruffy on the lip, his t-shirt and shorts are appropriate for the scorching weather outside. His combat boots that you’d noted when he walked over, not so much. 

Seemingly at your silence, he quirks a brow. “So? We gonna get started, or?”

“You’re late,” you say, annoyed at his urgency. “Ten minutes late. Actually-” A quick glance at the clock. “-eleven minutes late.”

JJ shrugs. “I was hungry. Had to stop by in-n-out.”

“You went to in-n-out?” 

His brows raise. “Did you want something from there? Didn’t peg you much as the, uh…fast food type.”

You’re not sure what he means by that but you imagine something unfriendly. Rolling your eyes, you level him with a glare. “You were eleven minutes late to our lesson because you stopped at an in-n-out?”

“Yep. So, what we starting with?” Before you can even formulate your next sentence, JJ’s interrupting you. “Actually, can I just– D’you mind if we wrap this up early today? Maybe do a half-session or something?”

“A half session?”

“Mhn,” he nods. JJ grins as he says, “the swells today at the beach are insane. It’s perfect surf weather. I gotta get a piece.”

Anger bubbles in your throat. Exhaling sharply through your nose, you grit your teeth. “Well, since you were eleven minutes late to the start of the lesson, we gotta make up for lost time. ‘Sides, Mr Sunn said that you had to attend the whole hour.”

“Yeah, but, like…He ain’t here, is he? So…” JJ leans forward on the table, closing down the space between the two of you. His biceps push against the sleeves of his short sleeve top when he rocks his weight forward and you’re quick to avert your eyes back to his face. There’s a boyish charm shining through his smirk. His eyes are half hooded as he scans your face and figure. You shift and square your shoulders, sitting back in your seat, trying to reclaim the gap. “What’d you say you do me a solid and tell a little white lie ‘bout it, huh? No harm in that, right?”

Oh. You see what’s happening. JJ thinks you’re just another one of the girls bewitched by his beauty. That all he has to do is bat his pretty eyes and flash you that gorgeous smile and you’ll fall at his feet and do as he asks. 

You try to bite back your smirk as best as possible when you lean forward. You leave the smallest gap between you, forearms almost touching, and you get a thrill at the flash of surprise in his eyes. 

“Listen, blue eyes. I get paid for the hour and, unlucky for you, I don’t enjoy lying to people. So here’s what gonna happen. We’re going to sit here and do the full one-hour session, making sure we don’t lose those lovely eleven minutes. Sound good?”

JJ’s smile falls quickly. He grits his teeth and clenches his jaw. You sweeten the deal with an overly sugary smile before returning to how you were sat before. 

“We’re starting with biology.”

JJ slowly unfurls himself to retain into his seat. You dig out one of the worksheets and slide it across the table to him. 

“What’d you remember from this semester?”

JJ sighs as if he’s bored and slowly raises his hands to count on his fingers. He takes his time as he recounts, in a dull tone of voice, “monkeys masturbate and…that’s about it.”

Rolling your eyes, irritated, you look down at your twinning worksheet. You push your glasses up the bridge of your nose when they slip down. “Right, okay, starting from square one then. If you look at the first paragraph, give it a quick read and then I’m gonna ask you some questions about it, ‘kay?”

JJ doesn’t say anything but grunts. It’s hard to restrain from rolling your eyes a third time. When a substantial amount of time has passed, you glance to see if he’s still reading. JJ sits, head rocked back, arms folded across his chest, eyes closed. You see red. 

“Done reading?” you manage out. He doesn’t open his eyes when he hums ‘yes’. “Okay then…” You look down at the questions you’d prepared and take a sigh before reading out the first one. “The powerhouse of the cell is called the…” 

JJ doesn’t say anything. Clearing your throat to prompt him, he cracks open an eye, observes you leisurely, and then closes it again. “Heart.”

“The Mitochondria.” 

“Right, yeah, that’s what I meant. Same thing.”

Your teeth grate against each other. Another cooling breath and you read the second, third, fourth questions. Each answer given by JJ raises your blood pressure by another degree. This is going to be a fucking pain in your ass. At the forty minute mark, you’re repeating the mantra ‘think of the money, think of the money, think of the money’ like a religious prayer in your mind. JJ has managed to make an almost impressive amount of crude jokes about cell anatomy, gave some brain-cell killing answers to pretty basic biology questions, and yawned enough times to have a doctor concerned for his well being. You’re relieved when your eyes find the clock reads that an hour has passed. 

“Right, well. That’s everything for today.”

“Oh, damn. I was just getting into it, too,” JJ sardonically says. You glare at him. He stands and stretches, his shirt riding up as he extends his arms above his head. He fixes his cap as he asks, “same time next week, then?”

“One in the afternoon.”

“Can’t wait,” he mutters. He wanders to the door, giving a fleeting ‘see ya’ as he slips out the classroom. You’re amazed the door doesn’t burst into flames with the heat of your stare. 

The First Complaint

The sun bathes JJ in blisteringly warm rays of daylight. He revels in it like a gecko in the desert. Arms tucked underneath his head, he lounges on the front of the boat. Sunglasses sit on his face, eyes closed behind them, and a toothpick sticks out from his lips. The water laps at the boat, rocking it gently from side to side. An old-school R&B song hums out the speaker near the cooler. 

“I’m telling y’all, the fishing out there is crazy. Worth the trip, for sure,” John B tells the Pogues. He’s probably where JJ last saw him; stood by the end of the boat, shirtless in his swim shorts like Pope and JJ, fishing. 

“I’m down. Could go next week,” Kiara says. She’s probably scrolling on her ipod to cue the next song. 

“My dad’s got me working shifts but I can do Wednesday,” Pope adds, likely reading. 

JJ blows a raspberry. “Wednesday is a no-go.”

“Why not?”

“I got class.”

He can hear the shared confusion in the silence. He props himself up on an elbow, jutting his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose enough to scan over his friends. They’re all exactly where he pictured them, staring at him blankly. 

“Class?” Pope finally asks. 

“Yeah. I’ve got tutoring.”

John B barks out a laugh and Kiara rolls her eyes, looking back to her ipod. “Yeah right,” she mutters. 

“Dude, I’m so serious right now,” JJ loudly defends, throwing his arm out. 

“The day you get tutoring is the day hell freezes over,” Pope declares. 

JJ shrugs. “Alright, then it’s frozen, cause I am.”

“How’d they get you to go? Gag and bind you?” John B sniggers, making the others laugh. 

“Hilarious. Thank you for caring about my education, assholes,” JJ grumbles. He isn’t actually offended. It tracks that the Pogues think he’s bullshitting. It isn’t as if JJ has valued books and pop quizzes at any stage in his life. Returning to his previous position, he grins as he says, “you’re not gonna guess who’s my tutor.”

“Mr Sunn?”

“Nope. He did allocate her, though.”

“Least we know it’s a she,” Kiara says. “Helps with the guessing.”

“Well, go on. Guess.”

“Just tell us,” Pope sighs, in no mood for games. JJ’s grin grows. 

“Your mortal enemy.”

John B and Kiara let out a gasp and snigger. JJ glances through his sunglasses to make out Pope’s face. In his disbelief, JJ nods. “Yep.”

“She still as brainy as she was then?”

“More,” JJ mutters. His memory flicks back to yesterday; the way your glasses slipped down your nose just slightly when you leant forward on the table. The shimmering of your eyes as they glared at him. The sneer on your lips. You clearly think rather highly of yourself. It had been pretty entertaining seeing how far he could push. He’s impressed that you didn’t lunge at him before the session was up; he was certain you’d come pretty close several times. Sighing, JJ sits back up on his arms and looks to his friends. “We’re going to that kegger tonight, right?”

“We could,” John B shrugs. “Not doing much else.”

“It’s Touron season,” JJ grins boyishly, making Kie roll her eyes. 

“You guys are gross.”

“Come on! Just trying to get little Pope’s dick wet for a change,” JJ lies, getting up and smacking a hand reassuringly on Pope’s shoulder. He’s shrugged off, making him snigger. 

“My dick is perfectly fine as it is, thank you,” Pope mutters, looking back down at his book. Rolling his eyes, JJ retrieves a beer from the cooler. 

“Whatever man. Lemme know when you want to learn how to get girls.”

“Yeah. JJ’s a scholar now, afterall,” John B jokes. At the heckling laughter of his friends, JJ rolls his eyes mirthfully and goes back to enjoying his summer break. 

The Second Lesson

You’re not sure why you’re surprised that JJ is late yet again to his lesson. This time you’ve found better ways to entertain yourself than clock watching. Sending memes back and forth with Esme and doomscrolling Instagram was working well to keep you from counting the minutes wasted in the empty classroom. You can hear people outside, playing in the fields, chattering on the streets as they walk to and from their summer day plans. There’s an itch under your skin to leave and make the most of the beautiful weather. It feels a shame to spend your time cooped up in a dusty classroom, making anagrams out of the history posters lining the walls. But the posters make you think of Mr Sunn, reminding you of the promise you’d made to him before the vacation started. 

“You’ll be paid for the tutoring and your trouble. But I’m trusting you to be honest. I don’t want to be paying out for an hour spent on Call of Duty or whatever it is you do in your spare time.”

“Definitely not Call of Duty.”

“Either way: if Maybank doesn’t show, then I need you to be honest with me. I’m trusting you.”

“I promise, Mr Sunn. You can put your faith in me.”

Your phone begins to ring. Picking up, you don’t have the chance to say ‘hi’ before Esme is talking. 

“What a fucking loser.”

“I mean, he has my number. He could at least message to say he’s running late,” you complain. 

“He could at least bother showing up on time,” Esme corrects, making you laugh. “He’s probably not even doing anything anyway.”

“I honestly don’t give a shit what he’s doing. Just wish I had a heads-up if he’s not going to show so I can actually do something with my day,” you sigh, rubbing at your forehead. “Mom’s got another night shift tonight and I hate leaving Leo alone all day.”

“I thought he was going to that summer day-camp thingy? The scholarship deal didn’t get cancelled, did it?” Esme worries. 

“He’s not going anymore. Not because of the scholarship - that’s still fine. Just…” Your voice trails off, heart tugging at the memory of his crestfallen face, muddled with confusion when you had to tell him he wasn’t going to be going back. 

“The usual stuff?” Esme guesses. She’d known you for almost six years now; she knew Leo for just as long. She shared that same protectiveness for him. 

“Yep.”

“Kids are shitheads.”

You bark out a laugh. “You can’t say that about children, Esme.”

The two of you laugh quietly. You sigh and fiddle with the corner of one of the worksheets. Just as you’re about to tell her that you’ll leave in the next five minutes, the door pushes open. “I gotta go, Esme.”

“Wait - did he actually show up?” 

“Yep.”

“Holy shit, someone call the media,” she mutters. You give a sheltered laugh, eyes scanning over a sunglass-donning JJ. “Alright, message me after. Love ya.”

“Talk soon,” you hum before the line clicks off. Placing your phone down on the table, you watch as JJ shuffles into the room lethargically. He’s dressed similarly to last week: combat boots, shorts, t-shirt. The cap this week is red, equally as well-worn as the beige. The sunglasses are new though. “You seem lively.”

“Not so loud, please,” JJ groans, bringing a hand up to his forehead as if nursing a headache. He collapses into the chair opposite you with a grunt. A silence lingers between the two of you. JJ is so still you half question if he’s passed out. Eventually, he shifts enough to tug his sunglasses down, revealing a slither of his eyeline. He’s looking at you. 

“You gonna start with the lesson, then?”

“You gonna stay awake for it?” you ask in return. He pushes the sunglasses back up. 

“No promises.”

“You’re hungover,” you observe. JJ makes a ding-ding-ding noise under breath. The momentary peacefulness that came from your quick phone call with Esme is soon dissipating. “You’re hungover despite knowing that we had tutoring today?”

“I don’t know what ‘despite’ means, a’right? Can we make a ban on big words when my brain feels like it’s gonna explode?”

“Might need you to define big words. Have a feeling most words qualify as that with you,” you mutter. JJ scoffs. 

“Get off your high horse, brown noser. Just cause you’ve read a few books don’t mean you know everything.”

“As opposed to you?” you quip back. 

JJ snuggles in his seat, folding his arms over his chest in an echo of his posture last week. “Just start with the schooling, huh? Thought you needed to report back to Daddy Sunn that you’ve done your duties.”

Your nose turns up at the nickname. Not bothering to argue, you dig through the worksheets and hesitate in passing one across the table to him. Your eyes scan over his figure. His carelessness in his appearance; his indifference to this generous opportunity he’s been given; his dismissiveness of your valuable donation of time. It irritates you. A lot. 

“You don’t realise how fortunate you are, do you?” you snap. 

JJ visibly stuns at your tone. He doesn’t hurry his movements as he sits straighter in his seat, turning to face you, sliding his sunglasses off his face. His eyebrows rise, bloodshot eyes zeroing in on you. “What was that, brown nose?”

“You have no idea how fortunate you are to be here right now,” you repeat, holding your ground. You clear your throat and correct your glasses on your nose. “Mr Sunn put a lot of effort into organising these sessions. Letting us have access to the building out of hours. Access to all these resources. He put a lot of faith into you. He genuinely believed that you’d give enough of a crap to at least try tutoring. But instead you stroll in her like the sun shines out of your ass and you’re God’s gift to earth and waste everybody’s time.”

JJ watches you after your outburst. His eyes flit over your face, taking in every inch of your disgruntled expression, and his lips twitch downwardly. Leaning forward on the table, he raises a finger to point in your face. 

“You don’t know shit about my fortune,” he remarks darkly, in a tone that you’ve never once heard from him. He’s unrecognisable as he warns you, “you stay in your lane and I’ll stay in mine, a’right? I ain’t needing you preaching on your soapbox about how good I got shit when you ain’t know anything about anything. So either get on with teaching, or I’ll get on up and out that door.”

It’s unnerving, JJ’s demeanour and tone. It’s unnerving but it isn’t enough to make you back down. Narrowing your eyes, you sit proud and tall, hands clasped politely atop of the table. 

“Be my guest. The door is behind you, in case you’re too drunk to find it.”

JJ’s chair pushes back from the force he gets up with. He mutters under breath curses and cusses as he makes his way to the door. Your voice is polite and cheery as you call, “One o’clock next Wednesday.”

The door slams closed. Another successful tutoring session. Another migraine to go home with. 

The First Check-In 

“JJ! Answer your damn phone!” John B hollers from the bathroom. 

JJ jogs through the Chateau in search of the cell. It’s the third call he’s missed. It isn’t on purpose: he can’t find where he put the damn thing. It’s as if it’s fallen into a pocket of the universe that ceases to exist. Digging through the couch cushions of the pull-out, JJ’s fingers finally make contact with the buzzing device. 

“Aha!” he cheers, pulling out. He swipes to answer, tumbling back on the sofa-bed. It must have fallen down there when he was fooling around with some Touron he met at the kegger last night. “Yo.”

“Maybank.”

JJ’s eyes press shut and his mood significantly drops. “Sup, Mr Sunn.”

“Not much, not much. Just calling to check in on how the tutoring is going?”

“How’s it going?”

Terrible. It’s awful. JJ has never known a bigger waste of time. He’s learnt a total of zero things from the hour and ten minutes spent in your company, apart from the fact that you’re the most aggravating girl he has ever met. You might be the first female that JJ hasn’t enjoyed spending time with. Rather impressive, actually. 

“Yeah, yeah, it’s great,” JJ lies easily. He rubs at the sleep in his eyes as he continues, “learning a ton, feeling really smart. Gaining all that knowledge, y’know?”

“Really?”

“Yup.”

“That’s interesting. Cause your tutor couldn’t agree less.”

JJ grits his teeth. Of course, you’re a rat as well as a shrew. You just seem to cover all areas of dislike in JJ’s books, it’s as if you’ve read all of JJ’s least favourite things. 

“Oh really? What’d she say?”

“That you’re not engaging with the work. The last session was cut short too, apparently,” Mr Sunn recalls, disapproval dripping from every word. 

“Yeah, well, you see, there was those exceptional circumstances you were talking about for that one, Mr S,” JJ half-arsedly defends. 

“Really? A traumatic brain injury?” Mr Sunn checks, unconvinced. 

“Yeah, yeah. A really brutal one, too,” JJ says, wincing at the memory of the banging headache he was awarded for going a bit too hard at the kegger the night before. 

Mr Sunn’s sigh cuts deep. It’s parental. That sentiment of ‘I’m not angry, just disappointed’ is translated through the exhale, and JJ hates how much of an effect it has on him. JJ liked Mr Sunn: all of the Pogues did. He was a good teacher and cool guy. As annoying as your preaching was, JJ was reluctant to admit there was some truth to some of the things you said. Mr Sunn did believe in JJ. God knows why or what for, but he had put all of this together to purely benefit the blonde haired boy. Maybe you were somewhat right in him taking that for granted. Maybe. 

“Look, JJ, if you’re not gonna take this seriously then we might as well call it off now,” Mr Sunn hedges.

“No, no, wait, look, Mr Sunn…I’m gonna level with you…” JJ takes a sigh and braces himself. “I haven’t been taking it seriously but I will now. I’ll start, y’know…Trying. Like, actually trying.”

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” JJ reassures. “Just gimme one more chance, yeah?”

Mr Sunn hesitates before sighing once more. “Alright. Fine. One more chance.”

“Thanks, Mr S,” JJ says. He’s surprised with himself for willingly signing on for more of your boring-ass lessons, but something in his gut tells him this is the right call. “I won’t let you down.”

“Alright, Maybank. You got one more chance. Wednesday, one o’clock. Don’t be late.”

“I won’t be,” JJ promises. As the phone call ends, JJ makes a secret deal with himself to give the tutoring a real chance. To give himself a real chance. 

The Third Lesson 

The feeling of your heart pounding in your throat is uncomfortable, to say the least. There’s a thin sheen of sweat on your forehead as you race around the house. In your head, you’re mentally juggling a million and one thoughts. Need to do this, need to do that. The checklist spans over several thoughts and derails every line of logic. It doesn’t help that it feels like Satan's asshole in the house right now. It is so hot. You think you might have seen something on Instagram claiming it was the hottest day of the year. Your family home is noisy with the sound of life: the washing machine and dryer are both on, rattling loudly in the utility room; the blender is going for your mom’s protein shake; the television and radio are both on and Leo refuses to turn either off. Overstimulating children’s cartoons bellow out into the stuffy living room. 

You’re standing in the bedroom, packing your bag frantically with school supplies for the tutoring session that’s near approaching. A holler of your name from downstairs has you groaning. At first, you try to ignore it, but it only gets louder and louder, until Leo is practically screeching for you. Your mom starts to call for you, too, beckoning you to go to him from her bedroom. With a frustrated huff, you ditch your mess of belongings on your bed and rush out of your room. 

“I’m going, mom!” you loudly tell her as you hurry down the stairs. 

Leo is sitting on the living room floor, a broken mechanical car in his hand. He holds it up to you, pouting, as he demands, “fix it, sissy! Fix it!”

“Leo, I really don’t have time to fix it,” you sigh tiredly, leaning down to take it from him. You inspect the damage and shake your head, “can’t you play with something else until I get home?”

“Fix it! Sissy! Fix it!” Leo continues to command. His eyes well with tears and his lip begins to tremble, and you know the signs of one of his episodes well. Overwhelmed, you sit down on the sofa and try your best to remedy the toy. It’s useless. It requires some sort of tool to get everything back together and functioning. Leo comes over and tugs on your t-shirt as you work, murmuring ‘sissy, fix it. Fix it, sissy,’ 

“I’m trying, Leo. Sissy is trying,” you mumble. You feel your own lip tremble and tears starting to form, and you internally curse yourself and will them away. You never cry in front of Leo. It’s your duty to keep him protected; to shelter him from the stresses that come along with your life. It isn’t his fault that things are different with him. But the more you try and fix the toy, and the louder the washing machine and dryer and blender become, and the hotter the room gets, and the more insistent Leo’s tugging and pulling becomes, the harder it is to hold back your brimming emotions. 

Leo begins to cry and you curse under breath. You place the toy on the coffee table and get down on your knees. 

“Leo, honey. Don’t cry. I will fix it, okay? Sissy will fix it. I just need a bit more time, m’kay?”

“Fix it, fix it, fix it,” he wails. His small hands ball into fists and he pummels the sides of his head, and your heart lurches. Your hands scramble to gently cup his own, ceasing the action as much as possible. 

“Don’t do that, baby. Please don’t do that.”

“Fix it, sissy,” he sobs.

“I will, I will,” you promise. Anything, you think. I’d do anything for you. You’re relieved when he lets you pull him into an embrace. You let him cry and smack his hands against your back. Emotions are big in his tiny body. They overwhelm him. It isn’t his fault. You press a kiss to his cheek, hoping you can somehow communicate that thought to him. When he’s settled, you give him one more squeeze before pulling away. Taking the toy from the coffee table, you tell him, “I’ll have it fixed by the time I get back home, m’kay?”

“Sissy fix it later,” Leo sniffles, nodding. Your smile is brimming and bright as you nod encouragingly. 

“Yes, yes. Sissy fix it later,” you reassure. Your eyes dart to the grandfather clock that stands in the hallway. Shit. “I really need to go, Leo. You need anything, you tell mom, yeah? Wake her up only if you need to, though.”

Leo nods. 

You jog through the house, scrambling up the stairs. The toy is shoved into your tote bag alongside the rest of the supplies, and then you’re racing down the stairs. The blender is finally finished; pouring it into a glass, you’re hurrying back to your mom’s room and leaving it on her bedside table. She’d finished a 32 hour shift at the hospital about two hours ago. Asleep, buried in the bedsheets, you lean down and press a kiss to her forehead. 

“See ya later, mom. Love ya,” you mumble softly. Closing the door gently behind you, you return downstairs to find Leo peacefully playing with a stuffed animal. Thank God. As you unlock the front door, you relay your usual farewell: “there’s carrot sticks and bell pepper sticks in the tub on the coffee table. Wake mom if it’s an emergency. Don’t touch the fireplace. Sissy will be back soon!”

Leo’s farewell is cut short by the closing front door. The pulsing heat slows you down as you speed walk to the high school. Children playing soccer and couples sharing picnics and surfer bros and girls loading up cars and vans and trucks blur into pictures of fantasies that you wish you could indulge in as you make your way down the streets. Finally, finally, you arrive at the high school. The air con is as relieving as heroin as you rush down the isolated corridors. JJ’s head whips to the opening door when you make it to the classroom. 

“Wow. You did show up.”

Your eyes squeeze shut with suppressed emotion as you bee-line to your chair. JJ doesn’t lose the opportunity to lecture, though. You suppose you have it coming from how much grief you’ve given him from being tardy. 

“I mean, you’d think that you’d at least practice what you preach. After all the shit you gave me for being late and you’re nearly twenty minutes over. Even I’m not that bad,” JJ goads. “Could at least take it seriously, y’know? Ain’t Mr Sunn putting all his hopes and dreams on you or some shit?”

Your hands freeze in your tote bag, midway through unpacking yourself. Tears rush to your eyes and you panic, pressing them shut, begging for them to go away. Crying in front of somebody was one thing. Crying in front of JJ Maybank was another. Your teeth sink into your lower lip to keep it still. The tightness in your throat keeps growing, with that horrible lump and scratchy dryness. Come on, get it together. 

“Hello?” JJ asks impatiently. “You gonna do something or…?”

That’s the breaking point. 

The tears fall in fat, ugly drops as a shaky sob rattles out of you. And then it’s as if the floodgates have opened. You can only imagine the horrified look on JJ’s face as you sit and cry in an empty history classroom. You cry, and cry, and cry. When you’re not crying, you’re gasping for air, sniffing back the snot, wiping aggressively at your nose and your eyes and your cheeks. Every attempt to slow the sorrow seems to bring about a new wave of waterworks. Until, finally, it seems to ease up. 

“God, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you mutter, taking off your glasses and wiping furiously at your face. It’s red hot, mostly from embarrassment, and you blink up at the ceiling. “Shit, sorry. I don’t know why…Sorry.”

When you brave a look at JJ, you’re surprised to see no look of horror or humour. Instead, he’s frowning. He looks sympathetic, even. You can’t bare that expression. It feels as though people have looked at you like that for most of your life. Wiping at your wet cheeks, you take in a deep breath. With a violent sniffle, you return your glasses to your face, damp fingers trembling as they flick through the papers. 

“Where, uh…Where should we start?”

JJ mumbles your name. 

“Maybe Biology?”

He repeats it, slightly louder. You can’t stomach looking at him. 

“Or History?”

It’s with a stern voice, JJ has your attention. He holds your gaze unapologetically. Then, he’s glancing down at the papers in your hands, out the window to the spotless summer, and back at you. He nods, a decision apparently made, and gets to his feet. 

“A’right, come on,” he says. You blink at him. 

“Huh?”

“Come on, get up. We’re getting outta here.”

“What are you…JJ, no, you have a lesson. I need to teach you about…”

“Teach me it in the car,” JJ tells you, not waiting for you to finish your thought. He’s walking around the table into new territory. His extended hand is like an olive branch. You eye it as if it might be laced with arsenic. But when you look up at his face, the smile on his face is new. It’s friendly. Reassuring, even. Your still quivering hand out stretches to land in his. His palm is warm and slightly clammy. He helps you up from your seat. You shrug your tote bag up your shoulder and JJ releases your hand to gather up your papers. Holding them out, you return them to your bag, and then you’re blindly following JJ out of the classroom and down the corridors. 

His black shorts look like swim shorts. They end around the mid-thigh. His shirt is sticking to his back with a thin veil of sweat. It’s sweltering in Kildare County. You’re surprised by how attractive you find it. In your frantic fragility, you hadn’t realised JJ wasn’t wearing a cap. Instead, his blonde hair sat atop of his head, longer strands hanging slightly over his forehead. You think that’s the first time that you let yourself admit how attractive JJ Maybank is. 

“Where are we going?” you ask, picking up the pace to walk beside him. 

“The beach.”

“Why?” 

“Because,” JJ says, pushing open the door and holding it for you to step through, “it is officially the hottest day of summer,” the two of you make your way down the stairs, “you just had some weird, psycho freak-out,” you follow JJ to a brown, banged-up campervan, “and nature is the best healer.”

You can’t argue with much of anything he’s said, so you don’t. Instead, you walk around to the passenger side and climb into the van. It smells of seasalt, men’s cologne and remnants of cannabis. There’s empty beer cans at your feet that you kick out of the way. Crumpled up in-n-out paper stuffed into the wings of the door. JJ sighs as he drops into the driver’s seat. You watch as he brushes his hair from his face, fingers running easily through the locks. He turns the key in the ignition and his silver rings glint in the sunlight. The van rumbles to life, vibrating the seat, and JJ puts it in gear. 

“Wind down the window, would ya?” he asks, meeting your gaze. You nod and do as he asks. JJ does the same on his side, and then he’s putting the van into reverse, and soon enough you’re on an impromptu road trip with JJ Maybank. 

It’s difficult not to look at him. He’s so different from the guy you’ve been trying to tutor for the past two weeks. He’s also different from the image you’d built in your head of him. Some suave, ladykiller. Cruel, phony, dismissive. In the bright glow of sunlight, he’s rather gorgeous. His arm is propped on the window ledge. The wind brushes at his hair. His fingers tap on the steering wheel rhythmically with the beat of whatever song is playing from the stereo. Scared to get caught staring, you turn and watch the view out the window. JJ was right: you needed this. It’s hard to find excuses to relax and have fun when your mom and Leo need you so badly at home. Any time spent just for you without any benefit behind it feels selfish. But this was like a ‘get out of jail free’ card. An excuse dressed up in combat boots and dreamy muscles. 

There’s no conversation made as the two of you drive. It isn’t uncomfortable, though. It feels strangely natural, sitting side-by-side in shared silence. When the shoreline comes into view, you’re weirdly disappointed that the journey is over so soon. JJ parks and gets out with a ‘come on’ that has you following. You linger and look around as JJ digs about in the back of the van. He’s proud as punch when he emerges with two cans of seltzer and a towel (you don’t want to know the last time it was washed, if ever). The waves sound delicious in their susurrus against the sand as the two of you walk through the sand dunes. It was fairly busy: people surfing, others lounging with music playing from speakers, children playing volleyball. Girls lay on their fronts and backs, reading, tanning, relaxing. Guys bob their heads to the music and watch people dip in and out of the waves on their boards, nodding in approval. Seabirds call out afar and crickets chirp in the reeds. You feel like you’ve taken your first breath of fresh air in years. 

“Here seems good, huh?” JJ says, slowing near a more secluded patch of beach. You nod. He lays out the towel horizontally, leaving space for you to both sit side by side. JJ smells like sunscreen and cologne and a touch of sweat. The crisp cracking of cans opens the conversation. “Cheers.”

Your can tinks against his. You have a sip. It’s tangy and refreshing as you swallow. Toeing off your trainers and socks, you sink your feet into the hot grains of sand. JJ copies. The two of you lean back and lounge. 

“So,” JJ says. The two of you turn to look at one another. “You feeling okay?”

Laughing, you shake your head and have another sip of your drink. JJ grins. Looking out to the water, you sigh as you reply, “I was just overwhelmed. Sorry ‘bout the…y’know…”

“Snot?”

You laugh, facing him again. “Yeah. And the tears.”

“I was a little freaked out, I’m not gonna lie,” JJ tells you mirthfully, making you laugh more. 

“Mhm. Same here.” The two of you sit in a jovial lull for a moment until you feel the need to clarify, “I promise that isn’t a usual occurrence.”

Laughing, JJ nods. “Yeah, well, did seem out of character. Used to you giving me hell for…Well, shit, for anything.”

“You make it pretty easy to do that, in my defense,” you grin. JJ cringes, rocking his head as if to say ‘is that true?’ “Mr Sunn said something ‘bout you wanting to take the tutoring more seriously?”

“Damn, news travels fast here,” JJ mutters, making you smile. 

“For the record: you were right.”

“That’s rare.”

“I bet,” you snigger. JJ shoves your shoulder and you giggle. “But, you were. I didn’t have any right making any assumptions about your life. Your fortune, as you said.”

“Nah, don’t take it personally,” JJ says, dropping his head slightly. He swings his can between two fingers. “I’m a dick when I’m hungover.”

“You hungover all the time then or…?”

“Damn, mama! I’m tryn’a make amends here!”

The two of you share a laugh. It sinks away like footprints on sand. Nodding your head, you hold his gaze as you smile. 

“Well, we could start fresh.”

“I’m down.”

“Hey - to new beginnings,” you announce, holding up your can. JJ smiles at you, nods, and clinks his can against yours. The two of you have a drink. A kid races across the beach in front of you, chasing a stray soccer ball. “Can’t remember the last time I came to the beach.”

“Really? I go all the time,” JJ replies. 

“My parents used to take us on picnics here every Sunday,” you say, smiling to yourself. You watch the little boy return to his sister. She takes the ball from him and they continue their game. The smile changes. “We stopped going after my brother was born, though.”

“How come?”

You swallow. Remembering yourself, you blink out of your thoughts and flash JJ a smile. “Just new routines, I guess.”

Nodding, JJ digs about in his pocket as he talks, “me and my friends surf a lot so we’re at the beach most of the time, really. John B lives right near the marsh though so sometimes we just go out on the boat, y’know?”

You watch as he retrieves a small metal tin. He opens it to reveal a joint and lighter. Instinctively, your eyebrows raise slightly. His eyes flash to yours and he falters. “D’you mind?”

“No, no, uh…Go for it,” you say, gesturing lamely to his blunt. He doesn’t hesitate as he brings it to his lips, guarding the flame for the breeze with a cup of his hand. The smell is fruity and poignant when he takes a few starting drags. You watch the ash building on the end as if mesmerised by fire, like you’re some kind of cave person. Then you realise JJ’s offering it to you. “Oh, um…I’m good. Thanks, though.”

JJ takes another hit. “You smoke before?” You give him a look of ‘what do you think?’ JJ coughs out his vapour with a laugh. “You wanna try?”

“Um…” You hesitate, eyeing up the joint. “I don’t know. What’s it feel like?”

“Depends,” JJ replies. “Usually makes you feel relaxed. Less aware of yourself. Loosens up your shoulders, calms you down, that kind of thing. Can make you laugh too. Hungry. Talkative. Pope on weed - Jesus Christ - you should see him. It’s like he took speed or something. He won’t shut the hell up, for once.”

You smile, having a vague memory of Pope. You went head to head with him at a spelling bee back in Middle School. He always seemed like a nice guy. Intelligent, too; he definitely gave you a run for your money that day. 

“Can you have a bad trip?” you wonder, curious. JJ shrugs. 

“Sometimes. I’ve only had a couple. Mostly depends on what state of mind you’re in before you take it, or if it’s a bad batch. Smoking’s the best way to start, though. You stop smoking and it’s out of your system a faster than if you have an edible. With an edible, you’re in it for the ride, y’know?”

“Hm,” you hum in deliberation. 

“It’s safe. I mean, it’s legal in a bunch of places now,” JJ reassures. 

Snorting, you say, “that means nothing! Cigarettes are legal too, don’t stop them from giving you cancer.”

Rolling his eyes, amused, JJ replies, “can you just not overthink everything for one second? Look, I ain’t gonna pressure you into anything, but I think it could help. Especially if you’re feeling a bit overwhelmed, like you said.”

He doesn’t press it any further and you don’t ask more questions. The two of you sit for a couple minutes before you find yourself reaching out to take the joint. JJ’s happy to oblige. You bring it to your lips, heart beating nervously in your chest, and you hesitate. Looking at him, you ask, “how’d I do this, again?”

“Just bring it up and inhale,” he says, mimicking for you. “Try and hold it in for a bit and then exhale. Don’t freak if you cough. Most people do, first time.”

Murmuring an ‘okay’, you swallow your anxieties before following JJ’s instructions. The air gets caught in your lungs and throat and you splutter out a cough. JJ laughs lightly as you do and you flip him off, smiling despite your hacking. Once it’s passed, you take a few more drags, getting better with every attempt. 

“Now what?” You ask, handing it back. “Should I feel something?”

Laughing, JJ leans back on his elbows. “Relax. You’ll start to feel it in a minute. Might need a few more hits.”

“Alright,” you say. You shadow his posture. A thought occurs that has you giggling. JJ quirks a brow, curious. “Sorry, sorry, it’s just…I’ve only ever had, like, one glass of wine at Christmas and Thanksgiving. Just a bit new.”

“Aw, man, don’t say that,” JJ groans, tossing his head back. “That makes it sound like I corrupted your ass or some shit.”

Sniggering, you can’t help but glance at him and tease, “maybe you did.”

The look JJ returns hits somewhere new inside of you. 

Turning to your bag, you dig for your bottle of water. Leo’s toy car tumbles out onto the sand. “Shit,” you mutter, picking up and dusting off the grains. 

“What’s that?” JJ asks. 

You turn and show him the broken car. He takes it from you and studies it as you tell him, “it’s my little brother’s. He was asking me to fix it but I don’t even know where to start with that kind of thing. It’s meant to move, see?”

JJ nods, looking at the motor you point to. He turns it over in his hands, inspects some parts, before announcing, “I can fix this.”

“What?”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s pretty simple, really. Just need to fix this part here,” he points at somewhere on the car, “and then change out the batteries, glue a few things, and should be good as new.”

“For real?”

“Sure,” JJ shrugs. He smiles at you. His eyes are blue, decorated with green flecks. You smile back. A fuzzy feeling builds in your chest. Your eyes dart down to his lips. They probably taste like seltzer and cannabis. He probably tastes like seltzer and cannabis. 

A scream has you both jumping, drawing your attention away from JJ. You look across the beach to find a kid screeching with laughter, screaming as their dad chases them through the wake of the water. You smile. In your peripheral, you see JJ smiling too. Maybe you had him wrong. Maybe the two of you can actually get along. Perhaps even be friends, of sorts. 

As the rest of the day stretches on, you and JJ pass stories and tell jokes. You churn up hilarious theories and stories about fellow beach goers as you smoke your way through his joint. The weed takes effect after a few minutes of smoking, like promised, and you get the giggles over something JJ says. You like his laugh. It’s bright and youthful, yet still somehow raspy. He gets rather philosophical when he’s high. Starts spewing ideas about the universe and fate and plans. That opens up a path to talk about daydreams and castles in the air. Fantasies of lives with high grossing jobs and Kook-sized homes and vacations every month. As the hours pass by and the topics come and go, you find yourself free from thoughts of studying and cleaning and cooking and caring for others outside of yourself. You find yourself present and in the moment for maybe the first time ever. That to say, when JJ eventually drives you home, the sun finally beginning to set, your heart deflates with the thought that the day is almost over. That you’re going to have to get out of the car and say goodbye to him, even if it’s for a week. 

The Sixth Lesson

JJ never thought that the day might come when he enjoys school. However, whenever Wednesday rolls around, this wave of energy washes over him, putting some pep in his steps like he’s in a Saturday special. Mr Sunn’s classroom had become this sanctuary; this garden of Eden that only you and JJ knew about. You had this way of explaining things that made it click for JJ. It was if you were a translator, taking complex terms and working them into analogies that fit into JJ’s head. You showed him tricks to keep notes which saved his paper from becoming a  stressful, confusing mess of scribbles. You recognised his need for taking breaks, splitting up sessions with stories, taking the chance to show him memes that your friend Esme had sent you. There was a sweetness to you, underneath the bossy, business-like exterior JJ was first met with. And with that sweetness came JJ’s sudden realisation that you’re really fucking beautiful. 

He’s not sure why he didn’t notice it at first. Maybe he did, but he didn’t want to acknowledge it. He was too busy cursing you for taking up his summer vacation. But now that’s noticed, he can’t unsee it. It’s like watching a movie and realising your favourite actor is in it; they take all the attention. And you took most of JJ’s, during your tutor sessions. He’d steal glances when he was reading through worksheets or filling pop quizzes. Snippets of your head bent forward, reading, your glasses slowly slipping down your nose until you push them back up. Glasses suited you. Framed your cherub face. Your laugh was melodic; tuneful like you were singing. But your lips might have been JJ’s favourite thing about you. You’d gnaw at them, chewing on them when you concentrated. You’d pamper them with lip gloss and balm, making them taste like strawberry or raspberry or cherry cola. A flavour JJ dreamt of licking off. On the downside, it made his already ADHD-ridden mind even harder to concentrate on the work. 

“You done?”

“Hm?”

“You finished with the quiz?” you ask, nodding down to his papers. You’d caught him looking at you and assumed he was finished. 

“Almost,” JJ says, glancing back at his answers to remind himself where he was. “Kinda stuck on this one though.”

“Which one?” you wonder, leaning across the table to have a look. JJ points at it and does his best to look at your face and not your cleavage as you read the question. But he has to steal a glance. Fuck. You smell fucking delectable. In a truly desperate and pathetic strain of thought, he considers asking what perfume you wear so he could spray his pillows with it. Jesus Christ, get a grip. It’s terrifying, the hold you have on him by doing so little. It’s like you have a voodoo doll stashed in your tote bag; potions that you drip into his water. It’s the only explanation. JJ Maybank has never been pussy whipped for a pussy that he hasn’t even seen. I guess you really do learn stuff at school. 

“Okay, so,” you say, sitting back in your seat.  You push your glasses up your nose: it’s adorable. “You remember learning about adaptation, right? Like how animals change themselves–”

“--to fit in with their environment and survive, yeah,” JJ finishes, surprising himself with how easily he plucks that knowledge from his memory. Your smile is beautiful, full of pride. 

“Right. Exactly. So, if you think about a camel - like the question says, yeah? - and where they live, why would they need to store water in their humps?”

JJ looks down at the paper and reviews the picture of the camel. “They live in the desert,” he thinks aloud, watching you nod in her peripheral vision, “so there’s not much water. So they need to store water so they don’t become…thirsty?”

“Another word for thirsty?”

“Dehydrated?”

“Yes!” you grin. “Yes, that’s it.”

JJ laughs despite himself, shaking his head as he writes the answer down. “Never thought there’d be a day when I’m actually decent at school but here we are.”

“Well, never thought there’d be a day when I smoke a joint,” you counter teasingly. JJ flashes you his smile. “Alright, come on. We got ten more minutes. Finish the quiz.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m on it, brown nose,” JJ mutters, sniggering when you flip him off. He fills in another answer before stealing another glance. You’re reading. Focusing intently on the page, knees brought up near your chest, book resting on the back of your thighs. “How’s the book?”

You look at him, visibly debate telling him to focus on his work, before answering. “It’s good. It’s the third in the series.”

“What’s it about?”

“It’s a fantasy. The usual stuff: witches and elves and stuff like that. Dragons, sometimes.”

“Fancy,” JJ mumbles, returning his attention to the paper. “Read something out-loud from it.”

You don’t say anything. Frowning, JJ’s eyes dart up to you. You’re staring at the page, clearly not reading. He starts to smirk, bemused. “What? Why don’t you read something?”

“It’s just, uh…Pretty boring, y’know?”

“Mhm,” JJ hums, unconvinced. He waits until you’re distracted before he quickly swipes the book from out of your hands. You shriek, jumping out of your seat. 

“Give it back, JJ! Give it!”

“Come on! Just wanna see what you’re reading!” 

“No!” you screech, chasing after him. The two of you perform some sort of dance around the tables of the classroom, white walls bright in the sunlight streaming through the wall of windows. JJ steps up onto one of the cabinets and holds the book high above his head, open on the page so he can read. You helplessly hop up and down below him, trying to swipe it from him. Through his laughter, it takes a moment to stop shaking and focus on the words. JJ begins to read. Then his eyebrows raise so high he’s surprised they don’t fly off his forehead. 

“Holy shit!” he sniggers. 

“JJ! Give me the book now, Goddamnit,” you demand, returning to the version he knew of you from week one. 

He loses control a little when he comes, his grunts deep and unusually rough, his grip viselike, and she feels his orgasm course through her as if it were her own. She sucks him gently through the end of it, and when she looks up at him she’s wet and swollen and she feels empty, trembling, a messy lump on the floor. 

“Open your mouth,” he rasps. 

She blinks up at him, confused. He cups her cheek. 

“I want you to open your mouth and show me.”

She complies, and the sound he makes, possessive and hungry and pleased at last, travels through her like a wave. He massages the back of her neck while she swallows, his thumb caressing her jaw, and when she smiles up–

The book is suddenly ripped from JJ’s hands. He’s in hysterics, doubling over, grabbing at his knees. 

“Holy shit! That’s insane, I had no idea people wrote shit like that,” he manages out through gasps of air. But when he looks at you, his humour quickly fizzles out. You’re closing the book, eyes downcast, visibly upset. “Hey, shit, I was just messing around, okay? I didn’t mean to–”

You turn and walk back to your bag, shoving the book inside of it. JJ jumps down and follows, grabbing your wrist to get your attention. You reluctantly look up at him. Tears tease your waterline. Shit. 

“Hey,” he says, voice soft, “I’m sorry. I was just messing ‘round. I just didn’t think books had stuff like that in them.”

“Yeah, well, they do,” you say, tugging your arm free and crossing them over your chest. “Didn’t have to be a douchebag ‘bout it.”

“That’s fair,” JJ hums, nodding. “M’sorry. Is it, uh…Is it good? Y’know? Book-porn?”

That has your lips quirking upwards. He smiles too. Rolling your eyes, you mumble, “it’s pretty good, yeah.”

“Yeah? I mean, seems pretty detailed,” JJ remarks, recalling the paragraph he read. You laugh quietly, shrugging. 

“It is. That’s what girls like ‘bout it, y’know? It’s more focused on the girl. About her…y’know, pleasure and stuff.”

JJ hums, thinking. It seems like more work to him than just putting on porn or even finding someone to hook up with, but considering what he’s learnt about you, it makes sense that you prefer it. As the two of you return to your respective seats, and JJ returns to his quiz, his mind can’t help but wander. Did you have a boyfriend? A girlfriend? Did you hook-up with people whenever you felt like it, like he did, or were you a one-person kind of girl? Were you a virgin? JJ warily lets his eyes wash over you. You’ve given up on reading and are now scribbling on some print-out, probably preparing next week’s class. Your head is propped up in one hand, the end of the pencil pressed against your lips. His eyes trail down your face, over your chest, lingering. It was hard to get a read on you. He felt like you were either one of two extremes: a virgin, perhaps never been kissed, or a hardcore freak. He wasn’t sure which he liked more. Probably both. Either. Any. If JJ had his chance with you though…Holy shit. He wouldn’t let you out of bed for hours. He’d show you things you didn’t know, make you feel things that you’d only ever read about and daydreamed in the darkness of your bedroom. He’d have you screaming, close to tears, desperate to come again and again and–

“That’s time.”

JJ quickly focuses on the page, reads the last question, and ticks a random box. Clearing his throat, washing his thoughts away down the gutter, he sits back in his seat. You take the test from him and read over it. JJ watches you nervously, teeth nibbling at his lips, as you start to mark. For the first time in his life, he cares about this quiz. It isn’t a mock exam, doesn’t hold any real weight, but he’d like some proof that maybe he’s worth a shit. Maybe his brain isn’t a complete waste of space in his skull. Maybe, just maybe, JJ might be smart. 

“Jury’s in,” you say, a mischievous glint in your eyes. You hold the paper back out to him, face down, and JJ eyes it nervously. “Go on.”

Sighing, he takes it and flips it over. His eyes quickly scan over the ticks and cross before honing in on the numbers outlined in a neat red circle. His lips part. “Eight out of ten?”

“Yep.”

“Eight out of ten?” he checks, meeting your eyes. 

“Well, if you want to be really harsh with yourself, it’s more like 7.5 because I gave you that hint with the adaptation-camel thing, but everything else was all you,” you smile, nodding. 

JJ can’t help but laugh in disbelief. He feels like he just passed his SATs. And if it wasn’t for you, he wouldn’t have gotten hardly one answer right. He wouldn’t have even tried. As if reading his mind, you gently remark, “you’re smarter than you think, JJ. Just gotta believe in yourself.”

“That’s the corniest shit you’ve ever said,” JJ snorts. But the look he gives you speaks volumes. Speaks of his thanks. You smile back, pretty like a magnolia in May, and JJ is petrified by the way his heart yearns. 

The First Warning 

“Whose turn is it?”

“Who’d you think?”

“Girl, she’s barely looked away from her phone.”

“Yo!”

Fingers snap in front of your face. You jump then frown at Esme. “The hell was that for?”

“It’s your turn, dipshit,” she playful replies, rolling her eyes. 

“Oh. Sorry,” you mutter, turning off your phone. You ditch it beside you on the sofa and lean forward, grabbing the dice. They clatter against the vinyl board, bouncing over colourful squares and claimed buildings. “Alright, seven.” 

As you move your counter around the Monopoly board, your phone buzzes with another message. Eyes drifting over to the screen, your lips instinctively twitch when you read JJ’s name. Esme narrows her eyes at you in suspicion and, quick as a cat, grabs for your phone. 

“Esme! Give it!”

“Who are you texting so much?” she wonders. Lily and Palma giggle, scooching in to gather around the screen. You roll your eyes. These were your closest friends, you didn’t much mind if they found out - which they were bound to, considering Esme knew your passcode. Her voice isn’t particularly happy when she asks, “JJ?”

Rolling your eyes, you take your phone back and scan over the messages. 

“Oh no.”

You look over the top of your phone and meet Esme’s eyes. You know that look. “Esme, it’s not like that.”

“You like him.”

“Esme–”

“You have a crush on JJ Maybank,” she announces. Lily and Palma gasp like they’re in a courtroom drama. 

Shaking your head, you laugh as you say, “can you not use the word ‘crush’? Makes us sound like we’re in junior high.”

“Girl, this is serious,” Esme warns, shifting on the sofa so she’s facing you head on. “This is JJ Maybank we’re talking about here. Need I remind you who he is?”

“Fuckboy?” Lily offers. 

“Asshole,” Palma chimes in. 

“How about surprisingly nice person who is also really freaking hot?” you give as a rebuttal. 

“Are we forgetting what he did to you?” Esme wonders, genuinely alarmed by your change of tune. “I mean, not more than a month ago he was enemy number one and now, what? You’re sending him cute little dad-jokes?”

“He’s not like what I thought, a’right? He’s actually pretty sweet,” you meekly reply. 

“Wait, what did he do to you?” Lily asks, frowning. 

You roll your eyes. “Literally nothing.”

“Nothing? You cried in the bathroom stalls for, like, twenty minutes!”

“It was ten minutes, and that was over a year ago,” you argue. “Jesus, you’re acting like he skinned my cat or something.”

“Hello!” Palma interrupts, throwing up her arms. Her cornrows sway off her shoulders as she asks, “are either of you going to tell me and Lily what he did?”

Sighing, you force yourself back to English class last year. 

“I’ve got to say, guys. Not your finest hour,” the teacher, Mrs Halls, remarks as she paces the aisles of the classroom. You chew nervously on your lower lip. You’d spent hours studying for this test; even pulled an all nighter just to cram in as much content as possible. You’ve read Romeo and Juliet enough times to recount almost every line. Recited the sonnets in your sleep as if you’d written them yourself. 

As she makes her way between the desks, your foot thrums against the vinyl flooring. To your left, she delivers a quiz paper onto a desk. JJ Maybank’s desk. He was hardly ever in class. Sometimes he’d get up and leave halfway through and not bother coming back. You’d never shared a word. 

“Poor work, Mr Maybank. I want you to see me after class,” Mrs Halls berates. JJ tugs off his cap and runs his fingers through his hair, huffing, rocking back in his seat. 

Then, your test sheet is returned to you. “Nice job. Top of the class - as always,” Mrs Halls tells you proudly, finishing with a wink. You smile, relieved, satisfied, and look back down at the neat A+ staring up at you. But your joy is short lived. JJ snorts, scoffs more like, and you glance over at him. 

“Fuckin’ virgin.”

The girl behind him overhears, as does the boy in front, and they both snigger underbreath. Your face burns hot and your eyes dart back down to your paper, head hanging with shame. Tears sting your eyes and you try desperately not to let them fall. And they don’t, at least not until you’re out of class and in the bathrooms with Esme. 

Lily and Palma’s sympathy is palpable. You roll your eyes. “Look, who cares? He was probably pissed with himself and took it out on someone else.”

“Oh, yeah, so I really want you to catch feelings for a guy like that - y’know, now that you’ve put it that way,” Esme sardonically replies. 

Sighing, you reach out and meddle with your game token. “I’m not stupid, okay? I don’t like JJ like that. There’s no point. So, you don’t gotta worry ‘bout anything.”

Guys like JJ Maybank did not go out with girls like you. It was as simple as the alphabet. The maths was easy: he was a commitment-phobe, heartthrob with a craving for adrenaline and adventure; and you were a rule-abiding, goody-two-shoes with an affinity for a good book and cup of tea. Hell, you’d smoked your first joint for the first time a few weeks ago and had your first casual drink outside of a holiday celebration. Skipping class was practically a religion to JJ whereas just the thought made you feel sick. The two of you were opposites, and whilst it might be true for magnets, the world of romance was quite a different story. It may attract, but that doesn’t mean it’s viable. 

But despite the logic, you knew you were lying. You had fallen for him, hard and fast. How could you not? He was funny and charming and attractive. He had a tenderness that he hid beneath the surface, like a tortoise cocooned in a shell. There was a sweetness to JJ, the kind that made the memory of his cruel remark feel false. But Esme’s disapproval and your own insecurity were poignant. You don’t text JJ back for the rest of the night. 

The Ninth Lesson

Since that day on the beach, you have never been late for another tutoring session. Now that JJ had made friends with you, if either of you were running late, you’d send a text message and the whole thing would be put to rest. That to say, when you were late to the session by an entire hour, JJ knew something must be wrong. You hadn’t replied to a single message he’d sent. Forgetting things was not your style, especially your tutoring sessions with JJ. He hadn’t outright asked, but something told the blonde haired boy that you enjoyed his company as much as he enjoyed yours. He wasn’t blind. He’d seen you taking peaks at him during the lessons the same way he did with you. As arrogant as he could be with his looks, JJ knew you weren’t like the others girls who fell at his feet. You were complex, contradicting, and chemical. 

The debate to go to your house is brief in JJ’s head. He’s given you several rides home after tutoring. The drive was always something he looked forward to, as well. You had a similar taste in music and the conversation flowed like a fresh water spring. It’s starting to feel second nature when JJ takes a left onto your street. You don’t live in Figure Eight but it’s a nicer area than where JJ resides. Somewhat of a middle ground, your neighbourhood is something of a suburban dreamscape. Children play in the streets and some front lawns even have sprinklers, when the drought isn’t around. 

JJ parks outside your door and sighs, checking his appearance in the rearview mirror. He fixes his hair under his cap and checks his teeth. God knows when that started becoming a habit. Then he’s hopping out the Twinkie and wandering up to your front door, hands in pockets. He raps gently on the red painted wood and waits patiently. He glances up and down the street and rocks on his heels. The door swings open and JJ turns, jumping into his introduction before he has a chance to see who it is. 

“Hey, I was wonderin’–” When he comes face to face with nothing, his head tilts down to find a little boy looking up at him. JJ’s breath catches in his throat. The child’s face is disfigured. It isn’t ugly and it isn’t horrifying in any way, but it is enough to notice. Enough to have a person take pause. JJ tries not to stare at the strange patching of skin and the protrusions of flesh. Instead, he ducks down so they’re more level at the eye. “Hey little buddy. Your sister home?”

He’s visibly nervous. “My sissy?”

“Yeah. Your sissy home?”

“Mhm,” he nods. He glances behind him, down the hallway, then back to JJ. “Are you her boyfriend?”

JJ eyes widen slightly. “Oh, uh, nah, little dude. Just someone she’s helping out.”

“Oh.”

“Hey, could you do me a solid, little man, and go get her for me?” JJ wonders. The little boy studies him for a moment. His eyes don’t seem to focus, one tracking a little slower than the other. JJ waits patiently. 

“Why aren’t you her boyfriend?”

“Well, that’s a pretty long story,” JJ chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“Are you a surfer?” With that, the little boy points at JJ’s t-shirt. It’s one of his graphic tees from a local surf shop in town. Grinning, JJ nods. 

“Yeah, I sure am. Are you a surfer?”

“Sissy won’t let me,” he replies through mumbled words. He rubs at his arm, one hand still holding tight to the door handle. “Says it’s dangerous.”

“It can be,” JJ replies. “Pretty dope though. I bet you’d make a cool surfer.”

“Leo, I’ve told you before to pick up your toys when you’re finished playing!” Your voice comes from some far room in the house. JJ glances over (what must be) Leo’s shoulder to spot you walking into frame. You look pretty frazzled, clearly working through some sort of mental checklist. “Leo?”

“Here, sissy,” Leo calls back. Your head turns and you notice your brother first, then the open door, and then JJ. Visibly startled, your lips part. Hurrying over, you lay a protective hand on your brother’s head, taking the door in your hand. 

“JJ. What are you doing here?”

“You, uh, didn’t come to the school so I wanted to check you were a’right,” JJ explains, raising back to his full height. “Little dude here said you were home so…”

“Sissy,” Leo says, tugging on your t-shirt. You glance down at him and this smile comes over your face that reminds JJ of a warm blanket. “Is this your boyfriend?”

“Oh, uh,” you’re flustered, glancing quickly at JJ before returning your focus to your brother. “No, honey. This is just, uh, a friend that I’ve been tutoring.”

“Oh,” Leo says. He tugs at your shirt again. “Sissy?”

“Yes, Leo,” you say with undying patience. 

“You should ask him to be your boyfriend,” Leo tells you. The two of you manage to hold back your laughs. 

“Really? Why’s that?”

“He’s a surfer. Said I could be a surfer too,” Leo says. 

“Oh did he now?” you wonder, looking up at JJ. He smiles apologetically. Oops. Shaking your head, you recall what JJ said prior to Leo’s interruption. “Wait, what’d you mean I wasn’t at school? Class isn’t ‘til one.”

“Yeah…It’s nearly three in the afternoon, now.”

Alarmed, you grab at your phone and groan. It’s dead. JJ shows you his. Your horror is borderline hilarious. “Shit, I’m so sorry, I don’t even…God, I just lost track of time. Um…Come in, actually. Come in.”

You and Leo make space for JJ to walk through the doorway. He closes it behind him. Leo grabs quickly at JJ’s shirt and pulls him with surprising strength through the hallway and into the living room. 

“Look, look!” Leo exclaims, grabbing at any and all toys in sight. One is familiar to JJ when he takes it in his hand. It’s the toy car he fixed for him. His eyes drift to yours to find you watching everything unfold with a strange expression on your face. Something tells JJ that this is a little overwhelming for you. He’s amicable when he places the car back down on the floor. 

“Listen, little dude, those are some sick-ass toys. But I really need to start this lesson with your sister, huh? Maybe we could play some other time?”

“Teach me to surf,” Leo seemingly demands. Your face falls. 

“Leo, honey, we’re not learning to surf today,” you gently say. 

Leo looks between yourself and JJ and his face begins to contort. His lips tremble and your eyes slant with concern. His fists clench at his sides and he stamps his feet. 

“Teach me to surf! Teach me to surf! I want to surf!” Leo shouts. His hands begin to thump against the sides of his head and you rush over, dropping to your knees. 

“JJ, can you wait in the kitchen please?” 

JJ does as he’s asked, quickly leaving the room, overhearing your pleading with your little brother. Through the muffled door, he can follow some of the conversation despite his trying not to. He occupies himself by looking at pictures on the wall and on the fridge. A drawing that Leo must have done - of him on a surfboard - and a picture of you and him from Christmas. You look sweet like cinnamon in your reindeer pyjamas. There’s an impressive collection of report cards and certificates and rewards, all addressed to you. A framed photo on the wall has JJ taking pause. The man in the frame is striking in similarity to you. He’s dressed in army formals, staring stoically ahead before a grey background. The ones around it are more casual. A family vacation. You in the marching band (so he was right, you did used to do that). The infamous spelling bee victory. 

“How ‘bout this: tomorrow, me and you go to the beach together, huh? Sound fair?” your voice creeps through the walls. 

“Sissy take me to the beach tomorrow?” 

“Yes. Sissy take you to the beach tomorrow,” you say. The relief is evident in your voice. JJ cracks the kitchen door open, sensing an end to the conversation. “How ‘bout you tidy up your toys whilst I hang out with my friend, hm? Sound fair?”

“M’kay.”

“Gimme a hug.”

JJ catches your embrace through the crack of the half-closed door. He smiles to himself. He’s never seen this version of you. It’s like you’ve transformed into a different person. When you reappear in the hallway, closing the door behind you, it’s as if you struggle to meet JJ’s eyes. 

“Come on, we can study upstairs,” you say, leading the way. 

Your bedroom is not how JJ imagined it. Parts of it are - the Jellycats and the candles and the motivational quotes on the wall - but he’s startled by how little possessions you have. There’s not a lot of books, like he was expecting, and your bed is simple with a duvet and two pillows. Your desk is a mess: papers and pens and highlighters and sticky notes. JJ closes the door behind him as you clear some clothes off your bed. 

“Sorry I forgot,” you say as you clean. “I had to sort out Leo’s dinner and he’s decided that he doesn’t like pizza now, he only likes dinosaur nuggets. And they have to be dinosaur shaped, or else all hell breaks loose. And then the laundry needed doing cause my mom needs her scrubs and–”

You stand upright and sigh, bringing your hands to your face. If JJ wasn’t in your family home, he’d offer you a joint. Instead, he stands and waits, unsure whether he should hug you or not. You haven’t crossed that line yet, although somehow standing in your bedroom feels miles more intimate. Another steadying breath and you’re pulling your hands from your face, fixing your glasses. 

“Thanks, by the way.”

“For what?” JJ frowns. 

“Y’know. For being nice to Leo,” you reply, gesturing to your door. 

JJ’s frown deepens. “Course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Just sometimes people can be…” You shake your head, drop onto your bed, and sigh loudly. “Assholes. They can be real assholes. Kids especially. Which, fair enough, they’re kids, but come on.”

JJ chuckles quietly. He sits beside you on your bed, sinking into the plush comforter. “He’s a cool kid. And I honestly don’t mind teaching him to surf. Might be cool to have a little apprentice.”

You laugh at that, smiling at him. “A little protege?” 

“Sure,” JJ shrugs, not fully knowing what that word means. He wants to tell you how pretty you look right now, despite being a little flustered from rushing around. You’re clearly busy. Busy in a way JJ didn’t know about and could never relate to. The question catches in his throat. It doesn’t feel appropriate to ask but it’s hard to keep it at bay for long. “Can I ask…What…What is it?”

You take a small breath before replying, looking down at your hands. “It’s a few things, really. Doctors aren’t even sure they can give it one name. He’s neurodivergent, so he likes routine and familiarity. Emotions are pretty big for him. They can be hard to manage. He’s getting better at compromise, though, which is nice. Uh…There’s also something developmental there. He’s nine, but he acts more like he’s seven, and his language is more at that stage too. He’s smart though. Really bright. The kids at school aren’t always so nice so sometimes I give him lessons, to help, y’know, bridge those gaps.”

JJ listens intently, nodding. Rolling your shoulders back, you let out a relieved sigh. He wonders if you’ve ever spoken to someone about this stuff before. If you have someone to lean on, vent to. He imagines Esme might fill that role to some degree. 

“The physical stuff…That’s because of a gene. Well, two genes, that my mom and dad both had, and it was luck of the draw. In another life, in another world, I would look like him. He had a shitton of surgery when he was little so he could breathe better, talk better, look better. Some helped home with mobility too. His tongue, uh…was too big for his mouth? They had to sort of…reduce it? It was a rough few years. Mom had to pick up extra shifts to get better health insurance and help cover the bills. My dad was in the forces and he’s deployed a lot. He is right now, in fact. I guess I learnt how to grow up fast.”

You laugh despite yourself, shaking your head, and meet JJ’s eyes. “I feel like I’m five different people. Sometimes more. I have to be the sister, and the daughter, and the mom, at times. I have to be the best friend and the star student. And then, I have to be the teenager. Even though most of the time I feel like a mini adult, trying to keep everything in order. I don’t know, maybe that’s why I’m so neurotic. Shit, I’m probably a psyche major’s dream case study.”

JJ laughs along with you but the words hang heavy in the air and in his heart. He could relate, though, to some of it. “I get it.”

“You don’t have to say that,” you solemnly reply, smiling sadly. 

JJ shakes his head. “No, I really get it. A bit, anyway. Having to grow up fast. Being different people.”

It feels empty to leave it at that, like faux empathy to defuse an awkward situation. Sighing, JJ’s fingers meddle with a stray thread on your duvet cover. “My dad’s in and out of trouble a lot. Jailtime and stuff, y’know? I learnt pretty fast that if I didn’t wanna go hungry, I gotta fend for myself more. Started working. Started stealing. Just had to survive, right?”

You nod sadly. ‘I’m sorry’ falls silently from your lips as you offer him a smile, and JJ’s heart drops down through his ribcage, into his stomach, because nobody has ever looked at him like that before. Looked at him as if they can see right through him. Through the facade and into his soul, into his mind. Look at him like they understand him. It’s terrifying. JJ’s throat feels tight and dry and his brain feels full. Butterflies tickle at his intestines as his eyes slowly, slowly, fall to your lips. It feels like a temptation when your tongue darts out to wet them, your teeth rolling over your lower lip, and he wonders what lip balm you’re wearing today. He wonders what you’ll taste like. 

JJ isn’t sure which one of you begins to move first, but soon enough, he can feel your breath on his lips. When his mouth presses to yours, his eyes sink shut and his heart nearly explodes from how fast it’s beating. Your fingers slip over the top of his hand as if holding him in place, keeping him close. JJ’s head tilts and so does yours, and you deepen the kiss. You taste like cherry cola. Cherry cola and lemonade. You sigh against him and one of JJ’s hands comes up to your cheek, fingers tracing the soft skin before cupping your jaw, guiding your movements with his. Your own hand creeps further up his hand, along his arm, until it’s looping over his shoulder, keeping him near. It’s sighs and hums and pure, simple pleasure as the two of you make-out. It’s never like this. Never this patient, exploring, wading through the waters, finding out what little move makes the other person react. The brush of teeth on lower lips, the shadow of tongues dancing against one another. JJ’s used to fast and fiery, rushing to get to the next part. This, right here, feels like JJ could kiss you forever and never once grow tired. 

The two of you are so consumed in one another that neither hears your mothers voice down the hall. It isn’t until a floorboard creaks just outside your door that you’re springing away from him, wide eyed. JJ’s still in a daze when the door swings open. You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand and JJ strategically sits so his crotch isn’t in view. 

“Honey have you–” Your mom’s words die on her tongue. JJ musters up some courage to look over to the doorway to find a blank expression on her face. “You’re not one of my kids.”

“No, uh, mom this is the guy I was telling you about. The guy that I’m tutoring, I mean,” you stumble through your words, gesturing to JJ. He gives a nod and tense smile. 

“Hiya, ma’am.”

“Ugh, don’t call me ma’am when I’m not on duty,” your mom groans, rubbing tiredly at her forehead. You chuckle and JJ realises it’s a joke, faking a laugh of his own. Then her eyes narrow as she looks between the two of you. “Tutoring, huh?”

“Yeah, uh, your daughter’s been helping me get my grades up over the summer. Mr Sunn hired her, actually. It’s all legit,” JJ reels off. Her eyebrows raise. 

“Okay, well…Sure. If you say so,” she says. She doesn’t sound particularly convinced. Her eyes train back onto you. “What I was gonna ask was, did you wash my scrubs?”

“Yeah. They’re in the dryer right now. Should be good to go in an hour.”

“Perfect,” she sighs, relieved. “Oh, and Leo?”

“He’s had his dinner. I had to run to the shops cause I thought he liked the unicorn shaped nuggets but it’s actually the dinosaur shaped ones, and we didn’t have any of those.”

“Nuggets? I thought he liked pizza. Thought he hated nuggets?”

“No, no, he’s done a complete one-eighty. Decided yesterday that nuggets are the new meaning of life; pizza is out,” you explain with a too-cheery laugh. 

“You said you bought some? How much were they?” Your mom worries, but you brush her off. She rubs at her head and laughs self-deprecating. “Jeez, some mom I am, huh? Can’t even remember what my own kids like to eat.”

Before you can say anything, she’s plastering on a smile and reaching for the door handle. It seems as though she just woke up from a nap. “Alright, well, I’m gonna get ready for work. You kids, uh, have fun…studying.”

“Thanks mom,” you smile, nodding. 

She begins to close the door, but lingers when it’s a crack open. “And use protection.”

“Mom!” The door slams shut. Groaning, mortified, you drop your head in your hands. “Sorry ‘bout her.”

“She seems nice,” JJ chuckles. Shaking your head, you look up at him. 

“Don’t indulge her,” you say jokingly. The smiles linger on your faces as you look at one another. JJ wants to kiss you again. He’s not sure if he’s supposed to be able to think about anything else now that he knows what you taste like. Those fantasies are back, the ones he shoved down in a box, and he wants to fulfill all of them. But you’re back to your usual ways: duty-focused. Getting to your feet, you slap your hands together. “Alright! Lesson time! Let’s start with…Romeo and Juliet.”

“Are you going to the kegger on Friday?” JJ asks out of the blue. 

You look over to him from your desk, where you’re flitting through the impressive stack of papers. “Kegger? What kegger?”

“This kegger on Friday. Meant to be a good one. Down at the boneyard.”

“I don’t know,” you mumble, turning back to the papers. “I’ve never been to one before. Wouldn’t even know what to do.”

“Come find me and I can show you,” is JJ’s suave reply. You snigger, rolling your eyes. “I mean it. It’d do you good to get to wear the ‘teenager’ hat or whatever you called it.”

Sighing, you venture back to him with the worksheets for the day in your hands. “Maybe. How’s that?”

“Good enough for now,” JJ relents. Before JJ can try and make a move, you’re thrusting papers into his hands. He groans, disappointed, and you only pretend not to care. 

“Okay, so: Romeo and Juliet. We all know what a shitshow that was…”

The First Kegger 

“I feel ridiculous.”

“You look it.” You toss a Jellycat at Esme’s head. “Hey!”

“That’s not very supportive of you,” you mutter, glancing at the mirror. You fiddle with the hem of the skirt and try to shimmy it further down your legs. It feels ridiculously short and revealing. God help you if you drop anything, there’s no way in hell you can bend over to pick it up. 

“Why’d I be supportive of this? You’re going to a kegger purely to appease the patriarchal nightmare that is JJ Maybank.”

“You don’t have to use his full name every time, y’know?” You reply, choosing to ignore her complaint. 

“Girl, this ain’t you.”

“It might be me. I can go to keggers.”

“Sure, okay, go to keggers - that don’t mean you have to cosplay as somebody else,” Esme sighs. She gets up from the bed and walks over to you. Her fingers meddle with the straps of the rather skimpy top you’re wearing. You’ll spend the whole night crossing your arms to try and cover your chest. Meeting your gaze, she sighs once more and takes a step back. “Look, if you really think this thing with JJ Maybank has legs then at least be yourself. I thought we agreed that as feminist women we wouldn’t conform to society’s brainwashing of what an attractive, ideal woman is.”

“You’re giving me a headache,” you mutter. But as you glance back in the mirror, you can’t help but agree. This isn’t you. The skirt, the top: it feels unnatural. Wordlessly, you walk over to your dresser and dig about through the drawers. The outfit that replaces the ‘hot-girl starter kit’ eases your anxiety in a second. An adorable skort and crochet style cropped sweater that sits pretty over a tank top. Yes, that’s more like it. Esme seems to agree, as she nods approvingly from the bed where she’s taken purchase once again. The reflection you’re met with smiles back at you. But then the thought of actually going to the kegger makes reality weigh heavy. “I don’t know…Maybe I shouldn’t go.”

“You look cute. It might be fun, you never know,” Esme shrugs. 

Sighing, you flop down on your bed beside her and stare up at the ceiling. The glow-in-the-dark stars you pasted there when you were thirteen have lost their shine, but they still have a dull illuminessence that feels like safety. “What if I’ve got this all wrong?”

“Didn’t you say he kissed you? How could you get that wrong?”

“I don’t know, I just…What if he’s doing it to mess with me?”

Esme thinks for a moment then groans. She sits up and huffs. “I can’t believe I’m actually going to defend this douchebag but,” she mutters, before meeting your eyes, “I think he might really be into you. And if you’re going to let some silly self-loathing stop you from being happy, then that’s pretty depressing. And sad. And pathetic.”

“Thank you,” you deadpan. She grins. You give a small smile back. “You’re right. But you know what would make this miles better?”

Realisation dawns upon her and her reaction would make it seem liek you asked her to go bungee jumping with you. Esme’s head begins to shake as yours begins to nod. “No. Nope. No way.”

“Yes! Come on, we can go together! Solidarity in numbers and all that!”

“I would do anything for you, but wingmanning you at a social event that reinforces incorrect assumptions that excessive alcohol consumption is synonymous with being cool is–”

You plaster a hand over her mouth. Glaring, you say, “shut up and get changed, will you?”

She stares at you as if challenging you to break, but you don’t. Rolling her eyes, Esme pushes your hand off her mouth and begrudgingly gets up and off the bed. Mutters and complaints fall from her mouth as she rifles through your clothes. ‘You’re lucky you’re my best friend’ is the most common. 

After the time spent debating whether or not to attend, changing outfits, and convincing Esme to join you, the two of you walk up to the kegger almost three hours in. It’s bustling and boisterous. Groups of friends are scattered across the beach and the dunes. People sit on the driftwood and chat animatedly. Boys wrestle and jeer at one another near a makeshift bonfire. Girls gossip and giggle amongst themselves as they catch eyes with classmates across the way. Tourons huddle nervously together and try their best to appear at ease and at home in the boneyard. The Kooks tend to keep their distance from the Pogues, a strange invisible divide drawn in the sand. Keggers and coolers are stacked up beside some speakers, with R&B and hip-hop music thumping out across the seashore. It’s nearly completely dark outside, save for a thin line of navy just above the shoreline. The bonfire works well in illuminating the sand with a warm, orange glow. 

“Holy shit,” Esme mutters. You snort. This was a first for the both of you. “This already blows.”

“The music’s pretty decent, at least,” you comment as the two of you weave through gaggles of teenagers. It seems you’re both naturally gravitating towards the keg to grab a drink. Red solo cups are stacked precariously beside the beverages and you grab one each. As Esme chatters and fills up your cups, your eyes scan the beach in search of a certain blonde haired boy. You’d texted JJ before leaving but had yet to get a response. Glancing down at your phone to double-check, you notice that the service is appalling, and sigh, pocketing the device again. 

“You found him yet?”

“Nope. Holy crap, can you believe how busy it is?”

“Look out!” someone shouts. With that, you and Esme stumble back as two guys tumble in front of you onto the sand, wrestling. Esme rolls her eyes and mutters into her cup, ‘imbeciles’ before taking a sip. Your fingers nervously press into the plastic over and over as you scan the beach over and over. It’s so busy and in the darkness, it’s hard to make out faces. Everybody looks the same (save for the Kooks, who are dressed in designer threads). You and Esme find yourselves in what feels like a safe spot on the beach. Sitting on an old tree trunk, you sip at your beers and people-watch whilst discussing the gossip you knew of your classmates. It’s nice to have her company; you’d have no idea how you would have coped if you had come on your own. Checking your phone once more, there’s still no text from JJ. Just as you’re about to recommend leaving - already an hour in - Esme is suggesting to get a refill and give it a bit more time. You’d made the journey and the effort, after all. 

Approaching the keg, you vaguely recognise the boy refilling his cup. Smiling, you call out, “Pope!” and watch as he startles and turns around. His smile is amicable.

“Hey! Uh…YN, right?”

“That’s the one,” you smile. The alcohol gives you a boost of social confidence, what with your tolerance so low. “You remember Esme, right?”

“How could I forget? Mathlete reigning champion,” Pope smiles at a rather smug Esme. 

“Hey, you wouldn’t happen to know where JJ is, would you?” Esme asks on your behalf. Your face burns hot at the directness of her question. 

Pope doesn’t seem to be phased, however. He looks around as he says, “he is here somewhere. I’ve been hanging with Kie though so I lost track of him. He’ll show up.”

Esme gives you a nudge and you roll your eyes, smiling into your cup to try and hide your glee. He’s here. 

“JJ says you’ve been tutoring him at Mr Sunn’s request?” Pope asks you. You nod. 

“Yep. Once a week for over a month now.”

“Honestly, you deserve a medal for that. I gave up trying a long time ago,” Pope remarks joshingly. 

“He’s actually doing pretty great. I think it’s making a difference.”

The rest of the conversation stretches on with Pope. You start to exchange stories from the chess team and Mathletes and Model UN and, eventually, the Spelling Bee tale comes up. Unaware of the secret vendetta Pope held against you following your victory, it’s fair to see you have a good laugh when it’s revealed. The three of you become more giddy and familiar as the conversation continues and you wonder why you and Pope had never hung over before, when you seemingly have so much in common. When Esme wanders off to go find somewhere to pee, you and Pope sit side-by-side on some driftwood and discuss the latest fantasy book you both happened to be reading. 

“I gotta say, I did not see Eldmore and Scarlett getting together,” Pope tells you. You scoff, gaping at him. 

“How could you not!? He was practically falling at her feet in the second book!” 

“I don’t know, I just thought he had more chemistry with Mistress Londar.”

You consider this as you take another sip of your drink. You’re three beers in now and can certainly feel its effects; probably best to quit while you’re ahead. “I guess. Mistress Londar is in too deep with the alliance, though. I think it would have been too much of a conflict.”

“Maybe. Still. That one chapter when Eldmore and Scarlett…y’know…do it,” Pope’s voice trails off and the memory has you laughing. Smiling brightly at him, you’re far too excited to have the opportunity to mention JJ. 

“That was the chapter I was reading when JJ stole the book from me. I think it might have scarred him for life,” you snigger. 

Pope laughs, shaking his head. “The stuff he gets up to? I doubt it.”

As the laughter dies down, Pope goes to take another drink only to find his cup empty. Smiling apologetically, he rises to his feet. “I’m gonna get a refill. It was nice talking to you though. See you ‘round?”

“Sure,” you smile, nodding. With that, Pope walks away. You stay put for a moment, considering what to do. The interaction with Pope had distracted you from your search for JJ. Upon checking your phone, you realise you’d been conversing for over an hour. Oops. Esme had also vanished. You better go look for her. Getting back up, you ditch your cup and walk around the boneyard. You thought it would have started to die down with how late it was getting but, if anything, it seems busier than ever. The alcohol has your head slightly fuzzy and you concentrate on not tripping over. You’re not drunk - not by a long shot - but it’s probably best not to have any more for the night. Pulling out your phone, you try texting Esme despite the poor cell service: Where are you? When you look back up and glance around the beach, your heart stutters. 

There’s JJ, as gorgeous as ever, stood talking to some random girl. He’s leaning against an abandoned, rusted watch tower, nursing a red solo cup, and staring at her as she talks. He seems to be listening rather intently to the story she’s telling, nodding his head, as her hands move as she speaks. When her fingers brush against his forearm, you suddenly feel very sick. And then, he laughs. 

The tears kick in with the embarrassment and disappointment. How could you be so stupid? Of course he doesn’t want to be with you. Of course he isn’t going to change. Of course he’d want somebody else. 

A hand on your back has you jumping and spinning around. Esme. You sigh in relief. She frowns at your expression, spotting the tears in your eyes. 

“What’s wrong? What happened?”

You shake your head and grab her hand. “Let’s just go. I wanna leave.”

“Hey, what–” Her voice trails off and you know she must have spotted JJ. You remain with your back to the interaction and try tugging on Esme’s arm to prompt her to move, but her feet are welded into the sand. “That filthy, slimy little toad of a man, I swear to God–”

“Esme, please,” you beg. Your voice cracks and gives you away. She meets your gaze. You shake your head desperately and a tear falls. “Please, I just want to leave.”

Huffing, she takes one last look at JJ talking to the girl before reluctantly appeasing you. The two of you walk down the beach, hands interlocked, and you sniffle pathetically as you try to wash the image from your mind. Why would he invite you just to get with somebody else? Why would he kiss you if he didn’t want anything? Why would he do this to you? Why? Why? Why? 

Your mind jumps back to that day in the classroom. The sneer in his voice when he muttered those two words. The sniggers from the classmates that felt like elephants trampling on your chest. The shame and the embarrassment that overcame you. You were so convinced that he was a different person. That you’d merely caught him on an off day and you didn’t know him, not truly. The day at your house was so special: it felt like finding gold in the attic. Nobody had ever seen your life up close apart from Esme. Not even Lily or Palma. Nobody had ever met your brother apart from Esme, either. Had heard your fears and anxieties and seen your exhaustion not once, but twice. You’d trusted him. You let him into your home and gave him a snapshot of your life and you thought he understood. But you must have thought wrong. 

Esme doesn’t try to spark a conversation as the two of you walk back to your house. She gives you a long, lingering hug at your front door before bidding you goodnight. Slipping into the house, you keep your footsteps light and your cries quiet as you make your way up the stairs. Your mom’s bedroom door is shut and you can hear her snoring through the walls. Leo’s bedroom door is open by a crack and you wipe your tears and sneak inside. He’s lying in his bed, bundled up in his dinosaur bed sheets, cuddling his stuffy. He looks so peaceful like this. So safe from other children’s whispers and other parent’s horrified stares. So safe from the world and its cruelty. The cruelty that you were exposed to tonight. Ducking down beside him, you brush your hand lightly over his hair and press a kiss to his forehead. Climbing into bed has never felt like such a relief before now. 

The Final Lesson 

You haven’t texted JJ since the kegger on Friday. His message he sent last night went without a response but JJ’s sure you read it. He was clarifying that the lesson was still on for today, in the usual spot in school. At your lack of response, JJ simply assumed that it was routine as always, and packed up his backpack for his lesson. He isn’t sure how to explain it, but when JJ passes through the threshold of the building, something feels off. It’s as if the air is thick like molasses, study and heavy, pushing against his throat. A bizarre feeling of unease washes over him with every step he takes. The classroom door is shut and JJ pushes it open, finding you sat at the desk. Your head is down and you’re reading something laid out in front of you. There’s less paperwork than usual stacked by your side. You don’t look up or smile at him as JJ walks in. You don’t even acknowledge that he’s there. JJ suddenly feels nauseous. What the hell is going on? 

“Hey,” he says, unsure, as he walks over to the table. The glance you give him is brief. 

“Hey,” you mumble. 

Frowning, JJ takes his seat. You’re focusing pretty hard on whatever it is before you. JJ takes a long inhale and waits. Eventually, you clear your throat and push over the paper. 

“This is, uh, your scoresheet from all our lessons. Y’know, so you have physical proof of what we covered and how you performed in the different quizzes.”

JJ’s frown deepens with your words. He slowly takes the paper from you and scans over it. 

“You can give it to Mr Sunn if you like, but I’ve already emailed him a copy so he has it. He’s aware that you’ve attended every session, save for the one in week two, but–”

“Wait, what the hell is going on?” JJ interrupts. His heart is starting to beat faster, his anxiety building, because this sounds an awful lot like goodbye. “Are the lessons done?”

When you meet JJ’s eyes, he hardly recognises you. You haven’t looked at him with that level of nonchalance since the early weeks. Pushing up your glasses, you say, “yes, the lessons are done.”

JJ blinks at you and waits for you to drop the act. He waits for you to make a joke and tease him like always. He waits to see your expression melt with that smile that he likes to think is saved just for him. But instead, you just look at him. It pisses him off. 

“The fuck d'you mean ‘the lessons are done’?”

“JJ–”

“You never told me that we were finishing the lessons. I mean, shit, I just walk in here and suddenly it’s over? I don’t understand!”

“We’ve covered all the content that you need to cover before the next semester starts–”

“--Bullshit we have!”

“JJ!”

“No, no, I don’t know what the hell is going on,” JJ argues loudly, “but you’re fucking with me.”

“JJ, please,” you plead. It’s the first crack in your icy exterior. Your lip quivers as you try and steady yourself. There’s little power behind your voice as you say, “please don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

JJ’s heart squeezes and he rubs at it through his t-shirt. He feels like you’ve just shoved him off a cliff and he’s falling and falling and falling, and you’re just standing there and watching it happen. It doesn’t make any sense. It’s as if you’ve both been reading the same book and then you’ve skipped ahead three chapters. He tries to calm himself down, taking a few slow, shaky breaths. His eyes press shut and in the darkness behind his lids, he sees your face, moments before he kissed you. Shaking his head, he opens his eyes and looks at you. 

“You could at least give me a reason.”

You’re visibly uncomfortable. Swallowing, you look down at the papers before you and meddle with the corner of one until it starts to split. JJ utters your name and you sigh, squeezing your eyes shut. 

“I don’t know why you’re making a big deal of this. It’s not like it means anything to you,” you tell him quietly. JJ’s brows furrow. 

“What're talking about?”

Sighing once more, you lift your head and meet JJ’s gaze. There’s a sadness behind your eyes that he’s never seen before. “I saw you at the kegger.”

JJ’s frown deepens as his brows tug closer together. “Huh?”

“The kegger, JJ, I saw you there,” you say, firmer. Shaking your head, you busy your hands with anything and everything as you ramble. “You have every right to get with whoever you want to get with and mack on any girl you like, but you could at least, y’know, clarify before doing it. I was just confused. It felt like a sick joke or somethin’ and I really hope that you wouldn’t be that cruel but…But it just confused me and I don’t think I can compartmentalise this dynamic if that's the case...”

JJ’s shaking his head frantically. He holds up his hands in mock surrender as if trying to ease traffic. “Woah, woah, slow down, you lost me. What d’you mean you ‘saw’ me?”

“With that girl, JJ.” Your voice is thick with despondency. “I saw you at the old watchtower talking to her and…I don’t know…”

Oh. 

JJ isn’t a genius at most things, romance being one of them, but he had a sense for when things were deeper than a fling. He knew his own emotionality enough to recognise when he liked someone, even if he was reluctant to admit it. It didn’t take a scientist or therapist and even a mere scholar to read you right now. The way you’re looking anywhere but him; the way your hands are practically tearing the paperwork, that seemed to follow you like a shadow, into shreds; the way you’re so desolate and so vulnerable in your words, strategically saying so much without saying anything at all. It’s like how you taught him during Romeo and Juliet: ‘you have to read between the lines’. 

“You’ve got it all wrong,” JJ says, suddenly calm. 

“JJ, you don’t have to–”

“I was looking for you all night,” he interrupts. You seem unwilling to accept this, sighing and shaking your head, refusing to meet his gaze. “I was. I swear it. I was looking for you the whole night and then, when I found you, you were talking to Pope.”

That has you taking pause. Your fingers finally cease their relentless vandalism. JJ sees your eyes flicker over to him warily. He takes the gap to continue. 

“You were talking for an hour. Maybe more. And you were laughing and…And I’m not an idiot, a’right? I know that you and Pope have a million more things in common, and that he’s actually got a hope in hell of making something out of himself. You’re both smart. It’s probably fucking fate. And I’m not gonna stand in the way of that, a’right? I ain’t gonna stop two people from being happy and shit just because I like you too. It ain’t fair. Pope’s a good guy. He’d be good to you.”

The hopeful part of JJ’s psyche is leaning heavily on your pure look of confusion. JJ’s face feels burning red from his clunky confession. But he perseveres and takes another quick breath, preparing himself to talk up his best friend, but as JJ’s lips part, you’re talking. 

“I don’t like Pope.” The two of you stare at one another. The table has never felt so wide. Shaking your head, you repeat, “I don’t like Pope. Not like that, anyway. We just have a few things in common and started talking about that book I was reading, and lost track of time and– I had no idea you even saw that.”

“Yeah, well…I did…so,” JJ mutters. 

“JJ, I was looking for you all night, too,” you tell him. The smile on your face is solemn when you say, “and when I found you, you were talking to that girl. And…she’s beautiful, JJ. She seemed really nice and, of course, you’re welcome to–”

“--Didn’t you hear what I said?” JJ can’t help but cut in. You frown slightly. JJ doesn’t mean to laugh when he repeats, “I like you. Like really like you. Like holy shit what the fuck am I supposed to do like you. Like you’re all I can think about sort of like you. It’s fucking terrifying and pathetic and I know that there isn’t a chance in hell but–”

“--You like me?” you whisper. JJ laughs softly, almost under breath, and shrugs. He feels stripped off his confidence; bare without his boyish façade. This was real, genuine, organic. This was honest. 

“Course. Why else would have I invited you to that damn kegger in the first place? I mean, shit, I full-on kissed you. Thought it was pretty obvious,” he says, his voice trailing off. 

“I…I just thought…” 

You’re in disbelief, it seems, and it makes JJ’s heart want to bleed. It’s as if you can’t fathom the fact that somebody might have an interest in you. Someone might want to care for you like you do for so many others; to be the one who helps look after your brother; who helps you study for your exams despite the fact that you’ll inevitably ace them either way; who helps you remember how to relax and let loose and just be. JJ wants to be that person. He wants to be the one that you can cry to and the one who makes you laugh. He wants to be the guy that you spend your mornings sleeping in with and your nights wide awake. He wants to make you smile and scream and moan and– All of it. JJ wants it all. 

“That girl was my cousin. Well, step-half-cousin– It’s get confusing, a’right? The point is:” He takes a sharp breath before laying his hands palm down on the table. He’s determined to hold your gaze when he says, “I don’t want anybody else - not one person - but you.”

JJ’s patience has never been more impressive as he waits for you to process what he’s said. He can practically see each word working its way through that beautiful brain of yours. As the meaning sinks in, your smile finally begins to show like the first sunrise after winter. Brilliant and full of promise and hope. No more dark days, no more cold nights, no more dull mornings. Just sunshine - through and through. 

“I want you too,” you confess. 

His heart feels like it’s about to bust out of his chest. JJ’s not sure he’s ever smiled so hard in his life. There’s a faint worry that his skin might split from how wide his grin is. But he can’t help it. This is better than any high he’s ever had. It’s euphoric because you want him too. Despite all his misgivings, all his stupidity, all his hopelessness: you want him. And not just the version that he might be able to become, but the version he is now.

“Come over here right now,” JJ demands in a breathlessly chuckle. 

The giggle that falls from your lips is adorable as you get up from your seat. JJ’s laughing too as he pushes his chair back to make space for you. You drop down onto his lap with a laugh and JJ tastes them on his tongue when he kisses you. It feels like coming home as your hands lace into his hair, pulling him nearer. The graze of your tongue against his, sensually tasting him the same way he does you, has him quietly moaning. The moment he takes your lip between his teeth, you’re whining, and it’s as sweet as syrup. His hands run down and along your thigh, fingers digging into the flesh just enough to remind himself that you’re real, this is real, and you want him too. 

“You’re fuckin’ perfect,” JJ murmurs against your mouth. Your sheltered moan drives him on; JJ kisses you with new fever. The scratch of your nails against his scalp is orgasmic in itself. It’s never been like this: never has something so simple made JJ feel like he’s been brought to his knees. Pulling away, JJ stares up at you, panting lightly, and waits for you to open your eyes. Pupils blown wide, you look like an angel, the sun casting yellow behind your back. His fingers slowly lift until he’s taking the frame of your glasses in grip and easing them from your face. JJ’s never seen you without your glasses on; not up close. His lips quirk at the edges. “I think I like you more with them on.”

“Shut up,” you mutter, rolling your eyes, smiling despite your words. He makes sure not to be careless when he puts them on the table. His hands cup your face, fingers brushing over your soft skin, fuzzy like peach lining, and you lean into his touch, gazing into his eyes, and JJ thinks this. This is what true happiness is. 

“What?” you ask, voice barely louder than a whisper. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothin’,” JJ smiles, losing his nerve. Nobody’s ever looked at him like that. You look at JJ like he’s somebody. “Just happy s’all.”

Your lips are slightly damp when you tilt your head enough to press a kiss to the pad of his thumb. JJ’s breath catches in his throat from the tender action. He’s serious about this. Serious about you. He’s as serious as the plague. 

“Same here,” you murmur, leaning back down as if to meet his lips. Before they reunite, you let one last thing slip. “M’happy too, blue eyes.”

---

want more? read part two - paint by number - here!

John B: Jonathan + JB

JJ: Baby + J

Pope: Handsome + Bubba

Kiara: My Love + Kie

Sarah: Pumpkin + Sarry

Topper: Top

Rafe always had trouble with managing his fixations. Whether it was impressing his middle-school English teacher with essays he didn’t even care about, convincing his father that he was worth the same kind of praise Sarah seemed to get just for breathing, or feeding the itch with coke and whiskey, he couldn’t go without something to orbit around. He needed variables—something to obsess over, something to keep him wired enough to power through the monotony of being Rafe Cameron.

Girls weren’t usually part of that cycle. It wasn’t that he wasn’t interested—he liked sex, liked the control and the rush of someone else’s body giving in beneath his—but the idea of lingering never appealed. Letting intimacy sink its teeth into him was dangerous; it meant chasing, it meant vulnerability, it meant admitting there was a hole in him he couldn’t fill with substances or violence. That was a slope he avoided. He didn’t pine, didn’t call after, didn’t chase. Mommy issues—neat, explainable, nothing more complex than that.

That was the rule. But every rule had an exception, and his came in the form of a girl who, in hindsight, should’ve been his first fixation if he hadn’t been too stupid, too stubborn, or maybe just too cowardly at ten years old. His exception was you. Which made it ironic, and almost sickening, that you would eventually fall into JJ Maybank’s orbit, not his. Because if he was honest, Rafe saw you first.

That Halloween night pressed into his memory like a splinter. He was stuck outside the small marina grocery store, rocking on his sneakers, impatient for Topper to come out with the contraband firecrackers and lighter so they could keep making the neighborhood miserable. His hands were fisted around the flimsy orange plastic pumpkin his mom had grabbed at the last minute from Walgreens, jaw working hard as he chewed a Snickers bar down to nothing, trying to drown his boredom in sugar.

He was wound too tight, restless in the way only kids could be, every second of waiting a kind of torture. The neon open sign buzzed and flickered above him in ugly green, casting his face in shifting light, and he rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath. He shook the pumpkin in his grip, the clatter of candy inside doing nothing to entertain him. When the bell above the shop door finally chimed, relief flooded him. He turned halfway, ready to snap at Topper for taking so damn long. But instead of his best friend’s mop of blond hair, he saw strangers.

First, a man—tall in Rafe’s eyes, though he was only ten and short for his age. In truth the man couldn’t have been taller than five-nine, with shaggy brown hair tucked under a faded baseball cap and a pair of square glasses perched low on his nose. His hand was down at his side, only two fingers extended, gripped tightly by the little girl next to him. She was small, the pumpkin in her other hand battered and faded, the kind of hand-me-down that had survived too many Octobers. The paint was scratched, the orange dulled, yet it somehow made the whole picture sharper, more noticeable, more hers.

What stood out even more was the costume.

Small, feathered angel wings sprouted from behind her, stiff and cheap in their whiteness, clearly bought off a Spirit Halloween clearance rack. But it wasn’t the wings that held Rafe. It was the headband swaying above her head, the one lined with tiny plastic eyes, bobbing with each eager bounce of her heels. It was ridiculous—comical even, especially when paired with the too-big glasses that kept slipping down her nose. He knew he would’ve called her “four eyes” back then just to get a laugh out of Topper, maybe even made fun of the “biblically accurate angel” get-up.

And yet, standing there, chewing on his Snickers with his mouth halfway open, he found himself staring longer than he should have. Something about the mismatched details—the crooked glasses, the eager bounce, the stupid headband—hit a strange nerve in him that didn’t loosen even years later.

Then she beamed, and that sealed it. Wide, unrestrained, genuine—her smile cut through the dusk of the marina parking lot and aimed itself directly at the tired man beside her. She peeked into her own bucket and gasped, her voice bubbling with excitement, “M&M’s and a Twix? That will bring me so much luck!”

Rafe stilled. The candy bar went heavy on his tongue, suddenly chalky, forgotten. He stopped chewing altogether, something shifting in his chest as he kept his eyes locked on her.

The little angel stilled her bouncing, straightened, and looked up at her dad with a grin too big for her face. “Can I do it now?” she asked, impatience bleeding into her voice despite the effort to mask it. She sounded like she already knew the answer, like the permission was just a formality.

Her father chuckled, the corners of his mouth tugging into something tired but warm, the grin of a man whose life was hard but still softened in the presence of his daughter. “Go on, baby,” he said, giving her fingers a small squeeze.

“Trick or treat!” she shouted, bouncing once more for good measure before snapping to attention, pumpkin held out expectantly.

The man’s grin dimmed into something knowing as he revealed his other hand, previously hidden behind his back. A fistful of candy dropped into her pumpkin, rattling against the faded plastic. She gasped and looked down at the pile with the kind of reverence only a child could summon for sugar. And Rafe, standing frozen on the sidewalk with melted chocolate sticking to his teeth, thought—without really knowing why—that he should have walked forward.

Should have said something. Should have claimed that moment. Instead, he swallowed the thought with the last bite of his Snickers, shoved it down like everything else he didn’t want to feel, and let it rot somewhere deep where it would fester until much later.

Rafe never forgot that Halloween, but what twisted the knife later was how quickly the memory became tangled with another. Not long after, when the innocence of cheap angel wings and scratched pumpkins had already hardened into something sharper in his head, he saw you again. Only this time, you weren’t bouncing on your heels in a grocery store parking lot with your father at your side. You were standing across the Cut with that same too-big smile, except it wasn’t aimed at him.

It was summer, one of those suffocating Carolina afternoons where even the shade didn’t help, and Rafe had been sulking on the dock, bored and restless, flipping a pocket knife open and shut just to hear the metallic snap. He wasn’t supposed to be there—his dad had sent him off on some pointless errand—but rules bent easily when he decided they should. He was younger then, but already good at that little trick: being everywhere he shouldn’t. Which was how he ended up seeing you again, standing at the edge of the dock with your hair pulled back, bucket swinging from your hand, head tilted as you listened to some kid talk animatedly beside you.

That kid was JJ Maybank. Blond hair sun-bleached almost white, a grin too wide, hands moving as he talked like he thought the whole world should be listening. And you—God, you were listening. Every word, every stupid joke, soaking it up like he was the funniest person you’d ever met.

Something ugly sparked in Rafe then, something new but too familiar in the way it burned up his throat. His jaw clicked tight, pocketknife snapping shut harder than he meant it to. He watched JJ lean closer, watched you laugh, and it was like a hand squeezing his chest from the inside. He didn’t even know you. Not really. Just a girl in angel wings with glasses too big for her face, a memory filed under “should’ve been mine.” But now you weren’t just some strange girl he’d built a fixation around—you were real, and you were already orbiting someone else.

Rafe acted out without thinking. That was his specialty. One minute he was brooding on the dock, and the next he was on his feet, stalking closer with his chin lifted in that Cameron way he’d been taught since birth—chin up, eyes sharp, posture ready to cut down anyone who didn’t belong. “What are you doing here, Maybank?” he called out, voice dripping with condescension too heavy for a boy his age. His eyes didn’t even cut to JJ at first; they were locked on you, cataloguing the way you startled, how you clutched your bucket tighter, how the sunlight bounced off your hair.

JJ fired back without missing a beat, all swagger and smirk. “Fishing, obviously. You own the dock now, Cameron?”

But Rafe didn’t laugh. Didn’t even smirk. He stepped closer, knife still in hand, flicking it open with a casualness that wasn’t casual at all. He didn’t need to look at JJ to know how to press the bruise—he always knew. “Funny,” Rafe muttered, eyes flicking from JJ to you, just long enough to watch the way you shifted uncomfortably. “Don’t you have better things to do than bother people? Or are you just hoping someone will feed you since your drunk dad can’t?”

JJ bristled instantly, fists balling at his sides, but Rafe didn’t care about the fight he was baiting. Not really. It wasn’t about JJ. It was about the way your attention snapped to Maybank, how you stepped closer to him instead of away. It was about the way you already chose who to stand with, even if you didn’t know you were choosing.

And in that moment, Rafe realized two things that sat bitter on his tongue even years later: first, that he had been too much of a coward that Halloween night to step forward when he should’ve. And second, that JJ Maybank had noticed you before he ever worked up the courage to make you notice him.

Rafe found himself wondering if things had been different if he had stepped forward. Would he have been the one you clung to when things got heavy, the one you dragged everywhere, the boy at the skatepark when your mother’s voice got too sharp and cruel? He was just as troubled as JJ, just as hungry for someone to understand what it meant to live with parents who couldn’t give softness without a price. He could’ve bonded with you over that, he was sure.

But instead of him being the name you called first, the one you trailed after with bright eyes, it was JJ Maybank. You didn’t have to say it, not then, not ever—he could see it in the way you lit up around him, in how your laugh seemed fuller when JJ was the one pulling it out of you. Everyone else but JJ noticed how smitten you were, and it gnawed at Rafe like a splinter under the skin. Especially because with other people, that spark dulled. Behind your glasses, your eyes stayed guarded, dim, unimpressed. But not with Maybank.

It took weeks before Rafe got you alone, before the chance opened up. He remembered it clearer than most things—how you’d been sitting on the low wall outside Tannyhill, legs swinging above the gravel drive while waiting for your mom to finish a shift inside. You looked out of place against the backdrop of crisp lawns and polished brick, head bent over the paperback book in your lap, wings of your glasses catching the sun. He’d just come back from practice, polo shirt clinging with sweat, still keyed up with energy he didn’t know where to put.

For a minute he only hovered, scuffing his sneaker against the driveway, chewing on the inside of his cheek. He’d made it clear enough to everyone that he didn’t like your friends. That you weren’t supposed to be in his orbit. But when he finally walked up, tossing his lacrosse stick aside to sit beside you on the wall, he felt that rule bend without snapping.

“You know you don’t belong here, right?” he said, voice low, trying for careless but coming off sharper than he meant.

You lifted your head, blinking at him, hand sliding over your page to keep your spot. “Pretty sure I could say the same thing to you.”

His lips twitched before he could stop it, an almost-smile that made him look younger than he liked. He leaned back on his hands, staring out at the line of oaks across the yard. “I don’t like your friends,” he admitted suddenly, blunt in a way that surprised even him. “They’re… loud. Always trying to act like they’re better than they are.”

You tilted your head, studying him like you were trying to figure out if he was insulting you too. “And you’re better than me?”

Rafe hesitated, eyes flicking to yours, lingering too long. “No,” he said finally, voice quieter. “Not you.”

That was the first time you really looked at him, not like a Cameron, not like the asshole who sneered at JJ or barked at your friends. You just looked, steady and unflinching, until he dropped his gaze first. For a moment, something unfamiliar knotted in his chest—something softer than jealousy or arrogance. Something he’d spend years trying to smother but never could.

Which was why he agreed so eagerly, almost hungrily, to be the shoulder you cried on or the body you draped your legs across when Maybank inevitably screwed up by chasing Kiara Carrera. It wasn’t magical. It didn’t feel like fate, or like the stars had aligned in some perfect arrangement to push you into his lap. It felt more like inevitability, like gravity finally pulling him toward something he’d been orbiting for years.

The insults, the pointed jabs, the way he always found a way to insert himself where he wasn’t wanted—all of it suddenly felt like it had been worth something. Because him being the biggest asshole in your orbit meant that when you needed someone, when you wanted to make JJ feel the sting of his own choices, it was Rafe Cameron you picked as your collateral.

Of course, JJ didn’t know. None of your friends knew. To them, you were still the anti-kook firecracker who rolled with Maybank’s shadow, the one who’d always take his side even when it didn’t make sense. But Rafe liked to believe that when you came to him, when you pressed your lips against his in some dark corner or let him tug you into the back seat of his car, you were really striking back at JJ for choosing Kiara. That it wasn’t just about rebellion or lust or convenience—it was about retribution. And if Rafe was the weapon you chose to wield, he’d gladly let himself be sharpened on that edge, even if it cut him in the process.

The sex was great. More than great. Mind-blowing in a way that left him lying awake afterward, chest heaving, heart thudding unevenly as he stared at the ceiling and wondered why it felt so different with you. You ruined every other girl for him, dimmed them like they’d never existed at all. But the high of your body, the way you clenched around him or dragged your nails down his shoulders, wasn’t enough to mask the undercurrent gnawing at him.

Because no matter how many times he made you cry out his name, no matter how many times he had you shaking apart beneath him, you had a way of pulling JJ back into the room without ever meaning to. A casual mention of something JJ had said. A laugh about a story that involved him. Even just the way his name slid off your tongue, soft and careless, while Rafe was the one actively making you come undone. It was psychological warfare, and whether you knew it or not, you were winning.

Every orgasm you gave him, every night he let you crawl back into his bed when you swore you wouldn’t again, came laced with that bitter aftertaste. You’d leave him wrecked, raw and spent, and all he could think about was Maybank—the idiot who didn’t even know what he was missing, the idiot who never had to work for your loyalty the way Rafe did. And Rafe hated that it wasn’t enough. That even when he had you trembling and boneless, he still felt like he was coming in second.

It wasn’t lost on Rafe how pathetic it was, the way he let you drag him into one of those public showers off the beach like you hadn’t just been laughing with your friends a few minutes ago. His hands were already braced on either side of your head, the wet tiled wall slick behind you, the hiss of the shower drowning out the muffled bass from the beach party. You looked sinful and out of place all at once, hair damp and clinging to your cheekbones, that flimsy bikini bottom tugged to the side so he could grind himself against you like he couldn’t wait another second.

He was half out of his mind, but then again, that was how it always went with you. His jealousy curdled into lust too easily, and right now he was punishing you for every mention of JJ that had ever slipped past your lips, even if you hadn’t said his name today. It was always there in the back of his head, a ghost he couldn’t exorcise, and it made him fuck you harder, like maybe he could erase it if he left enough bruises behind.

“You think about him when you’re with me?” he muttered against your mouth, his words damp and heavy with breath as he shoved his hips forward again, forcing a whimper out of you. He didn’t even wait for your answer—he didn’t want it. His mouth dragged across your jaw instead, biting down hard enough to leave a mark because he wanted something physical to look at later when you left him again, something he could claim as his. The air was humid, the spray from the showerhead beating down in uneven spurts, but Rafe didn’t care if the whole beach heard you. In fact, part of him wanted them to, wanted Maybank’s ears to burn even if he wasn’t anywhere near.

He cursed low when you tilted your head back, eyes squeezed shut, body rocking into him with desperate little jerks that matched his rhythm. There was nothing sweet about this, nothing gentle. It was messy and rushed and almost reckless, like both of you knew you didn’t have the luxury of time but still couldn’t keep your hands off each other.

His rings scratched faintly against your damp skin as he gripped your thighs and pulled them tighter around his waist, pressing you harder into the wall. Every sound you made echoed in the tiled space, magnified until it was almost unbearable. He wanted to shut you up with his hand, but he also wanted to hear every broken moan, every shaky breath, because it fed that ugly, gnawing part of him that thrived on proof you wanted him.

When your nails scraped at his shoulder, Rafe bit out a laugh, ragged and bitter. “You’re not gonna be able to walk out there looking like this,” he said, voice rough with the effort of holding himself together. “Not after the way I’ve got you shaking.” He kissed you again before you could snap back, his tongue hot and insistent, swallowing the sound of your frustration as if it belonged to him.

He knew you’d pull yourself together the second you stepped back onto that sand, straighten your bikini straps, wipe the water from your lashes, and pretend nothing happened. You’d go back to your friends, to Maybank, to that carefree laugh that didn’t belong to Rafe no matter how many times he dragged it out of you in private.

And that was the part that gutted him. The inevitability of you slipping out from under his hands and walking back into the sun like you hadn’t just let him ruin you against a shower wall. The knowledge that he’d be left standing here, wet and raw and buzzing with everything he couldn’t say, while you went back to the same boy he’d been competing with since he was ten years old.

Your lips broke from Rafe’s in a wet, biting pull, the taste of salt and him still clinging to your tongue as your brows furrowed at the words he’d muttered against your mouth. You didn’t know if it was the mix of pleasure twisting low in your belly or the irritation spiking in your chest that made your voice come out the way it did—sharp, breathless, laced with the kind of bite that always made him grin like he’d won something.

Your fingers stayed tangled in his soaked hair, nails raking over his scalp until you felt the way his thrusts faltered just enough to remind you of the power you had in this tiny, slick corner of the shower. “You want some shampoo with that blatant jealousy?” you whispered, part moan, part jab, the steam curling around both of you thick enough to blur the edges of reality.

Rafe’s laugh came out low, cruelly amused, his mouth dragging against your jaw in a sloppy kiss that tasted more like teeth than tongue. “Keep talking, angel,” he groaned, voice roughened with the weight of how deep he was buried inside you, “see if it doesn’t make me fuck you harder.” And he did, his hips snapping with a force that made your back press into the cool tile, the jolt vibrating through your legs until your toes curled painfully. The slap of water dripping off your bodies mixed with the wet, obscene sounds of him inside you, your slick and the shower stream combining until you couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

Your chest heaved as his pace took you under again, nails dragging down his shoulders until you left red crescents against his flushed skin. You wanted to roll your eyes at him, at the way he always twisted the knife of his jealousy into something brutal and carnal, but instead all you could manage was a shaky laugh that broke off into a whimper when he hit just right. “So fucking predictable,” you breathed against his temple, though your legs tightened around his waist, contradicting yourself in the most humiliating way.

He smirked at that, as if he could hear the contradiction in your body clearer than in your voice. His hand slid down, palm pressing at your hip, grounding you against the tile while his other hand gripped the back of your thigh so tight it ached. The ache only made the slick heat between you worse, a pulse that had your head tipping back, strands of wet hair sticking to your face and neck as you bit down on a sound you didn’t want him to hear. But Rafe always heard. He always pressed closer, teeth grazing the delicate skin of your throat like he wanted to leave marks that wouldn’t wash away in saltwater.

And as much as you hated giving him the satisfaction, your body betrayed you. Every thrust, every drag of him inside you made you clench tighter, chasing the burn that was building in your stomach, a burn that had nothing to do with the jealousy you mocked him for and everything to do with the way he made you feel like the world outside this dripping cubicle didn’t matter.

But it did.

You knew the second he let you go, you’d have to step back into sunlight, towel yourself dry, and pretend you hadn’t just let Rafe Cameron fuck you into a tiled wall while your friends sat clueless on the same beach, waiting for you.

Because across the four months you’d spent tangled up with Rafe, you had stretched the possibility and the risk of being caught until it was drawn so taut it felt like it could snap at any second. Semi-public sex wasn’t just some reckless thrill anymore—it had become a necessity, like oxygen or the sharp edge of spite that had started this whole thing in the first place. At first it was easy to lie to yourself, to chalk every stolen touch and every secret rendezvous up to bitterness, to tell yourself this was punishment, payback, a desperate way to distract from the ache of unrequited love you’d carried like a stone in your chest.

But somewhere along the line, the excuses blurred. Somewhere along the line, you couldn’t tell anymore if it was revenge or if in some sick, twisted, humiliating way, you needed Rafe’s touch—needed the brush of his hand at the small of your back, the burn of his mouth at your throat, the brutal comfort of his body pressed against yours whenever he was orbiting you in a room. It was like an itch under your skin that only he could scratch, and you hated yourself for it even as you gave in, over and over.

The tile was slick against your spine, water cascading down over your chest as Rafe’s body crowded yours, the rhythm of his thrusts sharp enough to make your breath stutter. You tried to push words past the heat clogging your throat, nails curling harder into his damp skin. “You’re gonna get us caught,” you breathed, though it was laughably weak, more a moan than a warning, more a plea than a protest.

Rafe only grinned against your neck, lips dragging over your pulse in a slow, claiming scrape. “You love it,” he muttered, voice slurred with both effort and arrogance, his teeth sinking lightly into your skin as if to mark his point. He drove into you harder, like he was testing how close you could come to crying out, how close you’d get to slipping. “Don’t act like you don’t get off on it, angel. You think I don’t notice? The way you squeeze around me every time I remind you how fucking risky this is?”

A sharp sound broke from your chest, halfway between a laugh and a gasp, your fingers threading tighter into his hair to ground yourself. The worst part was that he wasn’t wrong. You hated the smugness in his tone, hated the way he could always cut right through your defenses, but the flush burning through you made denial impossible. “You’re such a—” your words fractured into a soft cry when his hips snapped again, the water plastering your hair to your face as your head tipped back helplessly.

“Say it,” Rafe goaded, his lips curving against the corner of your mouth, his breath hot despite the misty air. “Tell me what I am while I’m the only one making you sound like this.” He shifted his angle just enough that the pressure inside you twisted into something sharp and unbearable, dragging another sound from your throat you didn’t want to give him.

You tried to fight it, tried to dig your nails into him like punishment, but your body betrayed you, arching up into every thrust like it had been waiting for this. “You’re insufferable,” you panted, biting down on his lower lip hard enough to taste copper before releasing it, eyes narrowing through the steam even as your thighs locked tighter around his hips. “Completely un-fucking-bearable.”

Rafe laughed like you had told him the sweetest secret, his hand sliding up your thigh, gripping harder as he pressed in deeper. “Good thing you like unbearable, huh?” he rasped, the sound of his voice dragging across your nerves just as much as the relentless way his body moved inside yours.

Your response was cut off when the pleasure began coiling fast and tight in your belly, the kind of buildup that left your lungs burning and your nails searching for something to anchor you. Your palms scrambled at the back of his neck, sliding against slick skin until you cupped his jaw, tilting his face down even as your eyes fluttered shut. The water blurred your vision into nothing but heat and haze, every droplet that rolled down your cheeks indistinguishable from the tears threatening to form from the sheer intensity of it all.

The steam thickened in your lungs, suffocating you with its weight, but none of it compared to the unbearable warmth spreading from every muscle that locked, stretched, and arched like your body was desperate to fuse with his. “Fuck—right there, Rafe…” you cried out against his skin, your voice breaking sharp at the edges, your tone pleading and furious all at once.

Your forehead dropped against the curve of his shoulder, and you felt your thighs clamp down around his hips like a vice, locking him in place as your body broke apart against him. The orgasm tore through you like a tidal wave, leaving your mouth parting helplessly in a silent moan before you caught yourself, biting into the wet skin of his shoulder to muffle the whimper that slipped free. You clung to him, trembling through every pulse of it, your chest pressed so close to his you could feel his uneven heartbeat thundering against yours, your breaths staggering out in choked little sobs of release.

“Atta girl,” Rafe rasped into your ear, voice cracking under the strain of holding himself back, his lips dragging over your hairline as he pushed through your climax, hips grinding through the aftershocks just to wring more out of you. “Knew you’d fucking lose it for me. You always do.” His words vibrated against your skin, smug and desperate all at once, but his hand cupped your jaw with something firmer, grounding you in the haze.

Your legs twitched around him, thighs quivering as you tried to catch your breath, the water pelting down on both of you in heavy, relentless streams. “You’re such an asshole,” you whispered, still shaking, your voice rasped thin, but the way you clenched around him on the comedown made the insult lose all of its bite.

Rafe’s laugh was low, husky, broken by his own ragged breathing. He nipped at your ear, his thrusts growing erratic, rougher, like the feel of you falling apart around him had pushed him too close to hold off any longer. “Yeah,” he groaned, his teeth dragging along your jaw, “but you love it.” His grip on your hips tightened as if he was trying to imprint bruises there, dragging you into him one more time, the water splashing harder against your skin as your head tipped back against the cold tile.

Rafe’s pace stuttered as your body convulsed around him, the aftershocks making his rhythm jagged and desperate. He hissed through his teeth, forehead dropping to yours, water rolling down both of your faces like it was trying to drown the moment. “Fuck, baby—” his voice was harsh, breaking against your skin, “—you’re gonna make me lose it.” His hips snapped forward with a shudder, grinding you tight against the wall, and you felt the telltale tremor in his muscles that said he was right on the edge.

Your hand shot down between your bodies, sliding slick against his stomach until you wrapped your fingers around him, pulling free of where he was buried in you just enough to fist him hard and fast. He let out a guttural sound, low in his chest, and his hand slammed against the tile beside your head to keep himself upright. His eyes squeezed shut, lashes clumped with water, his mouth hanging open like he couldn’t even form words anymore.

“Don’t—inside,” you managed to gasp, your hand working him as your thighs loosened just enough to give him room. His whole body jerked when you twisted your wrist, and his groan tore out of him unrestrained, raw and filthy.

“Shit—fuck, angel—” he choked out, the words slurred and broken, his hips twitching helplessly into your grip. His release spilled hot over your fingers and lower belly, thick streams washing down with the water almost instantly, diluted but no less messy. His head fell to your shoulder, his teeth scraping at your skin as he rode it out, grinding into your palm like he couldn’t stand a second without the contact.

You stroked him through it, tightening your grip until his curses dissolved into shaky exhales, his whole body trembling from the force of it. When he finally sagged against you, chest heaving, you pulled your hand back, slick and wet, wiping it teasingly along the side of his thigh just to make him twitch.

He laughed, breathless and ruined, pressing a kiss to your jaw that was more teeth than lips. “You’re fuckin’ cruel,” he rasped, voice rough from the groans he’d bitten back. “Getting me like that and not even letting me stay inside.”

"Not my fault you hate condoms," you bit back teasingly, finally able to catch your breath now that both of you had finished, your chest still heaving in the cloud of steam. The sharp edge of your tone didn’t land as harshly as you wanted it to, not with the way your lips brushed against the damp skin of his jaw.

"How else will I be able to feel you and connect spiritually?" he countered without missing a beat, voice raspy but smug, his grin curling beneath your jaw like he was waiting for your next protest. His arms were still tight around you, as if you might slip away the second he let go, and you tugged at his wet hair hard enough to make him groan, pretending it was punishment when you knew he loved it.

"I heard spitting in mouths does wonders for connecting spiritually and across the astral planes," you shot back, rolling your eyes even though your smile was fighting to break through.

That grin of his didn’t falter, not even for a second. If anything, it deepened, dimples flashing as he leaned back just enough to look at you properly, droplets sliding down his cheekbones. He pulled away from your throat with a hesitation that almost felt like reluctance, as though he didn’t want to sever the heat of that touch. “That explains why I’m the only one who’s obsessed,” he murmured, dragging the words out like they were a confession and a challenge all at once. His thumb brushed across your cheekbone, almost gentle, but his eyes held something darker. “You spat in my mouth, not the other way around.”

Your face scrunched up, heat climbing your cheeks despite the foggy warmth of the shower. “And you let me—oh my god.” You pushed at his chest weakly, though you knew it was useless against his solid frame. “You didn’t even flinch, Cameron.”

He laughed lowly, the sound vibrating against your skin as he leaned back into you, pressing his mouth to your jaw with an almost reverent slowness that contrasted his words. “Flinch? You think I’d flinch when it’s you?” His lips ghosted over yours, smugness melting into something hungrier, more possessive. “Nah, angel. You could’ve made me swallow anything and I would’ve thanked you for it.”

The words lingered in the cramped shower, the water still hissing down as steam clung to your flushed skin. That was the thing about Rafe—he always managed to lace filth with something else, something heavier, like he couldn’t help but let meaning bleed through even when it ruined the illusion of detachment he clung to so desperately.

Pillow talk with him was never just pillow talk. It always felt like a thread tugging at something buried underneath, something he wanted you to notice but didn’t want to say outright. And more often than not, you told yourself it was easier to take everything at face value, easier to pretend Rafe was just a freak who treated every girl he casually hooked up with like this.

You tilted your head into him anyway, letting your lips part against his, drawing him into a slow kiss that tasted more like surrender than defiance. He kissed back with the same focus he had when he was fucking you against the wall minutes ago, like he hadn’t quite come down yet, like he needed to wring out every trace of you before you slipped away. His hand reached blindly past your hip to twist the knob, the hiss of water cutting off, leaving only the echo of your shallow breaths between tiled walls. He eased you back onto your shaky feet with the faintest press of his palm to your spine, steadying you like he wasn’t the reason your legs threatened to give out.

Once you were standing properly, he deepened the kiss, pressing harder, like he wanted to trap the moment between your mouths, refusing to let it dissolve with the steam. His hands dragged down to your hips, holding you still against the cool tile as he tugged your bikini bottoms back into place, a small, almost domestic gesture that felt too intimate for what you told yourself this was.

You answered it by reaching into the space between you, adjusting him back into his swim trunks with fingers that lingered just a moment too long before sliding back up to cup his jaw. You both kissed like you were trying to memorize the other, your lungs screaming for air but neither of you pulling away, clinging to the weight of it until the kiss ended itself.

“Forty-five seconds, angel...” he drawled when he finally broke away, his lips still swollen, pressing them together like he was trying to hold on to the taste of you. The smirk that curved his mouth was smug, but softer at the edges, something almost boyish bleeding through. “New record.”

Your eyes locked with his, and for a second it threw you off—the way his gaze pinned you, sharp and genuine all at once, like he’d forgotten how to hide it. You faltered, then tried to cover it, rasping out, “You counted?”

He tilted his head, water dripping from the ends of his hair, lips twitching like he couldn’t decide between teasing or confessing. “Always do,” he said, voice low, almost casual, but his thumb brushed over your hip in slow circles, betraying him. “Don’t act like you’re not keeping score too.”

Your eyes tracked every shift in his expression, the subtle curve of his mouth, the way his gaze stayed fixed on you like he was waiting for your trademark scoff or that inevitable roll of your eyes that always came when he said something too much, too close. But the response didn’t come as easily as it usually did. Instead, you faltered—really faltered.

The sharp retort perched on your tongue never made it out, and the silence stretched into something uncomfortable. It was rare for you to hesitate with him, rare for you not to claw your way back into the safety of sarcasm, but every word he’d said lingered, echoing louder in your head than they had any right to. The longer you held his stare, the more the pit of your stomach twisted, fluttering in a way that felt nauseatingly unfamiliar. It didn’t feel like a simple aftermath of sex. It felt like something else. Something you didn’t want to name.

It was easier—safer—to pretend that none of it meant anything, that the warmth in his eyes was just another trick, that the way his thumb traced the dip of your hipbone was an unconscious tic he did with every girl. That’s what you usually did. Whenever these feelings clawed their way through the haze of lust, through the shivers still rolling down your thighs, you buried them under jabs, half-smiles, careless words. You made them disappear. But this time, your chest felt too tight, your throat too thick to hide behind the usual games. And for the first time, it occurred to you that maybe it wasn’t working anymore.

The realization made your breath hitch. It made you linger in the stillness between the act of fucking against a public shower wall and the inevitable return to the noise of the beach party outside. You let your gaze sweep over him instead—his flushed skin, damp hair plastered to his forehead, the way his grin had dimmed but not vanished. He looked boyish in the dim light, softer, less dangerous than he should’ve. And you hated how badly you wanted to stay there, just studying him like you might find answers you’d been avoiding.

“I don’t…” you finally mumbled, the words catching clumsily, weakly, not nearly sharp enough for the armor you usually wore with him. Your eyes stayed on his features, your voice shrinking under the weight of the silence.

“The warm water made me light-headed,” you finished, the lie slipping out thin and unconvincing, swallowed down over the lump in your throat.

He smiled like he could see straight through it, the kind of smile that made your chest tighten all over again. Then, without warning, he reached behind you, twisting the knob until the shower sputtered back to life. The spray blasted icy cold this time, making you squeal and wince, your hands shoving at his chest half-heartedly. “You asshole,” you hissed, laughter spilling over your irritation as the shock of cold water clung to your skin.

He chuckled, not the smug laugh he usually gave but something deeper, something genuine, his chest vibrating under your palms. “See?” he muttered, leaning closer, water dripping from his chin onto your lips. “Nothing light-headed ‘bout you. Just dramatic.”

You tilted your face away when he inched closer, but his arms looped lazily around your waist anyway, his grip loose but refusing to let you create any real distance. His nose brushed against your cheek as he pressed a few aimless kisses along the side of your face, warm and unhurried, before tucking himself into your wet hair like he had every right to be there.

The press of his body herded you back against the tiled wall, crowding you until your hands were forced up, squished awkwardly against your own chest, the lack of space between you setting that uncomfortable flutter off in your stomach again. You hated that it wasn’t fading with the aftershocks of what just happened, hated that it felt like something else—something heavier, something he wasn’t supposed to be handing you.

“I know…” he blurted softly, breaking the rhythm of the water still dripping around you, his voice almost apologetic. Your eyes flicked to him at the tone, but you kept your face angled away, wary of the weight behind it. “I’ll let you go,” he added after a beat, as though it needed clarification, like he’d sensed the way your body was tensing, how your push at his shoulder wasn’t really about space but about everything unspoken crowding in between.

“You don’t need to say that,” you muttered, trying for steady but falling short, your fingers curling against the damp skin of his shoulder. He looked at you like he wanted to argue, but instead he just breathed out through a crooked smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I think I do,” he countered gently, tilting his head until his mouth hovered close enough to your temple that you could feel the warmth of his words. “You always look at me like I’m about to trap you in here forever.” His laugh was low, self-deprecating, but his grip around your waist didn’t loosen until you pressed against his chest more firmly.

“Maybe because you are,” you said, trying to twist it into a jab, but your voice cracked just enough that it wasn’t convincing. The corner of his mouth quirked up, that same frustrating mix of amusement and something sharper gleaming in his eyes as he finally leaned back an inch, giving you a breath you weren’t sure you even wanted.

“You’d like it,” he said simply, almost smug, though the softness in the way he brushed a strand of wet hair off your cheek betrayed him. “You just don’t know it yet.”

You finally managed to roll your eyes, the gesture weak but familiar enough to steady you, and he lit up instantly—beaming down at you with that lopsided smile like he was in on some private joke you hadn’t been let in on yet. It was infuriating how easily he wore it, how his grin seemed to suggest that he knew more about what you were feeling than you did. “Stop speaking in riddles,” you mumbled, trying to flatten your tone, but he only leaned in closer, his smile softening into something quieter, less mocking and far more dangerous in its sincerity.

“Gimme one more kiss…” he whispered, his voice dropping so low you felt it more in your chest than in your ears. You frowned instantly, thrown off by the sudden thread of affection curling through him in the aftermath of something that was supposed to be reckless and thoughtless—a quick fuck in a public shower, nothing more. It didn’t match the script you both stuck to, didn’t fit in with the way you usually laughed things off before stepping back into the world like nothing had happened.

Still, you gave in, leaning in just enough to press your lips briefly to his, the contact so fleeting it barely registered before you were pulling away again. His frown was immediate, the corners of his mouth tugging down as though you’d shortchanged him, his eyes narrowing at the half-hearted gesture. “Prude,” he teased, his tone deliberately sharp to undercut the heaviness of his own request, but the word didn’t sting—not when his face stayed so close to yours, not when he refused to bridge the gap himself. He just lingered there, hovering, his gaze steady and unblinking.

The silence stretched as he stared into your eyes like he was trying to catch you in the act of giving yourself away, like he was counting how many times your pupils betrayed you by dilating beneath his watch. You shifted uneasily, your breath snagging when his hand slid higher along your waist, fingers spreading against your damp skin with the kind of absentminded possessiveness that made your chest tighten. “You’re staring,” you muttered finally, hoping the jab would crack him open again, pull you both back to the familiar banter.

“I like watching you squirm,” he said easily, the smile twitching back at the corners of his mouth. “Makes me feel like I’ve still got the upper hand.”

"I'm not squirming," you bit back without missing a beat, emphasizing the word like it was foreign on your tongue, gripping onto the familiar ground beneath your feet that had just started to feel solid again. "You're just being awfully weird." The look you gave him was meant to dismiss, to downplay, but it didn’t shake him in the slightest. If anything, it only seemed to embolden the grin tugging at his lips.

"Maybe I’m falling in love with you," he countered, the words slipping out too smoothly, too cleanly, and his smile bloomed wider, cocky and careless, as if he wanted them to land like a joke, sharp and sardonic. And they did, for the most part. You laughed, or at least pretended to, but the bluntness of it still made your stomach lurch in a way you weren’t prepared for. The ground you had just managed to find tilted again, making you stumble inwardly.

Still, you forced yourself to raise a brow, feigning casualness because if Rafe Cameron was actually in love with you, he wouldn’t say it outright like that. He’d drag it out, complicate it, twist it into a mess until it unraveled both of you. He’d fall out of love with you before you ever got to hold it steady, and in the process he’d ruin your life just because he could. So you rolled your shoulders and steadied your tone. “Pretty sure that would be equal to you falling off a cliff.”

His chuckle was genuine this time, low and warm in the cramped shower stall, like your rebuttal had been less amusing than the fact you’d even entertained him enough to give one. “I like cliff jumping,” he said easily, his grin cutting deeper across his face. “You can’t fall off a cliff if you jump off it willingly.”

"And let me guess, that’s what you call proactive decision-making," you nodded along mockingly, your sarcasm bleeding through but betraying you when your own smile crept in at the edges. It was exhausting, how he could twist things around until you were half-laughing despite yourself.

His expression shifted into something almost smug, triumphant in the small victory of hearing his own ideology mirrored back at him, even if you meant it as a jab. He leaned in again, closer this time, his voice dipping softer when he murmured, “Exactly. You get me, angel.” The nickname rolled off his tongue with the kind of carelessness that made your chest tighten. His eyes dropped to your lips, lingering there for a beat too long, like he was holding himself back for effect, before he finally bridged the gap. The kiss wasn’t rushed—it was slower, deeper, the kind that made your thoughts blur and left the aftertaste of him curling at the back of your throat like something you couldn’t quite spit out.

His lips lingered on yours like he wasn’t quite ready to let go, and when you finally pulled back, it was with a sharp inhale you tried to disguise as casual. You pressed your tongue against the back of your teeth to steady yourself, shifting slightly so your shoulder brushed the wet tile instead of him.

Rafe’s eyes stayed on you, heavy and intent, as if memorizing how your lips looked swollen and wet before he finally let out a quiet laugh under his breath, stepping back just enough for the water to hit him instead of you. The loss of his body heat was jarring, but necessary.

He dragged a hand through his dripping hair, head tipping back under the cold spray with a shake like a dog, his grin crooked when his eyes cut back to you. “Go first,” he said simply, low enough that it barely carried over the hiss of the water. His hand gestured toward the door with a lazy flick of his wrist, but his eyes never left you.

You smoothed your hands down your damp bikini, fingers fumbling a little on the straps he’d twisted earlier. The sudden stillness in the shower pressed around you, urging you to move, and you did—leaning down for your sandals with as much grace as you could muster while your legs still felt like jelly. “Don’t act like you’re doing me a favor,” you muttered, but it lacked bite.

He tilted his head, watching with that same too-knowing smirk as you brushed past him, careful not to linger too close this time, even though the steam still carried his warmth. When you cracked the door, cooler air from outside hit your skin, and you slipped out quickly, adjusting your hair as you merged back into the muffled noise of the beach party.

Your eyes darted around the over-crowded beach, smile tight and polite as you nodded in greeting to a few familiar faces, the kind of acknowledgment that didn’t linger long enough to invite conversation. Every step felt heavier than it should have, as if the damp sand was clinging to your ankles in accusation. You tried to dampen the paranoia buzzing in your chest—the irrational, suffocating feeling that everyone’s eyes were on you, that each laugh ringing out from a group of sunburned tourists was at your expense, that every sideways glance hid the knowledge of exactly what you’d just done. Rationally, you knew that wasn’t true.

The steam and echo of the shower were still stamped onto your skin, clinging to you like a second layer, making you feel raw and exposed as though the moment hadn’t ended when you stepped out. Maybe it was just your brain refusing to unclench, still locked in that cramped stall with Rafe, water dripping off his grin, heavy eyes holding you in place.

So you forced your focus outward, stretching it over the chaos of the beach like a thin veil. You traced the arc of the volleyball sailing back and forth between a rowdy group of tourists, their sun-reddened shoulders glistening with sweat and sunscreen.

You let your eyes linger on a cluster of locals trooping out of the ocean, boards tucked under their arms, wetsuits peeled down to their waists, hair dripping saltwater as they grinned and shoved at one another with the kind of careless joy you’d never been able to fake. The whole place felt like a moving postcard, all golden light and easy laughter, the kind of perfection that demanded you fall in line with it.

And so you straightened your shoulders, adjusted the strap of your bikini, and wove back into the crowd. Every brush of a stranger’s arm against yours, every shrill bark of seagulls overhead, every thud of bass spilling from someone’s speaker pulled you further from the suffocating heat of that shower until the edges of your paranoia dulled. By the time you finally spotted the familiar cluster of your friends sprawled across their beach towels, drinks half-empty and voices loud with inside jokes, you had almost convinced yourself that whatever heat still burned in your chest was just from the sun.

The first one to notice you was Sarah, her eyes catching yours before anyone else’s, her grin bright and knowing beneath the golden stretch of the afternoon sun. There was something about the way she beamed that always tugged at the back of your mind—too familiar, too close to the way Rafe sometimes smiled at you. Not the smug curve he wore when he was putting on a show for his friends, but the rare, genuine one he let slip when one of his cynical jokes actually made you laugh. That same Cameron signature, passed down in the shape of their mouths, carved into their cheekbones.

No. Not thinking about Rafe. Not here, not with them.

You shifted your attention outward, fixing your eyes on the chaos sprawled across the beach towels instead, as if distance alone could scatter the thought of him. Sarah waved you over anyway, over-enthusiastic like you weren’t already heading toward them, her whole arm flapping in exaggerated arcs until you were close enough to roll your eyes at her dramatics. The sound of laughter and bickering grew clearer, spilling over from the small circle gathered around a half-crumpled deck of Uno cards.

“You cheatin’ son of a bitch!” Kiara’s voice rang out, sharp and triumphant as she slapped her card down onto the towel with a flourish. She pointed across John B’s lap, brows pinched in accusation. “You’re supposed to say ‘Uno’ when you’ve only got one card left!”

John B’s head snapped up, face twisted in disbelief, a half-empty beer can dangling precariously from his fingers. “I said one!” he shot back, his indignation so earnest it made Sarah snort.

Kiara’s eyes widened like he’d just committed sacrilege. “You’re supposed to say ‘Uno,’ dumbass. That’s the whole point! It literally says it right here—” she jabbed her finger against the logo on the back of the deck as if the bright red-and-yellow design alone could validate her outrage.

“It’s the same thing!” John B argued, throwing his hands up. “Uno, one, what’s the difference?”

“The difference is—” Kiara cut in, shaking her head in mock despair, “—you’re whitewashing a Mexican game, and I refuse to sit here and let that slide.”

Pope leaned over the pile with a grin, clearly entertained, “She’s right, man. It’s a cultural thing. You can’t just—”

“Oh, shut up, Judge Pope,” John B grumbled, but his grin betrayed him as he tossed his card down with exaggerated flair. “Uno. Happy now?”

“Not if you win this round, I’m not,” Kiara shot back, her competitive streak radiating as she reached for the draw pile.

Sarah laughed lightly beside you, shaking her head at the bickering. “This game always turns into a war zone,” she said, then tipped her chin at you like she was daring you to weigh in. “You’re on my team if I run out of cards, by the way.”

“Don’t do it,” Pope warned dramatically, grinning wide. “Allying with Sarah means you’re automatically at war with Kie.”

“Shut up!” Kiara’s laugh cut through her irritation as she smacked Pope’s arm with the back of her hand.

Their banter swelled around you, warm and grounding, pulling you deeper into the circle like you hadn’t just stepped off the edge of something dangerous.

And then your eyes caught JJ’s.

He was sitting crisscross between John B and Pope, a half-played card dangling in his fingers, though his attention was nowhere near the game. His gaze was already fixed on you when you lifted yours from Sarah’s, like he’d been waiting for it. He didn’t look brooding or lost in his head the way he had all week whenever your eyes brushed across one another. No haunted expression, no obvious storm brewing under the surface. He just looked at you. Blue eyes tracking in a slow sweep, from your sun-warmed cheeks down to your throat, unflinching.

His brows pinched the slightest bit when they landed lower, and instinctively your stomach tightened as you followed the invisible trail of his focus, glancing down at yourself. Your bikini top was still in place—tied snug at the back of your neck, fabric stretched just where it should be. No accidental slip, no humiliating reveal. You almost wished it had been something that simple.

Because the reality was worse. Across your chest and climbing up the line of your throat were faint but undeniable blooms of red and pink, bruises that hadn’t yet settled into their final shade. Some were clearly shaped from teeth, others the careless press of a mouth too eager, too possessive.

You raised a hand before you could stop yourself, dragging a fingertip over the tender spots as if you could smooth them away. They stung faintly under your touch, a cruel reminder of the hands and mouth that had put them there. Fucking Rafe, you thought bitterly, the words hissing through your mind like static. You’d told him not to leave anything visible. You’d pushed at his shoulders, warned him about getting reckless. But he never listened, not when he was in that headspace where ruining you meant marking you.

When you looked back up, JJ’s eyes were still on you, sharper now, narrowed in a way that made your stomach twist. His jaw clenched tight, muscle jumping as he dragged his gaze away like it physically hurt him to keep looking. He raked a hand through his salt-streaked hair, the blond strands clumping together from the ocean water, his fingers catching like he wasn’t even aware of the motion. His sunburnt cheeks only deepened the contrast of his freckles, freckles that pulled you straight back to the boy you used to look up to, the boy who used to grin at you with his whole face. The one who used to make you feel safe in a way that didn’t need to be hidden in showers and shadows and the arms of a reckless guy.

“Thought you said sunscreen was a scam,” Pope teased JJ absentmindedly, not catching the tension as he eyed his friend’s flushed skin.

JJ let out a rough, short laugh, tossing his card down without even looking. “Guess I was wrong,” he muttered, but his voice sounded thinner than usual, lacking the playful bite it was meant to carry.

Sarah leaned forward, chin propped on her palm as she eyed the exchange with a flicker of curiosity. “You good?” she asked JJ lightly, but her gaze darted to you for just a second, almost too quick to catch.

JJ shrugged, looking down at his hands like the answer didn’t matter, like nothing mattered. “Peachy,” he muttered, but the word was tight, brittle, the complete opposite of the boy who used to make you laugh until your stomach hurt. And the way he avoided your gaze now—like he couldn’t stand to hold it—felt heavier than any bruise Rafe had left blooming on your throat.

You watched the interaction play out in front of you, your stomach twisting as the reality of it settled. The way JJ’s whole demeanor dimmed at the sight of your marks was infuriating—hypocrisy in its truest, sun-dipped form. He had no right. Not when he was sitting there with two fading bruises stamped just under his jawline, the sickly purple shade clear even against the pink tint of his sunburn.

And Kiara wasn’t doing so bad herself, her bikini straps not nearly wide enough to hide the constellation of marks scattered high on her chest and collarbone, each one loud and obvious if anyone cared to look. Yet JJ, of all people, was taking your marks personally? Acting like they were some direct wound carved into him instead of what they actually were. The double standard made heat lick up your spine until your pulse throbbed in your ears.

“Problem?” you asked before you could stop yourself, your voice quieter than you meant but sharp enough to make JJ flick his eyes up at you. For a beat, you thought he wouldn’t answer, that he’d keep ignoring you like he had all week. But instead, his gaze lingered—blue, stormy, unreadable—before he gave a slow shake of his head.

“Nope,” he said, clipped, biting down on the word like it cost him something.

Your brows raised slightly, but you didn’t push further, not when the simmer of your irritation was already threatening to spill. “Good,” you replied, tone breezy, like you were ready to let it go. But you weren’t. Not when he looked at you like that, like he had the right to be upset with you when he was the one walking around marked up by someone else.

Pope shifted beside him, oblivious as he laid a card down and leaned back with a grin. “Dude, you’re gonna lose focus if you keep spacing out like that. Kiara’s about to wipe the floor with you.”

“Already is,” Kie chimed in, tossing a smug glance across the circle at JJ. “Guess you can’t multitask.”

JJ huffed a laugh through his nose, but it was hollow, the kind of sound you’d recognize anywhere. He picked up a card and set it down again too quickly, like his hands were moving just to keep them busy, to keep him from saying something reckless. But you caught the flicker in his eyes when they darted back to your throat again, fast as lightning, and you knew. Knew he hadn’t let it go. Knew he’d sit there pretending it didn’t matter while it ate at him all the same.

You let JJ’s muttered jab fall into the sand between you, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of a reaction when you could practically taste the hypocrisy dripping from him. Your jaw clenched as you scanned the horizon, watching the waves fold and collapse into themselves rather than acknowledge the way he was still glaring at your throat. But if JJ’s sharp words stung, the shift in another voice cut even deeper.

“Uh… hey, wait a second.” Pope’s voice came from your right, quieter but still carrying enough weight to pull every nerve in your body taut. His eyes weren’t on your face; they were zeroed in on your neck, his brows pulling together in that sharp, calculating way that made it impossible to pretend he hadn’t noticed. “What’s that?” he asked, motioning with a small jerk of his chin, his attempt at discretion failing miserably when Kie’s attention snapped to where he was looking.

Your hand shot up instinctively, fingers brushing against the side of your neck as though you could smudge the marks away like ink. “Nothing,” you lied too quickly, too clipped, the syllables tasting foreign and sticky on your tongue. The last thing you needed was for Pope to put together what JJ had already assumed.

“Nothing?” Kie echoed, her voice sharp with disbelief, narrowing her eyes at you. She tilted her head just enough for her hair to spill over one shoulder, her mouth twitching in that half-smirk, half-scold she used when she smelled bullshit. “Looks like a whole lotta something from here.”

“Guys, seriously, drop it,” you muttered, forcing your hand back to your side even though every instinct screamed to keep it there, to cover yourself, to erase the evidence Rafe had left behind. The heat creeping up your cheeks only made it worse—confirmation they didn’t need.

Pope didn’t look convinced, and JJ’s scoff was salt in the wound. “Yeah, sure. Just a rash, right?” JJ muttered, but the bitterness in his tone gave him away. He wanted a fight, wanted to drag it into the open, and you had to grit your teeth to keep yourself from snapping back.

Before Kie could pile on, Sarah stepped in—not in a way that screamed she was covering for you, but just enough to redirect. “You’re seriously policing her neck now?” she said casually, slipping the words into the air like they were nothing more than a joke. “What are we, in middle school? Chill.”

But Pope still looked at you, suspicion lingering in his gaze even as he shrugged it off, muttering something about overthinking. You plastered on a small smile, grateful for the shift but painfully aware that the marks on your neck weren’t going unnoticed anymore.

“Must’ve been that Charleston guy, right?” piped up John B, his tone deceptively casual as he studied his hand of cards, though the pointed remark snapped every head toward him. Sarah’s expression flickered unreadable in an instant, her posture still but her eyes sharper now, while Kiara lit up beside you, grin widening like the mood had finally tipped back into something fun again.

“Oh my god, wait—you guys are still hooking up?” She air-quoted the word almost theatrically, dropping her new hand of cards onto the towel like they didn’t matter anymore. Her whole body turned toward you, practically buzzing with nosy excitement. The bump of her shoulder against yours felt playful, lighthearted, but it only made your stomach knot tighter, snakes of dread coiling at the thought of what would spill out next. “It’s been what—four months now?” she asked, eyes gleaming, voice pitching up with the kind of delight that left you fumbling for an answer you couldn’t give.

Yeah. Exactly four months since you’d started hooking up with Rafe. Four months of secrecy that suddenly felt paper-thin against the weight of all these curious eyes. You managed nothing more than a sheepish nod, but before you could swallow down the panic enough to speak, Kiara twisted the knife with a bright, oblivious laugh. “Me and Jayj are hitting the four-month mark today too! You guys are basically dating at this point.”

Only if it was that easy, you thought bitterly, throat tightening as the words lodged unspoken on your tongue. Kiara, though, was unstoppable, her voice a constant rush that made the sand beneath you feel less steady with every syllable. “And we don’t even know his name! I mean, it’s not like we’re gonna hunt him down or anything—it’s just crazy you’ve kept him this secret. He must be making you so happy—”

You inhaled sharply, ready to cut in, to say something—anything—that could slow her down before she tumbled too close to the truth. But JJ’s voice cut through the circle like a blade, sharp and deliberate.

“Miles.”

The name dropped heavy between you all, silencing Kiara mid-ramble. Every pair of eyes snapped to JJ, whose focus stayed locked stubbornly on the pile of cards in front of him. He placed a blue card down with exaggerated nonchalance, like the game was still happening, like he hadn’t just lit a match to the tension you were barely holding at bay.

“His name’s Miles, right?” JJ added, throat clearing as his blue eyes finally lifted to meet yours. There was no mistaking the spark behind them—the quiet challenge, the memory of you standing in your room with that same name already fed to him as a lifeline lie. He wanted to see if you’d hold steady, if you’d keep building the story you’d handed him, or if the cracks would finally show.

“Right?” he pressed, and though his voice carried that easy, teasing lilt he wore like armor, there was something else layered beneath it—accusation, maybe, or the raw, restless need to corner you into admitting something he already suspected.

You nodded again, the words tumbling out stiff and thin. “Yeah… his name’s Miles…” you mumbled, voice carrying just enough to be heard over the rush of the tide nearby. Your eyes darted instinctively toward Sarah, hoping for backup, but all you found was her raised brows and the kind of look that said loud and clear: Miles? Seriously? That’s the best you came up with? Heat prickled at your cheeks, and you wanted to sink straight through the sand.

“I don’t even know a Miles,” Kiara chimed in, head tilting as she scratched the side of her neck, expression knitted in confusion. Her voice carried that guileless honesty, the kind that threatened to unravel the thin thread you were dangling by. She glanced around the circle as though someone might jump in to prove her wrong, to remind her of a mysterious Charleston fling none of them had ever met.

“A couple Miles per hour…” Sarah cut in suddenly, her tone syrupy and playful, like she’d just come up with the most clever punchline. She leaned back on her elbows, smirk tugging at her lips as she let her words hang long enough for everyone to follow the direction of her thought. “You know… because of the—” she jerked her chin meaningfully toward your neck, eyes glinting with that brand of mischief only she could pull off without breaking a sweat.

You exhaled sharply through your nose, the sound half a laugh, half disbelief at how lame her pun really was. “Wow,” you muttered under your breath, fingers brushing at the edge of your collarbone as if you could pull the bruises lower. “Real smooth, Sarah.”

“Hey, I’m just saying…” Sarah grinned, shrugging like she was doing you a favor, redirecting the spotlight in a way only she knew how.

Kiara’s jaw dropped before she broke into laughter, smacking her palm against your thigh like Sarah had delivered the joke of the century. “Oh my god, stop—that’s actually good!” she howled, throwing her head back, and the tension in the air thinned for a moment under her laughter.

Pope, who’d been quiet up until now, raised his brows and shook his head, lips twitching like he was trying not to smile. “That was terrible,” he said flatly, earning a round of groans from Sarah and Kiara alike. But even he couldn’t resist sneaking another glance at your neck, his curiosity obvious.

You tugged your towel higher on your chest in a weak attempt to shield yourself, heart pounding harder with every second the conversation lingered where you didn’t want it. And then, from across the circle, you caught JJ’s gaze again—jaw tight, expression unreadable except for the storm flickering behind his blue eyes. He hadn’t laughed at Sarah’s pun. He hadn’t smiled at Kiara’s dramatics. He just stared, like the sight of those marks burned into his vision no matter how badly he wanted to look away.

Looking at JJ across rooms had quickly started to feel like looking at a ghost, like catching glimpses of someone you’d been mourning even though his laugh still existed somewhere on this beach, even though his voice still cut through the air in clipped phrases and teasing lilt. It was worse than losing someone entirely—you missed talking to him about every invasive thought that gnawed at your mind, missed the way he leaned in just to poke fun at the wrinkle that overthinking etched between your brows, missed the ease of knowing you could always be close without trespassing some invisible boundary. That line had been drawn sharp and sudden when Kiara slipped her hand into his and claimed him for herself, and you’d been tripping over it ever since.

And it wasn’t like either of you had fought to salvage the tattered threads of what you used to be, either. Every missed chance left a bitter aftertaste in your mouth. You’d debated asking him to fix the broken wheel of your skateboard just last week, the way you always used to hand it over without question when it rattled loose. But the courage to reach out had soured in your throat, and by the time you almost spoke, the moment had evaporated. You hated yourself for the way such a simple favor felt like scaling some impossible mountain now, hated yourself more for how heavy his silence had started to weigh when once it had been the safest sound in the world. You mourned it all—the tangled mess that falling in love with JJ had made of your friendship, the cruel theft of him by someone else, the way every look at him now seemed to sting with bitterness, jealousy, and a quiet ache of betrayal.

It wasn’t for the weak, losing someone who was still very much alive, who still breathed the same air, who still existed at arm’s length but felt unreachable. He haunted you in clipped sentences and loaded glances, in half-hearted smiles across crowded rooms, in the phantom of what used to be yours. And all you wanted lately was to rewind to something simple—to sit shoulder to shoulder on the dock with him, a bucket of bait fish between you, quiet words spilling in half-whispers while he fiddled with his line and waited for a bite. That JJ wasn’t the one hunched in the sand now, tossing Uno cards with little effort in the middle of a party. No. Your JJ was preserved in amber somewhere else, suspended in the memory of last summer when he’d sat on the floor of your room, careful fingers patching the broken wing of your glasses with cheap tape while you wiped at your tears silently beside him, his presence the only thing holding you together.

That was your JJ.

That was the JJ who still belonged to you—the one you could still claim. And maybe, you thought bitterly, that was the last version of you that belonged to him too. The girl who didn’t hesitate to call him first when her mother’s cruelty cut too deep. The girl who pressed herself to his side at every opportunity, greedy for his inside jokes and reckless plans, before love warped it all. The girl who believed his pinky promise meant forever.

Your eyes flicked down to the baby-blue and lilac braided bracelet on your left wrist, the crooked pattern almost sneering at you now, mocking with its uneven knots and childish sincerity. Even tangled among all your other bracelets, it stood out, heavy with meaning you didn’t want to carry anymore. Your throat tightened as you twisted your wrist, the edges of your vision prickling until you blinked too fast, trying to chase away the sting behind your eyes.

You dragged a hand over your face, as though you could smudge away the weakness. The sudden weight in your chest propelled you up before you thought better of it, brushing sand from your legs in jerky motions. You yanked your shorts off the towel and shimmied into them quickly, muttering something about getting a drink, not caring if anyone really caught it.

The chatter of your friends dulled behind you as you strode across the sand, weaving through scattered towels and coolers until the sounds of Uno bickering blurred into the background. The sun clung hot to your skin as you made your way toward the bar propped at the edge of the beach, its string lights swaying lazily in the breeze, the faint scent of salt and coconut rum carried on the air. The laughter and music spilling from it was loud enough to drown your thoughts, and for once, you welcomed it.

You sat down on one of the bar stools, the wood still warm from the sun, and forced a small smile toward the boy working behind the counter as you ordered a piña colada. The air was thick with voices and laughter, different conversations weaving together over the heavy bass of music pouring from scattered speakers, but none of it was loud enough to drown out the noise inside your head. Your thoughts looped between JJ and Rafe like some cruel punishment—JJ’s eyes when they met yours across the sand, JJ’s crooked grin under the sun as he spiked a volleyball, JJ’s wrist weighed down with the uneven bracelet you’d braided for him. And then Rafe’s eyes, sharp and devastating in that last moment before he kissed you, his hands still burned into your skin, his low hum of a song you’d shown him filling your ears, the way he actually listened when you spoke about your mother. They both bled into each other until your brain twisted itself raw with it.

“Hey, stranger.” The familiar voice cut through the haze like a sharp snap, pulling you back to the present.

You blinked, realizing the glass of piña colada had already been set on the bartop in front of you, condensation slipping down its sides. You tossed a ten toward the bartender with another tight smile, almost mechanical, and leaned into the straw for a long sip before turning toward the interruption. “Hey, Sofia…” you mumbled, the greeting falling too stiff and awkward for your liking.

Her smile was easy, one of those bright, signature ones she wore like it cost her nothing. “Are you having fun?” she asked, head tilting just slightly, hair brushing her bare shoulder.

You exhaled through your nose, taking another sip before you glanced at her outfit—a blue bikini top paired with a translucent scarf knotted low on her waist, every bit as polished as she always managed to be. “I’m trying to,” you admitted, voice low. Then, with a small shrug, you added flatly, “But sobriety isn’t fun.”

She rolled her eyes dramatically but kept smiling. “You talk like a bartender,” she teased, nudging the bar lightly with her knuckles as though to prove her point. Then her smile softened into something smaller, curiosity slipping in. “Speaking of bartending… you switched shifts or what? I barely see you at work anymore.”

Your stomach pinched at the reminder. Facing Sofia had been awkward ever since the night Rafe had ghosted her for you, the guilt curling at you even though you weren’t friends, even though she and Rafe hadn’t been dating. Still, it left a sour taste in your mouth, standing across from her now and pretending the air wasn’t heavy with something unsaid. You sighed, letting your gaze drop briefly to the drink before answering. “They changed my schedule,” you explained, spinning the straw between your fingers as if the motion could make your words sound lighter. “I got stuck with more opening shifts.”

Sofia arched a brow, her expression a mix of surprise and faint disappointment. “Damn. Morning shifts suck. No wonder I haven’t seen you.” She leaned against the bar beside you, her hip nudging the edge as she took in your halfhearted smile. “Guess that explains why you’ve been a ghost, huh?”

You forced a little laugh, sipping your drink again to keep your mouth occupied. “Yeah. Something like that.”

Her eyes lingered on you longer than felt comfortable, searching for cracks in the easy façade you were trying to hold together. “Well,” she said after a beat, her tone gentler, “don’t disappear completely. It’s weird not seeing you around.”

You nodded, your hand tightening slightly around the chilled glass, the sweet coconut and rum suddenly cloying on your tongue. “I’ll try not to,” you murmured, though the words felt heavier than they should’ve.

Sofia didn’t drift away after her comment like you half-expected her to. Instead, she leaned her elbow onto the bar, letting her straw trace idle circles through the condensation on your glass as though she wasn’t quite ready to drop the conversation. Her smile lingered, but it had lost that effortless glow—it was sharper now, more knowing. “You know…” she began lightly, though there was an edge beneath the casual tone, “I ran into Rafe the other night. Or, well, I was supposed to.”

The words made your stomach flip, though you kept your expression carefully neutral, just lifting your brows in polite acknowledgment while you took another sip of your drink. She didn’t miss a beat, watching you too closely. “He bailed on me,” she continued, a little shrug rolling off her shoulder like it was no big deal. “Not that I was surprised. That’s kind of his thing, isn’t it? Shows up when he wants to, disappears when he’s bored.”

You swallowed against the sweet burn of rum and forced a low hum. “Sounds like him,” you said flatly, the comment deliberately noncommittal, though Sofia’s eyes narrowed slightly, like she was testing you, poking at the surface to see what floated up.

Her lips quirked in a smirk, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Funny thing, though. He never seemed bored with you.” She tilted her head, gaze dipping briefly to your throat before flashing back up with the weight of accusation wrapped in amusement. “Guess he needed better plans that night.”

Heat crept up the back of your neck, though you didn’t flinch away from her stare. “I wouldn’t know,” you answered evenly, fingers drumming on the condensation-slicked glass. “Rafe does whatever the hell Rafe wants.”

Sofia let out a soft laugh, though it carried that same sharp undertone. “Yeah, he does. But he usually makes sure people know when he’s moved on. With you? He’s been… what, consistent?” She leaned in just enough for her words to slide under the din of the bar chatter, her voice lowering to something more intimate but not softer. “That’s new for him. Makes me wonder if you’re in on some little secret, or if he’s just fucking with you like the rest of us.”

Your grip tightened on the glass until the cold seeped deep into your palm, your lips parting slightly before you caught yourself. Forcing a small smirk, you leaned back on the stool, tilting your head at her. “Maybe both,” you said, aiming for sardonic even though your chest felt tight. “Maybe I like living dangerously.”

Sofia’s smirk widened, though her eyes flickered with something harder. “Careful,” she said, pulling back slowly, gathering her scarf at her hip like the conversation was finally winding down. “Dangerous is his favorite game. He just doesn’t usually let people win.”

She left the words hanging in the salty, humid air between you, her attention drifting back toward the crowd, though you felt her glance stick for just a second longer before she finally turned away. The piña colada suddenly tasted too sweet, too heavy on your tongue, but you took another sip anyway—if only to keep your mouth busy so you didn’t say something you couldn’t take back.

Sofia had warned you about Rafe before, always careful to keep her tone somewhere between faux-friendly and that smug edge that came from knowing she had a history with him long before you did. Most of the time she managed to package her warnings with the ease of an older sister giving unsolicited advice you never asked for, her voice pitched warm but her words always carrying that subtle sting, as though she couldn’t resist reminding you of the territory she believed was hers.

But today her tone was different—almost bitter, sharpened like glass under honey—and it cut cleaner than her usual attempt at sugarcoating. Unfortunately for you, it was enough to pierce through the awkwardness and faint guilt already pressing down on your shoulders, which meant you couldn’t just brush her off with a laugh like you normally would.

You’d always hated girls who danced around what they really wanted to say, hiding behind soft smiles and patronizing tones when both of you knew damn well there was an undercurrent of something other than friendliness. It felt cowardly, and you weren’t in the mood to be handled like you were naïve. So when she lingered again, even though the conversation had already come to a natural end, you didn’t let the silence swallow you. “Thanks for the advice,” you murmured, the words heavy with implication before you deliberately trailed off. Then, meeting her gaze, you tacked on with a sharp little smile, “But I’ve known Rafe since we were kids. He’s harmless.” You let the smile widen into something almost cruel as you delivered the final blow: “At least with me.”

Her head tilted ever so slightly, lips curving into a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, and her gaze swept over you like she was cataloguing a mistake you didn’t even know you were making. “Well, yeah,” she drawled airily, though her eyes hardened in direct contrast to her tone. “You’re his sister’s best friend.” There was a pointed pause, her lashes fluttering once before she leaned in a fraction, lowering her voice. “But I wouldn’t want you to bite off more than you can chew.”

Your brows pulled together at that, the faint confusion and irritation written across your face enough to push her to elaborate. “With JJ and all.” She said it with a dismissive flick of her wrist, as though you were the silly one for not instantly catching her meaning. “I know you like to live fast and loose, but getting tangled up with a guy who’s taken and another who—” her lips twisted in something between a smirk and a sneer, “—who’s circling me, might start to look a little… distasteful.”

You blinked at her, your confusion quickly curdling into disbelief. Was she calling you a slut? And where the hell did the JJ part even come from? You weren’t stupid—you knew you loved him, had loved him for years in the quiet, tucked-away corners of your heart—but you weren’t making passes at him, weren’t clawing for him the way her words implied.

Your voice came out sharper than you intended, tinged with that defensiveness you hated but couldn’t suppress. “First of all, JJ isn’t my business. He never was. And second—” your jaw clenched as your eyes narrowed, “—if you think you can still play referee with Rafe, then maybe you should be the one worried about biting off too much, not me.”

Sofia laughed under her breath, shaking her head like you were a kid who didn’t understand the rules of the game. “You’re so sure of yourself,” she murmured, her tone almost admiring, though the venom didn’t quite stay hidden. Her eyes flickered over the faint marks still blooming on your throat before she dragged them back up to your face, sharp and smug. “But trust me… with Rafe, the rules change before you even realize you’re playing.”

“Yeah?” you inquired, keeping your voice as even as you could manage, though the simmer underneath it was impossible to mask completely. “Well, you should probably go over the rules again. I’d be worried they changed and you’re the only one still unaware.” The words hung in the air like smoke, curling between you both, and before she had the chance to shape a response you tipped your glass back, finishing the last swallow with deliberate ease.

Setting it down a little harder than necessary, you threw her another sharp smile—this one all teeth and no warmth—before climbing off the stool, smoothing down your damp hair like you hadn’t just dropped something pointed in her lap. You didn’t wait for her to follow or call after you; instead, you moved back toward the cluster of your friends, slipping easily into the chatter and laughter like Sofia hadn’t just tried to plant her claws in you.

But her words clung. They stuck the way cigarette smoke did, faintly acrid even after you’d left the room, and you hated that about her. She had a way of weaving doubt into the fabric of your thoughts, even when you swore you wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. You caught Sarah’s eyes briefly across the circle, her smile too easy, too knowing, and for a moment you were grateful she wasn’t the type to pry—not when she already knew more than the others. Still, the way her gaze lingered made you hyper-aware of the marks blooming across your throat, of the reminder of Rafe’s mouth and hands from earlier. You pulled your hair forward, shielding your neck like you were simply adjusting it, and leaned into the noise of the group until Sofia’s presence blurred into background static.

The day bled forward in that strange way summer days did—time slipping too quickly and too slowly all at once. Drinks kept appearing in your hand, the sun shifted lower, shadows stretched longer, and before you knew it, the air had cooled just enough to raise goosebumps on your arms. A bonfire came as a inevitable suggestion, and the crowd began to spill outward in lazy, uneven clusters, laughter echoing into the night and the water lapping softly at the shore. Some guys dragged driftwood and pallets into a loose pile, sparking a bonfire to life with the kind of stubborn persistence only beer-fueled confidence could provide.

You went with them, your feet carrying you towards the fire even as your mind replayed the sharpness of Sofia’s tone, the way she’d said “distasteful” like she was labeling you with it, branding you before you could protest.

The evening slipped in almost unnoticed, the sky washing itself in streaks of rose and orange before caving into a violet haze. The air grew thicker with the sound of music spilling from someone’s speaker, blending with the rise and fall of voices, and you tried to lose yourself in it—tried to pretend your mind wasn’t still caught on her little digs, her smug smile. Even when JJ’s laughter cut through, distinct and bright as always, it made your stomach twist in ways you couldn’t sort through. His voice carried above the others, and you felt Sofia’s earlier insinuation crawl across your skin like a warning, one you wanted desperately to ignore but couldn’t quite shake.

By the time the sun dipped fully and the first stars crept out, the air had turned cooler, the edges of the day fraying into something softer, slower. Conversations drifted, pairs splintered off, and you found yourself caught between that familiar comfort of being surrounded and the sudden claustrophobia of your own thoughts. Rafe hadn’t shown, not yet at least, and a part of you wondered if he would. A part of you wondered if Sofia would linger long enough to notice when he did.

You sat cross-legged in the sand, the crackle of the fire filling the spaces between conversations and laughter, a warmth curling over your skin that had nothing to do with the heat of the flames. Sarah plopped down beside you, looping her arm through yours in that casual, sisterly way she always did, and the others spread around in a loose circle, bottles pressed to lips, hair damp with salt, skin glowing from a long day in the sun.

It was the kind of scene that should have been easy, comfortable, one of those cinematic summer memories you’d want to hold onto when September inevitably rolled around. But your head wouldn’t stop spinning between Sofia’s barbed words, the weight of JJ’s sharp glance earlier, and the phantom of Rafe’s mouth against your skin.

The fire painted everyone in shades of gold and shadow, dancing light catching on the curve of Kiara’s smile as she leaned against JJ, on the brightness of Sarah’s teeth as she teased John B. Pope sat opposite beside you, making sure to pipe up often enough to make you laugh.

And then there was JJ—half-reclined on the sand, beer dangling from his fingers, that restless energy simmering off him even when he was still. He laughed when John B said something dumb, the kind of laugh that made you ache because you’d memorized it years ago, but his eyes cut toward you every so often, sharp and unreadable in the shifting glow. It was the kind of look that said more than he’d ever put into words, and it settled in your chest like a stone.

The group passed around a joint, the music thrumming low and steady beneath the surf, and the conversation drifted between plans for the next day, complaints about work, and inside jokes that tumbled easily off their tongues.

You tried to let yourself sink into it, to forget the itch of Sofia’s presence somewhere along the beach, to stop noticing the way JJ’s jaw flexed every time someone mentioned Rafe’s name in passing. It was Pope who said it—something offhand about seeing Rafe and his friends driving past earlier, their truck too loud, too fast, like always—and you caught the way JJ’s face shuttered, laughter stalling before he tipped his bottle back to cover the silence.

You pressed your knees closer to your chest, tracing patterns in the sand with your fingertip while the others argued over which song to put on next. The fire popped, sending sparks curling into the dark sky, and you could feel the shift, subtle but heavy, when JJ pushed himself upright. His movements were loose but purposeful, brushing sand from his shirt like the act of standing alone was enough to shake something off.

“Back in a sec,” he muttered to no one in particular, his voice tight in a way you doubted the others even caught, but you did. You always did. He peeled away from the circle, his shoulders stiff as he walked past the glow of the fire and further into the shadows where the tide licked at the shore.

You tracked him without meaning to, your head tilting just slightly to keep him in sight even as Sarah nudged you with a quiet laugh at something John B said. Your chest pinched with that familiar mix of worry and curiosity, because JJ peeling away never ended with something calm.

The night unraveled lazily, with the fire shrinking and swelling in the breeze, sparks flying up only to be swallowed by the black sky above. Someone had broken out marshmallows, the smell of sugar burning and sticking to charred sticks mixing with the salt and smoke in the air. Sarah leaned against you again, humming along to the speaker, her hair brushing your shoulder as Kiara argued playfully with John B over who could roast a marshmallow perfectly golden without setting it ablaze.

You let their bickering wash over you, eyes drawn back to the shadows where JJ had disappeared, your chest tightening every time you thought you heard something out of place in the waves.

Still, you stayed where you were, forcing yourself into the rhythm of the group, laughing when Pope cracked a dry joke, clapping along when Kiara squealed at her marshmallow collapsing into the flames. But your attention was restless, slipping from the fire, the music, your friends, back toward the dark stretch of beach like a tide you couldn’t resist. The cooler sat a little ways off, its white lid catching stray reflections of firelight, and when John B called out for another beer, you seized the excuse, brushing sand off your thighs as you stood.

“I got it,” you offered, already stepping away, ignoring Sarah’s half-hearted protest to stay seated. Your flip-flops slapped against the packed sand as you crossed to the cooler, the air cooler away from the blaze, carrying a sharp bite of salt and the faint metallic tang of impending rain. You crouched down, flipping the lid open and reaching for a pair of sweating bottles, the chill biting your fingers. That’s when the sound cut through the hum of music and laughter—low, guttural, ugly. A grunt, followed by the wet crack of fist meeting flesh.

Your head snapped up before you even thought about it, eyes narrowing against the dark. The cooler lid fell shut with a hollow thud as you straightened slowly, bottles dangling from your grip. And there they were—two silhouettes just far enough from the fire to be hidden from everyone else, close enough that you could make out the sharp lines of their bodies colliding.

JJ’s blond hair caught a lick of moonlight as his head snapped back from the blow, his shoulders squaring immediately like he’d been waiting for it, like he needed it. And opposite him, chest heaving, knuckles already raw, was Rafe Cameron, his teeth bared in something that wasn’t quite a snarl but wasn’t far from it either.

For a second you couldn’t move. Your body stayed rooted to the spot as your eyes drank in the scene—the way JJ’s jaw was set, lips parted just slightly, chest heaving like every nerve in him was strung too tight to handle. His eyes were narrowed, not wild but focused, the kind of focus that meant he had no intention of stepping down, not this time.

Across from him, Rafe wore the opposite kind of fury: loose, taunting, as if he was enjoying this too much to quit, the kind of anger that thrived on being witnessed. His grin was feral, one side of his mouth pulled back just enough to show teeth, the smile of someone who’d been waiting for this moment and wanted to savor it. A bruise was already blooming under his cheekbone where JJ’s first hit landed, yet he looked proud of it, almost defiant, like it was proof he was winning regardless.

Even if the two were far enough from the bonfire to hide their collision from the rest of your friends, there were still people lingering close enough to catch the show—mostly Rafe’s boys, standing back with wide grins and beer bottles in their hands like this was the best kind of entertainment. You assumed it had started from something stupid, maybe a word too sharp or a shove too far, but judging by the way the kooks were watching with pleased, hungry faces, they had no intention of letting it cool down.

It wasn’t unusual for JJ and Rafe to bark at each other over beer or the usual Cut-versus-Figure Eight bullshit, but fists never really flew—not like this. Mostly because you and the rest of the Pogues smoothed it over before it could. But JJ was alone now, no one to reel him back, and there was a heat in his eyes that made you think he wasn’t searching for an out anyway.

Your legs carried you toward the pair before you even thought it through, the sand crunching under your steps loud in your own ears. Some of the onlookers had already noticed you cutting across, nudging one another and leaning in like they were about to get a front-row seat to something even better. Your eyes darted between JJ’s back, tense and broad, and Rafe’s face, his smirk sharpening as his gaze locked on yours.

“JJ!” you called, voice piercing through the taut silence between them. You weren’t trying to play the movie-girl card, swooping in like you had the kind of power to stop two guys from fighting just because you asked them to. You just wanted your best friend to quit before this spiraled into something that couldn’t be undone. “What the fuck are you doing?!”

JJ turned slightly, enough to glance back over his shoulder at you, not enough to drop his guard, but you could see the flicker of surprise in his face. His lips parted like he was already searching for something to say—maybe to defend himself, maybe to explain—but he didn’t get the chance. Rafe moved quick, a flash of knuckles cutting across the space while JJ was still distracted by your voice. The punch cracked clean against JJ’s nose, the sound sharp enough to make your stomach twist.

“Shit,” JJ hissed, stumbling back as his hand shot up, blood spilling hot and red between his fingers. The kooks behind Rafe erupted into laughter and whistles, trading impressed sounds like they were courtside at a game instead of watching blood drip onto the sand.

Your head snapped to Rafe, rage sparking before you could stop it. He was straightening up, shaking his hand out with a wince, then cracking his knuckles like he’d just landed the blow of the century. That grin was still plastered across his face, sharp and smug, eyes never leaving yours now that he knew you were watching.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” you snapped, the words tearing out of you louder than you intended. You didn’t care if every single one of his friends heard it. “He wasn’t even looking at you, Rafe!”

Rafe tilted his head, that lazy grin never faltering, like your anger only made it sweeter for him. “That’s on him, sweetheart,” he drawled, his voice carrying easily over the sound of JJ cursing under his breath behind you. “Don’t turn your back on a Cameron.” He wiped the back of his hand across his jaw, smearing a thin line of blood from JJ’s earlier hit, then shrugged like it was nothing. “Lesson learned.”

JJ barked out a bitter laugh, low and dark even as blood dripped down his wrist. “Yeah, lesson learned,” he spat, glaring at Rafe from the corner of his eye. “Never let a kook land the cheap shot.”

And the circle tightened around the three of you, eyes hungry, the air charged with something that felt like it would only break if someone else threw the next punch.

Your eyes bore into Rafe’s even as your steps carried you toward JJ, hand bracing firmly on his shoulder as though you could anchor him there, stop him from lunging forward again. Rafe’s gaze followed you the whole way, sharp and calculating, narrowing just slightly as if he was daring you to be the one to bridge the distance, daring you to throw the next punch so he could grin wider about it later. His chest rose and fell steady, his smirk lazy like he wasn’t standing in the aftermath of a blow that left blood dripping down JJ’s face.

“You’re insane, you fucking asshole!” the words ripped out of you before you could stop them, raw and sharp, your anger making your face hot. Your eyes flicked down quickly to JJ’s nose, wincing at the streaks of red staining his skin and fingers. “You broke his fucking nose,” you snapped, your voice cracking around the edges of disbelief at how detached Rafe looked, like this was all just entertainment for him.

JJ’s shoulder rolled slightly under your palm, muscles tense as a bowstring, his hand still clamped over the mess of blood running down his face. “It’s not broken,” he muttered through clenched teeth, though the nasally hitch in his voice betrayed the lie. He sniffed harshly, wincing when it sent another streak of red down his upper lip, and spat into the sand at Rafe’s feet with enough venom to make the kooks behind him howl even louder.

Rafe’s grin only widened, his eyes darting from JJ to you, feeding on the fury radiating off both of you. “C’mon, don’t be so dramatic,” he said easily, rolling his shoulders back like he was warming up for round two. “He got his lick in. I got mine. That’s how this works.” His knuckles flexed at his side, split just faintly at the skin, and he licked his teeth like the sting in his jaw was just fuel. “Tell your boy to man up.”

JJ lunged half a step forward at that, the force of his shoulder nearly knocking your hand away, and you had to dig your nails into him to stop him from barreling into Rafe again. “You’re a fucking coward, Cameron,” JJ spat, voice rough and thick with blood, his blue eyes burning. “Hitting me while I’m not looking? Real tough guy move.”

Rafe tilted his head, lips pulling into that mocking half-smile that never touched his eyes. “What can I say? You make it too easy,” he drawled, his tone light but his stare locked on yours, like the real fight wasn’t even with JJ anymore—it was with you. “Maybe next time you’ll keep his attention where it belongs, hmm?”

The way his voice dipped on those last words made your stomach twist, fury crawling higher up your throat. You wanted to scream, to scratch the smug expression clean off his face, but JJ was trembling beneath your hand, every line of his body begging for another swing, and you knew if you snapped now, Rafe would win in ways you didn’t even want to imagine.

Your hand stayed rooted on JJ’s shoulder, fingers digging in as if that could ground him, could stop the coil of violence vibrating through his chest. His muscles were taut beneath your palm, his breath coming hard, every inch of him itching to lunge again. He wasn’t finished, not by a long shot, and Rafe knew it—he was feeding off it. Rafe’s eyes glittered with that sharp, dangerous shine that made him look less like a man and more like a storm contained in too small a body.

He studied the way you leaned into JJ, your protective hand anchoring him, and there was something ugly in the way his mouth twitched behind the smug curve of his grin. His thumb brushed idly over the face of one of his rings, a nervous tic he probably thought went unnoticed, but you saw it—a tell-tale fracture in his carefully constructed detachment.

“You wanna get even?” he asked suddenly, his voice smooth but dripping with venom. It was meant for JJ, but his gaze didn’t move an inch off you, holding you in place like a pin to a corkboard. He lifted a hand and slapped the side of his own jaw, mocking the punch he’d already taken.

“Go on. Round two. Or maybe,” his head tilted, the grin widening, “maybe angel here wants a turn. I think she’s dying to put her hands on me.” He gestured loosely to his chest, the cruel amusement blooming across his face as the words sank in. The double-edged meaning was obvious, meant to scrape across your skin like a blade no one else noticed.

“I’m sure her right hook would be better than yours anyway,” he added, eyes still locked on you. The words were coated in mockery, yet the weight behind them dragged heat low in your stomach, the same way his voice always seemed to find you in a room, no matter how loud everything else was.

JJ snarled, jerking forward, but you tightened your grip on his shoulder, nails biting into his skin as you hissed under your breath, “Don’t.” Your eyes flicked briefly to Rafe, jaw clenched tight, and you tried to steady the tremor in your chest. “Don’t give him what he wants.”

“What I want?” Rafe echoed, laughter spilling from him sharp and humorless. He spread his arms slightly, as though inviting the chaos closer. “Sweetheart, you don’t get it. I already got what I wanted.” His tone dripped with implication, each syllable meant for your ears alone, and the smirk he gave you left no doubt he was enjoying watching your composure falter.

JJ spat blood onto the sand, glaring through swollen eyes. “Fuck you, Cameron,” he growled, shaking you off as if he couldn’t stand needing restraint.

But Rafe didn’t even look at him anymore. He was too busy watching you, head tilted, eyes scanning every twitch of your expression, every little betrayal written on your face. He leaned back just slightly on his heels, confident and dangerous, his grin turning sharper as he added, “Careful holding him back like that, angel. People might think you’re protecting the wrong guy.”

Your fingers clenched harder on JJ’s shoulder, but the words came out of you before you could stop them, sharp and cracked around the edges. “You’re disgusting, you know that?” Your voice cut through the night, pitched higher than you intended, enough that JJ stiffened and Rafe’s grin widened like you’d just handed him exactly what he wanted. “You walk around acting untouchable, but you’re just a bored little coward who needs to pick fights to feel like a man. JJ didn’t deserve that, and neither does anyone else who’s had the bad luck of crossing your path.”

Rafe laughed, low and cruel, tilting his head as though your outburst was music. “Coward, huh?” His tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek, teeth flashing briefly as he leaned just a little closer, eyes flicking between you and JJ but always landing right back on you. “Funny. Didn’t sound like you thought I was a coward the last time we… got close.” He let the word hang in the air, thick with suggestion, his voice dipping just enough that it could’ve been dismissed as another taunt if anyone else had overheard.

Your jaw locked, heat rising to your cheeks, but you refused to flinch, refused to give him the satisfaction. “You’re pathetic,” you spat, though your grip on JJ faltered for half a second at the weight of his stare.

Rafe’s grin only sharpened, sensing the crack in your armor. “Pathetic, angel? That’s cute. You didn’t call me that when you—” he cut himself off deliberately, shrugging with false innocence, “—well, never mind. I’ll save that story for when your little boyfriend here isn’t hanging off your every word.” He motioned lazily to JJ, as though his busted nose and shaking fists were nothing more than background noise in the scene.

JJ bristled, snapping, “She’s not my girlfriend, dickhead,” wiping blood from under his nose with the back of his hand.

Rafe’s eyes glinted, his smirk sliding into something darker, crueler. “Yeah, I figured that out already. She’s got… higher standards.” His gaze dipped just slightly, lingering a moment too long on your throat where Sofia’s warning had already brushed earlier in the day, before dragging back up to your face. “Guess I just can’t help it if she likes things a little rougher than you can handle.”

“Shut the fuck up,” you snarled, stepping forward despite JJ’s arm shooting out in front of you, protective. The fury rolling through you was hot and dizzying, your vision narrowing on the smug tilt of Rafe’s mouth.

He chuckled, his hand dragging slow over his jaw where the faint bruise was already blooming. “There she is,” he murmured, almost like he was proud. “That temper looks good on you, angel. Almost makes me want to take another hit—though maybe not from him.” He jerked his chin toward JJ, eyes never leaving yours. “I’d rather see what you’ve got left.”

He was doing it on purpose. Every word, every curve of his lips, every flash of his teeth when his smirk widened—it was deliberate, a performance built to needle you into breaking. He wasn’t ashamed in the path of your scolding looks; he welcomed them, wore them like a trophy. Most of the time he’d meet your fury with that smug tilt of his mouth, the one that dared you to say more, because he thrived on the way your anger burned through you. It was foreplay to him, a game he liked better than any fight he could start with JJ. Sick bastard.

You tightened your grip on JJ’s forearm and tugged him back, voice low but urgent, “Let’s go, JJ…” For a heartbeat you thought he’d shake you off and launch himself at Rafe again, but after a tense pause he yielded, letting you guide him away, his other hand still pressed tight against his bleeding nose.

Rafe reveled in your attempt to back out, his grin almost lazy as if this had all gone exactly the way he wanted. He didn’t need to chase you, didn’t need another punch to feel victorious. He just stood there like a king holding court, confident that he’d find another chance to corner you alone, that he’d get the full force of your rage behind closed doors. He looked at you like he could already feel your nails dragging through his scalp, your voice spitting venom even as you’d try to hold yourself together. His eyes said it all: you could pretend you hated him in front of JJ, in front of anyone, but the minute you were alone he’d make sure you broke.

“Don’t worry, Maybank…” he called after you, his voice carrying easily over the surf and the fire crackle, still rough with amusement. “I’m sure she’ll kiss it better for you later. Always has the magic touch, after all…” The words slid into your spine like a blade, cruel in their precision. The Kooks around him erupted with laughter and whistles, some elbowing each other as if they understood the jab when they didn’t.

You turned your head just enough to burn him with another scorching look, your glare so sharp it drew even more hoots and jeers from his audience. “Go fuck yourself, Cameron!” you snapped, the venom in your tone laced with a heat you couldn’t entirely disguise.

He only grinned wider, spreading his arms out in mock confusion, like he couldn’t possibly understand why you were upset, or maybe like he was daring you to come back. “Door’s always open, angel,” he shot back smoothly, letting the nickname slip like poison meant for you alone, though the onlookers just howled at the tension sparking between you.

You didn’t give him the satisfaction of answering again. Instead, you squared your shoulders, kept your grip firm on JJ, and dragged him toward the glow of the bonfire. His steps were heavy, his breath ragged through the hand clamped to his nose, and though you could feel his frustration radiating off him, he followed you without protest. Each crunch of sand beneath your shoes felt louder than the laughter still ringing out behind you, and you refused to turn your head, refused to look back and see Rafe watching you retreat.

By the time you reached the fire, the familiar warmth of your friends wrapped around you like a shield, though it didn’t stop the pulse of anger still coursing through your veins. JJ sank onto a log with a hiss, shoulders tense, jaw locked, while Pope and John B immediately crouched in front of him with worried exclamations, shoving a beer can into his hand like it was a fix for everything. You stayed a step back, arms crossed tightly over your chest, still tasting the bite of your own words on your tongue and trying not to imagine the look on Rafe’s face as you walked away.

Your jaw worked as you glanced around, already clocking the way heads were turning, how conversations faltered just enough to let whispers slip through. A fight always had an audience, and the tension carried like smoke, curling around the music still thumping faintly from the speakers. Kiara moved quickly, weaving through Pope and John B like water slipping through cracks, immediately kneeling in front of JJ with the kind of instinctive urgency you’d grown used to.

Her hands framed his cheeks, tilting his face toward the firelight so she could inspect the damage, thumb brushing under his jaw as if she could soothe away the blood. The intimacy of the gesture was so unmistakable that it made something sharp lodge in your throat, and you caught JJ’s sheepish glance toward you before he looked back at her, muttering with a crooked smile, “Not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal?” Kiara echoed incredulously, her brows furrowing deeper as she brushed a thumb over the swelling along his nose. He hissed but tried to laugh through it, which only made her roll her eyes harder.

“What happened?” Sarah’s voice broke through, sharper than usual, and when you turned she was already at your side, brows furrowed in alarm and confusion. She looked from JJ to you like she needed someone to explain fast.

JJ grinned despite the blood still trickling down his lips, his bravado slipping on like armor. “Got in a cat fight with your brother,” he quipped, his grin faltering into a wince when Kiara’s fingers brushed the bridge of his nose too firmly.

Sarah’s head snapped to you instantly, her eyes wide with horror at JJ’s casual admission. You didn’t flinch, just held her stare, unwilling to give her anything more than what she’d already pieced together. “Why?” she pressed, though the question was angled at JJ, her gaze pinned on you.

“Nothing important… just the usual Rafe bullshit,” JJ muttered through gritted teeth, shifting against Kiara’s hold like her fussing was more uncomfortable than the actual pain. Sarah’s shoulders sloped down at that, her panic ebbing into wary acceptance as she blew out a breath and shook her head.

John B, still crouched low by JJ’s knees, frowned as he grabbed another rag from a cooler and offered it over. “What do you mean usual Rafe bullshit? He just swung on you out of nowhere?”

JJ chuckled bitterly, taking the rag and pressing it to his nose. His voice came out muffled but steady. “Nah. I swung first.”

“What?” Kiara’s head jerked up, eyes narrowing as she pulled her hands back like he’d burned her. “JJ—are you serious right now?”

“Dead serious,” he said, leaning back slightly, his smirk creeping through again despite the blood. “Guy was running his mouth. Told me to pass you a message—said something about you being pretty hot for a pogue.”

Pope groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Jesus Christ, man.”

“Yeah, well…” JJ shrugged, dabbing the rag against his nose again, his eyes flickering between you and Kiara now. “He didn’t get to finish the sentence before I cracked him. Figured I’d save you from the secondhand sleaze.”

Kiara scoffed, half irritated, half touched in a way she tried not to show. “You could’ve ignored him, JJ. You didn’t have to—”

“What? Let him talk about you like that?” JJ cut in, voice rougher now, the defensive edge slipping out with his next breath. “Not gonna happen.”

The group went quiet for a beat, the fire popping in the center filling in what JJ’s words left behind. You shifted your weight, arms crossed tighter over your chest, the tension from earlier still burning hot under your skin. You knew JJ was talking about Kiara, but the ugly twist in your stomach wouldn’t let you forget the way Rafe’s gaze had been on you while he’d been speaking. The subtext was obvious—at least to you—and it sat in your chest like a stone, unspoken but heavy.

Rafe had no interest in talking about Kiara. You knew he didn’t. The whole comment was crafted to push JJ’s buttons, to bait him into throwing the first punch so Rafe could get exactly what he wanted without looking like the aggressor. He wasn’t reckless enough to swing out of nowhere, not when there were eyes on him, not when he could flip the narrative in his favor. And JJ—hotheaded, impulsive JJ—was the easiest mark. If you weren’t so furious, maybe you would’ve even been impressed with how smooth Rafe played his cards.

People loved to write him off as a powder keg, unpredictable and violent, and while that was true, it wasn’t the full story. He was cunning too, and he knew how to read a room. You’d caught it before—in the way his voice sharpened whenever JJ’s name came up, how he never missed a chance to twist it like glass between his teeth. It had only ever been a matter of time before he found, or made, the perfect opportunity to take a swing.

Beside you, Sarah shifted on her feet, the restless frown etched between her brows giving her away before she even spoke. Unlike you, she didn’t swallow down her confusion, didn’t sit with it silently. “Why would he talk about Kie, though?” she asked, her voice cutting through the circle like a knife.

All heads turned toward her, the words hanging in the air heavier than the crackling fire could burn them away. JJ’s smirk faltered, just slightly, his knuckles tightening around the rag pressed to his face. Kiara blinked, her lips parting like she was caught off guard by the implication, and Pope’s gaze darted between everyone with wide-eyed discomfort, like he wanted to fix the silence but couldn’t find the words.

JJ cleared his throat, his voice low but steady. “Because he’s an asshole, that’s why,” he muttered, eyes locking on Sarah now, daring her to keep pressing. “Doesn’t need a reason to run his mouth. He just likes to start shit.”

“Yeah, but still—” Sarah started, her tone wobbling, and you stepped in before the thread could unravel any further.

“Because Rafe knows what gets under people’s skin,” you snapped, the edge in your voice enough to turn a couple of the Pogues’ heads. You didn’t care. “He doesn’t have to mean it, Sarah. He just has to say it loud enough for someone to bite. And JJ did.”

JJ shot you a quick look—half defensive, half wounded—but he didn’t argue. He just pressed the rag tighter against his nose, letting the silence settle again while Kiara brushed a smear of blood off his chin with the edge of her towel.

John B finally piped up, his voice carrying the kind of tired calm he always reached for when things got too tense. “Doesn’t matter why Rafe said it. What matters is he got what he wanted. And now we’re sitting here talking about him instead of enjoying the night.”

The group fell quiet again, but you could feel the weight of Sarah’s question still lingering in the space between you, heavy and unspoken. You swallowed hard, your gaze drifting back toward the shadows beyond the firelight where you knew Rafe was still somewhere close, still watching, probably still smirking.

You knew Sarah was confused, maybe because she expected Rafe's comment to be about you, or the fight to orbit around you. She was confused it wasn't. You had two options, stay till the end of the night and enjoy the rest of it while still boiling slowly from everything that pressed on you today or- "I'm gonna head out." you blurted out before you could overthink it, bending down to snatch your backpack. You could feel the pogues' eyes on you but you knew they wouldn't say anything, when you wanted to leave a party, they knew there was no point in trying to talk you out of it.

You slung the backpack over one shoulder after stuffing your towel and the pack of cigarettes inside and turned away before they had the chance to work up the courage and speak up. Your steps were hurried and sure as you made your way towards the parking lot. Even if you heard JJ standing up and calling out something after you. He caught up with you eventually, his hand tugging you and forcing you to turn around by your wrist.

"Wait, goddamn.." he muttered, half annoyed and half out of breath. "Where are you going?" he asked, voice hushed and accusatory.

"I'm going home." you stated, raising your brows in confusion. He let go of your wrist but didn't back away, gaze shifting to the side as if he was was thinking over his words before speaking them, lips and the edge of his jaw stained red from the blood still pouring out, albeit less angry now. "It wasn't cool, the way you dragged me off like that.." he started, brows furrowed.

Yours shot up in surprise, then your expression morphed in irritated confusion, "What do you mean?" you asked, expecting anything, maybe even a thank you, but that.

"I mean, you made me look like a pussy." he answered easily. "It looked like i wasn't able to swing back after that hit."

You blinked at him, your mouth falling open in disbelief at how casually the words left his mouth. For a moment you were too stunned to reply, just staring at him with the remnants of blood drying crookedly along his lip, his freckles standing out even harsher under the flickering orange glow of the fire behind him. “Are you serious right now?” you asked finally, voice sharp enough to cut through the hum of the party drifting faintly from the beach. “You were about to get your face rearranged, JJ. Excuse me for not wanting to watch you bleed out on the sand like some dumb gladiator.”

He scoffed, running a hand through his hair in that restless, jerky way of his that always meant he was spiraling between irritation and pride. “I had him,” he shot back, eyes snapping back to yours. “You didn’t have to step in like—like I needed saving.” His words stumbled for a second, maybe because saying them out loud made them sound as ridiculous as they were.

You folded your arms over your chest, incredulous laughter bubbling out of you. “You had him? JJ, he broke your nose while you were looking at me. You didn’t even see it coming. That’s not having him, that’s being stupid enough to give him the opening he wanted.”

His jaw flexed, the stubborn set of it so familiar it hurt. “So what? You want me to just stand there and let him say whatever the hell he wants? About Kie? About you?” The last word slipped out before he could shove it back down, and his gaze darted sideways, like maybe if he didn’t meet your eyes it wouldn’t matter.

Your stomach lurched, anger twisting with something heavier, something you weren’t ready to pick apart. “You think this is about defending my honor or some bullshit? Because it’s not. It’s about him baiting you and you taking it like a dog on a leash.” You shook your head, exhaling hard through your nose. “And now, instead of walking away with a shred of dignity, you’re standing here telling me you’re pissed because I made you look like a pussy?”

JJ’s lips pressed into a thin line, his shoulders tense, like every word you threw at him was landing square against the hollow of his chest. He wiped at his mouth again with the back of his hand, smearing the blood more than cleaning it, and for a second you saw the boy you used to know—the boy who taped up your glasses, who swore up and down he’d always have your back. But then he sighed, muttering under his breath, “You just don’t get it.”

“Maybe I don’t,” you snapped, though your voice wavered despite your best effort. “But you don’t get how exhausting it is to keep pulling you out of fights you’re never going to win. One day you’re gonna realize it’s not about looking tough, JJ—it’s about knowing when to walk away.”

The silence that followed was heavy, crackling between you louder than the distant firewood popping on the beach. His blue eyes finally lifted back to yours, full of something tangled—anger, guilt, maybe even regret—but his mouth stayed shut, and for once, JJ Maybank didn’t have a comeback.

You didn't look away, though the way JJ's eyes burned through yours made you want to. You knew it wasn't entirely about embarrassing him, maybe more about having a chance to finally talk to you alone after staring at each other for the whole day.

JJ shifted on his feet, scuffing the toe of his sneaker against the sand like he was trying to dig his way out of the conversation. For a long moment he just stood there, shoulders rising and falling with sharp breaths, jaw working like he was chewing on words he didn’t want to spit out. When he finally did speak, it was quieter, like the fire in his chest had burned itself down to ash. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he muttered, eyes flicking anywhere but your face. “The pussy thing. I just—” He cut himself off with a rough exhale, dragging his hand down his face like he could scrub the frustration out of himself.

You stayed silent, arms still folded, though your pulse jumped at the crack in his voice.

He finally looked at you, really looked, and the fight seemed to bleed out of him. “I know you were just trying to help. And yeah, maybe I was getting my ass handed to me. I just…” He hesitated, teeth worrying at his lip, blood blooming fresh along the split there. “It makes me feel like you don’t trust me. Like you think I can’t handle my own shit.” His laugh was short, bitter. “And maybe I can’t. But hearing it from you—hurts more than a punch ever could.”

Your chest tightened, the sting of his words sinking past the shield of your anger. You opened your mouth, but he shook his head, cutting you off before you could answer. “I’m sorry, okay? I shouldn’t have said that to you. I’m just…” His hands lifted helplessly before dropping back to his sides. “I don’t wanna look weak in front of you.”

The confession hung between you, heavier than anything he’d thrown at you all night, and the sound of the ocean rushing up the shore filled the silence neither of you could break. He looked smaller suddenly, like the bravado had been peeled away, leaving only the boy who had always wanted so badly to be enough.

You shifted where you stood, chest constricting under the weight of his eyes and the raw edges of his confession, your fingers twitching with the need to do something, anything, to break the heaviness pressing down on you both. Reaching up almost awkwardly, you adjusted the strap of your backpack as if the small movement could disguise the hesitation clawing at you.

Then, before you could talk yourself out of it, your hand lifted and landed against his forearm in a light, clumsy pat that was more muscle memory than intention—a mimicry of the comfort you’d been offering him for years. It was the same kind of gesture you’d used when you were kids, when he’d scraped his knees or gotten himself in trouble and you were the one stitching him back together with whatever scraps of reassurance you could manage.

JJ glanced down at the contact, unimpressed and almost exasperated, like he could see through the thin veil of it to the way your hand trembled against his skin. He looked like he was considering something, weighing it against all the anger and pride he’d been trying so hard to hold onto, and then before you had a chance to read the decision in his eyes, he moved.

He leaned in without a word, his arms wrapping tight around your waist in a hug that knocked the air out of you, crushing and desperate and wholly unexpected. For a moment you froze, startled by the intimacy of it, by the sudden warmth of his body pressed so closely against yours after weeks of sharp edges and unspoken things. But the day had already worn at the edges of your control, softening the walls you’d been stacking between you, and despite yourself you melted into him.

Your arms rose slowly, circling around his neck, pulling him in until your cheek pressed to the mess of his hair and your nose fit into the familiar curve of his shoulder. The scent of salt and smoke and blood clung to him, and for a fleeting second it was like stepping back in time to before everything had gotten so complicated, before Kiara, before secrets, when the two of you were just kids clinging to each other in a world that felt too big.

You felt him relax almost instantly, the tension that had wound his body tight for weeks unspooling beneath your touch, like this was the first time he’d let himself breathe. His grip on your waist tightened, not once but three times in faint, deliberate squeezes, a code so ingrained in both of you that you didn’t need words to translate it. I got you. I love you.

Your throat ached at the silent confession, and you answered the only way you could, hugging him tighter, your hand curling at the back of his neck as if you could anchor him there and stop the world from tugging him away.

The ocean roared behind him, the party’s noise muffled and distant now, but none of it mattered—not the firelight, not the taste of blood still smeared at the corner of his mouth, not even the inevitable complications waiting just beyond this moment. All that mattered was the way he was holding onto you like letting go wasn’t an option, and the way your heart betrayed you by wishing, so painfully, that it didn’t have to be.

Eventually, the hug stretched past the point of comfort, though neither of you seemed willing to be the first to end it. You felt the reluctance in the way his arms loosened slowly, like each second he delayed was a small rebellion against reality, and you matched it, your fingers brushing through the ends of his hair as if you could buy one more heartbeat of closeness.

When you finally pulled back, it was gentle, careful, your hands slipping from his shoulders as his dropped from your waist. He lingered close, eyes darting over your face like he was trying to memorize it, committing every angle and every shadow to memory as if he didn’t trust that tomorrow would offer him the same view. For a moment, neither of you spoke, both of you caught in the fragile quiet that always followed moments too raw to disguise.

JJ’s mouth curved in something that wasn’t quite a smile, the kind of look that carried more ache than comfort. “Guess you should get home,” he said softly, his voice still rough around the edges but stripped of the anger that had sharpened it earlier. He scratched at the back of his neck, glancing down the stretch of road instead of at you. “Don’t want you catching hell for dragging me out of another mess.” The attempt at humor fell flat, too thin to hide the way his chest rose and fell like the weight of everything he hadn’t said was pressing down on him.

You nodded, swallowing against the tightness in your throat. “Yeah,” you murmured, adjusting your backpack strap again just to keep your hands busy. There was so much you wanted to say—that you didn’t regret stepping in, that you’d always do it again, that you wished he could see himself the way you did—but the words stuck like stones behind your teeth. Instead, you settled for a quiet, “Goodnight, J.”

He looked at you then, properly, and for a second the boy you grew up with was right there, unguarded and aching in a way that made your heart twist. “Goodnight,” he answered, simple but heavy, like he was tucking every unspoken thing into those two syllables. He gave a small nod, the kind that usually came before he shoved his hands in his pockets and walked off into trouble, but tonight he stayed rooted until you turned and started down the road.

The night air was cooler than you expected, brushing over your damp skin where sweat and saltwater had dried, and each step away from him felt heavier than it should have. The hum of the party behind you faded until it was just the sound of the waves rolling against the shore and your own footsteps crunching against the gravel.

You kept your arms wrapped loosely around yourself, not so much from the chill as from the hollow ache that settled in the space he’d just left. It wasn’t the first time you’d walked home from a night like this—exhausted, angry, tangled in feelings you didn’t want to name—but tonight the weight of his hug still clung to you, the ghost of his hands at your waist and the three faint squeezes pulsing like a heartbeat in your memory.

By the time the lights of your street came into view, the ache in your chest had settled into something quieter, something bittersweet. You told yourself it was just another night, just another fight, just another goodbye you’d both pretend didn’t mean anything come morning.

But even as you unlocked the door and stepped inside, you knew you’d carry the echo of it with you, the way his arms had felt around you, the way he’d looked at you like you mattered more than he wanted to admit. And no matter how much you tried to shake it, you knew you’d always walk home with that weight, wishing the night had ended differently.

The air inside the small living room was thick, the August heat pressed into the walls like it had no intention of leaving, trapped by the moldy insulation that gave the whole space its rancid, sour edge. Beer bottles lined the coffee table, glinting faintly in the weak strip of moonlight that slipped through the translucent curtains, the glass catching and reflecting the night like tiny, cruel reminders of what your mother had become. She was passed out on the couch, one arm dangling limply over the side, chest rising and falling in the uneven rhythm of someone who had long since surrendered to the weight of booze and whatever else she’d been drowning herself in.

You sneered silently, the sight familiar enough that it no longer shocked you, and turned your gaze toward the dark kitchen. The room still smelled like mildew and stale grease, counters crowded with dirty dishes no one had touched in weeks. You sighed quietly to yourself and headed down the narrow hallway, the strap of your backpack digging into your shoulder as though reminding you to keep moving.

You paused outside the door to your little brother’s room, fingers lingering against the wood before you eased it open just enough to peek inside. The pale glow from the hallway stretched across the carpet, illuminating his small body curled tight on his side beneath dinosaur sheets. His breaths came steady and deep, clutching the faded clown fish plushie to his chest like a lifeline.

Something in you softened, the tension between your shoulders easing as you tiptoed in and crouched beside his bed. You brushed a hand through his hair carefully, not enough to wake him, and pressed the lightest kiss to his cheek. “Sleep tight, buddy,” you whispered, though his eyes never fluttered open. You lingered for a second longer, just watching him breathe, before backing out and closing the door with a quiet click.

By the time you slipped into your room at the end of the hall, your shoulders sagged with relief, the usual prickle of unease that came with coming home dulled for once by the small comfort of seeing him safe and peaceful. You let your backpack slide from your shoulder and drop against the floor with a heavy thud, rubbing your arm absently as your gaze swept the familiar clutter of your room. But the calm shattered the moment you lifted your eyes.

Rafe was leaning against the windowsill like he owned the place, the faint glow from outside cutting over his sharp profile, the gleam of the lighter flicking on and off between his fingers throwing quick bursts of orange light across his smirk. He looked like he’d been waiting for you, lounging there with the kind of ease only someone who had broken into your room more than once could wear, utterly unbothered by the fact he’d started a fight with your best friend less than an hour ago.

Despite the jolt of surprise, you only narrowed your eyes at him, forcing yourself to walk deeper into the room as if he wasn’t even there. That was when his voice cut through the quiet, smooth and mocking all at once. “Mama's mad..” he mumbled under his breath.

“Not even a ‘hi,’ angel face?” he drawled when you didn't answer him, tilting his head like he was genuinely wounded. “Not even a ‘how did you get inside?’ or maybe the classic—‘get the fuck out of my room?’” His chuckle was low, smug, like he knew he was pressing every wrong button on purpose.

You froze at the edge of your bed, back stiffening before you finally turned on him with a sneer. Your hand shot out to the nightstand, fingers curling around the half-empty water bottles littering the surface. Without a word of warning, you hurled one at him. The bottle flew across the room, catching him in the arm with a dull thud. “Don’t—” you snapped as you grabbed the second one and flung it just as hard, watching him shift to dodge this time. “—smirk at me.”

Rafe’s grin only widened, catching the bottle before it hit the wall and rolling it carelessly across his palm like it was some kind of toy. “Jesus, baby, you got an arm on you,” he said, shaking his head with mock admiration. “What’s next, gonna start throwing shoes? Maybe your lamp? You’re lucky I’m good at catching.” He flicked the lighter again, flame blooming briefly before disappearing, his gaze never leaving yours. “Although, I gotta admit—your aim? Not bad for someone who didn’t even say hello.”

You glared at him, your pulse spiking with irritation at his nerve. “You seriously think you can just show up here after tonight? After what you did?”

He raised his brows, lips curling in that infuriating smirk that made you want to scream. “What I did? Pretty sure I remember saving your boy from getting his head split open. But hey, maybe my memory’s fuzzy. Remind me—did he walk away on his own two feet, or did you carry him?” He leaned off the windowsill slowly, prowling closer, his voice dropping as his eyes searched your face. “Come on, angel. Admit it. Deep down, you know I was right to step in.”

“Step in?” you whisper-shouted, disbelief punching holes through your words, your arms crossing tightly over your chest as if they could hold you back from launching something heavier than a water bottle. “You call that stepping in? By doing what—breaking his nose?” The scoff that followed was sharp and humorless, slicing across the space between you. You stayed planted at the far side of your bed like it was the only barrier you had left, refusing to give him the satisfaction of closing the distance on his terms.

Rafe didn’t flinch. He only rolled his shoulders in an exaggerated shrug, unbothered by the bite in your voice, his smirk softened at the edges by the faint glaze of liquor in his system. “He was running his mouth to my friends,” he said lightly, as though explaining away something trivial, his thumb flicking the lighter back to life with a soft metallic snap. The flame licked the air before he killed it again, eyes tracking the tiny burst like it was more interesting than your fury. “It was either me or them. I thought it would’ve been better if it was me. In my opinion…” His gaze finally cut back up to yours, deliberate, steady, as if daring you to argue with the twisted logic.

The sheer audacity of it made your pulse thunder in your ears, your anger spiking like a match held too close to kindling. You opened your mouth, ready to tear into him, but he beat you to it, his voice dipping into something slower, almost coaxing. “And besides,” he added, the corner of his mouth twitching upward like he knew he was pouring fuel on your fire, “he swung first. Didn’t touch him before that.”

You blinked at him, a dry laugh catching in your throat. “You want a medal for waiting until he threw the first punch?” you snapped, incredulous. “Congratulations, Cameron, you managed to almost kill someone without technically starting it. Real noble of you.” You took a step closer to the bed, your arms tightening across your chest, your glare cutting through him even as he leaned there all loose-limbed and smug, like the room belonged to him.

Rafe tilted his head, studying you with infuriating patience, that faint smirk never fully leaving his mouth. “Noble, no,” he admitted, voice slow and deliberate, “but effective? Yeah.” His eyes narrowed just slightly, catching the way your chest rose and fell, the way your voice wavered between fury and something else entirely. “Face it, angel—you didn’t want him to fight me. You knew how that was gonna end.” He flicked the lighter again, flame bursting and dying, his gaze locked on you. “And now you’re mad at me for being exactly who I’ve always been.”

The nerve of this bastard. Not only had he left JJ a bleeding mess on the sand, but instead of going straight home, snorting a few lines, and passing out like you prayed he would—giving you enough time to calm down before you inevitably tore into him—he had the audacity to sneak into your room not even two hours later. If anyone on this island had the gall, it was Rafe Cameron.

Your blood boiled hotter just looking at him, lounging there like he hadn’t detonated the night. “I’m mad at you because you broke my best friend’s nose, dickhead!” you whisper-shouted, your voice spiking before you forced it back down, mindful of the paper-thin walls in this house and the way sound carried too easily through them. “I’m well aware of who you are.”

Rafe only shook his head, rolling his jaw like it ached from JJ’s hit, though you knew damn well it didn’t. It was all for show, like everything with him—performative, taunting, his way of stoking the fire in you just to see what it would do. Your anger, just like back on the beach, seemed to entertain him, and hell, you were convinced he got off on it. His smirk tugged higher as his voice came out low, unbothered. “He had it coming.”

The words sliced clean through the last thread of restraint you had left. You didn’t think, didn’t stop—just rounded the bed in a rush, your feet barely silent against the floor. He must’ve seen it coming, because he leaned off the sill slowly and placed his lighter on your nightstand like he was bracing himself, like he welcomed the storm you were about to unleash.

And you didn’t disappoint. Your hands slammed against his chest hard, shoving him back into the wall beside your window. “Had it coming?” you echoed, your voice breaking into a hiss, your fists flying into his chest with each word, your rage tumbling out of you in staccato bursts. “You’re such a fucking asshole!” You mumbled it between blows, the heel of your hand colliding with his shirt, the force making his head bump lightly against the wall, though he didn’t so much as flinch.

He laughed instead, the low sound grating, thick with mockery. “There it is,” he muttered, like he’d been waiting for this exact explosion. His eyes glittered in the dim light, his teeth flashing as his smirk deepened. “Don’t get me wrong, angel—you’re cute when you’re mad. Real cute. But I think we both know—” he leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice into something pointed, almost cruel, “—your boy doesn’t hit as hard as you do.”

The words landed like a slap before your hand actually did. Fury shot down your spine, white-hot and immediate, and before you could stop yourself your palm cracked across his cheek, the sharp sound splitting the air louder than you intended. His head snapped to the side, and for the first time all night, the smirk slipped.

He blinked, jaw tightening as a flush spread across his cheek where you’d struck him, the line of his mouth curving into something darker, more dangerous, as his tongue flicked against the inside of his cheek. He turned back to you slowly, deliberately, his voice a rasp. “There she is.”

You paused, stepping back just slightly, a bit taken aback that you actually slapped him. The sting lingered on your palm, almost echoing with the sound of it, and for the first time in the entire night, he didn’t meet it with that angering smirk you had grown to hate. He must’ve felt you falter because his lips stayed pressed together, his jaw locked, and in the next second his hands were around your wrists, grip tight enough to remind you of the weight behind him. He shoved you back, not enough to hurt but enough to make your lower back hit the edge of the little table by your window.

The objects rattled faintly, and still his blue eyes stayed pinned to you, sharp and unrelenting. “Watch yourself,” he murmured, voice calm in that unnerving way only Rafe Cameron could manage, calm like he was trying to own the air between you. He loomed too close, close enough that you could smell the faint alcohol on his breath, close enough his shadow swallowed yours. “You can yell at me all you want, angel, but don’t think you can bitch slap me like that every time we argue.”

His warning, that low growl of dominance, should have pressed you down into silence, but it didn’t even nick the fury still blazing through your chest. If anything, it fueled it. Not everyone had the courage to slap Rafe Cameron and then stand their ground when he threatened them, but you weren’t about to shrink back and let him win.

That was the difference between you and everyone else who bent around him—he couldn’t just scare you quiet. “You had it coming,” you snapped, voice sharp, unflinching despite the steel in his eyes. You shoved at his chest again, this time with enough force that his grip slipped from your wrists, his broad frame stumbling half a step back before righting itself. “You don’t look like you get slapped off your high horse enough,” you added coldly, spitting the words at him like venom.

For a second his eyes widened, flicking over your face as if searching for some crack in your resolve. Then he laughed under his breath, a dark, humorless sound, rubbing a hand over the spot on his chest you’d shoved. “You think you’re the one to do it? To knock me off anything?” he muttered, shaking his head with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes, almost like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to be amused or pissed.

“That’s cute, angel. Real cute.” His voice dipped, laced with condescension, before he tipped his head just slightly, looking down at you as though he were studying the defiance etched into your features. “But let’s be honest—you wouldn’t be this worked up if I didn’t matter to you. If I didn’t get under your skin the way I do.”

That made you scoff in sheer disbelief, the sound sharp and incredulous in the thick air between you. That was Rafe—always twisting words and bending reactions until he could make himself feel wanted, until he could spin the situation into something that benefited him. “I am this worked up because you punched my best friend in the nose, dick,” you shot back, your expression contorting into a sneer you didn’t bother hiding. “Not because of whatever made-up delusions are floating around in your brain.”

He scoffed right back, the sound almost mocking as his eyes narrowed, brows furrowing like he was already calling your bluff without even needing to speak. “Right, because everything has to do with JJ,” he bit out, his tone laced with that sharp sarcasm he knew would needle under your skin.

“Yeah, because you punched him!” you whisper-shouted, voice pitching up in disbelief, your arms flailing slightly with the words as if they could somehow knock some sense into him.

“That’s irrelevant,” he snarled, and this time there was no humor behind it. His expression shifted, sharper, offended, like you’d hit a nerve. “You don’t care about his broken nose as much as you care about me punching him.” He emphasized the word him like it was poison in his mouth, venom dripping off every syllable.

You shook your head, because this was what he did, what always dragged the argument down into a trench it didn’t need to go to—turning everything into something personal, unnecessary, and unbearable. “He’s my best friend! Of course I’m gonna care about you punching him, Rafe, are you insane?”

“And I’m the guy who’s been inside you for the past four months,” he snapped back without missing a beat, his words slicing through the air with no hesitation.

The reminder stung—not the truth of it, but the crude way he wielded it, like it was a weapon instead of something you’d been trying not to think too hard about. Your jaw clenched, shoulders stiff as you forced the words out. “Yeah, well, I thought that gave you some decency to refrain from assaulting my friends!”

His eyes flickered with something unreadable before he leaned closer again, his voice dropping low, almost a growl, like he wanted to make sure you couldn’t ignore it. “I ain’t pussy-whipped,” he murmured, the words coming out like an insult more than anything else. “Just because we fool around doesn’t mean I’m gonna suddenly befriend your obnoxious best friends. Your little boyfriend swung first, so I swung harder.”

The way he said little boyfriend made your blood boil, the mockery dripping off it like he knew exactly where to jab. You could feel the heat crawling up your neck, the fury mixing with something else you hated just as much; the awareness of how close he was, how his words and his nearness always tangled together until you weren’t sure if you wanted to hit him again or grab his face and shut him up with your mouth.

“So what? You punch him because you’re jealous?” you spat before you could stop yourself, the words tearing out of you like glass. “That it? You’re aware I’m in love with him, so you lash out by breaking his nose? Real mature.”

That made him pause, if only for a split second, something unguarded flashing in his eyes before it was swallowed back into the glare he wore like armor. He stepped into you then, deliberate and slow, and you stumbled back until the sharp edge of the table pressed against your hip. The silence that stretched in that heartbeat only made you more aware of how hard your pulse was slamming against your ribs, the roar of it almost deafening. “There it is again—your lifeline, right?” he muttered, his voice low, his eyes locked unflinchingly onto yours.

“You throw this temper tantrum about fairness, about decency,” he went on before you could open your mouth, his tone gathering heat, sharp enough to flay. “And then you hit me with that.” His laugh was bitter, short, more air than sound. “You waste my time, my sanity, my booze, my blow—you hog my bed, my passenger seat, you wrap yourself around my fucking life like a storm, and then you drop this bomb like JJ was still the reason you spent time with me.”

You inhaled sharply, lips parting, ready to defend yourself, but his hands slammed down on either side of you, gripping the table by your hips hard enough that the wood groaned. You froze under the sudden cage of him, the closeness suffocating, his heat rolling off him in waves. “It’s real bitchy, you know that?” he growled, leaning in, his voice scraping like gravel. “You expect me to comfort you, to swallow every tantrum, to roll with everything you say because what?” His lip curled into a scoff that cut right through you. “Because you’re good in bed?”

The silence that followed was thick and choking. Your throat burned with words you couldn’t force out, caught somewhere between a retort and guilt. Because he was right. You hated that he was right, but the ugly truth settled in your chest like lead—you’d known from the start how unfair this was, how much you took without giving back. And still, you said nothing.

He took that silence like an invitation. “You’re a really cruel girl, angel,” he drawled, his voice low, dangerous in how soft it was. His head tilted, and you went rigid as he skimmed the tip of his nose along your cheek, the contact featherlight and taunting. “Biggest bitch I’ve ever had the misfortune of dealing with.” The words slid into your ear like poison, but he wasn’t done. “Rafe this, Rafe that. Rafe, I’m sad. Rafe, I feel guilty. Can I come over? Open the door, I’m outside. Pick me up, JJ’s with Kiara and I’m jealous. Roll over. Sit.” His mocking tone cut like a knife, every imitation of your voice a spotlight on your hypocrisy.

“And yet, I’m the immature one for punching JJ?” he pressed, pulling back just enough that his burning gaze found yours again, his voice calmer now but sharper for it. “You think anyone else—anyone less fucked up than me—would’ve taken all your whining without snapping?”

The words landed heavy, and for the first time tonight, shame burned through your anger, hot and corrosive. He was right—so right it made your chest tighten and your stomach turn, so right that you almost wanted to shrink under the weight of it. And yet, your stubbornness clung to scraps of defense, clawed the words out of you less confidently now. “But I warned you before we—”

“Don’t!” he cut you off with a snarl, his fist slamming down against the table hard enough to rattle the frame, the sound cracking through the room like thunder. You flinched despite yourself, your heart leaping to your throat. “Don’t pull that bullshit,” he barked, his voice louder than it had been all night, ragged and raw. “You’re not the only one who gets a say in this—I do too!” His fist hit the table again before his hand shot up, dragging through his hair like he was about to rip it out. “And I say we’re a couple, goddammit!”

The last words hung between you, heavy and deafening, the admission so stark and unfiltered that the room itself seemed to contract around it. His chest was heaving, his jaw tight, and for the first time tonight he didn’t look smug, or cruel, or even amused. He looked unmoored, stripped raw, like he’d torn the truth out of himself by force.

The vulnerability that the word couple sparked in your stomach was almost comical. You wanted to laugh at yourself for even letting it affect you, but you couldn’t. Because if you were going to be honest with yourself—which didn’t happen as often as you liked—Rafe was right. You and him had been acting like a couple. A fucked-up one, twisted and volatile, but one nonetheless. You hated how true it was, hated that your prejudice and fear held you back from naming it for what it was. And yet, it hadn’t held you back enough to stop you from climbing into his bed again and again, like clockwork.

“So we’re only a couple when it’s convenient for you, right?” you snapped, the words tumbling out of you before you could think better of them, anger twisting your expression sharp again as the memory of Sofia’s smug face clawed its way into your mind. “We’re a couple when it’s time to place the blame, but once we’re done? It’s casual, and you get to go back to circling Sofia like a dog.”

That name alone made something ugly ripple across his features, his jaw flexing hard. “Nothing about you is convenient for me, angel,” he hissed, voice low but cutting, his hands still buried in his hair like he needed the anchor. His chest rose and fell like he was holding himself back from exploding. “You think the sex makes up for the psychological torture you put me through?”

“You think you’re tortured?” you shot back, stepping into his space, chest colliding with his in a defiant shove. “Try living with the fact that I’m secretly ruining my friendships every single day I pick up your calls. Try hiding what this is while you’re off flaunting Sofia in everyone’s faces—”

His laugh cut you off, sharp and humorless, as he leaned down so close you could feel the grit of it on your lips. “Sofia? Don’t start with that jealous bullshit. You know damn well she’s a distraction. You think I’d break into your shitty house, into this room, if I wanted her?” His hand jabbed toward your chest as if to stake a claim, and the touch ignited your fury all over again.

“You’re unbelievable,” you seethed, shoving at him again. “You think you can throw me around, kiss me, fuck me, tear me down and then stand here claiming we’re a couple like it means something? You don’t get to rewrite the rules just because you’re losing your shit!”

“You think I’m losing my shit?” he snapped, his voice cracking with how sharp it came out. He shoved you back into the wall, the frame rattling violently behind you, and his hand gripped your jaw to force your eyes on his, fingers digging into your cheeks. “I lost it the second I let you in, angel. And now I can’t fucking stop.”

The heat between you snapped, white-hot, too sharp to keep as words anymore. Your hands shot up, fisting into the collar of his shirt as your mouths collided, teeth clashing, lips bruising instantly from the force. His grip on your jaw turned punishing, tilting your head up as his other hand slammed flat against the wall beside you. The kiss was nothing sweet—it was brutal, angry, the kind that dragged curses from your throat as your back slammed against the plaster hard enough to make the frames rattle, one of them clattering to the floor with a sharp crack.

You shoved him back with all the force you had, only for him to slam into you again, his mouth never leaving yours, his teeth catching your lower lip rough enough to sting. You gasped into him, nails digging into his shoulders, pulling him closer even as you cursed his name against his mouth. He twisted you suddenly, your back colliding with the edge of the dresser this time, the wood creaking under the impact and sending another pile of objects scattering noisily to the floor.

He groaned into your mouth, a sound more frustrated than pleased, and you bit down on his lip in response, tasting copper. That only spurred him, his hands dragging down your sides, gripping your hips bruisingly as he ground you against the dresser, the kiss only growing rougher, messier, like neither of you knew how to stop.

Your nails clawed at his shoulders as his mouth devoured yours, dragging him closer with the kind of desperation you hated admitting you felt. His lips were brutal, his teeth scraping, his tongue pushing against yours in a battle neither of you intended to lose. Every kiss was a clash, every touch a dare, and the way he manhandled you across the room made your blood roar hotter.

Rafe shifted his grip suddenly, both hands clamping around your waist as he lifted you effortlessly off the floor, your back colliding with the wall again hard enough to rattle the frame you’d barely rehung last week. You let out a breathless noise, half a curse, half a gasp, your legs instinctively hooking around his hips even as you tried to shove at his chest. He growled against your mouth, not giving you the space to protest, slamming his lips back onto yours with a punishing hunger.

“Still think I don’t mean it?” he muttered harshly between kisses, his mouth brushing yours so close the words felt like sparks. You barely got out a scoff before he kissed you again, harder, rougher, his hands flexing against your waist like he couldn’t decide whether to hold you still or tear you apart.

He carried you the few steps to your bed, tossing you down onto the mattress with little care for the squeak of the springs or the way your head nearly knocked into the wall. You pushed yourself up on your elbows, breath ragged, glare sharp, but he was already crawling over you, his mouth finding yours again before you could spit the venom burning your tongue. His knee pressed between your thighs as his hand fisted in your sheets, caging you in as his weight bore down, his kiss so messy and frantic that spit slicked your mouth and chin.

Your hands pushed at his chest again, but instead of shoving him off, your fingers curled into his shirt, dragging him closer until his teeth knocked against yours. You bit down, punishing, and he groaned into it, the sound vibrating against your lips as his hips pressed down, grinding you against the mattress in a way that made the heat in your belly coil painfully.

The kiss grew desperate, less coordinated, your head tilting to chase him even as you both gasped for breath, neither willing to be the first to pull away. His hand slid up your side, catching your ribcage roughly before splaying wide against your chest, holding you down as if daring you to keep fighting. You did, bucking against him, your mouths breaking apart only long enough for him to catch your chin and force you back into another searing kiss, the kind that tasted like fury and inevitability all at once.

The room around you blurred, every sound drowned out by the slap of lips, the scrape of teeth, the thud of your bodies colliding with every surface you were shoved against. The mattress groaned beneath you, the sheets twisting under your fists as you clung to him, and somewhere in the chaos, the line between fury and want blurred so violently you couldn’t see straight.

You both had long given up on even pretending to be quiet, the thought of muffling your sounds gone the second he’d slammed you against the wall, and it only spiraled from there. Somewhere in the house, your mother and brother were asleep—or so you prayed—but every stumble into the dresser, every thud of his shoulder knocking into the wall as you both fought for dominance, left behind a trail of noise that carried down the hallway.

You didn’t care. You couldn’t. Never in your life had you wanted to kiss and tear someone apart in the same breath as badly as you wanted to with Rafe Cameron. Your hands were a blur, indecisive, tugging at the collar of his black polo until one of the buttons gave with a satisfying snap, your nails dragging up his neck to rake through his hair, pulling at it until strands slipped messily between your fingers. You didn’t know where to put them, couldn’t keep still enough to choose, and every time you yanked him closer, his mouth only pressed harder against yours, teeth scraping, lips bruising, tongues fighting for more.

And he was no better, every inch of him searing with a manic sort of need. His hands claimed your waist with bruising force, thumbs digging so sharply into your hipbones it made you gasp into his mouth, before shifting higher, sliding up your ribcage, then fisting into your hair so roughly that the low ponytail you’d pulled together earlier didn’t stand a chance. The elastic either snapped or slipped away completely, you couldn’t tell which, because all you felt was the harsh tug that sent your head snapping back and a groan breaking free of your throat.

Yet still, the kisses didn’t stop—if anything, the interruption only made them fiercer, sloppier, full of teeth and spit and a desperation that made the air in the room feel too thin to breathe. He loomed over you once he finally drove you back against the bed, crowding you until your body was pressed into the mattress, his mouth unrelenting. He pressed so hard that your head hit the wooden headboard with a dull thud, your gasp swallowed instantly into his mouth.

The shift came like instinct, his need to move you, to change the angle, to press deeper and harder until he’d wrung you out completely. He broke from your mouth only long enough to grab your shoulder and flip you forward, forcing you down into the mattress with a roughness that stole any protest you might have had. The pillow caught your face as he flattened you on your stomach, the smothering press of cotton muffling the ragged sound of your breath.

Your cheek scraped against the fabric, your lips parted around it, but the weight of his body followed instantly, chest pressed into your back, his hand in your hair again to shove your face deeper into the pillow as his mouth dragged along the shell of your ear and down your neck. Your lungs fought against the stifling press of fabric and heat, every nerve alive with the way he caged you beneath him, every movement of his body a claim. And even like this—pinned, smushed, barely able to move—you couldn’t stop the helpless arch of your hips into the mattress, chasing the contact you swore was going to break you open.

The pillow muffled the sound of your ragged breaths, but not enough to hide the way they came in quick, uneven bursts, the fabric warm and damp beneath your lips. You tried to twist your head, tried to get some air, but his hand stayed threaded through your hair, keeping you exactly where he wanted you, his chest heavy against your back. His mouth moved against the shell of your ear, hot and wet, dragging down to your neck where he bit hard enough to make you whimper into the pillow. The vibration of your sound seemed to light something in him, because he pressed harder, grinding his hips against the curve of your ass until the tension snapped a low groan out of him.

“Rafe—” your voice broke on his name, muffled and half-swallowed by cotton, and you weren’t even sure what you were trying to say. Stop, keep going, breathe. It all tangled on your tongue.

“Say it again,” he demanded, his voice rough, almost frantic, his breath dragging hot against your skin as his hips rolled once more, harder this time, making the mattress squeak beneath you both.

“Rafe,” you repeated, desperate, your nails clawing at the sheets because there was nowhere else to put the tension coursing through your body.

He let out a strangled laugh, cruel and breathless. “Yeah? Couple enough for you now, angel?” His teeth scraped over the slope of your shoulder, his hand leaving your hair only to shove at the back of your thigh, spreading you further into the mattress as he pressed his body flush against yours.

You shook your head as much as you could pinned against the pillow, though the motion was weak, betraying you. “Shut up—”

But his hand smoothed down your side, calloused fingers dragging slow over your ribs until he gripped your hip again, tight enough to make your breath catch. “Can’t, baby. Not when you’re like this. Not when you’re fucking begging for it without saying it.” His words were low, hoarse, barely controlled, and each one burned hotter than the last as he rocked against you, letting you feel just how far gone he already was.

The air felt too thick to pull into your lungs, your face smushed into the pillow as you tried to turn just enough to answer him, even if all you managed was a shaky, “You’re insane.”

He hummed, a deep, dark sound right against your ear, pressing you deeper into the mattress as if to underline every word that followed. “Insane for you.”

Your hair was already a tangled mess, half of it sticking to your damp skin, strands plastered across your cheek and over your eyes so that your vision was broken and hazy, all heat and movement and the feeling of him everywhere. You tried to push it away with one hand, but Rafe’s palm slammed yours back into the mattress, pinning it above your head without missing a beat. The other hand left your hip just long enough for the harsh scrape of his knuckles to travel down his stomach, fumbling for his belt, and the metallic clink of the buckle breaking open shot a jolt down your spine.

He pressed into you harder as he worked it loose, his lips dragging over your temple, your hair caught between his teeth when he pulled back just enough to mutter, “Messiest little thing I’ve ever had in my bed.” The zipper came next, harsh and loud in the silence of the room, and you felt the mattress dip as he shifted to shove his jeans down just enough, the heat of his body returning to yours instantly, suffocating and magnetic.

“Rafe,” you gasped again, though your voice was hoarse now, muffled by the pillow as you tried to twist beneath him, trying to catch any kind of control. But he was already pushing your thighs apart with his knee, dragging your hips back against him so rough your breath hitched. His hand slid under the hem of your shirt, rucking it up over your ribs, leaving your back exposed to the air before his palm flattened hard between your shoulder blades, keeping you flush with the bed.

“You hear yourself?” he rasped, hips grinding once more against you as if to emphasize the question. “Every time you say my name like that, you make it worse for yourself.” His belt hit the floor with a dull thud, followed by the sound of him spitting into his palm before dragging it over himself, groaning low like he couldn’t help it.

You shifted your head just enough to catch a blur of him out of the corner of your eye, his face set and focused, hair falling forward as he lined himself up against you, the head of his cock nudging insistently against the thin barrier still clinging to your skin. His other hand tangled in your messy hair again, yanking your face to the side so he could see your cheek pressed into the pillow, your mouth open and trembling.

“Hold still,” he ordered, voice breaking slightly with the strain of holding back, his chest rising and falling against your back like he’d been running, like he was seconds away from losing the tight grip he had on his own control.

You swallowed hard, the sound deafening to your own ears in the silence between his breaths, your body tight with anticipation and already dizzy from the way he had you pressed down, your cheek mashed into the pillow. You couldn’t see him, but you heard him—heard the guttural sound drag out of his chest as his fingers hooked into the thin fabric and tugged your bikini bottoms to the side.

The low groan shifted into something rougher, almost a moan, when he pushed into you slowly, filling you inch by inch until the air punched out of your lungs. The stretch was unforgiving, mean in the way it burned even through the slick heat between your thighs, and you whimpered into the pillow at how good it hurt, the mix of pain and relief making your toes curl against the sheets.

“Fuck, angel,” he hissed through clenched teeth, one hand tightening in your hair until your scalp stung, the other flattening across your back as though he needed to hold you down just to keep himself steady. “You feel like this every single time… and you still wanna run your mouth like you don’t love it?” He pulled back only an inch before sinking in again, sharper, dragging another strained sound from you that made him laugh under his breath, breathless and jagged.

“Rafe—” you whimpered, voice broken around the pillow, your hand scrambling against the sheets for something to hold on to. He caught your wrist again before you could anchor yourself, shoving it back down into the mattress beside your head, forcing your body to arch into the thrust that followed.

“Say it,” he bit out, chest pressing into your back, words rough against your ear as he rocked deeper, testing how much you could take. “Say you want it. Say you want me.”

You shook your head, a muffled sob of resistance breaking into another moan when he slammed into you harder, the bed frame rattling, the headboard thudding against the wall in a rhythm you couldn’t deny. “You’re so full of shit,” you managed to choke out, defiance laced through the way your body betrayed you, clenching around him.

That only made him chuckle darkly, the sound vibrating against your skin as his teeth grazed the curve of your shoulder. “Yeah? Then why’re you dripping all over my cock right now?” His words were sharp, deliberate, meant to cut, but the way his hips ground deep into yours at the same time made them melt into something far worse—something that left your mouth open and trembling against the pillow.

Rafe was everywhere, quite literally, inescapable in the way he had you locked down against the mattress, your back arched just enough to make you feel exposed, pinned so tightly in place you couldn’t writhe or squirm even if you wanted to. His hand was knotted harshly in your hair like he owned every inch of you, like you were nothing but something to drag where he pleased, and the weight of his chest pressed hot against your spine each time he drove you forward into the sheets.

The sting of his cologne clung to the air, wrapping around your senses so completely you couldn’t tell if it was seeping off his skin behind you or if it had sunk into the fabric of your pillow itself. When you failed to answer him, your voice caught in the mess of your throat, he only hummed, almost pleased, and snapped his hips forward again. The sudden, perfect angle made you cry out, the moan tearing through you so raw it strangled itself into something like a sob.

“I might be full of shit,” he rasped against your ear, his breath burning hot down the side of your neck, “but you’re full of me… listen to you, angel…” His words were low and cruelly smug, punctuated by another deep thrust that had you gasping. “Whole fucking neighborhood could probably hear how bad you love this.” He tugged on your hair for emphasis, forcing your face harder into the pillow until your breath came shallow, until your vision blurred from the lack of air and the overwhelming way he stretched you open.

“Rafe—stop—” you whined, even though your body betrayed you, tightening around him at every sharp drag. The plea only pulled another laugh from him, dark and breathless, and he shifted just enough to grind into that same spot again, tearing another cracked moan from you.

“Stop?” he mocked, letting the word drip with disbelief, his hand trailing down from your hip to slip under your stomach, feeling the tremble in your body as his thrusts grew harder. “That what you call this? Begging me to stop while you squeeze the life outta my cock?” His lips brushed over your ear again, his voice rough, coaxing, mean. “Say it, angel. Say you don’t want it, and I’ll walk out that door. But we both know you won’t.”

You weren’t even sure if the position allowed you to speak properly, your cheek mashed into the pillow, hair sticking to your damp skin and falling into your mouth every time you tried to breathe. Every time your lips worked around a word, Rafe cut you off deliberately, snapping his hips forward so mean and precise it made your thoughts scatter like glass. That spot he kept drilling into blurred your vision until you couldn’t tell if the heat flushing through your body was from the way he had you angled or from the brutal pleasure itself. Your thighs kept trembling, tensing up against the mattress in short, jerky bursts, and your cheeks burned so hot they felt feverish, your back already slick with a sheer film of sweat that glued your skin to the sheets.

“C’mon,” he goaded, voice low and biting against the shell of your ear, his grip on your hair tightening just enough to make your scalp ache. “You had plenty to say five minutes ago. Where’s all that attitude now, huh? Go on, angel—tell me how much you hate me with my cock in you.” He punctuated the taunt with another sharp thrust, the sound of your choked moan bouncing off the thin walls of your room.

“F–fuck you,” you hissed into the pillow, forcing the words out even as your voice broke around the syllables. You tried to push back against him with your hips, tried to prove you weren’t just breaking under the weight of him, but he only laughed darkly, dragging you back flush against him until your spine bowed.

“Already are,” he bit back without missing a beat, grinding deeper, relishing the way your nails clawed uselessly at the sheets. “Face it, you’d let me ruin you a hundred times over if it meant you got to act like you hated me after. That’s the game, isn’t it?” His free hand slid up your side, pressing down between your shoulder blades to keep you right where he wanted you, forcing you to take every deliberate inch.

Rafe never stuck to a certain pace, and that was what made you crazy. He’d start fast, brutal enough that the headboard rattled and the springs groaned under the force, and then he’d slow down to a maddening crawl, dragging every inch out of you like he wasn’t even affected by it himself. The way he could just breathe steady while your own noises looped back in your head only fueled the embarrassment—pathetic, muffled moans that you couldn’t stop no matter how hard you bit down on your lip or smothered your face into the pillow.

It was shameful, humiliating, and yet your body betrayed you with every snap of his hips, clenching around him in a way that gave you away completely. Tonight was worse than any other night because he seemed intent on wringing you out, forcing out sounds you didn’t even know you were capable of making, every muffled cry swallowed by the pillow beneath your cheek.

You shifted your head against his grip, desperate for air, desperate to see him, and managed to catch him looming over you through the mess of your hair. His lips were pressed together, brow furrowed in concentration, a cruel kind of focus that only made your chest constrict tighter. You tried—pathetically—to muster a glare, to remind him that you weren’t just something to fold over and use, but it didn’t land the way you wanted it to. Not with your face half-covered, flushed, sweaty strands sticking to your damp cheeks. Rafe’s chuckle rumbled out low, a sharp counterpoint to the broken sounds he was tearing out of you, and he loosened his grip in your hair.

“Look at you,” he taunted, his voice gravelly, threaded with rough amusement as he used his free hand to push a few strands away from your face. Not all of them—just enough for him to peek at you through the curtain of your hair. “Trying to glare at me while you drip all over my cock. You hear yourself, angel? You sound like you’re about to cry.” He ground in deep for emphasis, pulling a gasp out of your chest, the wet, obscene slap of his hips against yours filling the room.

“Shut up,” you rasped, your voice wrecked, but it only made him laugh again, the sound dark and strained as though even he couldn’t stay completely unaffected. His hips stuttered once, the sound of his breath catching sharp behind you before he steadied himself.

“Can’t,” he bit back through gritted teeth, leaning down enough for his chest to press flush against your sweaty back, his mouth grazing your ear as the headboard groaned again. “Not when you’re making those noises for me. Not when the whole fucking house probably knows how good I’ve got you.” His words melted into a low, drawn-out groan as you clenched around him, the sound vibrating against your ear and sending another shiver down your spine.

The room was thick with it—the sharp creak of the mattress, the slap of skin against skin, the muffled little cries you couldn’t choke back, his guttural curses each time you tightened around him. Every sound seemed to pile on top of the other until it felt like the walls themselves were rattling, trapping you in the sheer intensity of it.

Rafe was merciless about keeping the tension wound tight, like he fed on the frustration that built inside you with every deliberate change in rhythm. He’d give you a string of brutal thrusts that had your nails digging crescents into the sheets, the headboard smacking the wall loud enough to rattle the picture frames, then he’d pull back and slow to a crawl, dragging the stretch out until it burned. Your muffled whimpers and bitten-back gasps filled the room anyway, mixing with the obscene, wet sounds of him sliding into you, the creak of the mattress, his uneven breaths coming closer to your ear whenever he leaned down to press you harder into the pillow.

When you managed to turn your head again, hair sticking in wild strands across your flushed face, you caught that familiar twist at the corner of his mouth. Not a full smirk—he was too focused for that—but enough that you knew he was about to say something cruel. He pushed a strand of hair off your cheek with the backs of his fingers, almost tender if not for the way his hips drove back into you hard enough to knock a broken moan out of your throat. “Y’know what I keep thinking about, angel?” he drawled, his tone deceptively calm, almost conversational. “That little slap you gave me earlier. Remember that?”

Your stomach flipped, heat rushing to your face as you tried to glare back at him, but all it did was make his chuckle slip out again, low and dark. He pulled out nearly all the way before slamming back in, the force bouncing your hips against the mattress, your gasp swallowed by the pillow. “Thought you could get away with it ‘cause you’re pissed,” he went on, voice rough, words punctuated by steady thrusts that left your thighs trembling. “But I felt you hesitate after, didn’t I? Like you weren’t sure if I’d let it slide.”

“Rafe—” you tried, but your voice broke around the syllable, too shaky to land the warning.

He leaned closer, his lips grazing your temple as his grip in your hair tightened again, forcing your cheek harder into the pillow until your jaw ached. “Don’t worry, angel,” he rasped, breath hot against your skin. “I’m not mad. If anything—” his hips snapped forward sharp, pulling another strangled sound from your throat, “—it got me hard enough to be fucking you into this mattress twenty minutes later. But I can promise you one thing…” His teeth caught your earlobe, biting down just enough to make your breath hitch. “You don’t get to slap me without paying for it.”

The words made your pulse spike, caught between anger and a shameful twist of arousal, your thighs pressing together involuntarily even with him keeping them spread. You tried to spit back a retort, tried to tell him he deserved it, but all that came out was a broken whimper that only made his grin deepen.

Rafe didn’t give you the luxury of staying where you were, pinned and braced against the mattress. One second you were smothered into the pillow, the next he was hauling you up with a force that knocked the air out of your lungs, his arm hooking tight around your throat and chest until you were sitting upright, caged in the crook of his body like a headlock, cheeks squished between his forearm and biceps. Your back was flush against his chest, your legs trembling against the sheets as he stayed buried inside you, the shift in angle sending another sharp wave through your core that had you gasping.

His lips brushed against your ear, rough breath laced with a growl. “Yeah, that’s better. Let’s see you slap me now, huh?” His arm tightened just slightly, not enough to hurt but enough to remind you of the way he could control every inch of your body without effort. The pressure made your pulse hammer in your ears, each beat syncing with the maddening rhythm of his hips as he started moving again, shallow but brutal thrusts that made the wet slap of your bodies echo louder than before.

You clawed at his forearm where it was banded tight across your chest, your nails digging in, half from the need for leverage and half from the frustration of being locked in place. “You’re such a—fuck—you’re such a bastard,” you spat, though it came out broken around your moans, your head falling back against his shoulder.

He only laughed, deep and breathless, his mouth brushing down the side of your neck, teeth grazing. “And you’re still letting me fuck you like this,” he bit back, the smugness threading through his voice as he shifted his arm, palm flattening over your throat now, tilting your head back farther. “You like it too much, angel. Admit it.”

The position was unbearable, overwhelming—the sheer intimacy of being held up against him, locked in tight, with every drag of his hips threatening to undo you. You made a strangled sound, shaking your head despite the way your body clenched hard around him, betraying you completely.

“Liar,” he rasped, his lips curling against your jaw. And then, like he’d made his point, he released you—dropping you forward unceremoniously, your body collapsing onto the mattress with a choked gasp, hair falling wildly across your face again. Before you could catch your breath, his hand pressed firm into the small of your back, shoving you flat against the bed, resuming his relentless rhythm as if nothing had changed.

Your cheek barely had time to sink into the pillow before his weight forced you down harder, one hand branding the small of your back while the other found your wrist and pinned it to the mattress above your head. The sound you made was muffled and desperate, but he didn’t pause, not for your breath, not for your comfort.

“Thought you had some fight in you,” he drawled over the sharp slap of skin on skin, his grip iron around your wrist when you instinctively tried to jerk free. “Where’s that mouth now? The one that thought it was cute to slap me?” His voice dipped lower, crueler, his hips snapping forward in punctuated thrusts that made his words land like hits.

You twisted under him, messy strands of hair sticking to your damp cheek, your other arm flailing until he caught that too and wrenched it behind your back. The angle left you spread and helpless, your chest pressed flat against the sheets. He leaned down close, his chest hot against your spine, his breath ragged but his tone mocking.

“C’mon, hit me again. Do it.” His teeth grazed your ear, a harsh laugh vibrating through you. “Oh, right—you can’t. Not with me holding you like this.” He gave a hard thrust that knocked the air out of your lungs. “Not when I’ve got you exactly where I want you.”

You managed to spit something sharp back—garbled through the pillow, half moan, half protest—but it only made his hand snake higher, fingers threading into the roots of your hair. He yanked your head back cruelly, lifting your face from the mattress, your hair tugging painfully at your scalp and falling even wilder across your eyes.

“Say it louder,” he taunted, dragging your head back so far your throat arched. “Let me hear that smart mouth. Or are you too fucked-out already?” His hips rolled deeper, slower now, as if to savor the way your body twitched in his hold, as if punishing you for every ounce of defiance.

You could hear your own breathing stutter, harsh and ragged, from the way he had your head tilted back, scalp stinging as his fingers dug in, tugging at the roots until the pain twisted into something painfully exquisite. Every snap of his hips against you sent a shiver through your spine, the sharp angles of his thrusts hitting deep enough to make your legs shake uncontrollably, hips fluttering around him despite your pinned, helpless position.

The slow grind of his movement contrasted with the intensity building in your body, and the sounds he made—the low, guttural groans that grew louder and more desperate the longer he held you captive—were almost unbearable. You could feel the cold bite of his rings pressing into your wrists as he pinned them firmly against your lower back, leaving you exposed, quivering, completely at his mercy.

“Fuck… you’re so wet,” he gritted out, the words rough, more pained than teasing this time, dragging a shiver down your spine as his hips pressed into yours with deliberate weight. “You like bein’ manhandled, baby?” His grip on your hair loosened just enough to tilt your head, forcing your hazy gaze to meet his piercing blue eyes, and you couldn’t help the helpless moan that slipped out, soft, broken, and utterly involuntary. Your lips parted, trembling as another choked cry broke free, almost like you were on the edge of tears, the pleasure so sharp it cut through every rational thought you had left.

“Yeah, you do,” he murmured, voice low and rough as his hand adjusted your jaw just slightly to keep your eyes on him. “Look at you… look at what you do to me. Damn, angel, you look like a goddamn pornstar right now—flushed cheeks, messy hair, dripping down your thighs for me.” His words came with a slow, deep thrust, the bed frame rattling with the force, and your body pressed tighter against the mattress, unable to escape the rhythm he forced. The praise, laced with that thick southern drawl he couldn’t hide any longer, made something flutter in your chest, mingling the shame of being caught so utterly exposed with the raw heat pulsing between your thighs.

You tried to tilt your hips back, desperate for some friction, some control, but he gripped your waist and shoved you flat again, pressing down hard, nails digging into your skin just enough to leave tiny crescent bruises, leaving you gasping and trembling. “Say it,” he rasped, voice ragged now, “say you like it. Tell me you want me like this.”

Your moan came out as a strangled “Yes,” weak and breathless, and the way he chuckled—low, throaty, and full of heat—made your stomach coil tighter with need.

“Good girl,” he whispered, dragging his lips along your neck as his hips snapped forward again, faster this time, the tip brushing that sensitive spot that made your back arch into him, body quivering. “That’s my angel. Mine...”

He wasn’t slowing down. Not even a second of reprieve. Every thrust was deliberate, jagged, designed to keep you teetering on the edge of losing control completely. The weight of his chest pressed into your back, his grip on your wrists and waist relentless, nails biting into your skin through the slick sheen of sweat. Your hair had fallen in a tangled mess across your face, strands sticking to your flushed cheeks and lips, blinding you, forcing you to take him on instinct alone.

“You feel that?” he growled, voice low and dangerous, breath hot against the shell of your ear. “Feel me stretching you open, keeping you like this, all mine?” His fingers dug into your waist, thumbs pressing into your hipbones with enough force to leave you gasping, chest heaving against the mattress. Every small sound; your gasps, your whines, the slap of skin against skin—seemed to make him smirk against your neck, tilting his head just enough to bite lightly, sharp enough to make you flinch.

“I… I’m—” you tried to gasp, trying to speak, but his hand tangled in your hair again, pulling your head back just slightly so your lips parted in a helpless cry, breathless, almost choking.

“Shut up,” he cut you off roughly, grinding deeper and snapping forward, the sound of wet skin meeting wet skin filling the room, echoing against the walls with every hard slap. “Talkin’ gets you nowhere, angel. Only way to make you understand is like this. Feel me?”

“Yes—Rafe—please,” you moaned into the pillow, the words half plea, half surrender, your hips bucking uncontrollably, trying to find any friction against him, trying to meet him despite the way he had you pinned and helpless.

“That’s right,” he growled, pressing his forehead against the curve of your shoulder for leverage, his hips hitting with perfect precision, sending shivers racing through your spine. “You like bein’ manhandled. Admit it. All that smart mouth before? Gone now, yeah? All I see is this… you, trembling, soaking, and all mine.” His grip on your hair shifted again, pulling just hard enough to make your neck arch back, and he added a harsh, teasing rasp, “Say it—say it, angel. Tell me you love how I’m fuckin’ you.”

You whimpered, gasping around the strands of hair covering your face. “I—love it… Rafe, please…” Every syllable was choked, broken, reverberating through the room, matching the loud slaps of skin on skin and his rough, ragged groans. The bed creaked violently under the impact, sheets tangling around your sweating thighs, your fingers clawing uselessly at the mattress as he pressed into you with controlled brutality, driving you closer to a breaking point with each merciless thrust.

“Fuck, angel,” he rasped, voice raw, teeth scraping the shell of your ear. “So wet… so fucking tight around me… you love this, yeah? You love how I’m ruining you like this.” Another sharp snap of his hips sent a strangled cry ripping out of you, your nails digging into the mattress until your knuckles were white. He chuckled low and rough, chest vibrating against your spine, “That’s my girl. Mine. All mine. Don’t even think about hiding it, or I’ll fuck it outta you even harder.”

His hand untangled from your hair, the strands falling like a curtain back into your face, sticking to your flushed skin as you gasped into the pillow. His palm slammed down beside your head for leverage, the mattress dipping beneath the weight, while his other hand slid slowly, deliberately, to rest on your lower stomach.

The contrast of his cold rings against your fever-hot skin made you jolt, shivering even as the pleasure blurred your thoughts. He pulled out slowly, the drag almost unbearable, until you thought he might let you go completely—then his hand pressed down firmly against your belly, coaxing you to arch your back until the ache licked up your spine. It was obedient, humiliating, how quickly your body folded for him, how you melted into the shape he demanded.

When he pushed back in, the stretch was brutal, filling, so deep that it drew a broken sound from your lips before you could stop it. Your slick made it easy, made the slide loud, obscene, but the angle—God, the angle was devastating. He didn’t even need to move, didn’t need to thrust. Just being buried that deep, your thighs already trembling, your stomach clenching under his hand like your body knew it couldn’t hold him all. You mewled helplessly, face turning against the pillow, no longer pinned down but still too undone to move on your own.

“Okay, shit…” he muttered, voice raw, strained, almost like he was talking to himself instead of you. His hips gave a shallow grind, pressing him further into that tender spot that made your vision white out at the edges. “You feel that? If I press down like that—” His fingers flexed into your belly, pressing hard enough that it felt like he was pushing against him from the outside, and your whole body jolted. The cry that left your throat was sharp, desperate, humiliatingly needy.

“Fuck—” he hissed, the groan breaking off into a rasp as his hips rolled again, deeper, slower, making you writhe uselessly beneath him. “I can almost feel myself inside you.” His words were ragged, dripping with awe and arrogance all at once, his drawl thick and trembling with pleasure. “That tight little pussy’s stretchin’ around me so much I swear I could trace my cock with my goddamn fingers.” He pressed harder for emphasis, watching your eyes roll, your jaw slack as another sound clawed its way out of your chest.

“Rafe—” you gasped, hands clawing uselessly at the sheets, your body caught between unbearable pleasure and the weight of him locking you down. You could feel every ridge, every throb, like you were stretched beyond reason, like your body was molded to him and only him.

“That’s it,” he growled, bending low enough that his lips brushed your ear, hot and unsteady, his thrusts resuming now, sharper, grinding into that angle that had you convulsing with each push. “You take it so good, angel. Stuffed full of me, just the way you’re meant to be. You think JJ could ever fuck you like this? Huh? Think anyone else could fit inside you the way I do?” His hand on your stomach pressed down again, cruel and reverent at the same time, drawing another strangled whimper out of you that sounded dangerously close to a sob.

His hand never left your stomach, his fingers splayed wide and digging down as if he wanted proof, as if he could really map out the shape of himself inside you. Every press sent a shockwave of heat up your spine, every grind made your body tremble, and every time you thought you couldn’t take it, he stilled just long enough to force you to feel it; every thick inch of him stretching you, stuffed so deep you swore your body might split.

“Goddamn,” he groaned, voice cracking around the word as his eyes flicked between your face and where he was buried in you. His drawl dragged over you like another kind of touch. “Look at you… fuckin’ split open. You feel how far I am? You weren’t built to take this, angel, but you do. You’re greedy for it.” He pressed down harder on your belly and you squeaked, body jerking against the bed. His breath stuttered out in a laugh, low and ragged. “That’s me. All me. Your pretty little cunt’s so full I can damn near see it.”

You whined, the sound muffled in the pillow, thighs trying to close around nothing, your hips writhing even as he pinned you down. His thrusts weren’t steady, weren’t merciful—they were slow one second, deep enough that you felt the air punch out of you, then brutal the next, fast snaps that made your body ripple against the mattress. Every time his hand pressed into your belly, you thought you’d break, and every time he pulled out, you thought you’d die if he didn’t shove back in.

“You like it, don’t you?” he taunted, his voice rough but still smug. His lips brushed the shell of your ear as he leaned down over you, grinding himself all the way in, not leaving a fraction behind. “You like bein’ stretched like this. Like I don’t even fit. Like I own every inch of you from the inside out.” His teeth grazed your jaw, the words vibrating against your skin as his thrusts grew messier, more erratic. “Say it, baby. Say you like how full you are. Say you like I’m too big for you.”

Your body answered before your mouth could, your walls clenching so tight he cursed against your ear. He chuckled breathlessly, hips rocking, every snap sharper than the last. “That’s it. Milkin’ me already. All cock-drunk and we ain’t even close yet.” His tone turned harsh, demanding, the hand at your stomach pressing crueler now, like he wanted to brand the feeling into you. “C’mon, angel—don’t go dumb on me now. Tell me who splits you open this good.”

His patience snapped at the same time yours did, only his broke meaner. One second you were smushed into the mattress, his hand pressed cruelly over your stomach while he buried himself inside you, and the next he was dragging you up like you weighed nothing once again. You barely had time to squeal before he had you hauled upright, your spine colliding against his chest, his forearm locking under your throat and tightening until your head tipped back, jaw grazing his bicep. His arm flexed like stone around your neck, the muscle pressing against your windpipe as he bent you into another headlock, forcing your body to arch even more as he sank back into you from behind.

Your hands clawed uselessly at his forearm, not to push him off but to hold on, because the brutal strength of the position made you feel like he could snap you in half if he wanted. Your cheek brushed the hot swell of his bicep, your lips parting on shaky, desperate gasps while his thrusts turned erratic, deeper, filthier, each one punching a broken cry from your chest. His free hand snaked down to spread across your belly again, pinning you tighter against him, and the double restraint—the choke of his arm, the clutch of his palm—left you completely helpless, trembling like you couldn’t keep your body still if you tried.

“Look at you,” he groaned in your ear, his voice rough with strain, his chest slick against your back. “Fuckin’ locked in my arms like you belong there. You feel that? That’s me—every inch—splitting you apart, holdin’ you together at the same time.” He pressed his mouth to the side of your neck, open and wet, then bit down until you whined and bucked helplessly against him. His bicep flexed harder, tightening the choke, his forearm pinning your jaw until your vision blurred and every moan came out wrecked, needy, almost sobbing. “Yeah, angel. Break on me. Show me who owns you.”

Your whole body convulsed, thighs trembling violently as your walls clamped down around him so tight he cursed into your hair. The orgasm ripped through you like lightning, sudden and blinding, made worse by how he wouldn’t let you slump, wouldn’t let you curl in on yourself. He held you upright in the choke, your head tipped back against his arm, your mouth falling open around ragged cries as pleasure tore you to pieces. He grunted with every flutter of your cunt, fucking into the clutch of it harder, dragging it out until you thought your body would give up completely.

“That’s it,” he coaxed, his forehead pressed into your temple as you shook in his grip. “Come all over me while I got you wrapped up. Can’t run, can’t hide, just take it. All of it. My good girl, my fuckin’ angel.” His hand spread over your stomach like a brand while his bicep flexed around your throat, his cock pounding you through your release until you collapsed in his hold, trembling and messy and undone.

But Rafe never settled with one orgasm. That was his thing—his calling card. He rarely let himself finish until he’d wrung every last drop of fight out of you, until your body had no choice but to tremble under him in the aftermath. And the truth was, as much as you hated admitting it, he could push you into two, sometimes even three, without blinking. But right now your lungs were heaving like you’d run miles, your thighs quivering against his, and you were certain you had nothing left to give. Every nerve was shot, every inch of skin raw with the aftershocks, and yet he wasn’t done. He never was.

Rafe’s arm finally eased from around your throat, loosening the chokehold until all that was left was the ghost of his strength across your skin, his forearm sliding away slowly like he was reluctant to let go. Your body sagged against him, pliant and trembling, chest heaving with ragged breaths that wouldn’t steady, while his mouth hovered just above your temple, catching your sweat-slick hair with every inhale. His hand shifted from your throat to your jaw, cupping it almost tenderly in sharp contrast to the bruising roughness from moments before. His thumb traced the corner of your lips, smearing the dampness of spit and tears as he tilted your head enough for him to press his mouth against your cheek. The kiss was hot, shaky, almost reverent, and you felt your stomach flip violently at how easily he could switch from vicious to gentle.

“Angel,” he murmured against your damp skin, his voice breaking with strain, “you still with me?” The question was low, meant only for you, his thumb stroking your cheekbone as though grounding himself as much as you. You managed a weak hum, throat dry, and that was enough for him—his exhale shuddered as though your tiny sound had stripped something raw from his chest. Without another word, his arms shifted, hauling you forward just enough before he let you drop back to the mattress.

Your back hit the sheets, hair splaying out wild and messy, sticking to your damp skin. He leaned over you instantly, caging you in with his weight, his forehead pressing against yours while his hips settled between your thighs like he was always meant to be there.

You whimpered softly when he pushed back inside, the drag of him through your already sensitive walls nearly unbearable, a broken sound tearing out of your throat before you could stop it. Rafe hushed you gently, his lips brushing yours even though his thrusts were still deep and steady.

“I know, baby, I know,” he whispered, his tone stripped down, no mockery, no venom. “But I gotta finish inside you. Just one more for me. You can take it.” His words were coaxing now, his body pressing flush to yours as he buried himself deeper, his hand slipping down to lace his fingers through yours against the pillow.

The shift into something softer didn’t dull the intensity—it just changed it. His thrusts slowed, deliberate now, savoring the way your body clung to him with each roll of his hips. He kissed you properly, messy and slow, swallowing your whimpers while his free hand dragged over your waist, your ribs, your cheek like he couldn’t stop touching you. “Look at me,” he muttered against your lips, nipping at them until you obeyed, forcing your eyes open through the haze. His own were dark but softer now, something vulnerable bleeding through as he stared down at you like you were the only thing tethering him.

“Fuck,” he groaned when your walls fluttered again, and you felt the sharp stutter of his rhythm falter. His forehead dropped to yours, his mouth brushing against your open lips as his voice broke. “You’re gonna make me lose it—right here—inside you.” His hips snapped forward one last time, rougher despite his best effort to stay soft, and you felt the tremor in his body as he came, grinding into you with a choked curse. He kissed you through it, swallowing the sound of his own groan, his hand gripping yours tighter until the rings dug into your skin.

Even as the aftershocks rippled through him, he didn’t pull away. His body stayed pressed into yours, his face buried against your jaw, his breaths hot and uneven. His hand lingered against your cheek again, tracing the damp hair stuck to your skin. “Still mine,” he muttered finally, softer than you’d ever heard him, almost like he didn’t mean for you to catch it.

He shifted gently, not moving entirely away, just letting his weight fall beside you on the pillow to finally give your lungs the space they had been begging for in ragged little gulps. You dragged the heel of your palm across your eye, smearing away the stubborn remnants of tears that had slipped free during the endless waves of overstimulation he’d wrung out of you, and the tremors still pulsed faintly through your thighs, dull and twitchy reminders of how far he’d pushed you.

He sat up just long enough to pull the polo shirt over his head, tossing it somewhere into the shadows of your room before collapsing back down with a sigh, head angled toward you, hair slightly mussed. His arm looped around your waist, the weight and warmth of it grounding you as he coaxed your body to turn into him, slow and deliberate, like he knew you didn’t have any fight left in your muscles to resist even if you wanted to.

You complied without resistance this time, all that earlier bite and stubborn fight wrung out of you, replaced with the trembling exhaustion of someone dragged past her limits and left pliant in the wreckage. When your lashes lifted again, vision piecing the room back together in fragments, the first thing that anchored you wasn’t the familiar walls or the dim light leaking in soft bars through the blinds, but his face inches from yours. Your fingers, slow and unsure, lifted from the mattress to brush along the rough stubble shadowing his jaw, resting there like the contact might ground you. His mouth tugged into a smirk at the gesture, his sharp eyes locking to your softened ones.

He smiled at the contact, lips pulling in that faintly smug, faintly softer way that he rarely let linger, his eyes searching yours with something that looked suspiciously close to fondness. “There you are…” he murmured, his voice low and teasing, but edged with relief all the same. “Thought you passed out on me.”

Your lips parted, but nothing came out, only the faintest exhale against his cheek. When the silence stretched, his breath left him in a slow, heavy rush through his nose, his eyes flickering over your flushed cheeks, your swollen lips, the hazy daze that still clung to you under the slant of dim light leaking between your blinds. He leaned in closer, closing the distance to brush a fleeting kiss against the tip of your nose, then a softer one at the edge of your cheekbone, almost like he didn’t want to break you any further than he already had. “Can’t believe I managed to fuck you silent,” he whispered, the taunt laced with amusement, but carrying something quieter, too—something almost reverent.

You huffed faintly, the ghost of a laugh tugging at your chest even as your body refused to move, your thumb brushing across his jaw in the laziest trace. “You didn’t,” you rasped finally, your voice shredded and small, but enough to spark that grin on his face, the one that said he thrived on proof that he still had you, that you were still here, pliant and undone in his arms. He let his forehead drop to yours, a short chuckle shaking in his chest as he muttered, “Close enough, though. I’ll take it.”

He didn’t move away after that, not really. His forehead lingered against yours, your noses brushing faintly as his breath warmed your skin, his arm still tight around your waist, holding you close on your sides, facing one another like the room had shrunk down to just the narrow slice of space between your mouths. His fingers skimmed at the hem of the blanket tangled around your hips, lazily tracing up the ridge of your spine until his palm settled at the back of your neck, thumb brushing the damp hair there. “Look at you,” he muttered, eyes locked on yours, his tone walking that razor edge between smug and soft, “all worn out, finally quiet. Didn’t think you had it in you to let me win.”

Your lips parted, a faint sound catching in your throat, and his smile deepened, his thumb sliding to your jaw to keep your face tilted toward him. “Don’t give me that look,” he continued slowly, savoring the way your glassy gaze stayed fixed on him like you couldn’t peel away even if you wanted. “You fought me hard enough. And I liked it.” His breath hitched faintly, the barest sign of restraint left in him, before he leaned in closer, his lips ghosting just at the corner of your mouth but not taking more than a taste. “But I like you like this better. Calm. Sweet. Like you actually belong here.”

You swallowed, throat working visibly, the heat of his words clashing with the tenderness of his hand still cupping your face. Your lashes fluttered, and you whispered, almost broken, “Rafe…” His name alone was enough to make him chuckle under his breath, a low, satisfied hum that vibrated through the small distance between you. “Yeah,” he murmured, eyes locked onto yours, “say it again. I’ll never get tired of that.”

He shifted closer, until his chest was brushing yours, your knees bumping beneath the sheets, his arm tightening at your waist to draw you flush against him. “You drive me fucking insane, you know that?” he said, quieter now, though his smirk lingered. “All the fight, all the attitude—then you look at me like this and it’s over. I can’t…” He trailed off, shaking his head slightly, pressing his lips to your temple before finishing, “I can’t stay mad when you’re like this.”

His lips lingered at your temple for a beat too long, like he was trying to disguise something more real under the casual press of his mouth. He drew back just enough to watch your expression, the way your eyes fluttered open heavy and glazed, the corners of your lips parted but silent. His thumb smoothed across your cheekbone, then dragged slowly down until it rested at the dip of your chin, tilting your face closer like he couldn’t help himself. “There she is,” he muttered again, softer this time, like he was savoring the sight instead of mocking it.

His chest brushed yours every time he breathed, the rise and fall of him syncing with your uneven breaths until you were practically tethered together. “You know,” he went on, voice dropping low and steady, “I keep thinking I’ve got you figured out. That I can push you until you break, and then you’ll hate me for it. But then you…” He gave a faint shake of his head, smiling faintly like he didn’t understand it himself. “You give me this. You let me see you like this. And it fucks with me.”

Your brows knitted faintly, but before you could say anything, his fingers brushed along the line of your jaw, grazing the corner of your lips like he was testing if you’d speak. “Don’t get it twisted,” he added, a low huff slipping through his nose, a smirk tugging at his lips as though to armor the weight of his words. “I still like it when you fight me. I like that mouth on you when you’ve got something to prove.” His fingers pressed just under your chin, guiding your gaze into his again. “But this? The way you’re looking at me right now?” He let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh, though it lacked any humor. “That’s what’s gonna keep me up at night.”

His hand slid back to the nape of your neck, keeping you close, forehead resting against yours again. His voice came out quieter, like he was almost speaking to himself. “Don’t even know what to do with you sometimes.” Then, after a pause, his smirk returned, crooked and sharp even through the softness in his tone. “Guess I’ll just have to keep figuring it out one night at a time.”

author's note: and then they STILL go back to acting like they don't fuck with each other so heavily ugh💔 but on another note this is like one of my best smut. the anger? the bicep headlocks????? size kink go brrr i love them. dw about jj's nose it's not broken he's gonna be fine. the lore keeps expanding and rafe is becoming more of a yearner as the chapters go on. the whole couple debate god, 500 days of summer? more like 500 days of y/n. if i was her i'd probably already have my shit packed and ready to run away with rafe because how is she so avoidant? (idk i'm supposed to be the writer, i'm confused too.) in the middle of the smut i gave up about caring that they should've been quiet, given that they were at her house with people asleep. what did we think? are we pulling out our hair yet watching these two ignore the obvious signs of love? i love yall thank you for the love and 400 followers (also send asks)🥹🫶

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────୨ৎ────── .✦

There was a time when you liked being home. It wasn’t for long, and maybe you were too young to understand what that comfort meant—lazy Saturday mornings, cereal commercials humming from the TV, and the thrill of bringing your friends over like your place was something to be proud of. Now, home felt more like a memory you were squatting inside. When you came back, it was never through the front door. You slipped through the cracked-open window like a thief in your own life, grabbing clean clothes or spare parts to fix your busted skateboard. If you lingered, you regretted it. But that was the thing—regret worked both ways. You regretted being there. And you regretted not being there. Mostly because of your little brother.

He was the only soft thing left in this place. He made the nights bearable—especially when you got to share a bed and cook him those special packet noodles he liked, pretending for a few quiet minutes that you weren’t the one doing the parenting. But tonight, he was gone—sleeping over at a friend’s place. And you were alone. Alone to deal with your mother, and worse, with him.

You leaned over the kitchen counter, reaching for the cockroach darting toward the back of the fridge, your damp, sudsy hands leaving foamy prints on the laminate. You grunted, stretching your torso out until your fingers finally caught it mid-sprint. The crunch of its body under your palm made your face twist in disgust, but you straightened up triumphantly, wiping your hand on your jeans before returning to the last dish in the sink.

The small bubble of peace you’d managed to wrap yourself in—dishwater warm and quiet—popped like it was nothing when you heard it. That sound. The low, gravelly chuckle that reeked of expired cigarettes and cheap beer, the kind of laugh that belonged to no one decent.

You didn’t need to turn around to know it was Allan.

“Didn’t know we had a little exterminator living under our roof,” he drawled from behind you, his voice greasy and slow, dragging over the word our like he owned something here. Like he had any right to claim space that was never his to begin with. You could practically hear the grin stretched across his face—rotten, yellowed teeth and all.

Your hands paused over the sponge, shoulders tensing, jaw locking into place.

“We probably wouldn’t need an exterminator if you stopped leaving pizza crusts on the coffee table like a damn raccoon,” you muttered, not bothering to hide the bite in your tone. Your voice was sharp, but not loud—calculated. You’d learned the hard way that screaming never did much good in this place.

He chuckled again. That same low, smug sound that always felt like it was meant more for himself than anyone else. You could feel him before you saw him—his presence like smoke in a small room, creeping in even when you tried to hold your breath. You glanced over your shoulder and there he was, leaning against the fridge like it was some casual social call. Shirtless, arms crossed, tufts of wiry chest hair on full display like he thought it gave him authority. The look in his eyes made your skin crawl.

He was standing too close. Not enough to call it something. But too close to call it nothing.

“Your mama should be grateful, you know,” he said, dragging a hand through his thinning hair like he was some kind of prize. “Not every woman gets a man willing to put up with a mouthy little brat and pay for dinner.”

You turned fully then, sponge still in hand, arms dripping with soapy water. “You bought Chinese takeout once and split the bill with my mom,” you snapped. “Congratulations.”

He smirked wider, head tilting as he stepped forward a fraction of an inch. “Fiery little thing, ain’t you? Always got something to say.”

You stepped back before he could get closer, hitting the cabinet behind you. Your heart kicked up, not from fear exactly—but from the way your body was bracing itself, prepared for something to go wrong. Again.

“I’m not in the mood, Allan,” you said, quieter this time. “So why don’t you go back to your room, crack open a beer, and leave me the hell alone?”

His smile faltered—just for a second—but that flicker was enough to tell you it got to him. That you weren’t as small as he liked to pretend.

Then, like clockwork, he masked it with a scoff, turning as if you’d bored him. “You got no respect,” he muttered, grabbing a beer from the fridge anyway and cracking it open with one hand. “It’s no wonder your daddy walked out. You were probably a piece of work even back then.”

That one stung.

But you didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.

Instead, you went back to scrubbing the plate in your hand, white knuckles and foamy water, your back turned again—not out of fear, but to starve him of the satisfaction of your reaction.

The sickening slap of Allan’s bare feet against the grimy linoleum floor made your spine stiffen, the sound so familiar and violating that it felt like a warning bell. Your hand slowed slightly on the fork you were scrubbing, eyes narrowing as you caught his shape out of the corner of your eye. He was standing beside you now—closer than he had any right to be—his hip resting against the counter like this was a casual moment between family. Like this was normal.

“Come on, babygirl…” he murmured, voice low and syrupy, each syllable slathered in sleaze. The mock pout he gave you was laughable—an exaggerated curl of his lip that he probably thought made him look charming or boyish. But all it did was expose more of his yellowed teeth and the beer-stale breath that made your skin crawl.

Your stomach turned, nausea rising in waves as the pet name hit your ears like a slap. Babygirl. It was a word that used to mean something sweet—something harmless. But coming from Allan’s mouth, it sounded poisonous. Wrong. Perverted.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have to. The slow turn of your head toward him said enough. Your jaw locked, expression carved in ice as your knuckles went stark white around the silverware you were scrubbing. The fork in your grip shook slightly from how hard you were holding it, suds dripping off your hand like blood in a horror movie.

“I didn’t mean to be mean…” he added, softer this time. Like he thought he could soothe it over with that low, coaxing tone he always used when your mom was too drunk to notice how close he stood. Like he thought this was just a misunderstanding.

He leaned in a little, and you caught the faint smell of sweat and stale tobacco clinging to his skin, soaked into the fibers of his ragged T-shirt. His hand reached toward the dish towel beside you, fingers brushing it—but too close to yours, intentional in the way that made your stomach lurch again.

You stepped to the side—just enough to put distance between you, but not enough to make it a scene. That’s what you had to do here. Calculated moves. No flinching, no yelling, just control. You’d learned to weaponize your silence. He couldn’t twist what you didn’t say.

Still, the rage simmered just under your skin, humming like a live wire.

“I’m not your babygirl,” you said finally, voice quiet but cold enough to snap the air between you. You didn’t look at him when you said it. You didn’t need to.

Allan chuckled, low and lazy, like your disgust was cute. Like it fed something in him. His tongue clicked against his teeth, and he backed off by only a step, lifting the dish towel like he was helping, drying his hands even though they hadn’t touched water. The act of domesticity was insulting.

“Feisty,” he muttered, almost to himself.

You set the fork down with a loud clink, straightening your back and bracing your hands on the edge of the sink as you stared out the small window. The yard was dark. The street beyond it was still. And for a second, you counted the seconds it would take to climb out that window again.

But you didn’t move. Not yet.

You stood there with your hands braced against the sink and your breath coming slow, steady, practiced. Like holding in fire.

Because no matter how many times you made it out of this house—this time, this time, you swore would be the last.

You never quite understood what was so special about Allan.

He wasn’t your mother’s type—not the usual smooth-talking, sharp-dressed man who came and went through your life like a revolving door. He wasn’t handsome. He wasn’t rich. He didn’t even resemble your father, which, for a while, seemed to be the quiet pattern. But somehow, he stayed. Outlasted the others. Wormed his way into the fabric of your home like mildew—subtle at first, then suffocating.

And no matter how many times you tried to rationalize it, you kept coming back to the same question: Why him?

Your mother used to have decent taste. She dated flawed men, sure—but never ones that made your skin crawl. Never ones who stared too long when you walked into the kitchen in a tank top. Allan was different. And not in the way that made you feel safe. He wasn’t a stepfather. He wasn’t family. He was a squatter with a license to look at you like he had the right.

"You know..." he started, voice dragging slow and heavy behind you, like he was easing into something he’d been rehearsing. His tone was almost casual, but the slight tightness in his jaw gave him away. He didn’t sound relaxed. He sounded like he was trying to mask something beneath a veil of smugness—discomfort, maybe, or bitterness.

"For the town’s little slut, you sure don’t put out easily."

The words dropped like a grenade behind your ribs. For a second, you didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just stood there with your hands buried in a tub of dirty dishwater, the suds turning cold against your skin.

Slowly, you turned to face him. Not with fear, but with that practiced, hardened expression that you’d worn more and more lately—a stare like steel, tight-lipped and lethal.

"What the hell did you just say to me?" you asked, voice low, dangerous. Your fingers clenched around the soapy fork like it might double as a weapon.

Allan grinned.

Or at least, he tried to.

It was all teeth—crooked and yellowed—but none of the joy reached his eyes. His gaze was cold and sharp, and the tilt of his head said he wanted you to react. Wanted to push. Wanted you pissed.

"Relax," he said, with a shrug, feigning innocence like he hadn’t just called you a slut in your own kitchen. "I’m just sayin’. People talk in this town. You know that. Small place like this, and a girl like you?” He leaned in a little, lowering his voice like he was about to reveal some juicy piece of gossip. “There’s been a lot of chatter about you and that Cameron boy…"

Your jaw tightened at the mention of Rafe.

Allan’s grin widened, sensing the tension that radiated off you like heat.

"Specifically," he went on, drawing out the word with sickening glee, "how much time you two spend together. And what you might be doing during all that time."

He was close enough now that you could smell the stale beer on his breath, see the crusted ash beneath his fingernails as he gripped the edge of the counter like he belonged there. Like he had a right to stand there and say these things.

You didn’t flinch. Not visibly. But inside, something twisted.

It wasn’t about the rumors—people always talked. You’d lived in this town long enough to know that the second you so much as breathed next to a Kook, someone would have something to say. You could take that.

But Allan using it like this—using it to degrade you, to corner you, to make something private into something dirty, made your skin crawl.

"Maybe people would talk less if they weren't projecting their own sick fantasies," you snapped, voice sharp and clear, each syllable cutting.

His eyes narrowed, just for a second.

The moment passed in silence, thick and heavy with everything unspoken.

And when he took another sip of his beer, you watched the foam drip down his chin with disgust, biting the inside of your cheek so hard you tasted copper.

This wasn’t your home. Not anymore.

It was a warzone.

And Allan? He was just another roach waiting to be crushed.

Let him talk, you thought, gripping the edge of the sink until your knuckles turned white. Let him run his mouth.

Because tonight—tonight, someone else was coming.

And for the first time in a long time, you wouldn’t be the one standing in this kitchen alone.

Allan leaned back against the fridge, beer can sweating in his hand, gaze never quite leaving you. There was something about the way he looked at you that always felt off. Like he didn’t see you at all—not really. Just the version of you he wanted to see, filtered through the warped lens of beer and bitterness and something far uglier.

He took a long sip, licking the foam from his upper lip with a slow swipe of his tongue. “You know, I saw his truck once,” he said casually, voice thick with implication. “The blue one. Parked right outside the trailer in the middle of the night.”

Your spine stiffened, hands still gripping the counter behind you. You didn’t answer. Didn’t flinch. But your eyes flicked to him, guarded.

“Cameron boy, huh?” he went on, and his grin was back—wide and sharp. “Heard he’s a real piece of work. Pretty boy with a temper. Rich daddy. Wears those fancy rings like he’s in some gang.” Allan chuckled, but it was a dry, humorless sound. “Didn’t take you for the type.”

You said nothing, jaw tight. The silence stretched, but he didn’t seem to mind filling it.

“Bet he thinks he’s real smooth, huh? Flash some money, flash some attitude… and girls like you just eat it up.” His voice dipped lower, heavier. “Is that all it took? Some brat with a fancy name and a fast mouth?”

You didn’t move. Not when he pushed off the fridge and stepped a little closer again, closing in like he always did when he thought no one was watching. You couldn’t even step back—your lower back was pressed against the sink.

“You let him touch you here?” Allan murmured, eyes dragging over the kitchen like it meant something to him. “In this trailer? In your mama’s house?”

The implication in his voice was enough to make your stomach roll, bile licking up the back of your throat. Your hand twitched toward the sink, toward the fork still half-buried in suds, still covered in dried dish soap and rage.

You didn’t even bother to hide the disgust in your face. “You really should learn how to shut the fuck up.”

Allan didn’t flinch at the venom. Instead, his grin widened again. “Touched a nerve, huh?” he asked, taking another slow sip. “Didn’t mean to offend, babygirl. Just wondering what makes a girl like you so available for a guy like him, but too good to give your mom’s boyfriend the time of day.”

That word—boyfriend—came out soaked in filth.

You laughed once. A short, sharp sound, bitter as rust. “You’re delusional if you think you’d ever be in the same category as him.”

His smile dropped for the first time. Just for a flicker.

You seized it.

“You think you’ve got any kind of power in this house?” you went on, voice low and laced with loathing. “You’re just another leech. My mom gets bored, you’re gone. And when you’re gone? No one’s gonna miss you.”

His jaw twitched, but he didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

And neither did you. You just held his stare like a warning, the air between you brittle and charged.

You turned back to the sink, jaw clenched so tight it ached, and scrubbed harder at the last dirty plate, trying to ignore the boiling behind your ribs. You knew he wouldn’t push it further. Not right now. Not with you still holding something sharp in your hand.

But the way he lingered—leaning back against the counter beside you, eyes trailing down your profile like he owned it—made your skin crawl. And when he finally wandered out of the kitchen with a lazy stretch and a muttered, “Better watch yourself,” you waited until you heard the creak of the back room door before exhaling fully.

You dried the plate, wiped your hands, and checked the clock.

JJ was late.

And for once, you needed him to be early.

The trailer was quiet in the way all poor places were—never truly still, just a hum of half-broken things trying to survive. The buzzing air conditioning coughed from the ceiling like it was on its last leg, the refrigerator groaned from the corner, pipes moaned behind the walls, and the floors creaked with every breath the house took. It was the kind of silence that clawed at your skin. The kind of quiet that only amplified the chaos in your head.

You stood at the sink, watching the murky water swirl down the drain, suds clinging to the rim like a half-hearted apology. The sponge in your hand was too soaked to be useful anymore, and still you held it, jaw locked tight as the thought crossed your mind—this is how it starts. The slow rot. The bitterness. The quiet surrender. You were already walking away from dishes half-finished, already letting things slip. Already turning into her.

Your mother.

You shook the thought off like an itch, chest tightening with the kind of anger that didn’t have a place to go. It burned in your gut. You could almost taste the vodka that wasn’t there, the sharpness of the good scotch that lingered on Rafe’s mouth and burned on your own tongue. You missed it in a way that wasn’t really about alcohol.

You paused at the hallway, knuckles white around the dish towel you’d been wringing. Then—three hard knocks against the trailer door. Sharp and impatient, almost lost in the hum of failing appliances.

You wiped your hands on the front of your shorts, steeled yourself for another argument, another comment, another confrontation—but when you pulled the door open, it was JJ standing there.

Awkward. Out of breath. The keys to the Twinkie spun nervously between his fingers.

“I know I’m late,” he started, voice too fast and tumbling over itself. “We got caught up at the bonfire and Pope kind of forgot to tell me you asked one of us to pick you up and then we were like, trying to find someone sober enough and I was only like, two beers in so I just said fuck it and drove and I ended up running two red lights, which was stupid, but I didn’t hit anyone or anything—so that’s good—and I didn’t wanna bail on you. Not tonight.”

You blinked.

His hair was messy in that familiar, windswept way. Sand still clung to the hem of his shorts and he looked like he’d been running—or like he hadn’t stopped moving since the bonfire started. His shirt clung slightly to his chest, damp from humidity or nerves or both, and the look on his face… it wasn’t casual.

It was tentative. Like he didn’t know if you’d slam the door in his face or throw yourself into his arms.

The words got caught in your throat. Because for a moment, it didn’t matter how long he’d made you wait or how fast he talked—he showed up. Not Rafe, not Pope. JJ. He came, even though you didn’t ask him specifically to.

And somehow, that mattered.

You stepped aside silently, letting the door swing open wider. He hesitated just long enough for it to sting before he finally stepped inside.

And just like that, JJ was in your trailer again.

Right where you’d always wanted him.

Only now, it was far too late for it to be innocent.

JJ walked slowly down the narrow hallway, shoulders hunched slightly, sneakers barely making a sound on the cracked linoleum. He glanced over his shoulder once—like he was making sure the trailer wasn’t about to swallow him whole—before stopping just short of your bedroom door. His hand rose to the back of his neck, rubbing it in that nervous way he always did when he didn’t know where he stood. Like he didn’t know whether to step inside or hover in the doorway and pretend he hadn’t memorized every inch of the room already.

You fumbled with the doorknob—same stubborn one that always jammed when it got too humid—until it finally gave way with a loud click, and you stepped inside without a word. JJ lingered for a second before following you in, eyes flicking around like it was the first time he’d ever seen the space, even though it wasn’t. Not by a long shot.

“I’ll just get changed and throw on a bit of makeup, then we can go,” you muttered, your tone clipped but not cold.

“Yeah,” he replied, voice soft and lost somewhere behind you. He didn’t sit. Just stood there near the threshold, like if he let himself get too comfortable, it’d mean something. Something he wasn’t ready to admit out loud.

His gaze moved around the room—slow, deliberate. He took in the little details like they were anchor points, things to keep his hands from shaking. The sun-faded band posters curling at the corners. The cracked skateboard deck propped beside your surfboard, paint chipping off from wear. The mess of books piled on your nightstand, most with bookmarks stuck halfway in like you never found the time or the peace to finish them. He stared at them like he could read something about you from the pages you hadn’t turned.

He kept his hands shoved in the pockets of his cargo shorts, bouncing slightly on the heels of his feet. The tension between you was palpable—unspoken, but too loud to ignore. Not quite anger. Not quite comfort. Somewhere in between. The space between what was and what never really got to be.

You turned your back to him and rifled through your dresser drawer, pretending not to feel his eyes on you. But you did. You always had. JJ had this way of looking at you that was equal parts reverent and guilty—like he wanted to memorize you and apologize all at once.

The silence thickened, only broken by the buzz of the old ceiling fan and the dull thump of his heart in his ears.

And then, quietly, JJ spoke.

“You moved your mirror.” His voice was low, almost casual—but not really. Not when you both knew it hadn’t been touched in months.

You didn’t look at him when you answered, “Allan kept lingering in the hallway. I got sick of him looking in.”

The words hung there for a second too long. JJ’s breath caught, but he didn’t push. Not yet.

You picked out a clean shirt, something soft and plain, and tossed it on the bed before sitting beside it, reaching for your makeup bag. Still, JJ didn’t move. Didn’t make himself at home like he used to. He just stood there, halfway in, halfway out.

The thing about JJ was that he never needed to say much to fill a room. And right now, the silence between you two said everything.

Too much time had passed.

Too many words had been left unsaid.

But still—he came.

And part of you wanted to believe that meant something.

Then, like clockwork, you felt the shift in the air before he even spoke—a slow, invisible winding of tension, like JJ was pulling a string taut inside himself. You didn’t need to look. You knew that rhythm by now. That hesitation that came right before he said something he wasn’t sure he had the right to ask. You paused mid-eyeliner swipe, the felt tip suspended just shy of your lash line, and found his form in the reflection of the old vanity mirror.

He was standing exactly where he said he always ended up—by the wall, eyes flicking over the fading snapshots of another life. He looked almost out of place in the room now, like someone trying to step back into a moment that had already moved on without them.

“Is Charleston meeting you at the bonfire tonight?” he asked finally.

Your breath caught, barely. Not because of the question, but because of how quietly he said it—like he’d practiced saying it out loud to himself first. Like he thought it might shatter if it wasn’t spoken softly enough.

You watched him in the mirror as he reached out, his fingers brushing the edge of a photo tacked to the wall above your dresser. An old one. You and him and John B and Pope, half-sunburned, soaked from the water, caught in that golden hour kind of laughter. You couldn’t even remember what the joke had been. JJ’s thumb lingered on your face in the picture, brushing over it gently, like you were something delicate. Like pressing too hard would erase you from even the memory of it.

You tilted your head slightly, eyeliner still forgotten in your hand. “You really gonna call him Charleston every time?” you asked, not looking away from the mirror.

His mouth pulled into a half-smirk, but it was laced with something bitter. “That’s where he’s from, isn’t he?”

You hummed, something noncommittal. “He’s not meeting me. Not tonight.”

JJ’s hand fell away from the photo. He didn’t speak right away. You caught his eyes flicking to yours in the mirror, like he was trying to read something off your expression that you weren’t sure was even there. You returned to your eyeliner with a steadier hand than you felt, wings sharp now, precise, like you needed control over something—even if it was just your face.

But his silence lingered, stretching long and uneasy, until you added—without thinking—“He doesn’t really like crowds.”

“Right,” JJ said, voice tight. “Too good for pogue parties.”

You didn’t respond. You didn’t need to. You watched the flicker in his reflection, the way his jaw tensed, the way his fingers curled slightly at his sides like he was holding something back. He stepped away from the wall finally, crossing the room to sit on the edge of your bed with a weight that felt more emotional than physical.

“You look good,” he muttered, the words gravel-rough and scraped raw from somewhere deep in his chest. His eyes didn’t meet yours. They stayed low, fixed on the peeling paint of your wall or maybe the floorboards beneath his sneakers—anywhere but the mirror that caught every flicker of truth between you.

You didn’t thank him. You didn’t need to. Instead, you kept dragging the eyeliner along your lash line in a steady motion, using the compact mirror like it was a shield. The silence between you buzzed, heavy and crackling, the kind that hummed like the final notes of an old song you both knew by heart but refused to sing anymore. You let him linger there, still as a ghost, staring at the fading bones of what you used to be, and said nothing. Because part of you wanted him frozen in that ache a little longer. And the other part of you was terrified you’d never thaw out of it either.

You watched his reflection as he dragged his fingers through his hair, rough and frustrated. Like he could mess it up enough to shake off whatever was clawing beneath his skin. He pretended not to be watching you, but you both knew better. JJ never did anything halfway—not when it came to you. And you’d long since learned how to survive his gaze. How to pretend it didn’t undo the knots you tied yourself in every morning just to make it through the day.

Because JJ had always been able to peel the chaos off of you. He was the only one who could. Not because he tried hard enough—but because you let him. Because no matter how much armor you wore, some part of you still bent when he got too close.

And the jealousy? That was new.

Not to you, of course. You'd felt it plenty—watching him with Kie, with some pretty girl at a bonfire, with anyone who didn’t look at him like he hung the stars like you once did. But from him? That was different. This possessive edge to his voice every time he said Charleston like it left a bad taste in his mouth. The way he asked about that guy as if each word chipped a little deeper into something he didn’t want to name.

You and JJ had always played hide and seek. Since you were eight and your knees were always scraped, and the air smelled like summer sweat and saltwater. But this? This was a grown-up version of that game—less giggles, more aching silence. You remembered the adrenaline rush of hiding behind a tree or under the porch, trying not to breathe too loud while he hunted you down. The thrill of almost being found. That was the game you never outgrew.

Except now the hiding was less innocent. Now, you ducked behind sarcasm and casual cruelty. You buried your pain in Rafe Cameron’s sheets and let the shame soak into your skin like cologne. And JJ? He kept looking. Kept circling you like he knew exactly where you were hiding, but wasn’t sure if he had the right to drag you out anymore.

So you did what you always did when backed into a corner.

You lied.

“His name’s Miles,” you murmured after a long pause, eyes still on your eyeliner but no longer seeing anything. The words dropped like a grenade between you. Not loud. Just devastating. A carefully disguised landmine—meant to test him, to poke at the wound you knew still throbbed under his ribs. Meant to see if he’d flinch. Meant to make him feel special, even if he already was. Meant to prove something. Anything. That he still mattered enough to be the only one who got the name.

Even if you made it up.

Even if your throat went dry right after saying it.

JJ didn’t respond right away. You saw him freeze in the mirror, the shift in his body so slight but so telling. He swallowed hard, his jaw tightening like the name had punched him in the gut, and he was trying not to let you see the bruise forming.

“Cool,” he said finally. One word, low and brittle and completely unreadable.

You didn't turn around. You just capped your eyeliner, lips pressing into a faint smirk that didn’t touch your eyes.

If this was still hide and seek, you were both getting better at pretending you didn’t want to be found.

You didn’t respond. Just blinked once at your reflection and leaned forward again, brushing mascara onto your lashes with slow, calculated strokes—like every second you took was a performance. Like if you focused hard enough on the curve of the brush, on not blinking, not flinching, you could ignore the weight of his stare burrowing into your spine.

JJ shifted behind you, something about the way he moved making the air in the room change. He was fidgeting, pacing, but quietly. Like a storm that hadn’t hit yet. You caught flashes of him in the mirror—hand tugging at his rings, foot bouncing, jaw clenched so hard it looked painful. It would’ve been easier if he yelled. If he made some snarky joke or rolled his eyes and stomped out.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he hovered near your bookshelf, running his fingers along the spines of half-read novels and old comic books he used to lend you. Picking up a photo strip from a bonfire two years ago—John B’s arm thrown lazily over both your shoulders, your head tipped back mid-laugh, JJ’s smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth like he knew something you didn’t. And maybe he had. Maybe back then, he’d seen where this was all headed, and hadn’t said anything. Because that was JJ: reckless with himself, careful with you.

He turned the photo over, then set it down without a word.

You finally looked at him then—not in the mirror, but for real. Your eyes met his just as he was forcing his face back into something neutral. But not fast enough. You saw it. That flicker of something feral. Jealousy, maybe. Or hurt. Or that aching, boyish vulnerability he only ever let slip when he thought you weren’t looking.

And maybe he saw something on your face too. Some flash of guilt, or shame, or the truth beneath the lie you’d just thrown at him like a brick through a stained-glass window.

He cleared his throat. “So,” he started, voice strained and lower than before. “You like him? This Miles guy?”

There it was.

The follow-up. The moment he gave you a second chance to lie better or tell the truth.

Your eyes narrowed slightly. “What does it matter?” you asked, too quickly. Too defensively. You rose from the vanity stool slowly, smoothing your shirt down and walking to your closet, giving your back to him, like it would help. Like it would hide the heat crawling up your neck.

“It doesn’t,” he said. “Just asking.”

But it did. It mattered too much. That’s why he wasn’t looking at you anymore. Why he said it like it tasted wrong. Like he wanted to spit it back out.

You pulled a hoodie off a hanger and shrugged it on, arms pushing through the sleeves slowly, deliberately. “I don’t know,” you said finally. “He’s... safe.”

JJ let out a breath, the sound short and sharp. “That’s a weird reason to fuck someone.”

Your mouth opened, then closed. Your heart thudded hard once, then twice. Because he wasn’t wrong. But he didn’t get it. Not really.

“Safe doesn’t mean boring,” you said, turning to face him again. “Sometimes it just means... not being with someone who makes you feel like a grenade waiting to go off.”

JJ tilted his head, his lips curling upward without any humor. “You mean like me.”

You didn’t answer. He didn’t need you to.

The air between you crackled, sharp and unbearable. You felt it in your teeth. Behind your ribs. It was always like this with him—this constant pull toward the edge of something that couldn’t be undone.

“I’m not gonna fight you over him,” JJ said after a moment. “You’ve made it clear what this is. What it isn’t.”

“You don’t get to be jealous,” you said, quieter now. “You’re with Kiara.”

“I know.” His voice broke slightly on the second word. “I know I don’t. I just... I still am.”

It landed heavy in your gut.

You stared at him, really looked, and saw the boy you’d known forever standing in your tiny bedroom—shoulders slouched, eyes bloodshot, hands twitching with every word he hadn’t said and every touch he hadn’t given. The boy who used to find you first in hide and seek, not because you were bad at hiding—but because he always looked for you first.

“I don’t know how to not be,” he added, a little breathless, like it was the closest thing to a confession he could afford to give you.

You turned back to the mirror, fixing your hair again to hide the tremble in your fingers.

The silence hung between you, thick and bruised and holy.

And somewhere deep down, you both knew this wasn’t over. Not even close.

It was just another round of the same old game. You hide. He seeks.

And maybe, just maybe, you still wanted to be found.

“So you’re not happy, then…?” you asked, voice light but loaded, like you were just making conversation and not setting a slow-burning fire between you. Your fingers toyed with a lock of your hair as you tilted your head in the mirror, eyes on the reflection instead of him. You brushed the strands over one shoulder, watching the way they fell, debating if you should just throw it up into a ponytail before the heat made you feel like you were about to go up in flames. A matchstick girl burning at both ends.

“With Kie, I mean,” you added, offhandedly. Casually. Like it wasn’t a landmine.

JJ didn’t answer right away. You didn’t expect him to. You caught his expression in the mirror—still, guarded, that old tension tightening the corners of his mouth. His jaw shifted slightly, like he was chewing on the words before deciding whether to let them out or swallow them whole.

He scratched at the back of his neck again, the way he always did when he was uncomfortable or thinking too hard. “I didn’t say that,” he muttered.

“No,” you said quietly, reaching for your lip balm and uncapping it slowly, like it mattered. “But you didn’t say you were happy either.”

That made him look up.

Directly at you. Through the mirror, through all the space between you, through every unspoken thing hanging heavy in the room. You met his gaze, calm and unreadable, like this didn’t matter. Like the answer wasn’t going to hang on your ribs for the rest of the night.

JJ exhaled, low and frustrated, like you’d asked a question he didn’t want to answer because it might make things real.

“She’s good,” he said finally, dragging a hand down his face. “She’s smart, and she gives a shit about people, and she doesn’t take my crap. And she…” He trailed off, shaking his head like he was tired of his own list. “She deserves someone who’s not stuck in the past.”

You blinked slowly. “Is that what I am to you? The past?”

“No,” he said immediately. Too fast. “No. You’re… you’re something else. You’ve always been something else.”

The words settled heavily in the small room, between the soft creak of your ceiling fan and the rustle of your hoodie fabric as you stood. You turned toward him fully now, arms crossed lightly over your chest—not in defiance, but to keep yourself from doing something stupid, like reaching for him.

“You keep saying things like that,” you said, voice quieter now, more level. “Then you go right back to her.”

JJ looked wrecked by that. Not dramatically—no theatrics—but in a way that only someone who really knew him would catch. A twitch in his jaw. A downward shift of his shoulders. The way his fingers clenched into fists at his sides.

“Because if I stay here,” he said, voice barely more than a whisper, “I won’t go back.”

You stared at him, the air between you turning thick, heavy, electric. Like that moment right before lightning hits—when the sky holds its breath.

Then you looked down, arms tightening. “That’s not fair to anyone.”

“I know,” he breathed. “But when have we ever played fair?”

Your gaze lifted slowly, narrowing on him—not in full-blown anger, but something that wore its mask. The kind of look that could pass for fury to anyone else, but JJ would know better. Your anger toward him never really stuck. It was always diluted by something—jealousy, maybe. Or love. That wrecking kind of love, the kind that came with too many memories and too much history to ever fully shake loose. You didn’t know which it was most days, or if it even mattered. All you knew was that it dulled your edges every time you tried to hate him.

In another world, maybe this would’ve been the moment. The one where you’d let all the built-up tension finally snap and crumble into something physical. Where you’d close the distance, tangle your fingers in his hair, and kiss him like you meant to make up for all the months you spent pretending not to want it. A kiss born of anger and aching and all the years you spent orbiting one another, close enough to feel but never touch.

But that wasn’t your style. Not really.

You were someone who liked the build-up. The slow burn. The delicious, drawn-out anticipation. In books, in movies, even in porn—if it didn’t earn it, it didn’t matter. You needed the tease, the tension. You liked the ache. Maybe that made you a masochist, or maybe it just made you honest.

So instead of closing the distance, instead of taking the bait, you cocked your head and studied him like he was a puzzle you already had the pieces to. Your voice came out soft, but sure. “You’re baiting me again.”

The accusation wasn’t harsh. If anything, it was amused—wry and knowing, like it was the most natural thing in the world to sit in your bedroom dripping in unsaid things and accuse your best friend of flirting with you while he had a girlfriend.

And it kind of was. Normal, for the two of you.

JJ looked caught, but not surprised. He wet his lips, eyes flicking toward the door like someone might be listening, even though you both knew no one was. “I’m not baiting,” he lied. Poorly.

You let out a small, disbelieving laugh, pushing your hair over your shoulder like the moment didn’t feel like it was cracking open between you. “You are. You always do this when you’re about to go back to her. It’s like clockwork.”

He didn’t deny it. Not this time.

Instead, he stepped just slightly closer, enough for you to smell the faint trace of bonfire smoke on his hoodie and the shampoo you always teased him about using. “So why don’t you ever take it?” he asked, voice low and hoarse, almost a whisper. “The bait.”

You held his stare. “Because I don’t want to be your mistake.”

That made him flinch—not dramatically, but enough. And the silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was full. Heavy. Buzzing.

He exhaled sharply, hands digging into the pockets of his jeans like he needed to do something with them before they found their way to you. “You wouldn’t be,” he said after a long moment. “You never could be.”

And that? That was more dangerous than anything else he could’ve said. Because it sounded too much like the truth.

But you never liked facing the truth. People like you didn’t get that luxury. People like you learned to chew through bitterness with a smile, to survive off instant noodles and petty theft, not because it was some coming-of-age aesthetic, but because it was that or nothing. You didn’t scrape by just to face the truth—you denied it, rewrote it, twisted it into something you could wear like armor. Admitting you were poor, or angry, or in love—any of it—meant letting the world decide your ending before you even reached the halfway mark.

So when JJ offered you his version of the truth, something raw and unguarded, you did what you always did. You scoffed at it. Dismissed it like it wasn’t heavy in your chest, like it didn’t curl around your ribs and try to make a home there. He could see through it, of course—he always did. JJ had trained his eyes to catch every flicker of emotion on your face, just like he’d trained his hands to stay in his pockets instead of reaching for you the way he always wanted to.

So you said the most reckless thing you could.

"You know..." you murmured, voice almost conversational, like you weren’t about to detonate something between you. Your jaw clenched like you were holding something bitter on your tongue. "I could probably fuck you."

The words landed like a stone thrown through stained glass. Loud in the silence. Crude and true and terrible.

JJ froze, the breath catching in his throat like it didn’t know whether to leave or stay stuck there. Something shifted behind his eyes—maybe it was lust, maybe it was fury, or maybe it was just all that buried yearning being forced to the surface too fast. The sentence rattled him. Not because you said it, but because you meant it.

You didn’t say it with flirtation or a smirk. You said it like a fact. Like you were reading from some invisible ledger you both had kept over the years, tallying moments and glances and almosts.

And maybe it was the softness of it that did him in. Or maybe the vulgarity, stripped of sweetness, nothing dressed up. Maybe it was the way your voice cracked ever so slightly like you hated yourself for wanting him. Or the way you hesitated—not because you didn’t mean it, but because you absolutely did.

Because if you both said it out loud, if you gave this thing a name—this slow, hungry, breathless ache—then it stopped being a fantasy.

It would become real. And real things broke. Or worse, they lasted.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just looked at you, like you were holding him in place with your hands instead of your words.

And you smiled, a crooked thing—half challenge, half surrender.

"Bet you'd like that, huh?" you added, eyes darkening with something he couldn’t quite name, teeth tugging at the inside of your cheek. "You like the idea of being someone’s escape. Even if it ruins everything else."

JJ blinked slowly, like you’d punched him, like he was still trying to catch up. His hands twitched at his sides—he didn’t reach for you. Not yet. But he was so close. So close.

"Don’t say shit like that if you don’t mean it," he muttered finally, voice rough, low. Almost pained.

And you leaned in, just a fraction, just enough to feel the tension coil tighter between you.

"Who says I don’t?"

JJ's expression shifted when you leaned in—just a little. Just enough to keep him on the edge. And that was the thing about JJ Maybank. He was all sharp edges and soft gazes when it came to you, and the fact that you still hadn’t kissed him? It was slowly undoing him. Like you were biting the bait just by not taking it. Like resisting him was its own kind of seduction.

His eyes dropped to your lips, hunger flickering there, months—maybe years—of wanting compressed into a single glance. His jaw flexed as he tried to collect himself, tried to stall, but it didn’t work. He cracked, voice low and bitter-sweet.

"You're just…" he started, then stopped, like the words hurt to say. A full minute passed—real time, heavy and breathless. Then he let the rest out, slowly, like he’d been holding it in too long. “You’ve always been so unapologetically good, haven’t you?”

The accusation was soft, but it hit like a bruise. You blinked. Brows knitting slightly—not because you didn’t understand what he meant, but because you did. Because he was wrong.

“Too honest. Too direct. Strong moral code and whatnot,” he went on, tongue wetting his lower lip as he glanced away, only to look back at you with a forced grin. “You don’t break hearts. You make people break their own trying to be enough for you.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just let the words hang there between you like smoke. He was projecting. You knew it. And you also knew it was eating him alive that he couldn’t say what he really wanted to say, so he dressed it up in venom and mockery.

“You're probably pleased with the fact I’m either baiting you or taking your bait, right?” he continued, voice quieter now, more intimate. “Pleased with being the better and bigger person. The girl who never slips.”

Then he leaned in. Just slightly. Enough that you could feel the brush of his lips near your cheekbone when he spoke again, each syllable dragging across your skin like it meant to brand you.

"You can’t plead the fifth forever, sugar…" he murmured, voice dipped in something darker—almost a growl. “One day you’re gonna get charged for your little petty crimes.”

You finally let out a breath. Not a laugh, not quite. But something close. And it wasn’t because what he said was funny—it was because it was tragic. You watched him carefully, the way his eyes flickered over your face, searching for something he couldn’t admit he needed. He wanted to call you out for being unreachable, for making him feel like the bad guy just because he couldn’t be as good as you. But you weren’t good.

You were just better at hiding your damage.

“Petty crimes?” you echoed, voice low, amused. “You’re gonna have to be more specific. I’ve committed a few.”

JJ didn’t smile. Not really. But his mouth twitched like he wanted to. “Startin’ with this one right here,” he muttered, his hand twitching at his side again like he was fighting the urge to reach for your wrist, your jaw, your mouth—anything that would remind him this was real.

“And what would that crime be?” you asked.

JJ’s eyes dragged over your face like he was trying to memorize it, like this moment might be the last time he’d be allowed to look at you like this. “Temptation,” he said finally, the word landing like a punch between you. “Premeditated. With intent to ruin.”

He didn’t say who was being ruined—didn’t have to. Because the answer was obvious.

You blinked at him, lips parting like a rebuttal was coming, but nothing did. Because you could feel it too—that slow, inevitable spiral into something neither of you were ready for, but both of you couldn’t walk away from.

“I think you’re giving me too much credit,” you said finally, voice quieter, harder now. You leaned back slightly, just enough to reestablish the line he kept trying to cross. “I don’t go around seducing boys with girlfriends.”

The smirk that curved his mouth then was bitter, tight. “You don’t have to. Just breathing around me does the job.”

And there it was again—that confession hidden beneath a joke, said with a laugh that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He ran a hand through his hair, restless, pacing a few slow steps away like he was trying to physically pull himself back from whatever edge he’d been standing on.

“You think this is easy for me?” he asked over his shoulder, tone ragged. “Do you have any idea how many times I’ve tried to talk myself out of this? Of you?”

The words hung like smoke again. Thick and impossible to ignore.

“Then why haven’t you?”

JJ stopped. Turned. Met your gaze with something like desperation hiding under all that swagger. “Because I’d rather be guilty with you,” he said, voice low and raw, “than loyal with someone I don’t want.”

It was quiet for a long time after that. Not the good kind. Not the peaceful kind.

The kind that came before something broke.

JJ let out a laugh that didn’t sound like one, maybe meant to break the silence. It was sharp, bitter, laced with the frustration of someone who’d been holding himself back for far too long. He dragged a hand down his face, then through his hair, jaw tight as he stared at the floor for a beat too long. When he looked up again, his expression was darker—hazed over with something dangerous and painfully honest.

“You think you’re so fucking clever, don’t you?” he muttered, voice raw. “Dangling shit in front of me and pretending like you don’t know what you’re doing.”

“I don’t have to pretend,” you replied, dry and flat. “I’m not the one looking for loopholes.”

JJ stepped in again. Closer now. Close enough that your shoulders brushed when you breathed. “You know what pisses me off?” he hissed, voice low and tight. “It’s not even the games. It’s the fact that you’re winning without even trying.”

Your throat tightened, but you tilted your head like you weren’t affected. “So stop playing.”

“I can’t,” he snapped, his voice nearly breaking around the edges. “That’s the problem.”

You stood still, watching him unravel in real time. His hands hovered at his sides like they didn’t know what to do with themselves. His eyes kept dragging to your mouth, to your collarbone, to the curve of your shoulder, like he was trying to memorize every inch before he crossed a line he couldn’t come back from.

“I hate that you do this to me,” he said, almost too quietly. “I hate that I care. That I think about you every time I kiss her. That it’s your fucking voice in my head when I’m trying to fall asleep.”

The words should’ve hurt. But they didn’t. They only made your stomach drop in that sick, addictive way you’d come to associate with him.

“Don’t blame me for your guilt,” you muttered. “You’re the one in love with the wrong girl.”

His hand hit the wall behind you before he could stop himself—not near you, not threatening, but loud enough to make the silence after it even sharper.

You flinched—but not in fear. In anticipation.

JJ leaned in again, one hand still braced against the wall, the other barely touching your wrist like it was tethering him to this moment. His breath was hot against your lips again, and you could feel how close he was to losing whatever resolve he had left.

“I’m one second away from kissing you,” he growled. “Don’t make me regret not doing it.”

You held his gaze. Breath steady, voice even. “You’d only regret stopping.”

And then… still, nothing.

Because that was the truth with you and JJ.

Always almost.

Always burning.

Never quite touching.

Not yet.

Your chest rose, barely, and he noticed—of course he noticed. JJ always noticed when it came to you. It was in the way his gaze dipped and lingered on the curve of your lips, the line of your throat, the place where your pulse betrayed just how not-in-control you really were. He stared at you like you were a fire he wanted to jump into just to see if you'd burn him the same way he knew he already burned for you.

And you? You just stood there. Letting him unravel with the barest inch of space between you. The tension didn’t just thrum—it pulsed, alive and humming between your bodies like it was its own entity, something you both fed with every look, every smirk, every word you didn’t say.

His fingers twitched near your waist, and your breath hitched as he finally let them brush your hip again—featherlight, infuriating, like he needed to touch you just to stay grounded. But it wasn’t enough. Not for either of you.

JJ’s mouth was so close you could feel the ghost of it on your skin, the warm tease of it dragging across your cheekbone when he spoke again. “You think I don’t want to ruin this? You think I don’t imagine what it’d feel like—your mouth, your skin, that smart fucking mouth gone quiet for once?”

Your jaw clenched, not in anger—no, in restraint. Because God, you wanted it too. And he knew it. He could see it in the way your knees tensed, your breath staggered, your fingers tightened slightly in the hem of your own shirt like you needed something to hold onto.

“But you won’t,” you murmured, voice slicing through the thick air between you. “Because you’re not ready to lose what’s left.”

His lips twitched—anger or desire, you couldn’t tell. “You say that like it’s still up to me.”

“It is,” you whispered, eyes locked on his. “You just want someone else to blame when it all burns.”

And maybe that was the cruelest part—because JJ Maybank didn’t fear destruction. He feared responsibility. He feared being the one to press the button, even if his hands were already shaking over it.

He didn’t move. Not really. Just leaned in so close now that the tip of his nose brushed yours. Close enough that you could feel the air leave his lungs when you didn’t back down. He was waiting—for what, he didn’t even know. Permission, maybe. Forgiveness. Or just the last fucking straw.

You smiled, slow and sharp. “I dare you.”

He almost kissed you.

Almost.

But instead, he stepped back like the floor burned under his shoes, running a hand down his face with a broken sound caught in his throat. He didn’t meet your eyes—not this time. Not when they were glassy and reckless and ready to cross every line he swore he wouldn’t.

You exhaled slowly, hands still trembling from restraint. And JJ? He looked like a man who’d just cheated death—but hated himself for surviving.

Neither of you spoke.

Because nothing either of you could say would fix the ache you were both trying to live with.

The drive to the Boneyard felt like the longest ten minutes of your life. Time always bent in strange, impossible ways around JJ Maybank—especially when neither of you dared break the silence thick with everything unspoken. You stared out the window like the stars might offer some clarity, like the salt air could cool the fire still smoldering beneath your skin from the almost that had happened in your bedroom. Or the many almosts that had come before.

You could feel him watching you out of the corner of his eye. One hand on the wheel, the other drumming restlessly against his thigh. Neither of you spoke. Neither of you reached. The air between you was too electric for that, too fragile. One wrong move and the night would collapse under its own weight.

When your beat-up Vans finally hit the warm, grainy sand of the Boneyard, it felt like a slap back into reality. The second JJ killed the engine, your ears were swallowed up by the distant crash of waves, the thump of bass-heavy music from a half-broken speaker, and the crackling of the bonfire at the center of it all. Laughter, slurred words, the hiss of beer cans cracking open—it all bled together into the soundtrack of your youth. Wild and wasted and a little bit dangerous.

The fire cast everyone in a flickering orange glow, softening sharp features and turning shadows into shapes that danced against the dunes. You scanned the crowd, letting your gaze sweep lazily over the groups of teenagers sprawled across faded towels and stolen lawn chairs. Everyone glowed in the firelight—sweaty and sun-kissed, their edges blurred by booze and smoke. You took it all in: the familiar silhouettes of the Pogues, the occasional glint of a gold chain or flash of a designer belt that gave away the Kooks who had slithered in.

You always found it ironic—how many Kooks flocked to these bonfires, these Pogue gatherings. You'd think this kind of chaos wouldn’t be their scene. They belonged in country clubs and coastal mansions, not kicking sand into Solo cups and fighting over who gets aux next. But then again, free booze was free booze. And when the alcohol started flowing and the fire got high enough, even the lines between Kook and Pogue blurred. Maybe not erased—but smudged enough to forget for a few hours.

Sure, the tension still simmered. Fights still broke out. Sometimes fists flew. Sometimes someone would get pushed into the surf. And once or twice, yeah, someone had flashed a piece just to feel big in front of the flames. But those moments passed quick, swallowed up by the music, the laughter, the high of pretending nothing could touch you here.

You stepped out of the Twinkie without waiting for JJ, brushing your fingers over your shirt like you could smooth out more than just wrinkles. The breeze kissed your skin, the scent of salt and weed and summer thick in the air. You didn’t look back when you heard JJ’s door slam, but you felt him behind you. Like always. Close, but never close enough.

Still, you keep walking.

JJ trails just behind you, close enough that you can feel the heat of him, but not close enough to touch. His silence is like a static charge clinging to your skin—heavy, restless, like he's holding something in his mouth he’s not sure he’s allowed to say. You don’t ask. You don't slow down. You just flash the occasional smile when someone passes, murmuring half-hearted hellos, pretending not to notice the way JJ’s fingers twitch like he wants to reach for you. Or maybe stop you. Or maybe rewind time to the exact second you said “I could probably fuck you” and said something—anything—different.

But then you're there. The fire’s glow is stronger now, casting flickering shadows over familiar faces. Your best friends huddle near the beer cooler, half-drunk and flushed with sun and smoke. You barely manage a greeting before Kiara stumbles straight into JJ’s arms, giggling as she loops herself around his neck with drunken ease. She presses a messy kiss to his cheek, her lip gloss smearing just faintly against his jaw.

You see him flinch. Not outwardly. Not enough for her to notice. But you catch it. The way his fingers hesitate on her waist, the way his shoulders lock.

Pope lets out a chuckle that sounds too practiced, like he’s playing his part. You glance at him and he meets your eyes over the rim of his Solo cup. He doesn’t smile, but he tips his drink in your direction—a silent toast to how both of you are biting your tongues tonight. That brief look is its own kind of exhaustion. He feels it too. The quiet ache of watching people you love touch someone else.

You’re about to retreat into the folds of your own forced indifference when Sarah breaks from John B’s side, squealing your name with wide eyes and a grin that’s entirely too sincere for you to fake anything in return. “I didn’t even know you owned skirts anymore,” she teases, dragging her gaze up and down your outfit, her hands already on your waist as if to twirl you. “Jesus, you took forever to get here, but clearly—worth it.”

Kie giggles beside her, now swaying slightly as she clings to JJ’s arm like she doesn’t feel the stiffness beneath her fingers. “Yeah,” she slurs lightly, eyes flicking between you and JJ. “Thought maybe you two got lost or something…”

JJ coughs. You don’t look at him.

Instead, you turn to Sarah and let your shoulders drop just a little, jaw unclenching as you return the squeeze on her waist with a small grin. “Had to look my best, right?” you murmur, your voice low and velvety, deliberately directing the comment at Sarah even though everyone knows it’s not for her.

Sarah grins wider, missing the shift beneath your words. JJ doesn’t.

You don’t miss the flicker in his jaw or the way he shifts under Kie’s touch like she suddenly weighs too much. You don't miss the way he keeps his gaze locked on the sand instead of you. You don’t say anything. But maybe you don’t have to.

Because silence? It always says too much.

The tension coils tighter, like a rubber band stretched past its breaking point. You smile through it. You've gotten good at that—at playing the part, at wearing expressions like armor. Sarah chats beside you, already pulling you closer to the makeshift bar where a cooler is sunk half into the sand, filled with half-melted ice and whatever was on sale this week. She’s laughing about something John B said, something dumb and harmless, but your ears are full of static. Your eyes flick once—just once—over your shoulder.

JJ is still standing where you left him. Kie has her head on his shoulder now, her arm still draped around him like he belongs there. Like this is normal. But JJ's eyes are somewhere else. Not on Kie. Not on Pope. Not on the fire. They're on you.

The look he gives you isn’t soft. It isn’t playful. It’s sharp. Dark. Like you’re something he wants to break open and crawl inside of.

You look away.

Sarah’s still talking, but her voice fades to background noise. You reach for a drink without thinking, cracking open a hard seltzer just to have something cold in your hand, something fizzy to distract from the burn in your chest. You feel Pope step up beside you and offer a nod—silent solidarity. You wonder how long it’ll take before he and Kie stop pretending, too.

“Are we pretending this isn’t uncomfortable?” he mutters under his breath.

You snort into your drink. “They always were great at playing house.”

Pope smirks, but there’s no humor in it. “Except the house is on fire.”

And it is. Burning slow, crackling low under the surface. Your chest feels too tight for how breezy the night is. Sand gets between your toes. You feel it grind like grit in your teeth.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see JJ finally move. He shifts Kie off of him gently, his excuse too quiet to hear. She waves him off, laughing, tipsy and unaware. He walks toward you. Purposefully.

You brace yourself.

He doesn’t say your name, just reaches for your wrist like he’s done it a thousand times, fingers curling around it like instinct. Like possession. Your eyes dart to where his hand is wrapped around your skin—warm, firm, grounding.

“Come here,” he says quietly, too quiet for anyone else to hear, but you hear it anyway. You always do.

You glance around. No one’s paying attention. Not really. Sarah’s still talking to John B. Kie is dancing near the fire. Pope’s watching, but he doesn’t move.

You could pull away. You should. You won’t.

JJ’s eyes are glassy from the firelight, pupils wide from whatever he’s trying to bury. Guilt. Want. Confusion. You don’t know. You never do with JJ until it’s too late. But his grip on your wrist is the most honest thing about him right now. It trembles, just barely.

“You gonna say something, or just drag me off like you always do?” you whisper, mouth inches from his.

His jaw clenches. You don’t know if it’s anger or restraint. “If I say it, it’s real.”

“And if you don’t?”

“Then I’ll keep ending up outside your trailer.”

That lands hard.

You blink once. Twice. You don’t move. But you feel the shift inside you, the way your defenses sway like a door left unlocked during a storm.

Then you pull your hand free—not hard, but enough. Just enough to let him feel it.

“Then you better be careful,” you murmur, voice barely a breath, “or one of these days, I’m gonna let you in.”

Pope finally intervenes, stepping in like he’d heard every word of the whispered conversation but chose now to cash in his role as the group's voice of reason. He clears his throat, that familiar blend of amused exasperation and older-brother energy settling into the space like a wedge between you and JJ. It’s not loud, not confrontational—just enough to say: Not here. Not now. Not in front of everyone.

JJ doesn't even flinch. He doesn't care. His eyes are still on you, locked in like you're both in some kind of silent, slow-burn standoff. His jaw tics. Your smirk only widens, lips wrapping around the rim of your seltzer as you raise it to your mouth with practiced ease, taking a deliberately slow sip, letting your tongue flick the corner of your mouth as the sweet liquid hits your tongue.

Just as you expected, his gaze drops—to your lips. His brows twitch faintly, not quite a glare but something darker, simmering beneath the surface. Anger. Jealousy. Resentment. All of it dressed in that pretty face and the sharp, boyish bone structure that always made it too easy to forget how destructive JJ Maybank could be when he wanted something he couldn’t have.

"I dunno what's happening," Pope drawls finally, sliding in beside you, his voice a thread of lightness cutting through the tension like a knife, "but I'm all for whatever this silent argument is. Feels like the prequel to someone getting slapped."

He's got an unopened beer bottle in hand, and with a half-grin, he offers it to JJ like a peace offering—like this isn't the third time he’s had to step between you two before the air turns flammable.

JJ takes it wordlessly, muttering a rough “Thanks,” under his breath before cracking it open and downing a long sip, eyes never leaving yours.

“We’re not arguing,” you say breezily, voice dipped in sugar and venom, letting the words roll off your tongue like honey over a blade. Your smile curls slow and deliberate, all teeth and challenge, and then—just to twist the knife—you drape your arm over Pope’s shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You feel JJ’s reaction in the shift of the air alone. His knuckles flex around the neck of the bottle. His mouth twitches at the corner, like he’s swallowing back words and bile all in the same breath. Pope stiffens for a second under your arm, sensing the game but choosing, wisely, not to play it. He just lets out a small chuckle, like he’s decided to stay neutral—for now.

JJ leans back, lips quirking into something that isn’t quite a smile. More of a warning. More of a promise.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” he mutters, voice low and gravel-edged.

You raise your can in a mock-toast, head tilted, gaze locked. “I sleep just fine.”

And you do. At least when you don’t dream of him.

Your eyes flick back to JJ. And you don’t look away. Not once.

JJ latches onto your words like a lifeline—like you’d handed him a rope out of the pit he’s been sinking in since the second you opened your trailer door. “Yeah, I’d probably sleep like a baby too in a king-sized bed with a memory foam mattress in a nice mansion,” he fires back, voice soaked in sarcasm, bitterness biting through every syllable.

That earns a low whistle from Pope, his hand now resting a little heavier on your hip. He doesn’t say anything, but the amusement is written clear in the sideways lift of his brow as he glances between the two of you, like he’s watching a game of chicken where everyone’s already lost.

You shoot Pope a subtle glare—a warning, not a rejection—before turning back to JJ with a wicked glint in your eyes. You grin, slow and deliberate, like it physically pains you to keep the venom sweet.

“Ain’t you the one with a Kook girlfriend?” you ask, blinking up at him all faux-innocent, voice light as seafoam, but the undertone sharp enough to draw blood. “Too bad she likes to play Pogue and ignore her queen-sized bed and her daddy’s beach house.”

You cock your head toward the fire, where Kiara’s still twirling lazily in the glow, unaware—or maybe pretending not to be—of the way the room around her has gone cold. She laughs at something John B says, face flushed from whatever’s in her cup, and it only fuels your pettiness.

JJ’s jaw tightens. You see it—the pulse ticking at the side of his neck, the way his tongue runs over his teeth like he’s trying to chew through whatever pride he has left.

“She’s not pretending,” he says finally, voice low and defensive. “She knows who her people are.”

“Do you?” you ask, softly. Sharply.

It lands. You know it does. His eyes flicker. For a split second, the fire behind them dims. And then it flares—back in full force.

Before he can respond, Pope cuts in with a short laugh, light but strategic. “Okay,” he mutters, dragging his hand off your hip slowly, “I’m gonna go get another drink before this turns into a murder trial.”

You don’t stop him. JJ doesn’t either. The space between the two of you crackles in his absence.

JJ steps forward, just slightly. Not enough to close the gap, but enough to make your breath hitch. His voice drops lower, throatier now.

“You think you know what you’re doing?” he asks, eyes burning holes into you. “You think dragging Pope into this makes me jealous?”

“No,” you say, tilting your head again, gaze locked onto his like a challenge. “I know it does.”

And the worst part is—you both like it.

But your expression ticks—mean and mocking in a way JJ knows is all pretend. You’ve always been good at that. Sarcasm as armor, cruelty as camouflage. It’s the game you’ve both been playing for years now. And JJ? He learned the rules early. Memorized the terrain. Watched you wield words like weapons that looked blunt but cut all the same.

“You used to be more fun, you know…” you say, voice soft but edged—less gentle, more surgical. Not a strike, but a slice meant to bleed slow. “Now all you do is hover around me like you’re waiting for permission to burn.”

JJ stiffens like the words winded him, but he doesn’t argue. He just looks at you—really looks—tongue pressed against his cheek, jaw flexing like he's biting down the part of him that always wants to push back. But there’s something else in his gaze tonight, something wounded and defiant.

“You want me to burn,” he says finally. It isn’t a question.

You don’t answer. You just hold his gaze. Because yes—maybe you do. Maybe you want him to break first. You want him to be the one who ruins things this time. To fall, to reach, to cross the damn line. Because you’ve done it before—for people who weren’t him—and you have the scars to prove it. So maybe you want to know what JJ Maybank would look like in the wreckage.

But before either of you can move, before the moment can tip over the edge—Sarah’s voice crashes in like a wave, loud and light, unbothered by the tension clinging to the space between you.

“There you are!” she calls, weaving her way across the sand with two red cups in hand and a grin that’s all too knowing. “We’re doing shots. You’re both coming.”

You blink like you’re waking up. The heat between you and JJ scatters like ash caught in the wind. You laugh softly—more of an exhale than anything else—and turn your head toward her. “Well, I’m not saying no to that.”

JJ doesn’t speak. But his eyes never leave you. Not as you take the drink from Sarah. Not as your skirt sways with each step you take. Not as your chin lifts like you’re unaffected, untouched.

He stays behind, beer in hand, mouth set in something hard and unreadable.

But you know how this goes.

He’ll follow.

He always does.

Sarah loops an arm around your shoulder as she pulls you back into the glow of the bonfire, the thud of music pulsing through the sand beneath your shoes. You abandon your can of seltzer near a half-buried bucket and take the shot from her hand, knocking it back with practiced ease. The warmth of the liquor hits fast, sharp, but welcome.

Kiara’s beside you in seconds, tossing back her own drink and coughing through a laugh. “Your skirt looks amazing!” she half-yells over the music, swaying closer, eyes glassy and affectionate.

You glance down, brushing invisible lint off the fabric. “It’s a bit uncomfortable, to be honest,” you admit, your voice lighter now, easier in the chaos of friends and firelight.

“That’s the price of looking hot,” Kie shrugs, grinning. “Pain is temporary. The photos are forever.”

You snort. “Says the girl who wore flip flops to a hike last week.”

Sarah throws her head back laughing as Kiara flips you off, and for a moment—just a flicker—you let yourself get lost in it. The music, the fire, the familiar echo of friendship wrapping around your throat like a scarf. Safe and warm, but always a little too tight.

You’ve always loved the beach at night—kegger or not. There was something about it that felt sacred. Like the moonlight gave the island permission to spill its secrets, and the sand kept them buried just deep enough to forget come morning. Out here, under stars and the hum of cheap speakers, the beach belonged to the teenagers of Outer Banks. A place where sins went unnoticed as long as you smiled wide enough and kept a drink in hand.

Your gaze drifted over the stretch of chaos—half-drunk bodies dancing offbeat to music that pulsed more in your ribs than your ears, laughter curling in the air like smoke. It looked like a scene from a coming-of-age movie, blurry around the edges and too golden to be real.

And then you saw him.

Over the fire, at just enough distance to pretend you weren’t looking—but close enough to feel it when your eyes landed on his. He hadn’t noticed you yet. Not really. He was mid-laugh, mouth parted in that effortless grin he reserved for moments where he didn’t have to be in control, where he could pretend he wasn’t suffocating under the pressure of being Rafe Cameron. But you saw him.

You always did.

You hated how well you could recognize him, how instinctive it had become—like your brain was hardwired to know where he was at all times. You could trace that silhouette in your sleep—the way he loomed over his friends without even trying, height and arrogance giving him a natural advantage. Broad shoulders, proud posture, that cocky slouch that always hinted at violence or sex or both. His presence wasn’t just distinct—it was disruptive. You’d know him anywhere.

Even now, in the dim firelight and chaos, you could make out the pale polo shirt clinging to his frame—because of course it’s a polo. Always a fucking polo. You couldn’t tell the exact color, but the collar was rumpled and slightly stained. Your stomach twisted with something dark at the sight of it. Blood maybe? Paint? Or just the residue of another fight he swore he didn’t start. Rafe was always showing up with remnants of something. A bruise. A scab. A half-assed apology.

His hands were fidgeting, something you knew meant he was uncomfortable. Tense. Probably trying not to lose it in front of the Kooks who thought he was some polished legacy prince. You watched his fingers turn over a crumpled napkin like it owed him something, his rings catching the firelight as he ran a thumb over the face of one of them. Polishing it absently. Or maybe ritualistically. Like he needed something to focus on besides whatever was twisting his insides.

Your lips twitched at the memory of those same hands wrapped around your waist, your throat, buried in your hair while he begged in a voice that only came out when you had him beneath you. All that polish, all that control, gone in an instant under the right pressure. You’d seen Rafe Cameron unravel—and you were starting to think it might be your favorite hobby.

Still, watching him now—grinning like he belonged here, like he wasn’t rotting from the inside out—you felt a slow burn work its way through your chest. Not jealousy. Not exactly. Just the quiet throb of knowing something no one else here did. Something deeper than gossip. Something carved from flesh and memory and too many near-misses.

And as your eyes lingered, you wondered how long it would take for him to notice you.

Because he always did.

Your teeth sink into your bottom lip as you keep watching, undetected. Undisturbed. You’re not sure what’s worse: the fact that he hasn’t noticed you yet, or the fact that part of you wants him to. Wants his gaze to snap to yours from across the fire, that twisted smirk to tug at his mouth like a challenge. Because that’s always been the beginning of the end with you two.

Unlike JJ, who orbited around you like he needed permission to burn, Rafe came with the matches already lit—no hesitation, no apologies. JJ was the one you were in love with, the one who felt like home before you even understood what that meant. But Rafe? Rafe was something else entirely. A temptation dressed in chaos and cologne, all sharp edges and splintered morals. He was the wrong choice with perfect timing. And your body, stupid and reckless, never failed to respond.

You knew he was a horrible guy. Maybe even the worst guy. But your body didn’t care about rumors or red flags when he looked at you the way he did. When his hands, rough and ringed, left bruises you didn’t bother covering. The body knew what it liked, and it never asked for permission.

Your gaze stayed glued to the firelit silhouette of him across the sand, hands moving in that slow, methodical way as he polished the glinting silver at his fingers. He wasn’t even looking at you, but it didn’t matter. The pull was already there—lazy and magnetic. He looked like he’d just ruined something and was proud of it, grinning faintly to himself like he was sitting in the aftermath of violence he didn’t regret.

You didn’t need to see his face to know that smile.

You didn’t need to hear his voice to feel the echo of it, somewhere low in your stomach.

A light poke at your shoulder finally broke your trance. You blinked once, slowly, head tilting as you turned to Sarah who was now giggling at her own story, slurring through a retelling of something Pope apparently did earlier with a keg and a dare. You nodded along, smiling faintly like you were keeping up, like you weren’t still feeling the way Rafe’s absence wrapped itself around your ribs tighter than his presence ever did.

Sarah's voice came in and out, too loud and too soft all at once. Her warmth was real, her laugh familiar, but your ears couldn’t settle on it. Not when your eyes had already betrayed you again.

They drifted back across the fire on instinct, like gravity itself had shifted toward him. And there he still was—same stance, same smug stillness, like he knew you were watching. Like he’d known all along.

His thumb dragged slow across the face of his ring again. Almost deliberate.

Your breath caught.

He’s still there, still silent and looming across the fire, half-shrouded in smoke and shadows and whatever sin he's plotting next. His friends are talking animatedly beside him, but Rafe doesn’t say much. Doesn’t need to. That’s what makes him so loud. He wears silence like a crown, like it gives him power. And maybe it does.

You’re not even sure when this fixation started—when the thrill of hating him bled into something darker, hotter. But now it’s in your bloodstream, carved behind your ribs, humming under your skin. You could hate him all you want. You could call him everything he is—violent, cruel, obsessive, fucked beyond repair—but none of that erases the fact that your body remembers his like a curse.

And you hate that part of yourself. The part that keeps turning toward fire just to see how close it can get without being consumed.

You blink once, hard, and drag your attention back to the group, past Sarah’s laugh and the sound of beer bottles clinking, past the music thumping in your chest. But the awareness of him doesn’t fade. It just sits there, heavy and electric.

Rafe hasn’t noticed you yet.

Or maybe he has—and he’s just waiting for the right moment to strike the match.

You haven’t really been listening to the noise around you—not the scattered bursts of laughter, the tipsy chatter of your friends, or the chorus of voices layered across the beach. Everything had dulled into a low hum behind the steady rhythm of your heartbeat and the sound of waves crashing in the distance. Your attention, whether you liked it or not, was tethered to one place. One person.

But Pope’s voice cuts through the static, threading into your ears with just enough amusement to hook you. “Did you put your brother in rice?” he asks Sarah, chuckling as he nods toward the silhouette you’ve been quietly watching for the past few minutes.

Your brows lift slightly, pulled out of your trance as you glance at Pope, then follow his gaze like it’s not already burned into your retinas.

“What do you mean?” Sarah laughs, leaning more fully into John B, her drink wobbling slightly in her hand as her gaze lands on her brother. She sounds light, but there’s an edge of genuine curiosity there too.

“I mean,” Pope says with a lazy grin, “he seems less... unhinged. Less like he’s gonna commit a felony just because someone looked at him wrong.”

You snort softly, finally lifting your drink to your lips and taking a slow sip. Pope turns toward you as if waiting for confirmation, but you only offer a shrug, keeping your face neutral. Inside, though, your stomach tightens. Not because he’s wrong—but because you’ve noticed it too.

You glance back across the fire at Rafe, now deep in some one-sided conversation with Sofia. Or rather, she’s talking. His expression doesn’t shift much—cool, unreadable, the picture of disinterest. One hand plays with the hem of his sleeve, and he’s still rolling that same crumpled napkin between his fingers like it’s the only thing tethering him to the moment.

Sarah hums, squinting slightly through the haze of heat and firelight. “I dunno,” she says after a beat, sounding both thoughtful and distant. “The last overdose kind of... mellowed him. Usually, after something like that, he’s worse. Like the world owes him for not letting him die.”

Her voice is too casual for the weight of her words, like she’s used to this. Like they’ve all been here before. The thought settles heavily in your chest.

“But this time...” she continues, “it’s like he’s okay with being alive.”

There’s a moment of silence after that. Not total, not with the kegger still raging around you—but within your circle, something quiets. And whether it’s intentional or not, you can feel their eyes drifting toward you. JJ especially. You feel the weight of his stare from across Kiara’s shoulder, feel the way he goes a little more still, like he’s bracing for something.

You tilt your head and smile faintly, masking the sharp twist in your gut. “Or maybe Sofia’s just treating him good,” you murmur, your voice low and slow, curling with just enough sarcasm to hide the truth underneath. The smirk that rises to your lips doesn’t reach your eyes.

The group gives polite little reactions—an eye roll from Sarah, a raised brow from Pope—but your gaze has already drifted back to Rafe. Sofia is still talking, animated in the way girls get when they’re nervous or too eager to please. And Rafe, well... Rafe isn’t really listening. Not fully. His eyes aren’t glassy, but they’re far away, distant in the way you’ve come to recognize. Like he’s humoring the moment. Like he’s only halfway in it.

You know that version of him. The quiet kind. The kind that follows a low, simmering rage or a night spent fucking out feelings he can’t name.

And maybe it’s that version that makes your jaw clench. Or maybe it’s the knowing—deep in your bones—that he doesn’t look like that with her. Not really. That whatever quiet calm he’s projecting now isn’t hers to take credit for.

But you don’t say any of that. You just watch. And sip your drink.

Sarah watches her brother for a moment longer, eyes narrowed slightly as she studies the almost mechanical way he nods at whatever Sofia is rambling about. Her brows furrow, and when she turns to you, it’s with a shrug and a slight grimace that looks too contemplative for how drunk she clearly is. “I don’t think so…” she mutters finally, dragging her eyes away from the firelight. “Him and Sofia stopped hooking up months ago.”

You blink once, surprised by the sudden clarity in her tone. The slur is still there, faint around the edges, but the words themselves feel more grounded than anything she’s said all night. She holds your gaze, like she’s trying to emphasize that she’s not bullshitting you, not this time. “She used to be at our house every day after work,” she continues, voice dropping lower, more private. “Like clockwork. She’d bring takeout or sit in the living room pretending she liked whatever movie he picked. But I haven’t seen her there in a while. Not even on weekends. And trust me—Rafe gets loud when he’s with someone. Whole house knew.”

You try to keep your face neutral, but something twists in your stomach anyway. Because Sarah isn’t just stating facts—she’s giving you a timeline, a subtle little warning you didn’t ask for but now can’t ignore. If Sofia isn’t the one keeping Rafe calm lately, if she isn’t the reason for the softness Sarah mentioned earlier… then who is?

Your silence must speak volumes, because Sarah tilts her head, smirking knowingly. “You’d be surprised how often I find his moods suddenly lifted right after he’s seen you,” she says, barely louder than the crackling of the fire behind her. “Or when you’re around. It’s weird. Like you have this... chokehold on him and don’t even realize it.”

You roll your eyes, partly to shield yourself and partly because you don’t have a good response for that. She doesn’t say it with judgment—more like quiet curiosity, like she’s watching a puzzle rearrange itself in real time. The kind of look that makes your skin feel hot, like she’s peeling back something you’ve been carefully hiding.

Still, you force a shrug, playful enough to deflect. “He’s a grown man, Sarah. Maybe he finally figured out therapy and essential oils.”

She snorts, loud and inelegant. “Yeah, and maybe JJ will propose to Kiara tomorrow.”

That earns a real laugh from you, something sharp and bitter at the edges. But it fades just as quickly as it came. Because even if Rafe isn’t with Sofia anymore, even if he hasn’t been for a while... the implication sits heavy in your chest now. That whatever version of him exists lately—the steadier, less violent one—might have something to do with you.

And that? That’s almost more dangerous than if he was still screwing Sofia.

Because Rafe Cameron being in a better headspace because of you means he’s watching, waiting, calculating. It means every slow grin, every passing touch, every comment that lingers too long—none of it is harmless. And that you’re not blameless either.

You glance back toward the fire, and this time, Rafe’s eyes are already on you.

And he’s smiling.

Not like he’s amused. Like he knows.

You feel that familiar spark of irritation bubble up at the sight of his smile—lazy, knowing, entirely too satisfied with himself. It’s the kind of smile that doesn’t just provoke you, it invites something reckless. You tear your gaze away before he can catch you staring back, jaw clenching as your skin prickles from the weight of his stare. You can feel it, sharp and deliberate, cutting across the fire like a hot wire, latching onto the side of your face no matter how far you try to look elsewhere. The conversation around you shifts mercifully toward some other subject, some other scandal or drunken game, but none of it lands. Not with the way Rafe’s watching you. Still surrounded by his friends, still pretending to be part of the noise, but his attention is fixed.

You finish the last of your seltzer with a tight swallow and abandon the empty can beside you in the sand, muttering something vague to your friends about grabbing another drink. You don’t wait for their responses. Your legs move before you can second-guess them, pushing you forward through the crowd with tunnel vision, dodging swaying bodies and discarded solo cups, your eyes glued ahead as you navigate toward one of the forgotten coolers near the edge of the beach. It’s quieter here, the kind of quiet that buzzes in your ears after too much noise. The music fades into the distance, and for a brief second, you breathe—really breathe—listening to the waves crashing in steady rhythm and the creak of the wind bending through the beach grass.

You crouch beside the cooler, lifting the lid with a creak, your fingers digging into ice water that barely chills your skin anymore. Most of the drinks are gone or warm. You frown, pushing a few cans aside until you find one that’s still semi-cold—black cherry Twisted Tea. You turn it slowly in your hand, trying to make out the faded writing in the dim glow from the distant firelight, when a voice cuts clean through the calm.

“Lacy black,” the voice drawls, casual and smug in a way that turns your stomach, “Skimpy enough for the skirt you’re surprisingly wearing.”

You jolt, straightening up too fast, head whipping around to find him leaning just a few paces behind you, shadowed by the dark but unmistakably there. Rafe fucking Cameron. He’s been watching—of course he has. Probably standing there the whole time you were bent over, probably enjoying the view more than he has any right to. Your fingers twitch around the can, the metal denting under your grip as you quickly tug at the hem of your skirt with your free hand, an instinct more than anything else. The gesture feels defensive, small, but your glare is anything but.

“You spying on me now?” you ask, your voice calm but edged, more annoyed than startled. “What, Sofia not stimulating enough conversation-wise?”

Rafe tilts his head, grin deepening. He doesn’t bother defending himself, and that says more than anything else could. “Wouldn’t call it spying. You’re just really fucking hard not to look at tonight.”

You roll your eyes, cracking open the drink and taking a long sip. You let the sweet burn coat your tongue, let it calm the storm in your chest as you study him with narrowed eyes. He’s wearing some soft-colored polo again—cream maybe, or pale blue, you can’t really tell in the dark—but the collar is stained. You notice that again. Dark, messy. Could be blood. Could be ash. Could be wine or nothing at all. But the tension that clings to him is unmistakable, even here. His rings glint as he flexes his fingers, fidgeting, still polishing the edge of one like he needs to keep his hands busy or he might use them for something worse.

“Looks like you came all this way just to be a dick,” you mutter, eyes flicking back to the cooler like maybe you’ll find another drink to excuse your presence.

Rafe steps closer instead. “I came to drink. You just happen to be the better view.”

“You should try a mirror. Might finally scare yourself straight.”

He chuckles, low and slow, and it’s too warm against your skin in the cool air. “That mouth,” he muses, almost fondly. “It’s gonna get you in trouble.”

“It’s already gotten me worse,” you shoot back, still not looking at him, but you feel it—the way he takes that in. The way it winds through him like a wire being pulled tight.

He lets a pause hang between you, lets the quiet between waves stretch just long enough to blur the line between teasing and threat. Then, softly, “You didn’t answer me.”

You blink at him. “About what?”

“The panties.”

Your nostrils flare. “Jesus, Rafe—”

He raises a hand like he’s calling a truce, smile still carved across his face. “Relax. I already saw. Wasn’t really a question.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “You know, sometimes I wonder how you manage to function with all that smugness clogging your brain.”

“You like it,” he replies, tone flat and certain. “You like that I look. That I notice.”

You hate how fast your breath catches. Hate the accuracy in his words. Because yes—he looks at you like you’re something worth ruining for. And maybe part of you likes knowing you hold that kind of power. Maybe it’s what keeps pulling you back in, even when you should run.

“You don’t know what I like,” you say quietly.

Rafe takes another step forward. Close enough now that you can smell his cologne beneath the burn of alcohol, the smoke and sweat that clings to him like armor. “I know enough,” he murmurs, voice low and dangerous. “Enough to know you don’t look at anyone else the way you look at me.”

You lift your chin defiantly, but you don’t move. You don’t tell him he’s wrong. Because maybe you don’t want to.

Instead, you settle on taking another sip of your Twisted Tea, the can cool against your lips as you tilt your head ever so slightly, studying him over the rim. You mean for it to be judgmental, a warning glare hidden behind slow sips—but it doesn’t land that way. It never does with Rafe. Because your gaze lingers too long, your expression softens at the wrong moment, and the way your eyes flicker down to the cut blooming on the corner of his lip gives you away. You watch it like it might open wider if you stare too hard, like the blood might bloom again. He must’ve licked at it recently; there’s a sheen there that catches the moonlight.

You catch yourself staring and force your gaze back up to his eyes. Those baby blues. Too bright, too sharp, too silver in the moonlight, like frost under glass. They’re already locked on you, watching, expectant. There’s something infuriatingly soft in them now—crinkled at the corners with the beginning of a smile. Genuine. Warm, even. Which is absurd considering all the evidence of violence scattered across his skin like a breadcrumb trail. The messed-up hair, the bruised knuckles, the bloodied lip. He looks like someone who just got into a fight and won. And somehow, that makes him look more at ease than usual. Like bruises ground him.

He doesn’t speak. Just lets your silence stretch between you both, taut and humming, like he knows the longer you look at him, the more curious you’ll become. And fuck, you hate that he’s right. There’s a spark of something low in your stomach—not quite lust, not yet. It’s uglier than that. More dangerous. Like giddiness dipped in poison. Like wanting to touch the flame just to see how long it’ll take before you burn.

You shift your weight, sneaker digging into the sand as you try to stand your ground, pretend your legs aren’t buzzing under you. “Who’d you kill?” you mumble finally, voice low, not quite teasing, not quite serious either—just breathless. The words tumble out like an accident, too clumsy, too honest. Like you’ve been wondering since the second you laid eyes on him tonight. Because of course that’s what he looks like: someone who left a body behind just to show up here and lean against a cooler like nothing happened.

His lips twitch like he wants to laugh, but it doesn’t come out. Instead, he flexes his fingers absently, knuckles blooming with shades of purple and blue, as if he’s only now remembering they hurt. He brushes over them with two fingers like he’s proud of them. Like they’re proof.

“No one you’d miss,” he replies finally, voice calm, casual, too controlled.

You scoff, but it’s half-hearted. “That’s not an answer.”

He shrugs, stepping closer—just enough that your space feels smaller, the air between you tighter. “It’s the only one you’re getting.”

You arch a brow, taking another sip of your drink to keep from asking more. Because you do want more. And that makes you hate yourself a little. Not just because of what you’re craving—but who you’re craving it from.

He eyes the drink in your hand, gaze dipping to your lips again as you lower it. “You’re quieter tonight,” he murmurs, tilting his head. “Not like you. Usually you’ve got a whole list of insults locked and loaded.”

“Maybe I’m tired,” you offer, leaning against the edge of the cooler like this is just another party, like you’re not standing in the dark with the most dangerous boy in Outer Banks, being looked at like you’re the secret he wants to keep for himself. “Or maybe you’re not worth the effort.”

His grin widens, flashing teeth. That stupid grin that says he knows every button to push, every switch to flip.

“And yet,” he drawls, voice dipping, “you’re still standing here.”

“Maybe I like the view,” you shoot back.

He steps forward again, close enough that you could count his lashes if you wanted to. “Careful,” he says softly, almost kindly. “You say things like that and I might start thinking you like me.”

You don’t move. Don’t blink. Just stare right back at him and shrug. “Maybe I do.”

That’s when it shifts. The air, the look in his eyes, the way he sways slightly forward like his body’s moving ahead of his brain. The moment feels like standing at the edge of a cliff, knowing the wind’s about to push you forward. He looks at your mouth again. You tilt your head, eyes still locked.

But neither of you moves. Not yet.

The silence presses in again, heavier this time. Your fingers curl tighter around your can. His knuckles flex again.

And still, you don’t leave.

Because maybe you do like him.

Or maybe you just like the danger of wanting him.

And maybe that’s the same thing.

Thinking back to four months ago, guilt and heartbreak dressed in jealousy was all you had after hooking up with Rafe for the first time. You weren’t even sure what drove you to him that night—maybe it was a dare to yourself, maybe it was loneliness laced with something self-destructive. Either way, it happened. And it kept happening. You thought the guilt would be enough to stop it, that hating yourself would somehow absolve the sin of crawling into his bed. It didn’t. Because days turned to weeks, weeks to months, and suddenly you were at his house at the smallest inconvenience. Some mild family drama, a bruised ego, a frustrating shift at work—any excuse to land on his doorstep, in his passenger seat, in his bed. And Rafe? Rafe lived for it. He wasn’t going to admit it—he never would—but it was in the way he always opened the door a little too fast, the way he kept your favorite lighter in his drawer, the way he bought your favorite snacks and pretended they were his.

In the beginning, it was about sex. You told yourself that. Told yourself that was all it could be. But then the nights stopped being transactional. There were nights where nothing even happened—nights where you showed up and just smoked together, legs stretched out across his lap, words soft and slow between you. Nights where he'd take you driving around Figure Eight, letting you blast music and stick your head out the window like you were sixteen again. Sometimes he'd hand you his gun and let you shoot at bottles behind his house. There was always tension. There was always the undercurrent of something about to snap—but it wasn't just lust anymore. It was a rhythm. A routine. And neither of you dared to call it anything more.

Rafe’s life shifted too. You didn’t see it the way he did, but it was there. A pattern forming in the way his eyes searched crowds for you, how he couldn’t enjoy a party unless he was sure you were somewhere nearby. And if you weren’t? His mood went sour. Quiet. Volatile. He started doing things for you—subtle, careful things he hoped you’d notice. Fixing your busted skateboard wheels and leaving it outside your porch before dawn. Quietly paying your overdue insurance bill. Leaving obnoxiously large tips at the café when you were working the counter, always with that smug little smirk like he was doing it to make fun of you. But it wasn’t about the money or the gestures. It was about proximity. About control. About him needing to feel like he was still in the picture even when you weren’t texting back.

Even if, logistically, you were a bitch. A sharp-tongued, distant, emotionally unavailable bitch who went out of her way to avoid any real feelings. Rafe shouldn’t have even been entertaining you. But there were two moments—just two—where he realized he’d gone too far to pretend it was casual anymore. The first was when Jack spiked your drink at a bonfire and Rafe broke three of his ribs without a second thought. The second? Tonight.

He wasn’t planning on it, really. He’d just gotten dressed, hair still damp from the shower, crisp white polo clinging to him in the summer heat. He was halfway to the Kegger, already half-smiling at the thought of seeing you, even if it was from across the fire. He pulled over to get gas and a shooter, something to light a buzz in his veins before seeing you flirt with someone else just to piss him off. And then—he heard it. The voice. That gravelly, smug drawl that made his skin crawl on instinct. Allan. Just behind him. Talking shit.

It wasn’t even what he said at first—just the tone. That stupid, sleazy laugh. Then Rafe caught pieces of it. You. His name. The kind of things no man with a death wish should be saying in public. Before Rafe could even register it, he was moving. Calm. Controlled. Efficient. He grabbed Allan by the ponytail and slammed him into the side of the gas station, knuckles flying, blood spraying. He didn’t stop until Allan was too limp to respond. Then he dragged him behind the building like he was trash—like he was something Rafe needed to throw away before heading to a party.

And now? Now he was standing in front of you on the beach like none of that happened. Like he hadn’t just turned a man into a bloody mess for the crime of speaking your name.

He chuckled, low and humorless, flexing his bruised hand like he still wasn’t satisfied. His knuckles were raw and his lip still bled at the corner, but his eyes glinted like he'd just won something. Then he looked up, gaze sharp and unreadable. “You shouldn’t be alone out here.”

“I’m not,” you replied calmly, raising the can to your lips again, keeping your voice even. “You’re here.”

He smiled slowly, something twisting behind his eyes. “That supposed to comfort me or scare me?”

You tilted your head, considering him. “That depends,” you said, letting the drink linger against your lips before lowering it again. “Do you scare easy?”

There was a flicker of something in his expression—something close to admiration. “Not really,” he said after a beat, voice quieter now. “But you... you got a way of making everything feel like a fucking dare.”

You raised a brow, lips twitching. “And you’ve got a way of never backing down from one.”

He stepped closer, his shadow stretching over yours in the moonlight. Not threatening. Not exactly. Just overwhelming. Just Rafe. “I beat the shit out of someone today,” he said casually, eyes never leaving yours. “And the whole time I was thinking about how you’d look at me if you knew. If you’d be scared. Or... impressed.”

You stared at him, pulse thick in your throat. “Should I be either?”

“Probably,” he said, and his grin was all teeth again. “But I think you like me best like this. Dirty knuckles. Dirty mouth.”

You didn’t deny it. You just held his gaze for another beat, then tipped your can toward him in mock salute before taking another sip.

Because you did like him like this.

And that terrified you more than anything.

There was a beat of silence. And then he asked, quietly, “Did he touch you?” The air went cold. You blinked, hard, like it would reset the moment. But it didn’t. “What?”

“Allan.” His voice was still quiet, but now there was no amusement. Only that deadly edge. “Did he touch you?” You could’ve lied. Should’ve, maybe. But instead, you shrugged. “He tried.” Rafe’s jaw tightened. A muscle in his cheek jumped. You took another sip. “It’s not your problem.”

“Isn’t it?” he asked, stepping even closer. Now you could feel the heat rolling off him, the tension wrapped around his spine like a coil.

“I can handle it,” you said, looking up at him with narrowed eyes. “I don’t need saving.”

“I didn’t do it to save you,” he said. “I did it because I wanted to.”

Somehow, that was worse.

Maybe it was because Rafe Cameron didn’t do things for other people. That was the rule. He was selfish—had always been. He looked out for himself, operated with sharp edges and rough logic that protected him first, no matter who got bruised in the process. He was violent, reckless, and dangerous in ways even the worst guys on this island weren’t. And yet, standing here now—after telling you he beat up your mom’s sleazy boyfriend for talking shit, for daring to say your name like he owned it—you weren’t so sure anymore.

He tilted his head slightly, like he didn’t know what to do next. Like the silence between you was unfamiliar. Which it was. Usually it was filled with gasps and moans, threats and whimpers, your bodies clashing instead of your words. But this wasn’t that. This wasn’t him dragging you behind a house or pinning you against a wall just to get your breath caught in his mouth. This was quiet. This was something else.

Then, slowly, like he was testing the water, he lowered his head until his chin rested lightly against the top of yours. He didn’t touch you anywhere else. Just that. Just the subtle weight of him above you, like he was grounding himself in the moment. Then he shifted forward, tilting down until his forehead replaced the spot where his chin had been, breathing you in so deep it felt like he was trying to memorize the smell of your hair. Still, he didn’t move his hands. He let you be the one to reach out, your free hand brushing lightly over his bruised knuckles, thumb grazing the broken skin that split across them like tiny red secrets.

“I didn’t kill him,” he murmured into your hair, his voice barely audible over the distant crash of waves. The words were low, ragged, strangely reverent. “But it’s gonna take your momma a while to get used to that face in bed…” He snorted softly, the sound more breath than laugh, darkly amused at his own cynicism.

Your mouth twitched, the corner pulling upward in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “You’re insane,” you whispered, voice breathless and brittle. “Unhinged, even.”

Rafe chuckled again, slow and quiet this time, like it crawled up from somewhere deep in his chest. He dragged the tip of his nose along the side of your head, through your hair, pausing by your ear with an intimacy that made your breath hitch. “If I was insane,” he whispered, the words slipping out like a secret, “I would’ve killed him. Shot him clean in the chest, left him face-up behind that station for someone else to find.”

The way he said it—it wasn’t even cruel. It was sensual, almost gentle, like he was describing something beautiful. And it should’ve terrified you. Should’ve made you step back. But instead, your thumb just kept stroking his knuckles, soft and slow like you were trying to soothe a wound that had nothing to do with the skin.

“So why didn’t you?” you asked finally, casual on the surface but thick with something else beneath—curiosity, concern, maybe even a twisted form of admiration.

He pulled back just slightly, just enough to look at you, his lips hovering close, breath fanning over your cheek as he smirked. “Because I don’t carry a silencer,” he said, like that was a perfectly reasonable answer. And then, before you could process it, he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your cheek—soft, deliberate, warm with something you couldn’t name.

It wasn’t lust. It wasn’t violence.

It was something worse.

It was care.

You stood there in the dark, heart slamming against your ribs, blinking against the heat that bloomed in your chest like firelight on the shore. Because even if Rafe was unhinged and dangerous and utterly wrong for you in every conceivable way—he was still here. Bruised. Bleeding. Quiet. And touching you like he meant it.

And you couldn’t help but lean in.

Just slightly.

Because maybe you meant it too.

The kiss on your cheek lingered. Not in touch—because Rafe had already pulled back—but in sensation, like a phantom thing made of heat and questions. His breath was still near, fanning the curve of your jaw, warm and steady despite the sharp, brutal tension lacing his knuckles. He didn’t move away. Didn’t blink. And you didn’t either.

There was something maddening in the quiet that stretched between you now. The fire behind you crackled and danced against the distant chorus of drunken cheers, but here—on this dark stretch of sand—it was still. Still and alive and loud in all the ways that didn’t involve sound. His eyes were on you again, silver-blue and unreadable, the corner of his lip still bleeding where the cut split open, darker now under the moonlight.

“I scare you?” he asked suddenly, voice low and smooth, but laced with something raw. Like he didn’t know if he wanted the answer to be yes or no. Like he needed it to be both.

You didn’t answer right away. You let your gaze drift to his mouth again—because how could you not? You'd had it on your skin too many times to count. On your throat, your collarbone, your stomach. But somehow, looking at it now felt more vulnerable than feeling it. “Sometimes,” you said finally, the honesty slow and heavy in your throat. “But it’s not the worst thing.”

His smile returned then, small and crooked. Not mocking—something closer to pleased. “Good,” he murmured. “Means you’re not stupid.”

You huffed a small laugh, taking another sip of the now-warm twisted tea just to avoid saying something you'd regret. But Rafe leaned in again, not touching you—just standing close enough to make it impossible to ignore him. You could smell the faint remnants of his cologne mixed with sweat and dried blood. It shouldn't have done anything to you. But it did. God, it did.

“You shouldn’t let people talk about you like that,” he said after a moment, his tone flat now. Controlled, but not cold. “That fucker—Allan. What he said? That shit doesn’t get to live in the air. Not if I’m in the room.”

Your mouth parted, breath catching at the raw possessiveness in his voice. He didn’t say it like he was defending your honor. Rafe wasn’t noble. He said it like your name belonged to him. Like it didn’t matter whether you minded what was said or not—he did, and that was enough.

“You don’t get to police what people say about me,” you murmured, softer than you intended. But the words were still there. Still brave, or maybe stupid.

“No,” he agreed, but didn’t step back. “But I will anyway.”

You let that sit. Let the weight of it settle in the sand around your shoes, in the silence between your bodies. You could’ve argued. Could’ve pushed him. But what was the point? You both knew you liked it. The twisted protection, the blurred morality, the way he defended you with fists and violence and showed affection through bruises and whispered secrets no one else got to hear.

“I know you’ve been watching me,” you said instead, voice quieter now. “Since I got here.”

His jaw clenched—not like he was caught, but like he was irritated you took so long to say it.

“You wore that skirt on purpose,” he said. “Just to fuck with me.”

“Maybe,” you replied, but you were already smirking.

He leaned in again, close enough that his lips brushed the shell of your ear this time. “You want me to lose my mind?” he asked, and it wasn’t rhetorical. His breath was hot and heavy, damp with rage and reverence. “Because I’m already halfway there.”

Your hand moved on its own, fingers wrapping gently around his wrist, where the veins bulged and the skin was still scraped raw from whatever damage he’d done earlier tonight. He looked down at it, then back at you, and for a second, he softened. Not much—but enough. Enough to remember that underneath the chaos of who he was, there was something real pulling him toward you like gravity.

“I don’t care if you lose your mind,” you whispered. “I just don’t want you pretending you’re not already gone.”

He laughed, bitter and breathless, forehead dropping to yours with a thud that made you close your eyes. “You’re such a fucking bitch,” he whispered, and you didn’t even flinch. Because it wasn’t venom, it was devotion. His version of it. And if you were honest with yourself—you liked his version.

“And you’re a fucking psycho,” you murmured back, breath skimming his lips now.

“Match made in hell,” he smirked.

You don’t move, even when his forehead rests heavy against yours. You just breathe him in—salt, sweat, blood, a hint of weed still clinging to his collar like a secret. You’ve spent enough time this close to know how he smells in every state: high, drunk, just out of the shower, after sex, after violence. You know his scent like it’s yours. You hate that. You love it. It’s all the same now.

His fingers twitch at his sides like he’s resisting the urge to grab your face and kiss you stupid, and you know the feeling because you’re fighting it too. His breath is steady against your lips, but he’s not moving. Neither are you. It’s not hesitation—it’s indulgence. The kind of patience that comes when you both already know you’ll give in eventually, so why not savor the moment before the fall?

You press your thighs together subtly, annoyed at your body’s response to nothing more than proximity and breath. But Rafe notices. Of course he does. His eyes drag down your face, over the line of your jaw, the flush in your cheeks, and he grins—slow and deliberate like a wolf who already knows the lamb is going to run but plans to enjoy the chase anyway.

“You get wet when I talk like that?” he asks, not even pretending to be polite, voice low and wrecked and so close to your mouth you can feel each syllable warm against your skin. “Or is it the blood on my knuckles that does it?”

You snort softly, masking the way your pulse kicks up by rolling your eyes, but your body betrays you by not backing away. Not even an inch. “Neither,” you lie, voice cool and flat, wrapping your fingers tighter around the can in your hand just to give them something to do that isn’t digging into his hair or yanking him closer. “It’s the part where you’re stupid enough to think this is still just sex.”

His face changes, not entirely, but enough to let you know the words hit. Not in a way that hurt him—Rafe Cameron doesn’t bruise easy emotionally—but like you cracked something open he wasn’t ready to admit. He looks at you like he wants to say something real, something ugly, and just when his lips part—ready to speak it into the air—he shuts them again. Jaw locking tight.

Instead of words, he steps closer. His body brushes against yours, chest to chest now, and you feel the full weight of him like a shadow swallowing yours whole. His hand finally moves, one of them raising slowly—so slow it’s maddening—until he’s brushing his thumb across your bottom lip. It’s gentle, shockingly so, like he’s scared you’ll disappear if he presses too hard. His skin is warm and rough, and it lingers just barely, teasing the sensitive skin there until your breath falters.

“You want me to say it?” he murmurs, gaze pinned to your mouth like he’s memorizing the way your lips part when he speaks to you like this. “You want me to admit it?”

You don’t answer. Because yes, you do. And no, you don’t. You want it and you fear it in equal parts. Because if Rafe Cameron says out loud what you both know, then it becomes real. And once it’s real, it’s no longer just lust and blurred lines and bruised lips in dark corners. It becomes something you can’t walk away from without consequence.

But then his hand drops, skimming the side of your neck in a featherlight touch that makes you shiver. He notices. Of course he does. “I don’t like sharing,” he whispers, mouth brushing the shell of your ear again, lower now, like he’s tucking the confession into your skin. “I don’t like people looking at you. Thinking they can touch you. Talk about you.”

“And what are you gonna do about it?” you whisper, not quite mocking, but close. Your lips twitch, taunting him. Pushing him.

“I already did,” he says, voice dark and calm and dangerous.

You don’t doubt it. You don’t even flinch. Because this is how it’s always been with Rafe. He ruins things in your name and looks at you like he’s waiting to be thanked for it. And maybe the worst part is—you kind of want to thank him.

His hand finds your hip then, fingers brushing the edge of your skirt. Not pulling, not grabbing—just resting there like a threat. Like a promise. And you let him. You let him touch you, stand in front of you, stare at you like you hung the fucking moon, and you don’t tell him to stop. Because Rafe Cameron is a thousand bad decisions wrapped in a pretty boy shell, and you’re already past the point of pretending you won’t make every single one of them.

“You always wear black lace when you know you’re gonna see me?” he asks again, voice lower now, and there's something almost playful in it. Almost.

“Maybe I just like lace,” you offer, lifting your gaze back to his. “Not everything I do is about you.”

He hums in disbelief, thumb brushing your bare thigh now, higher than it should be for where you’re standing. “That’s bullshit and you know it.”

You didn’t say anything. Neither did he. Because the silence had more weight than anything either of you could spit out, more meaning than any insult or low blow you could land on him in a moment of weakness. His forehead was still against yours, your breaths tangled together, and it felt like if either of you leaned just a little closer, the whole world might cave in. You felt it in your bones—the slow, dragging inevitability of something ruined long before it began. And the worst part? You liked it. You wanted it. The ache of it, the press of something filthy and intimate laced with the kind of fondness that people like you weren't supposed to deserve.

His hands hovered at his sides now, balled into fists because Rafe wasn’t used to restraint. He was the type of guy who touched without asking, who pulled and grabbed and took what he wanted. But now, with you, in this dim part of the beach with no one around but the ghosts of every wrong decision you both made, he stood still. Like your silence was holy. Like he knew that if he laid a single finger on you right now, he wouldn’t stop. Not until he’d torn through whatever little boundaries you had left between each other.

“I think about it a lot,” he muttered, and you almost didn’t hear it. His voice was so quiet it got lost in the waves for a second, like he was ashamed of saying it. But then his eyes flicked to yours, sharp again. “What it would feel like. If I kissed you when I wasn’t angry. Or high. Or trying to make you forget someone else.”

You swallowed hard. The can in your hand felt too cold suddenly, slick with condensation, and your knuckles were stiff from gripping it too tightly. You didn’t know what to say to that—because wasn’t that what you thought about, too? In the quiet moments between your friends' laughter and the way JJ’s eyes lingered on you across the fire? In the dark stretches of night when Rafe would text you something stupid and filthy and you’d still go to him anyway?

“You wouldn’t know what to do with me if it wasn’t messy,” you said finally, the words cracking a little at the edges. “You’d get bored. You’d ruin it just to feel something.”

He laughed—low, guttural, cruel. Not at you, though. At himself. Because it was true, and he hated it. Hated that you saw right through him, right down to the splintered core of who he was. But he didn’t deny it. Rafe Cameron never denied the parts of him that were ugly.

“Maybe,” he admitted, dragging a hand through his hair again, that single ring on his pinky catching the moonlight. “But I’d ruin you slow.”

You looked away, breath catching, because he meant it. Not like a threat—but a promise. The kind that wasn’t sweet or soft or romantic. The kind that crawled beneath your skin and stayed there.

“Then don’t start something you can’t finish,” you muttered, not really to him—but to yourself. Because you were already in it. Neck-deep and flailing and still too proud to admit you didn’t want out.

He stepped closer—not touching you, but close enough that your bare arm brushed the sleeve of his polo, that his breath fluttered the baby hairs at your temple. His voice was a gravel-smooth whisper when he finally said, “Then stop pretending you want me to.”

You turned to face him fully then, and for a second you were both just breathing, staring, unraveling at the seams together. You didn't even blink when his hand finally lifted, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear, knuckles trailing your jaw with reverence that didn’t match the person. You hated how good it felt. How easy it would be to fall into him like this—no games, no sharp edges, just the bruised tenderness of what you'd both been dancing around for months.

But you didn’t close the distance. Not yet.

Instead, you lifted the can again, took another slow sip, your eyes never leaving his. “Finish the thought,” you said quietly. “If you kissed me when you weren’t angry or high or trying to erase someone else… what then?”

His smile was crooked again, but it didn’t reach his eyes this time. His fingers traced down your arm, slow, barely-there. “Then I wouldn’t let you leave.”

You felt that line in your spine. In your chest. And it stayed there long after he said it.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Rafe,” you said, the faintest shake in your voice betraying how deeply you wanted to believe him.

“I don’t make promises,” he replied. “I just take what I want.”

And the worst part?

You wanted to let him. Because Rafe Cameron wasn’t for promises. He didn’t speak in futures, didn’t build dreams on pillow talk or talk about the what-ifs of tomorrow like most boys with good intentions did. That was for JJ. For the boy you’d written about in the margins of your notebooks, the one you used to imagine first kisses and late-night confessions with. Rafe was something entirely different—darker, more volatile, more real in a way that scared the hell out of you and thrilled you all at once. Rafe was the storm you never wanted to survive. And you? You were the kind of girl who smiled at thunder. So it worked. Brokenly. Shamefully. Inevitably. The world would keep spinning no matter how many times you ended up in his bed or how many lies you told yourself to get there. The Earth never paused for two people losing control. It just spun harder.

"Promises are for pussies, angel..." he muttered, licking the edge of a split in his lip, like the taste of his own blood grounded him. His brows pinched just slightly, but there was something amused behind the way he looked at you, as if he was forming the next twisted sentence in his mind just for the sake of watching your reaction. “If I made you promises, I’d break them on purpose. Just to piss you off. Just to see that little twitch in your jaw.” He smirked at that, cocky and careless, like his cruelty was his favorite flavor of affection.

You chuckled, quiet and unwillingly genuine. And the effect on him was instantaneous. Like he didn’t expect it. Like that soft noise cracked open something inside of him he couldn’t tape back together even if he tried. His smirk faltered for a second—just a second—and something near-tender replaced it, blooming slow across his bruised features. The tension in his shoulders didn’t drop, but he shifted slightly, like the sound of your laugh was a place he suddenly wanted to sit inside.

"Promises are for lovers, no?" you asked then, arching a brow with a lazy sort of defiance that didn't match the pace of your heart. You tilted your head just slightly, lips quirking up in that taunting way you knew always got under his skin. You liked seeing what your words could stir in him—what part of his ego they scraped.

“So we’re not lovers?” he replied, mock-hurt thick in his tone, hand drifting to his chest like he was wounded, dramatic and boyish and dangerous all in one breath. He leaned in closer again, voice dropping to something deeper—something that curled around your ribs like smoke. “That’s funny, considering I’ve had my mouth on every inch of you.”

The words hung there, indecent and intoxicating, but you didn’t flinch. You didn’t look away. Because he wasn’t lying. Because your body still remembered the ghost of his touch and the taste of his name when you bit it into a pillow.

“Lovers care,” you murmured after a beat, slow and deliberate. “Do you care, Rafe?”

That made him pause. Just a flicker of something in his eyes—something too fast and too raw to catch fully before it vanished beneath the usual glaze of arrogance. He didn’t answer right away. He didn’t even blink. Just stared at you like he wanted to crawl inside your head and scream into the hollow spaces until all you heard was his voice.

“I care enough to fuck up anyone who touches you,” he said finally, voice calm but violent in its undertone. “Does that count?”

You didn’t reply. You didn’t need to. Because you knew what that meant. Knew it was the closest thing to an I love you you were ever going to get from a boy like Rafe Cameron. Even worse—you were starting to think it might be enough.

You took a final sip from your can, the warm, sugary burn coating your tongue as you let the emptiness settle. Then you tossed the can to the sand like it didn’t matter—because it didn’t. Not in this moment. Not with him. The firelight danced faint and distant behind you, casting long, flickering shadows, but here in this quiet sliver of beach, it was only the moon above and the two of you toeing the line between lust and something deeper. Something you both refused to name.

You stepped closer without thinking, your bare legs brushing against his jeans, your body folding slightly into his space. Close enough to smell the heat still clinging to his skin, the faintest trace of sweat, blood, and his cologne—clean but expensive, sharp but comforting in the worst way. And your hand—God, your hand reached up before your brain could stop it, tentative and fragile in a way that didn't match the hurricane you were offering it to. Your fingers found his jaw first, thumb hovering a beat too long before brushing gently across the cut on his lip.

He stilled.

Not just in posture—but completely. Like the electricity you sparked in him short-circuited something internal. His breath hitched in the quietest way, a subtle shift in his chest, barely noticeable if you weren’t watching him like you always did. You expected him to flinch or tease or say something snide. But instead, he just stared. At you. Through you. Like he couldn’t quite make sense of the way you were touching him so softly, so goddamn tenderly, like he hadn’t just bloodied his knuckles for you. Like you weren’t always two seconds away from tearing each other apart.

"...Did he land a punch?" you asked finally, your voice small and thin and strained around the edges, like you were trying not to let the worry drip out from between the words. Your thumb moved again, just a slow trace across the angry skin, a gesture more loving than anything either of you were used to.

His brow furrowed. Something in his jaw twitched like he didn’t know what the hell to do with the quiet kindness in your tone. The cut split just slightly under the pressure of your touch, and he hissed through his teeth, but he didn’t move. He let you do it. Let you take him in your hands like he was something worth being careful with.

“Yeah,” he muttered eventually, his voice low and rough from disuse. “One. Before I broke his nose.” His gaze didn’t waver from yours, didn’t flicker to your lips or the hand still ghosting along his mouth. It just burned. All that unspoken heat and pent-up ache pooling in the narrowing distance between your bodies.

You didn’t smile. You didn’t scold him. You didn’t say thank you.

Instead, you just stood there, breathing him in, letting your thumb drag just slightly lower to the edge of his chin, as if memorizing the sharp line of it would somehow help you understand him better. But it wouldn’t. Because Rafe Cameron wasn’t meant to be understood. He was meant to be felt—like fire, like fury, like the rush of falling from a high place you had no business climbing in the first place.

And even now, with blood drying on his face and bruises blooming along his knuckles, he looked at you like you were worth it. Like he’d do it again. Like the only thing he regretted was not hitting harder.

“I thought I was gonna kill him,” he said suddenly, a confession, not a threat. “I wanted to.”

You didn’t look away. You didn’t recoil. You just held his eyes and let your fingers drop from his lip to his jaw, tracing the curve with a kind of care you knew he wasn’t used to. “But you didn’t.”

His gaze dropped to your mouth then, not out of lust, but something heavier. Like he wanted to say something and didn’t know how, so he stared at your lips like they could help him figure it out. “I didn’t want to fuck it up,” he muttered. “Not with you in my head.”

The silence that followed was thick, laced with unspoken things neither of you were ready to name. You weren’t lovers. Not officially. Not publicly. But standing here on the outskirts of a drunken bonfire, hearts thudding in the dark, maybe you were something worse—something deeper. A secret. A sanctuary. A slow collapse dressed like a connection. And that was something you both knew how to hold onto, even if it cut your hands open every time.

His words didn’t land like a blow—they sank in slow, heavy. Not with you in my head. They clung to your skin like humidity, settled somewhere between your lungs and your stomach, weighing down the parts of you that always convinced yourself this wasn’t serious. That he wasn’t serious. That this thing—whatever it was—was just sex and silence and shared loneliness. But now he was looking at you like you haunted him, like you were the reason he didn’t go too far, and that was worse. Because that meant you mattered. That meant he was thinking about you even when you weren’t there.

Your hand was still on his jaw. You could feel the clench of it now, the flicker of restraint buzzing just under the surface like an exposed wire. He looked taller like this. Not physically, but emotionally. Like the weight of what he carried—his violence, his obsession, his need—made him more than a boy. Less human, somehow. But it didn’t scare you. It should’ve. But it didn’t.

“You make it sound like I’m some kind of fucking conscience,” you said softly, your lips twisting into something between a smile and a grimace. “That’s not what I am to you.”

Rafe tilted his head slightly, brushing his cheek into your palm like he didn’t even mean to. Like your touch was instinct now, like he couldn’t help but lean into it even if the rest of him was trying to keep his distance. “Maybe not,” he admitted. “But you’re the only thing I don’t want to ruin.”

It was such a stupid thing to say. Soft and tragic and so very un-Rafe. But the moment it left his mouth, you felt it. In your bones. In the ache between your ribs. Because you knew what it cost him to say it. To be vulnerable like this, even if it was buried beneath his usual brand of recklessness and blood.

You didn’t know what to say to that. You weren’t good with words when it came to feelings. You were sarcastic and mean and deflected everything with a joke. But this? This didn’t feel like something you could deflect. So instead, you leaned in too, just a little, until your foreheads touched again. A ghost of closeness. A breath of surrender.

“I don’t want you to ruin me either,” you whispered.

And there it was—laid bare between you. No smirk. No sarcasm. Just quiet honesty dressed in moonlight and bruised lips. His breath hitched again, and you felt his hands finally, finally rise from his sides, hovering near your waist like he was asking for permission. His fingers curled into the fabric of your skirt, just lightly, like he needed to hold something to anchor himself.

“I’m not gonna kiss you,” he said, voice tight, hoarse. “Not here. Not when I’m like this.”

You blinked up at him, and your heart cracked a little because he meant it. Because it wasn’t about control or games or who’d give in first. It was about respect. Twisted, possessive, deeply fucked-up respect. And from Rafe Cameron, that was the most honest kind of affection he could give.

“I know,” you said.

But you didn’t move away. Neither did he. You just stayed there, in the quiet dark corner of the beach, letting the space between your bodies whisper every word you weren’t ready to say out loud. Because it wasn’t love. Not yet. Maybe not ever

Rafe's hands finally settled on your waist, the touch careful but firm—like even now, even after everything he’d done tonight, he still wasn’t sure you wouldn’t disappear under his fingers. He held you there like that for a moment, watching you with those haunted, hungry eyes, the ones that always seemed to flicker between wanting to protect you and ruin you in the same breath. The weight of his stare was enough to make your chest tighten. And still, you stayed.

Then, slow and deliberate, he leaned in—closer than before. Not in a rush. Not desperate. Just intent. Like he was about to whisper something unholy, something final. But he didn’t speak. Instead, he brushed his lips against the corner of your mouth—feather-light and maddeningly reverent. Not a kiss, not exactly. Just enough to make your breath hitch and your heart drop somewhere near your knees.

It felt like a brand, that simple, almost-innocent kiss. Like something he was leaving behind on purpose. A mark that wasn’t visible but would stay with you anyway. And when he pulled back, his expression had shifted—colder again, quieter. Not because the moment didn’t matter, but because it did.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to. You just let your hand fall from his face, your fingertips grazing his wrist on the way down. And he let go of your waist in return, not suddenly, but with a hesitance that betrayed how much he wanted to stay here, hidden with you in the dark where things didn’t have names and rules didn’t apply.

You both stepped back at the same time. Like it was choreographed. Like some part of you had always known this moment had an end.

Rafe ran a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly as he looked back toward the glow of the bonfire in the distance. “We should go,” he muttered, more to himself than to you.

“Yeah,” you echoed, already turning away from the cooler and the shadows. “They’ll start wondering.”

He didn’t ask if you meant your friends or JJ specifically. And you didn’t offer that clarity either.

You walked back first, sand sinking under your sneakers, your body still buzzing in the places he touched, in the places he didn’t. You didn’t look back, but you could feel him behind you, a few paces behind, watching the way your skirt moved, memorizing it like he always did.

And as you reached the edge of the firelight and the chaos of the beach, laughter and music swallowed you whole again. Voices called out. Someone handed you another drink. JJ’s silhouette loomed somewhere in the distance.

You slipped easily back into your place in the circle of noise and light—face calm, expression smooth, like nothing happened. Like Rafe Cameron hadn’t just kissed the corner of your mouth like it meant something.

But you could still feel it burning there.

And Rafe? He stayed a little further off, his presence more distant, leaning on a log by the fire like he hadn’t just threatened to unmake you with nothing but a look. He didn't come near you again.

Not right away.

You thrived in the chaos of parties and bonfires. The noise, the sea air thick with smoke and laughter, the reckless swirl of it all—it dulled your senses and gave you just enough to do, just enough to drink, just enough people to smile at to convince yourself you were fine. That the hollow ache in your chest could be soothed by someone else’s seltzer and a game of flip cup. You had grown used to this version of yourself, the one who knew how to dance just enough to be watched, who knew how to sip slowly and leave early, the one who used to watch JJ and Kiara and feel the kind of jealousy that settled in your bones like salt from the sea. It used to rot you from the inside out. You expected to feel that tonight. Expected your gaze to wander until it landed on JJ's arm slung over Kiara's waist, his head tipped back in laughter, that easy grin lighting up the part of him that used to be only yours.

But you didn’t look for him this time.

Your mind stayed rooted further down the beach, where the shadows kissed the waves and the firelight couldn't reach. Where Rafe Cameron had kissed the corner of your mouth with a reverence that wasn’t romantic, but something darker—possessive and volatile and undeniably his. Where he’d murmured violence like a promise, as casually as other boys said compliments. I didn’t kill him, but I should’ve. You don’t let filth speak your name. And you believed him.

Now, your eyes found him at every chance you had, and not by accident. Not even subconsciously. It was purposeful. It was need. Every time Sarah spun away in conversation, every time Pope and John B burst into some retelling of a story you didn’t care to follow, every time Kie laughed too hard at something JJ whispered in her ear—you looked for him. Rafe. Leaning against a log, drink in hand, jaw tight like he was forcing himself to stay still. He was further down the fire’s ring, close enough to see the expressions on your face but far enough to not be suspicious. Just barely. He watched you with that hooded stare that never looked nervous but always looked intense. Like you were some sort of living sin he couldn’t wait to confess again and again.

And you—God, you knew what this was turning into. You saw it plain as day. The lines were getting blurry. He wasn’t just a mistake anymore, wasn’t just a fuck to quiet the ache in your chest. It wasn’t even about JJ tonight. That was the terrifying part. It wasn’t about proving anything or making anyone jealous. It was about the way Rafe looked at you like the rest of the world didn’t exist, like he could build something dark and sharp out of the wreckage of you both and call it home.

You didn't want to say it out loud—you wouldn't—but you hoped he knew. That whatever this was blooming inside you, it was growing deep. Tangled roots in scorched soil, something doomed but still blooming anyway. Something too stubborn to die.

Then your phone pinged. The sharp buzz against your thigh cut through the noise. You unlocked it slowly, already knowing. Just one text.

got weed at home

It was sent at 11:45 p.m., and your stomach fluttered at how casual it was. It was ridiculous—how intimacy settled into the smallest gestures with him. The unspoken understanding. The kind of message that wasn’t really about weed and wasn’t really about home. It was about you. About him wanting you to come back with him, without needing to beg for it.

Another ping.

come home with me?

You looked up, phone still in hand, and there he was. Already watching. His thumb flicking against the edge of his lighter absently, his mouth parted just slightly like he was saying the words out loud to himself. His eyes met yours across the fire, and for the briefest moment, you let yourself imagine that he looked pleading. Just a bit. Like maybe, beneath all the bravado and chaos, Rafe Cameron was asking—not demanding, not expecting—but asking you to come back with him. Not for sex. Not for weed. Not even for comfort. Just to be there. With him.

Your fingers hovered over your phone, the blue glow lighting your face in the dark. And without really thinking, without weighing anything like you used to when it came to JJ, you typed back something simple. Something honest.

yeah. just gimme ten.

You hit send, locking your phone like you'd get struck down for texting him, and took a sip of your new drink—whatever it was, you didn’t even register the taste. Sarah said something beside you, and you nodded along, smiled even. You could pretend for a few more minutes. Pretend your heart wasn’t already walking toward the car parked on the edge of the beach. Pretend you didn’t already taste the cigarette on his lips. Pretend this wasn’t becoming something that no one else would understand.

Because Rafe Cameron was waiting.

And you were already his.

You didn’t tell anyone you were leaving. Not because you were hiding it—at least, that’s what you told yourself—but because you didn’t owe anyone an explanation. You stood there in the flicker of the bonfire for another long minute, taking in the way the shadows clung to Sarah’s smile, to Kie’s swaying silhouette, to JJ’s back as he walked away to grab another drink. None of them noticed. And even if they did, none of them would ask. You'd conditioned them to let you vanish like that, to slip away into the smoke and music and not reappear until the next afternoon, bruised knees and blurred memories in tow.

You moved slow at first. Casual. The way someone might wander off to pee behind the dunes or grab something from their car. But as soon as you were past the soft line of firelight and feet stomping to a song that was starting to give you a headache, your pace changed. It sharpened. Like your body was reacting to a signal only it could hear.

You didn’t even have to text again. Because as you crested the slight dip of sand that marked the end of the crowd, there he was. Leaned against the passenger side of his truck, arms crossed loosely like he hadn’t just beaten someone bloody for you earlier. Like this was just another night. Another ride. Another you.

He straightened when he saw you. Didn’t smile. Didn’t smirk. Just watched as you walked toward him, the tension so thick it almost felt like fog between your bodies. There was something electric about the way your footsteps slowed the last few paces, like instinct demanded you soak up this moment. The way he reached out and wordlessly opened the door for you, like you were his girl. Like it was known. Decided.

You climbed in without a word, letting the door shut you into his world.

And neither of you said anything as he got in beside you and turned the key. The engine hummed to life, the headlights casting long shadows over the sand, and just before he shifted into drive, he turned toward you. His hand found the back of your neck—not rough, not tender, just there—like it belonged, like he needed the contact to keep from unraveling.

“You took your time,” he muttered, thumb brushing over the sensitive dip just beneath your ear.

You looked at him then, really looked at him, letting your eyes trace the cut on his lip, the slightly swollen knuckle on his right hand, the shadowed look in his eyes that said he hadn't come down from the high of violence yet. And maybe wouldn’t. Not until after he had you.

“You waited,” you murmured in return, voice low and even.

He didn’t argue. Just gave a small nod, jaw ticking once as he turned forward and shifted into drive.

The headlights cut through the night, carving a path through the sand and out onto the empty road. You watched the beach disappear behind you in the side mirror, and still, your heartbeat hadn’t slowed.

Because tonight, you weren’t heading back to someone who’d make you feel small for wanting. You were going with the only person twisted enough to match the storm inside you.

And maybe that wasn’t love.

But it was something.

In the span of four months, you’d sat in that same passenger seat more times than you cared to admit. Sometimes drunk out of your mind, head pressed to the window, words slurring as you bitched about JJ or your mom or whatever asshole made you feel small that day. Other times stone sober and bitter, arms crossed tight against your chest while Rafe drove in silence, his knuckles tight on the steering wheel, jaw ticking to the rhythm of whatever was playing low on the radio. And then there were the high nights—the ones where you’d laugh too loud at nothing, feet up on his dash, one hand lazily hanging out the window as the wind whipped through your hair and Rafe grinned despite himself. It didn’t matter the version of you he got—hammered, high, bitter, soft—he never seemed to flinch. He just let you be. Sometimes he even seemed to enjoy it.

Tonight felt different. The silence wasn’t filled with tension exactly, but it was heavier than usual, like both of you knew something had shifted and were pretending not to notice. Rafe’s fingers tapped the wheel as he drove through the empty, familiar streets of Outer Banks, the dashboard light casting a sharp glow over the angles of his face. You stole glances when you thought he wouldn’t notice, watching the way his jaw flexed, the line of his throat when he tilted his head slightly, the way his lashes looked too delicate for someone so violent. He didn’t say a word, and neither did you. The music played low, something bass-heavy and slow, but the silence between you was louder.

And yet your stomach fluttered the way it did before something irreversible happened. You tried to ignore it, tried to bury the rising guilt and shame under the familiar cover of lust and heat and all the unnamed feelings that were starting to press against the inside of your ribs like a bruise. You used to believe that if you ignored something long enough, it’d die on its own. But this thing with Rafe had roots. Roots you’d watered too often, even if you called it something else every time.

You shifted in your seat, fiddling with the hem of your skirt, suddenly too aware of everything. Your skin. The way your leg brushed his center console. The warmth of the air inside the truck, clinging to you like a second skin. You wanted to say something—anything—to cut the tension, to drag things back to the version of this you understood. The reckless, filthy version where the only thing that mattered was how fast he could get his hand between your legs or how rough his mouth could be against yours. But those versions were fading. Slowly, then all at once.

Because lately, you’d wake up tangled in his sheets, blinking against the morning light, only to find him already awake—already watching. And he wouldn’t speak. Wouldn’t touch. Just stare like you were something he didn’t quite know how to categorize. Like he was memorizing the shape of you, not because he needed to, but because he wanted to. And the worst part? One night, when you were barely awake, barely conscious of anything other than the weight of him behind you, he’d leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead. Not your mouth. Not your neck. But your forehead. An intimate gesture that belonged to someone else. Someone who cared. For people he didn't plan to discard. For lovers.

You never brought it up.

Neither did he.

You shifted in your seat now, thighs pressed together, arms folded tight against your chest like maybe you could press the thoughts back down where they belonged. Rafe didn’t look at you, but you could feel the awareness rolling off him in waves. He felt it too. This thing between you—this living, breathing thing neither of you wanted to give language to because it meant something would break if you did. So instead, you let the silence linger. Let the miles pass in low hums and shadows. Let the storm churn just beneath your skin while he drove you toward whatever version of hell the two of you had built out of touch, tension, and shared secrets.

Somehow you knew, deep down, that neither of you were ever going to come back from this. Not really. And maybe that was the point. Maybe Rafe didn’t do promises. But you were starting to think he did you.

You should’ve drank more. Should’ve let yourself get sloppy, messy, untouchable by anything that required clarity. Being hammered gave you the kind of brutal liberty that made everything feel like a distant joke. Yeah, you'd have to deal with the wreckage in the morning—delete the Snap stories, mumble half-hearted apologies for whatever texts you sent or whatever punch you threw or wherever you ended up puking—but at least you wouldn’t be feeling this in the moment. The pressure of silence. The weight of breathing next to someone who had seen you at your ugliest and still dragged his mouth down your body like you were something holy. You weren’t drunk now. Not even close. And that made the air thick, made the inside of Rafe’s car feel smaller and tighter with every second, like you were being forced to sit inside the aftermath of a storm that hadn’t even finished yet.

You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye. His hands were on the wheel, relaxed in a way that felt too deliberate, like he was trying to make this feel normal. Like it didn’t matter that a few hours ago your mouth was on his, your nails in his shoulder blades, your teeth grazing his throat as he whispered things you’d never repeat in daylight. And now here you were. Quiet. Sober. Sitting three inches apart and feeling every single one of them.

You swallowed hard, voice catching in your throat before you could stop it. “Does it feel different to you?”

He didn’t answer right away, just exhaled through his nose and gave a dry chuckle. “What, not fucking in the backseat this time?”

Your eyes flicked toward him, jaw tightening. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know,” he said, softer this time, eyes still on the road like looking at you might give something away. “It feels different.”

The admission sent something sharp through you. Something hot and alive. You weren’t even sure you wanted him to say it out loud. Not because you didn’t believe him, but because you did. Because you’d felt the shift, too. Felt it creeping in under your skin like vines, slow and dangerous. And maybe it started a few nights ago when he asked you to stay, not to fuck, not to kill the silence—but just to sleep. Or maybe it was when he kissed your forehead, or when you started craving the sound of his voice more than the weight of his body. You didn’t know. But it was there now. Sitting with you. Breathing with you.

“I don’t know what to do with it,” you admitted, quieter than you meant to. Your voice cracked halfway through the sentence and you winced, hating how naked it sounded.

Rafe finally looked at you then, really looked. His brows furrowed, eyes narrowed slightly like he was trying to read the parts of you you didn’t put into words. “You don’t have to do anything,” he said. “That’s the whole point, right? You get to pretend none of it’s real.”

“And you’re okay with that?” you asked, biting the inside of your cheek.

“No,” he said without hesitation. “But I’ll take what I can get.”

That landed hard. Too hard. You turned your head to look out the window, chest tightening, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your skirt. “I still love him,” you whispered.

“I know.”

You breathed through the silence that followed, trying not to cry or scream or do something stupid like reach for his hand. You hated how he said it without anger. Like he’d already accepted being the second choice. Like he’d decided that being near you in whatever capacity was worth the price of never being the one you chose first.

Your pulse quickened, mouth going dry, torn between curling up in his bed and letting him fuck the confusion out of you—or opening the door and throwing yourself out of the moving car just to get away from the closeness of it all. From the fact that you could smell his cologne and blood and still wanted to bury your face in the space between his shoulder and neck and forget every version of yourself that existed before this.

“I’m not good at this,” you muttered. “I’m not good at anything.”

Rafe scoffed lightly. “That’s bullshit.”

You looked at him, annoyed but grateful, and he grinned, a sharp little thing with no humor. “You’re excellent at being a bitch,” he added dryly. “Elite, really.”

You snorted despite yourself, shaking your head as you leaned back against the seat. “Fuck you.”

He glanced sideways again, voice quieter this time. “You already did.”

The tension lingered, wound tight in your chest like a rubber band stretched too far, one second from snapping. Whatever small, fleeting relief that had settled between you after the laughter had died was gone now, replaced by silence again—thicker this time, meaner. Your teeth found your bottom lip, worrying at the already split skin like it would keep your mouth from moving, from saying something stupid. The copper taste of blood was familiar, and you barely flinched when your teeth sank into a spot that hadn’t healed yet. Your fingers moved on instinct, brushing against the torn flesh, inspecting the red smear glinting under the dashboard light. It irritated you more than it hurt.

Rafe caught the motion from the corner of his eye, his own teeth grazing the cut on his lower lip like he felt it, too—your discomfort, the physical manifestation of all the things you wouldn’t say out loud. His hands tightened on the steering wheel, and for a second you thought maybe he wouldn’t say anything, maybe he’d let it fester the way he usually did. But then his voice cut through the silence—low and steady, not sharp, but not gentle either. “You know…” he started, slow and deliberate, “you like to pretend we’re so different. Like I’m the fuck-up and you’re the girl with the guilty conscience and the sad eyes who just happens to make bad decisions.”

You turned your head, eyes narrowing, pulse skittering with anticipation before the blow even landed.

“But the only real difference between us?” he continued, his voice almost thoughtful now, almost bored. “Is that unlike you, I don’t pretend to have any shame. I don’t act like I’m hiding something. You think sneaking out at sunrise makes you the good guy?” He let out a humorless laugh—not cruel, not mocking, just hollow. Just tired. “I don’t hide you. I don’t treat you like something that needs to be kept quiet.”

That made your stomach twist. You opened your mouth, but he kept going, eyes still fixed on the road like he couldn’t look at you while he said it. “You have this routine,” he muttered, jaw tight, “where you crawl into my bed after you’ve fucked up your own head. You take my weed, my blow, my fucking time—let me touch you like no one else gets to—and then you walk out before it’s even daylight. And then, every fucking time, you toss that same line at me like a lifeline: ‘I’m still in love with JJ.’”

He finally looked at you then, and it made your breath catch. His eyes weren’t angry, not exactly. Just tired. Bitter. “Like that sentence means anything anymore,” he added quietly.

You blinked, stunned by the brutal clarity of it all. You could feel yourself shutting down, heart rising to your throat, defensiveness bubbling in your chest like bile.

“You’re jealous,” you said, but it came out shaky, unsure. Weak.

Rafe scoffed, shaking his head as he looked back at the road, the corner of his mouth curling in something dark. “Jealous?” he echoed. “Nah. I just think it’s funny. You keep acting like that boy actually knows how to love you.” His voice dipped lower, more dangerous. “Like he isn’t confusing wanting to fuck you with actually knowing you. Like he’s not a massive pussy who thinks loyalty means sticking by someone he doesn’t even want the way I do.”

You stared at him, blinking hard, vision stinging at the edges from something you refused to call emotion. “You don’t want me,” you whispered. “You just like the control.”

His jaw flexed. “Don’t fucking flatter yourself.”

“Oh, please,” you snapped suddenly, the words bursting out of you with the kind of rage you’d been choking on for months. “You like having me on a leash. You like that I keep coming back. It makes you feel like you won something over JJ, like you finally took something from him.”

“I don’t give a fuck about JJ,” Rafe growled, whipping his head toward you again, eyes flashing in the dark. “I’d still have you even if he never existed.”

The car filled with heavy silence again, but this time it was thick with unspoken things—desperation, pain, resentment, the kind of love that was buried so deep under the wreckage that neither of you were willing to dig it out.

You looked away first, heart in your throat, voice barely audible. “Then why do you always let me leave?”

That silenced him.

And that, more than anything else, was your answer.

But Rafe wasn't one to be silenced for long. Not even when it came to you. Not even when it came to the parts of you that were still bleeding, still hopeful, still rooted in fantasies that had long since rotted. His voice cut back into the quiet, sharp and unapologetic. “Why do I let you leave?” he echoed, turning the question over like it was something he’d practiced answering. Like he knew it would come eventually, and now that it had, he wasn’t about to let it slide. “Because even after all this time—even after four fucking months of sneaking around, and staying the night, and crawling back—you still have this little fantasy playing out in that soft head of yours. You still think JJ’s gonna come to his senses. That he’s gonna break up with Kiara and fall into your arms like a movie ending. That when he finds out you’ve been screwing the town’s most hated asshole, he’ll look past it—past me—and kiss your forehead and say something sweet, like ‘It’s okay, sugar, we all make mistakes.’”

His voice got quieter then. Not soft—never soft—but quieter, crueler, the way truth always was when it came from his mouth. “Like Kiara Carrera isn’t the safest fucking choice he’ll ever make. Like she isn’t the one he’s gonna lock down because she makes sense on paper. Because her daddy’s rich, and she’s already half-broken in. She looks good next to him. She’s got just enough edge to make him feel alive, but not enough to make him bleed.”

You didn’t interrupt. You couldn’t. His words weren’t daggers—they were scalpels. Precise. Intentional. And meant to hurt.

“Props to him, though,” Rafe added after a beat, eyes fixed on the road but jaw tight, voice seething with that brand of contempt only Rafe Cameron could perfect. “If he knocks her up, he’s got everything tied in a pretty little bow. Wealth, in-laws, a house with a front porch. The good guy act pays off, doesn’t it?”

You swallowed hard, throat burning like you’d swallowed glass, the words slicing on the way down.

Then came the quieter part. The part he said like a promise, or maybe a prophecy. “Mark my fucking words, angel,” he murmured, that nickname landing heavier than usual. “Once your little band of hooligans finds out that the Charleston hookup was a lie? That it wasn’t just some random stranger you hooked up with in a moment of weakness but me—Rafe Cameron—they’ll kick you to the fucking curb. Maybe not forever. Maybe just long enough to make it hurt. But it’ll happen. Because that Pogue loyalty you people scream about so much?” He scoffed, shaking his head. “It’s conditional. Built on unfortunate status and tragic appearances. Built on you playing your part, being predictable. And you broke the script. You slept with the villain, angel. You don’t come back from that clean.”

You felt like the breath had been knocked from your lungs, like you were spiraling in the passenger seat, drowning in the weight of his words. But what made it worse—what truly sank the knife in—was that he wasn’t saying it to hurt you. Not really. He was just saying it because it was true. Because Rafe Cameron never needed to lie to destroy you. He only ever had to remind you of the things you already knew.

“And don’t look at me like that,” Rafe muttered after a beat, catching the flicker of something wounded in your silence. He didn't look away from the road, but you could feel his eyes cut sideways anyway, burning into your profile like he needed to catch the exact moment you flinched. “I’m not trying to be a dick. I mean—I am—but I’m not wrong. You think they’ll understand? That they’ll listen when you try to explain how it started? They won’t. Because you’ve spent your whole fucking life being the good one. The reliable one. JJ’s shadow. Pope’s conscience. Sarah’s moral compass. You’ve been the glue for them for so long, they’re gonna take one look at me and decide you snapped.”

His grip tightened on the steering wheel, knuckles blanching even through the bruises. “And you did, didn’t you? You snapped. You let yourself get close to me. Let yourself come back to me. Let me in—and not just inside you, but here.” His hand released the wheel just long enough to press his fingertips to the side of his head, tapping once, then once more to his chest, over his heart. “Here, too. That’s what scares you more than any of this shit. It’s not that you’re fucking the town’s golden menace—it’s that somewhere along the line you stopped pretending it was just fucking.”

The silence that followed felt louder than the music faintly humming through the speakers. Your fingers curled into your thighs, nails pressing into your skin like pain could tether you to something other than this moment. Because he was right. God, he was right. And that was the worst part—Rafe always knew when to twist the knife, but he also always knew exactly where to stab.

He huffed, almost to himself, and leaned back into his seat, posture finally easing like he’d expelled something he’d been carrying around for too long. “It’s not about JJ,” he said, voice lower now, less venomous. “It hasn’t been for a while, has it?”

You shifted in your seat like movement could save you, could shake loose the weight of his words still lingering in the charged air between you. But nothing budged. Not the silence, not the ache in your throat, not the truth sitting in your stomach like a swallowed stone. You were unraveling quietly. Like a thread being pulled from the inside out. And Rafe wasn’t even looking at you anymore. He didn’t need to. He’d already gotten under your skin, already said what needed to be said. The rest was just letting the guilt marinate.

You wanted to say something cruel, dig your nails back into the one place you knew he’d bleed for you. Tell him JJ almost kissed you today, that he looked at you like he used to—before Kiara, before things got complicated. You wanted to twist that dagger, watch it land like all of Rafe’s barbed truths did. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. Because maybe for the first time since this started, you didn’t want to be cruel to him. Not when you remembered the way his head had dipped earlier to press against yours, not when you remembered the way he kissed the corner of your mouth like it was sacred, not when you remembered the way he bled for you without asking for anything in return.

So you stayed quiet. Let the storm of your feelings roll through you, lightning cracking behind your ribs. Let the words that always came so easily to you rot behind your teeth. And he didn’t push. He just drove, his hand gripping the wheel tightly, bruised knuckles catching the pale yellow light of the next streetlamp you passed. You wondered if they still hurt. If he even cared that they did. Probably not. Rafe Cameron didn’t flinch for pain—not the physical kind, anyway.

You bit the inside of your cheek, blinking hard against the sting in your eyes. Because he was right. He was always so fucking right. You had this fantasy—that JJ would wake up one day and choose you. That the world would right itself and you could be loved without shame, without hiding. But deep down you knew JJ would never pick you. Not in the way that mattered. Not when Kiara was safe, and sweet, and didn’t sleep with the enemy under cover of night. Not when you had Rafe Cameron’s fingerprints all over you—body and soul.

The shame hit then, hard and all-consuming. And yet, somehow, it didn’t crush you. It just sat there. Like a part of you. Like something you’d grown around. You hated how comfortable it felt, how it didn’t send you spiraling anymore. Maybe because Rafe made space for it. Held the mirror up and never asked you to look away. Never asked you to be better than what you were. He saw the wreckage and kept his door unlocked anyway.

And wasn’t that what scared you most? Not that he loved you. But that maybe, in the most fucked-up way imaginable, you were starting to love him back.

Your nails dug deeper into your thigh, but the pain barely registered. The car slowed as he took the familiar turn onto the long drive leading to Tannyhill, the headlights bouncing against gravel and trees you’d passed a hundred times by now. Your body knew the way like muscle memory, like addiction. You watched the house rise in the distance, dark and empty except for one porch light flickering near the front.

He still didn’t speak. But when he finally parked, he didn’t move either. Just sat there with the engine ticking quietly, hands still on the wheel. And for a moment, you both just existed in the silence, neither of you willing to make the first move.

Then, his voice—low, almost hoarse. “You coming in?”

You didn’t answer right away. Just nodded, slow and deliberate, before pushing the car door open and stepping out into the cool night air. Because the truth was, you didn’t have anywhere else to go. Not really. Not when your heart was somewhere between JJ’s hands and Rafe’s front seat. And right now, only one of them was still holding it.

The slam of the car door didn’t echo. It thudded dully against the stillness, like even the night was holding its breath for you. You heard his door shut a moment later, his footsteps catching up just as you were reaching the porch steps. He didn’t say anything—he didn’t have to. The space between you vibrated with all the words neither of you dared voice, the mess of it strung out like tripwire from the passenger seat to the front door. You walked ahead, already familiar with the way into the house. He didn’t offer to unlock it. He just watched you push it open with the same hand that had just been trembling in your lap.

The house was quiet. Not empty—Rafe’s places never felt empty—but hushed in that eerie way that rich homes could be. All size and silence and dim lighting. The kind of quiet that made it feel like something was waiting for you upstairs. Maybe it was. Maybe it always was. You didn’t say anything as you walked in, shoes kicking off automatically at the front mat like muscle memory. His footsteps followed you in close behind, steady and unhurried, and you didn’t stop moving until you reached the stairs and started climbing. He let you go first. Always did.

His room smelled like him. Faint traces of cologne and something sharp beneath it—weed, maybe, or gunpowder, or the kind of aggression that never quite left a space. You stepped inside like it wasn’t the thousandth time you’d done this. Your eyes flicked briefly over the unmade bed, the cluttered nightstand, the discarded clothes on the floor. Familiar chaos. Lived-in in the way Rafe was. And then you spotted the tray on his dresser—grinder, papers, lighter, and a small jar already cracked open. A slow comfort curled in your gut at the sight of it.

You turned just in time to see him close the door behind him, his movements slow but assured. He tossed his keys onto the desk with a loud clatter, stripped off his polo in one lazy move, and tossed it to the chair without a glance. And for a moment, you just watched him—watched the play of shadow over his torso, the quiet tension in the line of his shoulders, the bruises blooming like secrets along his ribs. He caught you staring but didn’t say anything, just jerked his chin toward the dresser. “You wanna roll it or you want me to?”

Your lips twitched. “You’re better at it.”

He scoffed, stepping forward and grabbing the tray with one hand, already sitting down on the edge of the bed. “No shit,” he muttered, cracking the grinder open with practiced ease. His fingers moved deftly, confident and familiar, and you found yourself standing frozen in place for another long second—like you weren’t sure whether to sit beside him or crawl inside him.

Eventually, you moved, settling cross-legged across from him, knees brushing. He didn’t look up, but you could see the corner of his mouth twitch in acknowledgment. The smell of weed filled the room in lazy plumes as he worked, and the sound of the grinder, the rustle of paper, the flick of the lighter—it all felt so absurdly normal for a situation that was anything but.

And still, nothing felt forced. You didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. He passed you the joint once it was done, lighter already in hand. And when your fingers brushed his, a small jolt of something passed between you. Not lust. Not quite comfort. Just something.

You took it, brought the joint to your lips, and inhaled slowly, letting the heat settle deep in your chest before exhaling in a sigh. “You know I hate how good you are at this,” you murmured, voice thick from the smoke and something heavier.

He tilted his head slightly, watching you with that lazy half-smile that always meant trouble. “At rolling, or at you?”

You exhaled again, watching the smoke curl toward the ceiling. “Both.”

Your fingers brushed when you handed him the joint, and his thumb lingered a fraction longer against your knuckle than it needed to. A moment too intentional. His eyes didn’t meet yours at first—too focused on the smoke curling from the lit end, or maybe just trying not to give himself away. But there was a shift. His shoulders dropped slightly, like the hit unwound something tight inside him, even if it was just for a second. You watched the way his jaw flexed as he exhaled, the white fog leaving his mouth like a sigh he hadn’t realized he was holding. And then his fingers moved to his belt—slow, methodical, the leather tugging against the loop like it had been bothering him for hours. The sound it made, that soft scrape and snap of metal, was mundane. Ordinary. But somehow it felt weighted in the space between you, pressing in on something neither of you were ready to name.

It wasn’t meant to be sensual. Not really. But it tugged something low in your gut anyway, twisted up with everything else you’d been pushing down for the last hour. You exhaled quietly, not from the weed but from the heat—the kind crawling under your skin, soaking through your limbs. You reached for the hem of your shirt almost absently, the fabric tight from how you'd sat, and unbuttoned the top two buttons slowly. Not to tease. Not to tempt. Just because it felt necessary. Like you couldn’t breathe properly until you shed the extra layer of fabric. The shirt slipped over your head with a quiet rustle, landing in a small heap beside you on the bed. You glanced down at yourself, at the black lace of your bra, delicate and a little worn, the straps digging faintly into your shoulders. Your skirt had ridden up slightly, the hem brushing mid-thigh now that you were sitting cross-legged.

“Your AC’s broken,” you murmured, keeping your tone light, almost bored, as if your heart wasn’t slamming into your ribs.

Rafe didn’t answer right away. His eyes finally slid to you—slow, deliberate. First your collarbones, the way your skin was glowing faintly from the heat. Then lower. The lace. The curve of your legs. His gaze wasn’t crude, but it wasn’t innocent either. It was hungry, simmering with something dark and restrained, like he was trying not to look too hard even though it was already too late.

He took another hit, a shallow one this time, and when he exhaled, the smoke curled between you like it was painting the silence in something thick and electric. His free hand ran down the side of his face, scratching lightly at his jaw, the tension in his body suddenly unmissable. Like he didn’t know whether to reach for you or run a fist through the wall. He stared ahead, lips parted like he was working through the thousands of things he wanted to say, or maybe just trying to will himself to stay still.

“I should fix that,” he muttered eventually, nodding toward the ceiling fan with a ghost of a smirk that didn’t quite meet his eyes. “The AC.”

“Mhm.” You stretched your legs out slightly, knees brushing his. “You’ve said that the last three times I was here.”

His eyes dropped to the space between your knees, to the way your thighs shifted against the sheets. His fingers tightened around the joint just slightly, knuckles going taut before he brought it back to his lips. He didn’t respond this time, just stared at you over the burning tip, eyes unreadable but burning. The weight of it sat heavy on your chest—this push and pull, the quiet challenge threading between every glance.

Still, neither of you reached for the other. Still, the distance remained.

But the tension? The tension was already touching everything.

Your gaze roamed over his form laid beside you, shirtless, his jeans undone just enough to expose the sharp cut of his hips. His belt hung loosely, forgotten, the glint of the buckle catching in the low, moody light pooling through the cracked curtains. His chest rose and fell slowly, like he wasn’t in a hurry for anything—not the weed, not your answer, not even the inevitable tension simmering between your bodies. His hair was a mess, sticking up at odd angles like he’d run his hands through it one too many times, and the cut on his lip caught the moonlight in a way that made your stomach tighten. There was something about this—about him—that felt too intimate to be casual, even if neither of you had said anything yet. You were both pretending like it was the same as always, but it wasn’t. Not tonight. Tonight felt heavy. Like a line was being walked.

Your breath caught softly in your throat at the simplicity of the moment—just the two of you, alone in his room, the air thick with smoke and tension and something unspoken. It wasn’t about sex. Not right now. Not really. It was about him being comfortable enough to unbuckle his jeans in front of you like it meant nothing. About how your body didn’t startle when the bed dipped under his weight. About how your skin had stopped flinching under his stare.

He was watching you now, those icy eyes half-lidded and lazy with the high, but there was nothing relaxed about the way his gaze moved. He handed you the joint wordlessly, his fingers brushing yours again, knuckles warm from holding it. You took it, and the corner of your mouth twitched up at the way his eyes dropped almost immediately—hovering somewhere between your mouth and the slow drag you took. You inhaled, exhaled, and for a moment the only thing between you was the thin curl of smoke twisting into the warm night.

He shifted onto his side, resting his weight on one elbow, body angling toward you without thinking. There was a slight crease between his brows like he was concentrating too hard on not staring—on being respectful when he had no real reason to be. Like he was trying to prove something, even now. His gaze flicked from your lips to your bra, then back up, as if trying to decide whether he should comment at all. But of course he did.

“They’re matching…” he murmured, voice low and almost distracted, eyes finally giving in and dragging downward to the black lace stretched across your chest. You didn’t look away—you let him look. Maybe you even wanted him to.

“You matched them for me?” he asked, a small smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth as he gave a sharp jerk of his chin, gesturing lazily toward the delicate fabric. His voice carried something new in it, something almost reverent beneath the teasing. Like he wanted to make a joke but couldn’t quite manage to, because the sight of you in black lace had just knocked the breath from his lungs.

You held the joint between two fingers, letting it burn idly as your lips parted just enough for your next exhale. You didn’t answer right away. Didn’t need to. The silence between you said plenty. He’d seen you in far less, in far worse lighting, in far more vulnerable states. But now, when you were still mostly dressed and not even touching, he looked like he was trying to memorize you all over again.

“You like them?” you asked eventually, voice a little rough from the smoke and something else entirely.

His tongue swiped over the cut on his bottom lip, a slow, absentminded movement as his eyes moved over you again, slower this time, deeper. “Yeah,” he breathed. “Yeah, I do.”

And he meant it. Not like a guy who wanted to fuck you. Not even like a guy who wanted to rip them off. But like someone who felt weirdly lucky to be in the room with you at all. Like something about the lace felt private, intentional. Not because it was lingerie, but because it was yours. Because you chose it. Because you were here, wearing it, in his bed, and hadn’t run.

You passed the joint back to him, and your fingers lingered this time. Just barely. Just enough for both of you to notice. Just enough for the air to shift again.

His fingers brushed yours as he took the joint back, but he didn’t move away right away. He let his hand hover near yours, knuckles grazing your thigh so lightly it could’ve been accidental if not for the way he froze after. Like the warmth of your skin shocked him into stillness. His eyes were on your leg now, trained on the spot his hand had touched, then slowly dragging upward. His breath hitched so quietly you almost didn’t catch it, but you felt it. In the way his chest paused mid-breath. In the way his jaw tensed.

You swallowed thickly and leaned back on your palms, subtly shifting your weight so your knee brushed against his. A gentle press. Like a nudge. Like an opening. His gaze flicked to yours instantly, searching, trying to see if you meant to do it. If this was another game. Another silent tease. But you didn’t look away. You held it.

He brought the joint to his lips again, slower this time. Not to smoke it, but to stall. His fingers trembled just slightly when he inhaled, and when he blew the smoke out, it ghosted across your collarbone. Warm and fragrant and sticky-sweet. He didn’t lean forward. Not yet. But he did tilt his head, eyes following the smoke trail as it curled across your chest, disappearing into the shadows between your breasts.

“You’re trying to kill me,” he muttered, almost amused, voice roughened with the mix of lust and restraint.

“Am I?” you asked, feigning innocence with a tilt of your head, but your chest rose a little faster now, breath tightening with every second he didn’t touch you.

His hand moved, hesitant but deliberate, reaching out to brush his knuckles along your bare thigh. It wasn’t a grope. Wasn’t even possessive. Just a slow drag of skin against skin, like he was checking if you were real. His thumb followed the same path, firmer this time, and your stomach tensed. You could feel how careful he was being, how fragile the moment felt in his hands. Like he was afraid that if he grabbed too hard, it’d shatter. Or worse, that you’d pull away.

“I like when they match,” he murmured again, eyes not leaving your body. “Means you were thinking about me when you got dressed.”

“I wasn’t,” you whispered, even though it wasn’t true. He smirked, but didn’t call you on it.

His hand settled on your leg, wide palm spreading across your thigh, grounding you there. You let him, your own fingers twitching like they wanted to do something—touch him back, run through his hair, trace the cut on his lip again—but you didn’t. You were both waiting. Both teetering on the edge.

The joint burned low between his fingers. He glanced at it absently, then stubbed it out in the ashtray on the nightstand before leaning in closer—just slightly. Just enough for your noses to almost brush. His hand tightened around your thigh, warm and firm, and when he spoke again, his voice was barely a whisper.

“You want me to kiss you?” he asked, eyes searching yours, already knowing the answer.

You didn’t nod. Didn’t speak. You leaned in instead, so faintly it could’ve been mistaken for breathing. But it was enough. His other hand reached up, fingertips skimming the curve of your jaw, then trailing down your neck. He hovered. Lips parted, breath ghosting over yours. But he didn’t close the distance. Not yet.

He needed you to do it. To meet him there.

So you did.

Your lips brushed his, tentative and slow, nothing like the frantic kisses from the past. This one was careful, lingering. Like you were both afraid of what would happen once it deepened. His mouth was soft, cut still healing, and you felt him tremble slightly against you—just for a second—before he exhaled into the kiss, pulling you a little closer by the thigh, lips finally pressing more firmly to yours.

It was gentle. Devastatingly so.

Because he was still holding back.

And you were letting him.

Rafe was a frantic kisser. He always had been. He moved like he had something to prove—like if he kissed you fast enough, hard enough, urgently enough, it would somehow stop you from slipping through his fingers come morning. His hands were usually greedy and impatient, gripping your waist like a lifeline, pulling at your clothes with that boyish kind of aggression that felt more like a dare than foreplay. He'd tear fishnets like they were wrapping paper, unbutton shorts with practiced speed, like he'd done it in his head a thousand times before he ever laid a hand on you. It had always been desperate, unpolished, the kind of lust that bloomed from chaos and tried to mask the ache beneath it.

But not tonight.

Tonight, Rafe kissed you like he had all the time in the world. Like whatever urgency had once clawed under his skin had been replaced with something heavier—something deeper. His lips moved against yours slowly, deliberately, making sure you felt the curve of every press, every tentative swipe of his tongue, like he was savoring you instead of devouring. His hand slid up your thigh with an uncharacteristic gentleness, fingers curling in just enough to make you gasp softly, dragging your leg over his hip as he shifted closer. His palm stayed there, grounding you to him, thumb stroking along your inner thigh while his other hand gripped your waist, not to drag you closer, but to hold you in place—secure, like if he anchored you hard enough you wouldn’t drift.

Your breath stuttered into his mouth, the heat between you simmering low and slow instead of crashing hot. You hummed without meaning to, the kiss drawing a sound from somewhere deep in your chest as his tongue met yours, lazy and warm and devastatingly intimate. He made it feel like a secret. Like something sacred, even as your bodies started reacting to each other out of habit, muscle memory and instinct making your hips shift just a little. But the urgency wasn’t there. The rush was gone. It was something else now—wanting him and letting yourself feel it.

Your fingers twitched under his jaw before sliding up, tangling gently into his hair. His breath caught at the contact, like you’d touched something vulnerable, and it only pulled him closer. His hand on your waist slid up, grazing the curve of your ribs with a featherlight touch, brushing the edge of your bra like he didn’t want to take it off, just feel you there, warm and breathing and here. He kissed you like it meant something. Like it wasn’t about sex. Like the filth was just the language you spoke—but tonight, it translated to something slower, something a little like affection.

You could taste the weed on his tongue. Could feel the way his heartbeat had slowed, heavy and steady beneath your palm now that his guard had slipped down just far enough to show you the version of him he rarely let out. You parted your lips again, giving him access, and he took it—not to dominate, but to explore, to linger. His thumb stroked your thigh again, firmer this time, like he needed the pressure, needed to remind himself you were real. That you hadn’t pulled away yet. That you were letting him do this—to kiss you without hurry. To touch you like it didn’t have to end in anything but this.

Just this.

You pressed back into him, lips gliding over his as your hand curled tighter in his hair, pulling softly. And he groaned then—quiet and needy and low in his throat, like the sound had been stuck in him for weeks, and this kiss finally dragged it out.

He kissed you like he missed you.

Like you were something he couldn’t stop touching, but had to be gentle with anyway. And when his forehead finally dropped to yours, breath heavy and lips swollen, he didn’t speak. He just held you there, thumb tracing mindless shapes into your thigh, like saying it out loud might ruin the spell.

"Missed you, angel…” he murmured finally, voice quiet and wrecked, barely more than breath against your lips. The words hit you harder than they should have, softer than you expected. 'Missed you.' It echoed in your head, bouncing off every wall you'd built to keep this from meaning more than it was supposed to. The sound of it in his voice—low and genuine, frayed at the edges—twisted something deep inside you. You didn’t move, didn’t speak. You just stared at him, breathing through the way the heat curled up your spine and settled in your chest, your heart beating too loud in your ears.

His hand was still under your skirt, fingers splayed wide across your bare thigh, not moving, just existing there like a brand. Rafe never told you he missed you. He got emotional sometimes, sure—rambled when high, clung to you like gravity when he was drunk—but this? This was something else. This wasn’t the haze talking. This was him, clear-eyed and heavy-lidded, looking at you like you were something he’d been starving for.

He leaned in again, slower this time, bridging the last few inches of space like he couldn’t help himself, like the pull was too strong. You didn’t stop him. Didn’t even breathe. His lips found your cheek first, a soft press of heat that felt out of place for the kind of boy he was. Then another. Then one closer to the corner of your mouth. Featherlight, fluttery kisses like he was trying to memorize the feel of you with his lips. Your nails dragged through his hair gently, not to guide him—just to ground yourself, your fingers tightening slightly when his mouth hovered right over the seam of your lips.

“You missed me?” you whispered, the question slipping out before you could think better of it.

He let out a breathy chuckle, his mouth brushing against yours, not quite kissing you yet. “Don’t make me say it twice.”

“Thought you don’t do feelings, Cameron,” you teased lightly, voice hoarse from holding back everything you actually wanted to say.

“I don’t,” he murmured back, eyes flicking between yours, voice thick with honesty. “But you… you fuck with my head.”

You swallowed hard, the confession crashing into your chest like a wave. “You’re high.”

“Not that high.” His hand moved slightly on your thigh, fingers flexing just enough to make your stomach tighten. “I’ve missed you every day you weren’t here. Doesn’t matter how high I am. That part doesn’t change.”

You didn’t mean to kiss him then, not really. But your body moved before your brain could stop it, lips catching his in something quiet and slow, not even meant to escalate—just to acknowledge. Just to say I know. I missed you too. He kissed you back instantly, but without the usual hunger. It was languid and careful, like he wanted to stretch the moment out, keep it suspended between you forever. His thumb stroked your inner thigh once, and your legs instinctively shifted, giving him space to settle between them even though you both knew neither of you were going to rush anything yet.

“I hate you sometimes,” you mumbled when you pulled back, breath mingling with his, lips barely an inch apart.

“I know,” he said, and he was smiling. “You always come back anyway.”

You let your eyes drift shut, resting your forehead to his, trying to remember how to breathe properly. Because he wasn’t wrong. You always came back. But tonight—it wasn’t out of habit. It wasn’t just for weed, or sex, or to spite yourself.

Tonight, you stayed. And let it mean something.

His hand slid beneath your knee, guiding your leg up and over his hip with ease, securing it there like he didn’t want to risk you slipping away. The shift in position brought his body closer, pressed nearly flush against yours now, his chest brushing your bare stomach with every slow breath. He leaned down, nose nudging the curve of your throat before his lips followed—pressing slow, almost lazy kisses to the sensitive skin beneath your jaw. The drag of his mouth there sent tingles down your spine, light and maddening, the kind of affection that burned hotter than anything rushed.

Your fingers twitched in his hair, fisting it gently as his mouth moved lower, kisses turning more purposeful. He lingered at the base of your throat, tongue flicking out briefly before he kissed there again, making you shift beneath him involuntarily. The weight of his body blanketed you, warm and heavy, almost too much—but not enough to push him away. Still, your voice broke through the haze of heat, breathy and trembling as you murmured, “You’re crushing me…”

Rafe froze for a second, his breath huffing out against your skin in a quiet laugh that warmed your collarbone. “Good,” he muttered, lips brushing the hollow of your throat. “Then you won’t get any ideas about leaving.”

“Rafe…” you whispered, a breath caught between a protest and something softer.

He lifted his head slightly, just enough to look at you, and for a moment the smugness cracked into something more careful. “Too much?” he asked, voice lower now, the teasing edge dulled by something real—anxiety, maybe. Or that desperate need to stay close.

You shook your head once, brushing a strand of hair away from his temple. “No. Just… I can’t breathe when you’re on top of me like that.”

He kissed you again with that same intent, slower now but filthier in a way that made your stomach twist tight with heat. His tongue dragged purposefully against yours, coaxing a breathy whimper from your lips that he swallowed like it fed something in him. He shifted further between your thighs, the hand on your leg sliding up, pushing the soft fabric of your skirt higher until his knuckles brushed against the crease of your thigh. His palm splayed there, possessive and warm, and he tilted his head just enough to deepen the kiss—his teeth grazing your bottom lip before sucking it into his mouth like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to kiss you or eat you alive.

“You don’t wear this skirt unless you want to get touched,” he rasped against your mouth, voice thick with smoke and hunger, the words curling hot in your core. “You knew exactly what you were doing.”

Your answer came in the form of a roll of your hips, the friction desperate and fleeting but enough to make him groan quietly into your neck. His hand flexed where it rested on your thigh, dragging closer to the heat between your legs but still not touching—not yet. The restraint in his movements made your chest tighten, a slow burn building as he kissed down your throat again, slower now, tongue flicking out to taste the thin sheen of sweat collecting just below your jaw.

“I waited all fucking week,” he muttered, voice vibrating against your skin. “You think I didn’t notice? The way you ignored my texts, left me on read, acted like I don’t fuckin’ own your head?”

You didn’t answer, not with words. You couldn’t. Not when his teeth grazed the slope of your collarbone and his fingers finally slipped beneath the hem of your underwear to brush the inside of your thigh. The contact was maddening—just close enough to tease, not enough to relieve.

“You’re soaked,” he whispered, lips still against your skin. “And I haven’t even touched you yet.”

Your breath caught, nails digging into the back of his shoulder. “Then touch me,” you gasped, tone more of a dare than a plea, even if your thighs twitched around his waist like you were aching for it.

But Rafe didn’t rush. Not this time. He dragged his fingers along the edge of your panties, slow and deliberate, never quite dipping where you wanted them. His other hand skimmed up your side, fingers brushing the swell of your breast through the lace of your bra, knuckles grazing the curve before finally, finally cupping you fully. His thumb circled over your nipple, gentle at first and then rougher when he felt the way your body reacted, arching into him.

“Every time you pretend this doesn’t mean anything,” he growled, lifting his head to look down at you, eyes glassy but focused, locked on your mouth again, “you make me wanna ruin you worse.”

“You already did,” you whispered, half-laughing through the haze, and he grinned—dark, breathless, and fucking triumphant—before crashing his mouth to yours again.

The kiss was less patient now, his hand slipping further between your legs, fingers finally pressing against your slick heat through the soaked fabric. You gasped, hips bucking up instinctively, and he cursed under his breath like he’d just gotten everything he wanted. And in a way, he had. You. Here. Willing and wrecked beneath him, already crumbling just from his mouth and the heat of his fingers. And you hadn’t even gotten naked yet.

“Rafe…” you breathed, almost helpless.

He grinned against your lips, dragging your panties aside with a lazy flick of his wrist. “Say it again.”

“Rafe…” you whispered again, quieter this time, like saying his name was a confession you weren’t ready to own. But he caught it—memorized it like a prayer—and let it fuel the way his fingers finally slipped between your folds, slow and deliberate, gathering your wetness like it was something sacred. His exhale was low and wrecked, and for a moment he just hovered there—nose brushing yours, lips barely parted, like he was in awe of how quickly he unraveled you. His thumb circled your clit with a kind of focus that made your thighs twitch around his hips, and his fingers stayed unhurried, stroking through the slick warmth like he had all the time in the world to feel you fall apart.

“You feel that?” he murmured, his voice so low and reverent it made your chest tighten. “That’s mine, angel. All this mess, all this heat—I did that.”

You could barely form a response, head tilted back against the pillows, eyes fluttering shut as you bit your lip. The lace of your bra scratched lightly against your skin with every breath, and Rafe’s free hand slid up to tug it down lazily, exposing one breast to the air, then lowering his head to wrap his mouth around your nipple in one slow, warm pull. You gasped, back arching as his tongue circled it, mouth hot and wet and sinful, and then the fingers between your legs pressed a little deeper, curling just slightly, and your breath hitched so hard you whimpered.

He hummed against your chest, clearly pleased with himself. “You gonna come just from this?” he murmured, voice smug and husky, lips brushing the sensitive peak before pulling back. “That’s kinda pathetic, baby.”

But it wasn’t cruel—it was teasing. Dirty and intimate in a way that only he could make feel like affection. His fingers moved in steady rhythm now, coaxing more slick from you with every stroke, and the pads of them brushed against your most sensitive spot with the kind of expertise that came from knowing your body better than you did. He watched your face the entire time—those sharp blue eyes catching every stutter of breath, every twitch of your lips, like he could come just from watching you lose yourself under him.

“Open your eyes,” he ordered quietly. And when you did, the moment locked in. You were both breathing heavy now, skin flushed and sweat-slicked, pupils blown wide. And there was something devastatingly intimate about the way he looked at you then—like he wasn’t just trying to fuck you, but memorize every second of it. Burn it into his brain like some unholy possession.

“Say it’s mine,” he said next, fingers still stroking you through your growing tremble. “I wanna hear you say it.”

Your chest rose and fell in uneven waves, your hand reaching for him blindly—grabbing his wrist, nails digging into his skin as your orgasm crept closer, hotter. “It’s yours,” you choked out, not even thinking, not even lying. “It’s all yours.”

He groaned like the words cracked something in him wide open. Like he needed them more than air. And as your hips bucked against his hand, the pressure building impossibly high, he leaned down again, kissing you deep, swallowing every cry that spilled from your throat as he pushed you right over the edge.

The hand buried in his hair trembled, your fingers twitching in the soft, sweat-damp strands as your hips writhed beneath him, his weight pressing you deeper into the mattress with every subtle shift of his body. He slowed the movement of his fingers on purpose now—just to watch you squirm. Just to drag it out and drink in the way your face pinched with frustration, lips parted in breathy, near-silent whimpers that made his cock throb against the inside of your thigh. The friction of his jeans rough against your skin, the heat of him barely restrained behind the undone waistband—it was maddening.

“Look at that, angel,” he murmured lowly, and you didn’t have to ask what. Because his eyes were fixed between your legs, lashes low and predatory as he watched the slick, lewd way your body sucked around his fingers, taking them in knuckle-deep like you were starving for him. “This pussy’s swallowing my fingers so easily…”

You whimpered, head lolling back, but his free hand came up and gripped your jaw—not hard, just enough to tilt your face toward him again. To make sure you heard every word.

“‘Cause you’re my little slut, yeah?” he asked, voice low and dark and teasing, the kind of cruel softness that had you clenching again before you could help it. His thumb dragged lazily over your clit now, feather-light, and the smirk that followed nearly broke you. “Oh, I felt that. Don’t look at me like that when you just proved it.”

“Rafe—” you started, half a plea, half a warning. But he didn’t let up. He leaned in, nose brushing yours, the scent of weed and sweat and your own arousal thick in the space between you.

“You get mean when I say it, but your cunt doesn’t lie, baby,” he whispered, tongue flicking out to taste the corner of your mouth like he needed a sample. “It’s the sweetest little contradiction—this filthy, wet fucking mess and that attitude.” He slipped his fingers in again, deeper now, the stretch hitting just right. “So tight still, like you’re trying to make me earn it.”

Your breath hitched, hands curling into fists in his hair, and you squeezed your eyes shut, body bucking upward in a frustrated arch. He chuckled, low and pleased, mouthing over your throat, biting down just hard enough to make your skin jump.

“Come on, angel. Say it,” he coaxed, his voice all molten drawl and heat, lips dragging along your collarbone. “Say you’re my little slut. Or should I make you beg for my cock first?”

“You’re such a—” you started, defiant, but it bled into a gasp when he crooked his fingers just right, thumb circling with sudden purpose. Your spine arched, knees falling wider on instinct, and your face burned as your body betrayed you again—slicker, needier.

“Go on,” he urged, tongue grazing your pulse, teeth nipping gently. “Be brave.”

And you couldn’t hold it anymore—not with the tension pulsing in your core, not with the smirk on his face or the way he looked at you like the whole fucking world existed between your thighs. “I’m your slut,” you spat finally, breath ragged, eyes meeting his in a glare that didn’t even land. “Happy now?”

But instead of gloating, he slowed again. Stilled, even.

“No,” he said, and his tone dropped into something quieter—dangerous and tender all at once. “Not happy. Obsessed.”

Then his mouth crashed into yours, hot and hungry, swallowing your next moan as his fingers started moving again—harder now, rougher, like he was trying to carve the truth of that confession into your body. Like he needed to mark it inside you. Because being Rafe Cameron’s little slut wasn’t something you got to say once. It was something you had to feel—over and over and over again.

You barely had the power or pride left to kiss him back, expression wrecked with a strange blend of irritation and pleasure that clashed behind your eyes. Rafe always liked to brag about how closed off he was, how he kept his emotions locked behind thick bone and pride, how he wore them by his heart and not on his sleeves like it was some kind of moral superiority. But you’d learned his tells. In the span of four messy, desperate months of this thing—of sex and resentment and late-night calls that neither of you wanted to explain—you’d learned how to read him like a goddamn script. When he was soft with you—and that didn’t happen often, not with someone like him—it meant he wasn’t bothering to hide the weight of what this was turning into. It meant he didn’t feel like pretending he didn’t care. You’d never say it aloud, not even in the quiet of your own mind without flinching, but there was something about that softness that you liked. It made you feel singular. Like the only girl in a room he swore he'd never step into.

But the real kicker was when he was mean.

Because that’s when you knew. That’s when the whole JJ part of your situation—your feelings, your history, your unresolved longing for a boy who only looked at you like that after he started dating Kie—ate away at Rafe like acid. He hated it. And when Rafe hated something, he twisted it until it screamed. So it would always start slow, almost tender—he’d kiss you like he meant it, touch you like he didn’t hate your guts—but somewhere between the climb of your arousal and the thick, foggy pleasure coating your brain, you’d hear them: the little comments. Mean, cutting, baiting. Half-jealous, half-cruel. That's when he gave himself away.

And tonight? He was high. That sharp, glassy kind of high that made his hands lazier but his mouth even worse. It always hit different when he was buzzed just right—blunt confidence, cocky amusement, no filter. He’d already worked you up to the point of shaking, his fingers inside you just slow and deep enough to make your thighs twitch around his hips, your mouth slack against his. That was the tell. The flickering signal that your orgasm was building and about to snap. It made him grin. He fucking loved that part, especially when he could rip it away. And he did, with zero warning, slipping his fingers out of you like it was nothing—like you weren’t seconds away from falling apart.

You gasped, breath catching as your hips jerked instinctively upward to chase the feeling, a low, frustrated whimper spilling from your lips. Your brows drew together, your voice barely a whisper as you exhaled, “Rafe, seriously—”

“Mm,” he cut you off with a shake of his head and a tsk of his tongue, licking his lips as he glanced down at his fingers, your arousal dripping and catching in the moonlight that sliced through the cracks in his blackout curtains. “You got my rings dirty, angel,” he murmured, smugness layered thick in his voice, like your desperation was some sort of minor inconvenience for him. Like you were the inconvenience. “So fucking messy. Can’t take you anywhere, huh?”

His tone wasn’t annoyed. It was entertained. He loved this—loved the way your face twisted in need, loved how close he could bring you just to pull back and watch the wreckage. His fingers flexed, glinting silver and slick under the low light as he tilted his hand toward you. “How about you stick out your tongue for me, huh?” he coaxed, his smirk stretching wide and sharp, practically glowing with the satisfaction of watching your jaw tighten. “Be a good girl. Clean 'em.”

You gave him that look—half glare, half helpless—because you wanted to be stubborn, you should have been stubborn, but your body was still buzzing from the build-up he’d left you on the edge of. You hated how easily he could twist you around with a few slow touches and cruel words. Hated how you didn’t walk away. Your eyes flicked from his to his hand, to the way he slowly brought his fingers to your lips with all the patience of a man who already knew he’d win.

“You’re such a fucking asshole,” you muttered, voice rough, throat dry.

He laughed, low and warm, leaning closer until his forehead brushed yours. “Yeah,” he agreed, a whisper against your skin. “But you’re letting the asshole fuck you instead of the guy you actually want, so what does that make you?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because the truth was sitting too heavy between your ribs. So instead you opened your mouth, slow and reluctant, and let your tongue drag along the pads of his fingers as he slid them past your lips. His breath hitched—just a little—but he masked it with another smirk, like the taste of you on your tongue didn’t do something to him too.

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, hand cradling your jaw now, thumb grazing your cheek like it was a privilege. “You get needy like this every time you see him with her?”

You didn’t respond—because biting back only made him worse and submitting made you hate yourself more. But that didn’t stop him. He leaned in again, his voice silk-drenched poison in your ear.

“He doesn’t even look at you like this. Doesn’t even know how bad you want him. But I do. I see it. Feel it.” His free hand trailed down between your legs again, sliding easily over your wetness like a reminder. “You think about him when I fuck you?”

Your breath caught, legs instinctively tightening around his hips again.

“Tell me,” he murmured, kissing the corner of your mouth now, soft in contrast to everything else. “When you close your eyes, is it him in your head? Or do you lie to yourself and say it’s me?”

You didn’t know whether you hated him more for asking or for how badly you wanted him to shut up and keep going. But either way, your voice came out in a whisper, cracked and mean and shamefully real.

His hand reached between your bodies, unhurried, like he wasn’t aching to be inside you every time it came down to this—like he didn’t come undone in private over the thought of you, like he wasn’t battling the same storm that tore through your chest whenever he looked at you like this. The way he moved, smooth and composed, was almost crueler than when he said something sharp. He pulled himself out of his boxers, the heavy weight of his cock brushing your thigh, hot and pulsing with need—but instead of pushing into you like you both knew he wanted to, he paused. Deliberately. Stalling, like he wanted to see you writhe just a little longer.

Then he slapped the flushed tip of his cock against your soaked center once, twice—just enough to make you jolt beneath him, muscles twitching from the contact, from the embarrassment of the wet sound it made. You bit your lip, chest rising with a shaky breath as your eyes fluttered open to glare at him. But he was already watching you, close enough to kiss, pupils blown wide with desire even though his expression still carried that usual amused cruelty.

“You don’t like me being mean, huh?” he asked softly, the edge in his voice muted by the hoarse, almost broken quality of it. His tone didn’t match his words—he sounded too close to losing control to really sell the meanness. Another soft slap followed, followed by the warm slide of his tip nudging against your entrance, dragging slick over already-sensitive skin. He exhaled hard through his nose like he was grounding himself, brow furrowed. “Fuck…” he muttered, voice dropping into something closer to awe than mockery, “Drenched.”

You whimpered involuntarily, hips rocking forward ever so slightly as if your body was begging him before you could form words. He stilled you with one firm hand gripping your thigh, his thumb digging in just enough to remind you who was in control.

Then he looked you in the eye—really looked, something colder and deeper behind the blue—and said low and deliberate, “At least this pussy’s loyal, angel.”

Your breath caught, a mixture of shame and fury bubbling up in your chest, but neither of them enough to overpower the way your body reacted to his words. You clenched around nothing, lips parting in a broken exhale that gave you away completely.

He caught it, of course he did.

“Oh, that got to you?” he smirked, biting back a grin as he leaned closer, brushing his nose against yours in a mockingly affectionate gesture. “God, you’re a mess. All those months following JJ around like a fucking shadow just to end up here, under me. You ever think about what he’d say if he saw you like this? Whimpering. So fucking wet for the guy you pretend to hate.”

Your eyes squeezed shut, but he didn’t stop. He never did. He liked pushing you right to the edge—emotionally, physically, all of it.

“You think he’d still look at you the same?” he whispered, voice dark and taunting now as he started to slowly push the head of his cock inside you, just enough to stretch you open and steal your breath. “Think he’d still call you sweet? Still flash you that little golden boy smile if he knew how you beg for me?”

“Shut up,” you managed to breathe out, fingers curling into the sheets, your body trembling beneath him.

But he only laughed quietly, the sound wicked and close to unhinged. “No. You like it. You want me to say it. You want me to ruin you and remind you that he’ll never know you like I do. He gets your heart, but I get this.” He thrust in a little deeper, a low groan rumbling in his chest as he felt how tight you were clinging to him. “And fuck, baby—you love giving it to me.”

“Rafe—” you tried again, but it broke into a moan halfway through, your voice shaking.

He kissed your jaw then, soft and slow, a contradiction to everything that had come out of his mouth, and whispered against your skin, “I know. I know you want him. But you need me.” And then he was all the way in, finally—thrusting deep with a groan like it hurt to hold back any longer, like he was punishing himself too for dragging it out.

And even through the sting of the stretch and the burn in your chest, you hated how good it felt to be claimed by him like this. How some part of you—the part that didn’t belong to JJ—thrived under Rafe’s cruelty.

His hand hooked under your knee, palm warm against the back of your thigh as he lifted your leg higher, guiding it up gently and pressing it against his hip to open you up more for him. The motion was tender—shockingly so—and it sent a ripple of heat through your chest, something shameful and intimate blooming beneath your ribs. Then he pushed in fully, slow but deliberate, bottoming out until your breath hitched and your nails bit into the skin of his shoulder. He stilled there, buried deep, not moving, not even taunting you anymore—just there—soaking in the feeling of your body clenching around him, like he needed a second to collect himself or else he’d lose the fragile grip he had on whatever control remained. His face dipped to your neck, nose brushing against the slope of your jaw, breath coming out hot and uneven as he mouthed at your skin, the tension in his back betraying how close he already was to unraveling.

Your hands braced against him instinctively, one digging into his shoulder for grounding, the other sliding up the back of his neck into his hair, fingertips scraping gently at his scalp as your head tilted back in response to the sensation, lips parting in a soft moan. Your walls fluttered around him, and he groaned low and deep against your throat, the sound sending a shiver racing down your spine.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” he murmured, voice muffled by your skin, his tone no longer mocking but raw—low and sincere in a way that made your heart stutter for reasons you didn’t want to name. He pulled out only an inch or two, dragging himself slow and steady along your walls before sliding back in just as slowly, a shaky exhale escaping his lips like your body was the only thing capable of grounding him.

“Fuck…” he breathed, almost to himself. “Shit, you feel so good…”

You swallowed hard, your throat tight, eyes fluttering shut as your fingers tightened in his hair. The deliberate pace was torture—aching and slow and devastatingly full—and yet there was something different about it. It wasn’t about punishing you anymore. It wasn’t about JJ. It wasn’t even about winning. It was just him, stripped of the game, of the smugness, of everything but how good it felt to be inside you.

“You always do this,” you whispered, voice trembling but quiet. “Act like you hate me, then fuck me like you’re scared I’ll disappear.”

He paused, body tensing, the shift in him almost imperceptible if you hadn’t already learned every one of his tells. His nose brushed your jaw again, then your cheek, before he dragged his lips up to the corner of your mouth. “You don’t get it,” he said, barely audible. “I don’t hate you.”

You turned your head slightly, lips almost touching now, your eyes half-lidded and glassy. “Then what the fuck is this, Rafe?”

He didn’t answer, not directly. Just rolled his hips again—slower, deeper—until you gasped and arched up into him, your body giving in even if your heart hadn’t. His hand slid from your thigh to your waist, fingers gripping you like he didn’t want to let go, like holding you tighter would keep something from slipping out of place.

“I think about you all the time,” he muttered, barely coherent as his lips brushed your cheek again. “When I’m alone. When I’m high. Even when I’m with someone else. It’s always fucking you.”

The admission hung heavy in the air, naked and ugly and real in a way that made your chest ache. You didn’t know if it was supposed to make you feel wanted or ruined. Maybe both.

And then he moved again, the steady rhythm returning, dragging pleasure out of you like a confession.

You arched into his chest the moment he thrust into you, a breathless sound catching in your throat as the depth of it hit just right, raw and slow and so deep it felt like he was carving himself into you. His arm slid beneath you, curling around your waist and anchoring there, palm resting on the small of your back while his fingers fisted into the bunched-up fabric of your skirt—a skirt that at this point was more of a suggestion than an actual article of clothing. It was twisted and rumpled between your bodies, forgotten in the chaos of how fast things had escalated, how desperately he always seemed to need you once his hands were on you.

He held you like that, halfway between a grip and an embrace, not letting your back hit the mattress again, keeping you just slightly lifted. His body hovered over yours, the muscles in his arms flexing as he braced his weight, his chest brushing yours with each controlled, deliberate thrust. The position made everything sharper—the stretch, the pressure, the overwhelming closeness of it all. Your hips tilted instinctively to meet him, and his hold on you tightened, pulling you closer, deeper, as if that was even possible.

“Fuck—there you go,” he grunted against your mouth, teeth grazing your bottom lip as his rhythm faltered just slightly from the way your body clenched around him. “You feel that? That deep enough for you, angel?”

You whined in response, your voice high and wrecked, hands sliding up his back, nails scratching at the smooth, hot skin of his shoulders. “Rafe…” you breathed, helpless, already ruined and only getting worse with every slow drag of his cock.

“Yeah?” he muttered, lips against your cheek now, his breath ragged. “What, baby? You need more?”

You didn’t answer right away, your body too caught up in the dizzying heat of it, the coil tightening in your stomach again. Your mind was mush and your pride was slipping, and he knew it—could feel it in how you started moving with him, chasing him now instead of just taking it.

“You always do this,” you whispered, voice cracked and uneven as your fingers threaded into his hair. “You act like I’m nothing to you but you fuck me like you feel something.”

His movements stilled for a second, like the words landed too hard, but he didn’t pull away. He didn’t scoff or get cruel like he usually would. Instead, he dragged his mouth down to your collarbone and kissed you there, open-mouthed and slow, like he was buying himself a moment.

“I do feel something,” he finally said, voice low and almost defensive, like admitting it cost him something. “I feel it every fucking time I’m in you, every time I look at you and you’re still looking at him.”

You swallowed, heart pounding, unsure whether the ache building in your chest was from the truth or the rhythm he started up again—deep, bruising, as if to prove a point.

“Then stop pretending I’m just a fuck.”

His thrusts slowed again, but this time they were even more intense, more deliberate, dragging your body up the mattress inch by inch with every stroke. His eyes locked on yours, blue and feral and a little too glassy for how calm he was trying to seem.

“I don’t fuck girls I don’t think about when I’m sober,” he said quietly. “And I don’t hold them like this either.”

He squeezed your waist then, arm still under your back, still clutching your skirt like it meant something—like you did. And when he kissed you this time, it wasn’t punishing or cocky. It was slow and hot and messy with restraint, like he didn’t know how to kiss you without giving too much of himself away.

“What about Sofia, huh?” you asked, breath catching, the words leaving you like a dare and a wound all at once. Your voice wasn’t steady—there was too much pleasure threading through your limbs, too much vulnerability tangled in the way your body curled into his—but you said it anyway, spitting her name like it burned your tongue. You said it because you had to, because the pressure building inside you wasn’t just physical. It was months of being second choice, of stolen moments and too many blurred lines, of never really knowing where you stood with him. You needed to know what she meant in this chaos, even if the answer ruined you.

The moment the name left your mouth, he stilled again, his entire body freezing with it. His eyes snapped to yours, sharp and wide, pupils blown and brow creased in something that wasn’t just physical anymore. But he didn’t move—not right away—didn’t pull out, didn’t throw some clever, biting insult like he usually would. Instead, he shifted his hips just barely, and when the head of his cock hit that spot inside you, the one that made your breath hitch and your back arch off the mattress, it was him who fell apart. His brows pinched even tighter, mouth parting around a sound that wasn’t entirely voluntary, like your body was the only thing capable of silencing whatever rage or confusion your question stirred.

“What about her?” he asked finally, his voice rough and unsteady, not cruel this time—just exposed. His forehead dropped against your collarbone, and you felt the weight of him there, the way his chest pressed to yours with something more than urgency. He was trying to gather himself, to keep control, but it was slipping. You could feel it in his grip, in the tremble of his arms holding you, in the desperation threaded between each breath.

You didn’t let it go. Your fingers curled tighter into his hair, pulling gently, grounding both of you even as your thighs trembled from how deep he still was. “You’re inside me and thinking about him—and I know you still see her.”

The accusation hung in the air like smoke, thick and poisonous. But the way he thrust into you again, shallow and automatic, betrayed something else entirely. It wasn’t dominance. It wasn’t deflection. It was reflex. Like being inside you was the only thing keeping him anchored. “I don’t see her,” he said, voice a little sharper now, though still low. “I fuck her sometimes. That’s not the same.”

You scoffed, your hand sliding down to push lightly at his shoulder—not enough to move him, just enough to protest. “Yeah? You gonna tell me this is different?” He lifted his head finally, and when his eyes met yours, they weren’t cold. They were open in a way that terrified you. “Don’t twist my shit around,” he muttered. “You’re the one in love with someone else.”

Your jaw clenched, the truth of it hitting hard, but you didn’t look away. “Yeah. I am. And you still call me yours when you come.” That struck something deep in him. His hand tightened around your waist, and his next thrust was harder, deeper—meant to bruise, meant to prove something. But his eyes stayed on yours.

“I say it,” he whispered, breath ragged, “because I mean it. Because when I’m inside you like this, I don’t give a fuck about JJ or Sofia or anyone else. It’s just you. It’s always been you.”

You blinked up at him, stunned into silence for a heartbeat too long, your own body betraying you again with how it clenched around him in response. His gaze flicked to your lips, then back to your eyes, softer now, like he hated himself for telling you but hated lying more.

“You’re mine when I’m in you,” he said, barely above a whisper. “Even if I’m not yours.” And then his hips jerked again—rough and aching, like he was trying to force every unspoken thing into that thrust, like he could make you forget all of it if he just fucked you hard enough to remember him instead.

His movements slowed even more, each thrust drawn out, languid and heavy like the world had melted away and only the two of you existed in this hazy, suspended moment. The air between you thickened with the scent of sweat and something softer—something almost tender buried beneath the sharp edges of everything else. His arm curled tighter around your back, holding you like you weighed nothing but mattered everything, fingers tracing lazy patterns along the curve of your waist, as if memorizing you in the quiet of his high.

Your skin flushed hot under his touch, pulse pounding in your veins, every nerve ending buzzing with that slow burn that only comes when time stretches thin and the rush dulls to something deeper. His breath hitched in ragged sighs against your neck, each exhale a slow surrender, and his hips rocked into you with a measured ease, each movement precise yet effortless, like he was savoring the feeling rather than racing toward release.

“You’re so warm,” he murmured low and slow, lips brushing over the sensitive skin beneath your ear, voice thick with something soft you hadn’t heard in a long time. “Feels like I’m melting into you, angel.”

You pressed your forehead to his, breath mingling, heart slowing in tandem with his rhythm. Your fingers tangled in his hair again, and you let out a soft sigh, the tension from earlier slipping away like smoke in the night. For a moment, the bitterness faded, replaced by a quiet kind of closeness that felt almost like comfort.

“Yeah,” you breathed back, voice husky, “I feel it too… like I’m floating.” His eyes met yours, glassy and distant but focused, and he smiled—a small, slow curve that was more vulnerable than cocky. “Good,” he whispered, as if saying anything else might shatter this fragile calm. “Because right now, it’s just us. Nothing else matters.”

You nodded against him, your lips grazing his collarbone, your body melting into his steady heat. His hand slid from your waist to your back, fingers pressing gently into the hollow just above your ribs, anchoring you as his hips continued their slow, steady dance—each movement a languid exploration, a wordless conversation between two bodies untangling from the chaos outside.

“You’re so damn beautiful like this,” he breathed, voice thick with awe and something softer than desire, something almost like wonder. “Not rushed, not sharp… just… here.” You smiled against his skin, the warmth spreading through your chest a balm to the ache that had been there for so long. “I could stay like this forever,” you whispered, “just… like this.”

He caught your gaze then, slow and sure, and pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead. “Me too,” he said quietly. “No noise, no fights, no ghosts. Just us. Slow. Easy.”

The rhythm of his body against yours settled into something dreamlike—slow, sinuous, as if the two of you had slipped beneath the surface of the world and were just floating there, breathless and warm and suspended. Everything felt softer. Muted. The way his skin dragged over yours, the weight of him pressed so completely against you, the way his cock moved inside you with a lazy, steady purpose—it all felt like a hum in your bones rather than something sharp or defined. He wasn’t fucking you now. He was moving with you, inside you, like your bodies spoke a language that neither of you had the energy to argue with anymore.

You were pliant under him, hips tilting without thinking, mouth parting to let out little broken sighs that only made his head drop lower, lips pressing reverently to your throat, your collarbone, your cheek. He kissed you like he couldn’t help it—like it was instinct, like he needed to feel your skin under his mouth just to stay anchored. His hand was still beneath you, curled under the arch of your spine, holding you up like you might drift away if he let go. “Fuck, you’re perfect like this,” he mumbled, lips brushing your temple now, his voice barely more than a husky rasp, slow and syrupy. “So soft. So fucking good for me.”

Your fingers were tangled in his hair again, fingertips brushing along his scalp in slow, mindless circles, your eyes fluttering closed as you breathed in the scent of him—weed and sweat and his cologne, all dulled and hazy, like it had soaked into your lungs. The pleasure wasn’t sharp anymore. It was thick and all-encompassing, rising and falling like waves as he rocked into you, his hips slow and deep, coaxing your body open again and again until you weren’t sure where you ended and he began. “I like it when you’re like this,” you murmured, barely audible, your lips brushing his cheek as your arms tightened around his shoulders. “Quiet. Sweet.”

He gave a low, amused hum against your skin, but didn’t argue. He didn’t tease. Didn’t turn it into a joke like he usually might. He just nuzzled into you, lips dragging down your jaw as his hand came up to cradle the side of your face, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone with a gentleness that made your chest ache. “You make me like this,” he said, and for once, there wasn’t a trace of defensiveness in it. No mask. No smugness. Just truth, quiet and raw. “Only you.”

You opened your eyes slowly, your vision a blur of soft light and his face above you, his lashes low over his glassy eyes, his mouth parted as he watched you like you were the only real thing in a spinning world. The thrusts were getting slower, deeper, dragging out every inch like he was trying to memorize how you felt, how you looked, how you breathed underneath him. “Don’t stop,” you whispered, voice trembling from the weight of the moment more than the friction. “Just like this… I don’t want it to end.”

“I won’t,” he breathed, his lips brushing yours like a promise. “I got you, angel. We’ve got all night.”

His hips kept that unhurried, drugged pace, rocking into you with a lazy rhythm that spoke of indulgence, not urgency—like he wasn’t chasing a high anymore but trying to live inside it, to make it last, to sink so deep into you that the outside world couldn’t reach him. Every slow thrust felt deliberate, reverent, like he was worshipping something he didn’t believe he deserved but couldn’t let go of anyway. His breath stuttered against your throat, warm and uneven, catching on soft moans that made your skin erupt in goosebumps. His arm stayed wrapped under your back, holding you suspended just slightly above the mattress, pressing your chest flush to his with every movement, like he needed to feel your heartbeat against his to remind himself this was real.

The room was thick with heat and sweat and something sweeter—something unspoken and terrifying in its gentleness. The skin-to-skin contact was unrelenting: the slippery glide of your stomach against his, the hot insides of your thighs clinging to the flex of his hips, the damp tangle of your hair caught between his fingers and the crook of his elbow. The sweat made you stick together in places, but neither of you tried to pull away, not even when it became too much, not even when your bodies felt too close, too fused to make sense of whose limbs were whose. He just stayed there, inside you, hips rolling in slow, perfect waves that had your mouth parting in breathless little sounds you couldn’t hold back if you tried.

If someone told you four months ago that you'd end up here—sweaty, high, and letting Rafe Cameron fuck you like this—you would’ve laughed in their face. Probably said something snarky, maybe rolled your eyes. You’d have mocked the idea of being that vulnerable with someone like him. Someone too smug, too dangerous, too cruel on instinct. But now? Now he was buried so deep inside you it hurt in the most perfect, intimate way, his bruised knuckles digging into the bunched fabric of your skirt and the arch of your spine as he held you close like he couldn’t stand the thought of space between you. And it was so quiet. Just breath and skin and the wet, slow drag of him sliding in and out of your cunt, every sound filthy and raw in the thick silence of the room.

“You feel that?” he whispered, voice hoarse and low, lips brushing the edge of your jaw as his hips rutted into you slowly, rhythm never faltering. “How wet you are? How deep I am right now?”

You whimpered, one leg curling tighter around his waist, the muscles in your thighs twitching as the pleasure built again, molten and slow and unbearable. “God… Rafe…” you breathed, your voice shaking, hands moving to claw at his back just to ground yourself. “Don’t stop. Fuck—don’t stop.”

“Wasn’t planning to,” he muttered, almost like it was a promise, like stopping would be a betrayal. His mouth found yours then, not rushed or rough, but slow and messy, his tongue dragging over yours lazily while he thrust into you, like he wanted you to taste how fucked-out you were. “You hear that?” he slurred slightly, forehead pressing to yours. “That little wet sound every time I slide in? That’s all you, baby.”

You whimpered again, your whole body arching under the weight of him, the weight of his words. His hand slid up your side, slow and heavy, brushing the curve of your breast before settling there, his thumb circling over your nipple in time with the grind of his hips. “So fuckin’ pretty like this,” he muttered, watching you through half-lidded eyes, pupils blown wide. “Meltin’ for me. You always do.”

“High as shit and still so cocky,” you gasped out, but the breathless quality of your voice ruined the bite in your words. He grinned, dragging his lips down your throat as he thrust a little deeper, a little slower, angling just right. “M’not cocky,” he mumbled. “Just right.”

You moaned, louder this time, legs shaking as you clung to him, every slow roll of his hips sending you closer to the edge. The build-up was brutal—like being stroked raw and kissed sweet at the same time—and it made your head spin in the best way. You could feel the heat coiling low in your stomach, feel your body start to tremble with the pressure.

“Gonna cum for me?” he asked softly, not teasing, just curious—genuinely caught in the wonder of it. “Y-Yeah,” you breathed, nails digging into his shoulders. “Keep going—don’t stop, please—”

“I won’t,” he promised, voice thick and reverent, like you were holy and he was nothing but your worshipper. “Fuck, angel… let me feel it. Cum all over me.”

When you did—body shaking, mouth open, whimpering his name like it meant something—he held you tighter, his thrusts faltering slightly as he groaned deep and low into your mouth, hips grinding through your orgasm like he wanted to feel every second of it, like he wanted to stay inside you long after the high faded.

You were still pulsing around him, walls fluttering from the slow, drawn-out orgasm that had unraveled you completely, but Rafe didn’t stop—not even for a second. His hips kept moving in that same lazy, hypnotic rhythm, dragging his cock through the sensitivity now clinging to every inch of your body like static. It wasn’t sharp or cruel the way he kept going—it was tender, almost reverent—but it didn’t matter. Every nerve ending in you was alight, raw and aching, stretched thin under the weight of how much he wasn’t letting up. The pleasure had peaked, but now it just… kept going. It kept taking.

You whimpered, your thighs twitching around his hips again, the leg he had hooked over his side threatening to fall slack. But he caught it, pressed a soothing kiss to your cheek, and murmured, almost apologetic but too far gone to stop, “I know, baby… I know it’s a lot.” Your breath stuttered as you clung to him, your fingers digging into his back like you needed something to hold on to, voice thin and cracked as you gasped, “Rafe—too much, I—I came, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he whispered, and his tone wasn’t mocking, not this time. It was soft. Gentle. Dangerously gentle. His hand cupped your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek as he stayed buried inside you, moving slow and deep, dragging every inch of himself through your overstimulated cunt. “You feel too fucking good. Don’t make me stop. Please. Just a little more.”

Your body jerked under him involuntarily, a hiccup of a moan escaping you as another rush of sensation rippled through you, hotter, messier, less pleasure and more need. Your hips bucked, trying to get away and chase it all at once, your head spinning from the contradiction.

“I’m shaking,” you gasped, eyes glassy, lips parted, face twisted in something between bliss and desperation. “I can’t even think—” “Good,” he breathed, his eyes locked on your face, mouth parted in awe as he watched you unravel again beneath him. “Don’t think. Just feel me, angel. You can take it—I know you can. You always do.”

His voice was like smoke—low and coaxing, high dragging the edges off his words until they slurred into something sinful and addictive. His lips were at your throat again, kissing you through your ragged breath, his body pressed so flush to yours that you couldn’t tell where his heartbeat ended and yours began.

Every drag of his cock against your walls made your back arch, your toes curl, your breath catch in your throat. Your body was screaming and clinging and trembling under him, your orgasm turning into something more—something frantic and deep and overwhelming, cresting too fast again because he wouldn’t give you a break, wouldn’t stop worshipping your body like it was the only thing tethering him to this planet.

“Fuck—Rafe—” you sobbed, and he shushed you softly, hand sliding between your bodies, fingers finding your clit without hesitation.

“Shhh, I got you. One more, just one more for me, baby,” he whispered, his tone so achingly sweet you could cry from it, and then he circled his fingers there—slow, knowing, gentle but relentless. “Let me see you fall apart again. Please.”

You cried out, thighs clenching, chest heaving as the pressure built impossibly fast again, another orgasm blooming through the oversensitivity like fire through dry grass. Your body spasmed, overwhelmed and high and stretched to your limit, and he swallowed every sound you made with a kiss, holding you tighter as you fell apart in his arms all over again.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he groaned, hips stuttering, finally losing his own rhythm, his own control, driven mad by the way you clenched around him. “You feel unreal—fuck, I’m gonna—”

You barely heard the rest. The world dissolved again, your limbs shaking as you gasped for air, still trembling under him, his name broken on your lips while he buried himself deep one last time and came with a low, wrecked moan against your neck. He held you through it, body pressed tight, chest heaving, whispering things you couldn’t even decipher anymore.

He just stayed there, cock softening inside you, arms around your body like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go. And all you could do was breathe—shaky, exhausted, high out of your mind—with your body spent and overstimulated and soaked in the intimacy of being undone again and again by someone you swore you’d never let in.

"You're insane…" you breathed out after several moments of heavy silence, the words slipping past your lips followed by a shaky exhale that felt like it carried the weight of everything you’d just been through. Your fingers, trembling but stubborn, slid from tangled strands of his hair to land with a soft slap against his cheek—more a plea than a reprimand—carrying all the fight you had left in your body. He just chuckled, that lazy, boyish laugh that didn’t quite match the raw heat of his body still pressed against you, his eyes roaming over your flushed face like he was taking in the evidence of your shared exhaustion, and maybe even silently daring himself to push for one more round if only his willpower wasn’t so thoroughly wrecked.

Leaning in without hesitation, he nibbled at your cheek with a wet, teasing bite, then pressed a soft kiss right between the warm hum of his chuckles. You swatted at him playfully, fingers weak but persistent, trying to push his face away, but he caught your wrist in a gentle grip, the roughness of his palm grounding you like an anchor in the storm of your racing heartbeat.

“Three orgasms?” he murmured against your skin, voice low and thick with amusement and the lingering haze of his high, grinning like he was casually commenting on the weather instead of something so filthy and intimate. “That’s pro numbers, baby… You’re a champ.”

You groaned in mock annoyance, letting your head fall back against the pillow as you swiped at his cheek again, though this time your fingers lingered in his soft, sweat-damp hair. “You’re insufferable,” you whispered, but the corners of your mouth twitched with something like a smile.

Rafe just grinned wider, eyes glinting with a mixture of pride and something quieter, almost vulnerable. His hand slid from your waist to cup the side of your face, thumb brushing softly over your flushed cheek like he was trying to memorize every inch of you. The harshness was gone now, replaced by a tenderness that felt almost foreign coming from him, but it settled in your chest like a balm.

“You did good,” he said simply, voice low and steady, like he meant it more than the teasing. “You always do.”

You shifted slightly beneath him, curling into the warmth of his touch, the rough edges of your anger and frustration softening in the quiet aftermath. Your fingers found his jawline, tracing the sharp planes with surprising gentleness. “And you? You’re not so bad yourself,” you murmured, voice thick with the shared vulnerability hanging between you. He chuckled again, leaning down to press a lingering kiss to your forehead, slow and sweet, like an apology and a promise all at once. “Guess we make a good team, huh?”

You nodded against him, breath catching in your throat, the weight of everything — jealousy, bitterness, desire, and something softer — all blending into this fragile, perfect moment where neither of you had to pretend. “Yeah,” you whispered back, “a really fucked-up team.”

You never really noticed how much of yourself you’d left behind in Rafe’s room until it started showing up around you like little ghosts of intimacy—scattered and unapologetic. At first, it had been small things: a hair tie looped around his doorknob, a ring forgotten on his nightstand after a particularly chaotic night, your cheap green lighter tucked into his desk drawer. But somewhere along the line, it snowballed. Bras, underwear, tank tops, even a whole pair of jeans you didn’t remember taking off. There was an entire outfit folded neatly on the edge of his dresser last week, one you were sure you hadn’t worn in over a month. The kind of quiet claiming that wasn’t so quiet anymore.

You’d assumed—back when all this started—that Rafe would do what guys like him did: toss your stuff aside, maybe shove it under the bed, let it gather dust until you came back around or forgot it entirely. Worst case, he'd throw it out just to be spiteful. But he didn’t. Instead, you started to realize that it wasn’t random at all. It was intentional. Like when he offered you that hair tie out of nowhere one day, all casual, not even looking up from his phone. You’d been complaining about your hair falling into your face while trying to roll a joint and he just handed it to you like it had always belonged to him—like you did.

And then tonight, after the sweat and haze and slow afterglow had worn off and you both took your time cleaning yourselves up, you stepped out of the bathroom with damp hair and wobbly legs, only to find him already waiting for you. Shirtless, boxers hanging low on his hips, his hair a mess of waves from how much you'd tugged at it, and holding a folded pair of underwear like it was the most normal thing in the world. “Here,” he said, handing them over with a little smirk. “Figured you wouldn’t want to leave commando again. These are yours, right? Washed ’em.”

You blinked, taking the soft cotton from him as you fought the heat blooming in your cheeks. “Washed them?” you echoed. He shrugged, completely unbothered, moving back toward his dresser. “What, you think the laundry fairy does all this? No, I wash things now. I’m domestic as hell.”

You snorted, but didn’t argue. Just slid the underwear on, followed by one of his old t-shirts that smelled faintly like weed and detergent, and a pair of his boxers that you used as makeshift shorts. It was the most comfortable you’d been in weeks. You caught your reflection briefly in the mirror—sleepy-eyed, legs marked up from where his hands had held you too tight, wearing entirely him—and it startled you. Not in a bad way. Just enough to remind you how far things had come without either of you ever really talking about it. Then he was tugging at your hand, pulling you gently out of the room like he hadn’t just wrecked your entire body hours earlier, babbling about these brownie bites he bought and how “they were calling to him spiritually.”

“I’m starving,” he said, dragging you down the hallway barefoot, his voice echoing through the quiet house. “Like genuinely about to collapse. You want peanut butter on yours? I feel like it’s a vibe.” You chuckled, hobbling slightly behind him, the dull ache between your thighs catching up with you now. “You literally almost made me pass out earlier and now you want to feed me dessert like we’re in some fucked-up rom-com?” He grinned over his shoulder at you, eyes bright and dopey. “Exactly. We are the fucked-up rom-com, angel. Embrace it.”

Rafe dragged you down the stairs with the urgency of someone chasing a religious experience, his hand wrapped firmly around yours like it was second nature. His bare feet padded across the cool floors until he came to an abrupt stop just outside the kitchen doorway. Without warning, he turned, both of your hands caught in his grip as he faced you fully, practically vibrating with excitement. His grin was wide, eyes sparkling, cheeks still faintly flushed from sex and the residual buzz of his high. He leaned down so you were nearly nose-to-nose, and his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, like he was letting you in on the world’s best-kept secret.

“These brownies are gonna change your life, angel. I swear—like, actually change it.” You blinked up at him, trying not to laugh at the ridiculous seriousness behind his words, and nodded slowly. “Brownies,” you said dryly, raising a brow. “Life-changing. Got it.”

He nodded back, completely undeterred by your sarcasm. “No, but wait—wait—what if we melt Nutella on top?” His expression shifted to pure awe at his own idea, like he’d just unlocked a new tier of human enlightenment.

You rolled your eyes affectionately, chest warm, lips twitching as you stared up at him—his hair messy, face glowing from exertion and THC, standing barefoot in gray sweatpants with one hand clutching yours and the other gesturing wildly about dessert. It was absurd. And yet, in that moment, it felt dangerously right. Too easy. Too domestic. Like this wasn’t a hookup, like it wasn’t built on bitterness and jealousy and secrets. Like it was real.

You were just about to say something—some witty reply, maybe something softer, more teasing—when the illusion shattered. A sharp, choked noise echoed from inside the kitchen. Not the fridge humming or the creak of a cabinet door, but a distinctly human sound. Your head snapped toward it immediately, heart plummeting into your stomach. And there, standing frozen mid-step just a few feet inside the doorway, was Sarah.

Your breath caught. Her eyes were wide, jaw slack, one hand still hovering near the bowl she must’ve been holding. You weren’t sure how long she’d been standing there—long enough to see the shirt hanging loose over your thighs, the boxers slung low on your hips, Rafe’s hand tangled in yours, his whole body still radiating the aftermath of sex and weed and too much you.

The silence hit like a brick wall. Rafe tensed beside you, but didn’t drop your hand. You could feel his heartbeat in his palm, fast and loud, even as your own stomach twisted into knots. Sarah’s gaze snapped from you to her brother, then back again. Her expression warped slowly—shock, disbelief, something dangerously close to hurt.

“Oh my god,” she said finally, voice breaking around the syllables. “Are you fucking serious?”

author's note: me when i'm an asshole and i take forever to post only to end the chapter on a cliff-hanger... hi peaches, i hope i did good and i won't take so long to post anymore. i love you guys and talk to me don't be shy! join the tag-list, i'll see you all in the next chapter!💖💖

↳ ❝ [masterlist] ¡! ❞

Cold.

That’s the first thing you register—not pain, not fear. Cold in a way that doesn’t belong to the ocean. Not the rolling, breathing chill of deep water wrapping around your ribs like an embrace. This is thin. Artificial. It seeps instead of holds.

Something drips.

It lands against your collarbone with a soft, hollow tap. Another drop follows, trailing down the curve of your throat, slipping between your breasts and soaking into the thin fabric clinging to your skin. The water smells wrong—metallic, stale, like it’s been sitting too long in rusted pipes.

You inhale sharply.

Your back arches on instinct. The reaction is immediate and treacherous—skin prickling, veins humming beneath the surface. For a fraction of a second, the world tilts. Your pulse deepens, slows, something ancient rising to meet the water’s call. The shift threatens to begin, the subtle tightening along your spine, the shimmer beneath your skin where scales want to bloom.

Then it stops.

Not fully. Not comfortably. Just enough to leave your body stranded in between.

Your wrists burn.

You lower your gaze slowly, blinking through the dim light. Iron cuffs. Thick. Bolted into the concrete behind you. There’s salt packed into the grooves—coarse, deliberate, rubbed into the metal until it bites. The air itself tastes briny, dry, wrong. It clogs your throat.

They learned.

Or they guessed well enough.

Another drop of water falls from somewhere above—purposeful this time. It lands just above your sternum, and your breath stutters as your body reacts again. Not enough to complete the transformation. Just enough to make you ache for it. Just enough to remind you what you are.

Footsteps echo beyond the darkness.

Measured. Unhurried.

You don’t lift your head immediately. You already know they’re there. You felt them before you woke—their heat, their shallow land-breathing, the way their heartbeats flutter too fast compared to the steady pull of the tide that lives in your own chest.

A door opens. Metal scraping concrete. A strip of white light cuts across the floor, reaching your bare feet.

“Well,” a voice says, calm and almost pleasant. “She’s conscious again.”

You roll your tongue against the inside of your cheek, tasting copper where you must’ve bitten yourself earlier. You keep your chin lowered, hair hanging damp around your face.

Boots approach. One pair stops directly in front of you. Another lingers off to the side. A third stays by the doorway. They’re careful. They’ve learned that, too.

“You’re resilient,” the first voice continues. Male. Middle-aged. Educated. The kind of tone that belongs in a lecture hall, not here. “We weren’t certain how long the suppressant would hold.”

Suppressant.

Interesting.

You slowly lift your head. Your gaze locks onto him through your lashes. He doesn’t look like a monster. None of them do. Clean clothes. Neutral expressions. Observant eyes. He studies you like you’re a specimen pinned beneath glass.

His gaze drops to the water trickling down your chest. “The reaction is involuntary, then.” He glances to the woman standing near the wall, who scribbles something into a small notebook.

They’ve done this before.

They’ve watched you react.

“How many times?” he asks mildly. “Three attempts at conversation? Four?”

“Four,” the woman replies without looking up. “She refuses to engage.”

Your lips curve faintly at that. Refuses.

The man crouches in front of you, careful to stay just out of reach. “We’re not interested in harming you,” he says, the lie delivered so smoothly it almost sounds like truth. “But your cooperation would make this significantly more comfortable.”

Comfortable.

A thin laugh scrapes out of your throat—raspy from disuse. It echoes strangely in the concrete room.

His expression tightens by a fraction. “You understand we can continue adjusting the variables.” His eyes flick upward toward the slow drip overhead. “Hydration. Salinity. Temperature. We’re narrowing down the thresholds.”

Another drop falls.

Your body reacts again, traitorous and eager. Your fingers twitch inside the cuffs. For a split second, the faintest sheen ripples beneath your skin before fading, like moonlight swallowed by cloud cover. It hurts not to complete it. It hurts worse to be denied halfway.

You swallow the sound threatening to climb your throat. You will not give them that.

The woman steps closer now, crouching slightly to peer at your face. “You don’t seem frightened,” she observes quietly.

You meet her eyes fully this time. There’s salt crusted along your own lashes from where the suppressant dried. Your voice, when you finally use it, is low and hoarse.

“You’re the ones who should be.”

The man smiles faintly, like you’ve proven a hypothesis. “Confidence. Noted.”

He stands. Straightens his sleeves. “We’ll try again soon.”

The door begins to close. The light retracts, slicing thinner and thinner until darkness swallows the room again.

But just before it seals, the man pauses.

“Oh,” he adds casually, like an afterthought. “Your friend is being… energetic.”

Your stomach tightens.

“We do hope he doesn’t hurt himself.”

The door slams shut.

Silence floods back in.

The drip continues.

One drop at a time.

The silence doesn’t settle. It presses.

It fills your ears the way deep water does, thick and consuming, except there’s no comfort in it—no current to follow, no pull to surrender to. Just the slow, deliberate drip echoing through the room like a countdown you don’t understand yet.

You close your eyes.

Not to rest. To feel.

The salt burns faintly against your wrists where the cuffs bite, the irritation constant, deliberate. Your skin is damp where the water touches, drying too fast in the stale air, leaving behind that wrong, metallic residue. Your breathing slows on instinct, deeper than human, your body trying to find a rhythm that isn’t here.

The ocean is too far.

The realization settles heavy in your chest. Not gone—but distant. Muted. Like trying to hear a song through layers of stone. You strain for it anyway, focusing past the ache, past the dryness clawing at your throat, reaching for something familiar—pressure, tide, anything.

Nothing answers.

Your fingers curl slightly against the metal, testing without looking, feeling the way the salt has been packed in with intention. You don’t pull. Not yet. You remember the last time—the sharp sting, the way your skin reacted, the way they watched. You won’t give them that again.

Instead, your mind drifts.

Not aimlessly.

It finds him.

It happens the same way it always does—quietly at first, like stepping into shallow water. A flicker of warmth where everything around you is cold. A pulse that isn’t yours, too fast, too loud, too human. You follow it instinctively, reaching for it the way you would reach for the surface.

JJ.

For a moment, it works.

You feel something—heat, movement, the faintest echo of something breaking apart, like wood splintering under force. A surge of something sharp and overwhelming bleeds through the connection—anger, panic, something close to pain—and it hits you so suddenly your breath catches.

Your head tilts, brows pulling together as you focus harder, chasing it.

There’s light—too bright. Noise—too loud. The sensation of something shattering, again and again, a rhythm of destruction that doesn’t belong in your world but feels right in his. You almost see him—hands clenched, chest heaving, that restless, burning energy that never quite settles—

And then—

Nothing.

The connection snaps.

Not fades. Not slips. It’s cut.

Your breath leaves you in a sharp exhale, your head dropping forward slightly as the emptiness rushes back in, colder than before. Your fingers twitch against the cuffs again, this time less controlled.

They did something.

Not just to your body. To that too.

You swallow, throat tight, forcing your breathing to steady again. Panic won’t help. You already know that. You’ve seen what they do when you react.

But JJ—

You felt him.

And he’s not okay.

—

Back at the Château, the fire has burned lower, reduced to glowing embers and thin curls of smoke that drift lazily into the clearing air. The humidity clings just as heavily, but the storm is gone now, leaving behind a stillness that feels undeserved after the chaos.

JJ sits on the edge of the porch steps, elbows resting on his knees, hands hanging loosely between them. His knuckles are split, raw, dried blood flaking against his skin. There’s ash smeared along his forearms, dirt pressed into the lines of his palms. He hasn’t moved much since the fire died down.

Behind him, the others linger.

They’re quieter now. Careful. Like approaching him too fast might set him off again. John B leans against the doorframe, arms crossed but loose, watching. Pope sits on the railing, hunched forward, thinking too hard. Sarah and Kiara stand off to the side, their earlier anger dulled into something more uncertain, more fragile.

No one speaks for a while.

The only sound is the soft crackle of what’s left of the fire.

JJ exhales slowly, dragging a hand over his face, rough and tired. His jaw tightens again, like something’s still sitting wrong in his chest, something he can’t shake.

“I felt something,” he mutters finally, voice low, almost like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.

The others look at him.

“What do you mean?” Pope asks carefully.

JJ shakes his head once, frustrated, searching for words he doesn’t have. “I don’t know,” he admits, jaw clenching. “Just—” He gestures vaguely, fingers twitching like he’s trying to grab onto the feeling again. “Like something snapped. Like—like she was there for a second and then just—gone.”

Silence settles again, heavier this time.

Kiara shifts, exchanging a look with Sarah, but neither of them interrupt.

John B pushes off the doorframe, stepping a little closer. “You think she’s alive?” he asks, quieter now.

JJ’s head lifts slightly. His eyes flick toward the dying fire, something sharp and certain cutting through the exhaustion.

“I know she is.”

The words land firm.

Not hopeful.

Certain.

The certainty in his voice doesn’t settle anyone—it shifts something, heavier than doubt, sharper than fear. It lands between them like a fact they don’t get to question, and JJ doesn’t look at any of them when he says it again, quieter this time, like he’s anchoring himself to it before it slips. “She’s alive.” His fingers flex against his knees, skin splitting further where the dried blood cracks, but he doesn’t seem to feel it. His head tilts slightly, like he’s listening for something just out of reach, jaw tightening when there’s nothing there to answer him back.

Pope exhales through his nose, dragging a hand over his mouth as his brain catches up first, as it always does. “Okay,” he says, more to himself than anyone else, already pacing the edge of the porch. “Okay, if she’s alive, then they didn’t take her to kill her. Which means they want something.” He glances up, eyes sharper now. “Which means she’s being held somewhere controlled. Not random. Not temporary.”

“Wanchese,” Kiara cuts in, the word bitter on her tongue. Her arms cross tight over her chest, shoulders tense. “Her aunt knew exactly what she was doing. That wasn’t panic, that wasn’t fear—that was planned.” There’s something like betrayal laced into her voice, even though it wasn’t hers to feel. “She handed her over.”

JJ’s head snaps toward her at that, something dark flashing across his expression—not disagreement. Confirmation.

“I know,” he says, and this time it’s rougher, like it’s been clawing at his throat since the second he realized it. “I saw it. The way she was acting, the way she kept trying to keep her there—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head hard, like the memory is something he wants to break apart with force alone. “She knew they were coming.”

Sarah shifts closer, brows drawn tight, her voice softer but no less urgent. “Then we go back,” she says. “If the aunt was working with them, there’s something there—contacts, a place, anything we can use.”

“No,” JJ snaps, too fast, already shaking his head. He pushes to his feet, pacing now, restless energy snapping tight in every line of his body. “They’re not keeping her there. That’s too obvious. If her aunt sold her out, then she was just the middleman. They took her somewhere else—somewhere set up.”

“Like what?” John B presses, stepping forward, grounding but firm. “JJ, we need something real to go off.”

JJ drags both hands through his hair, breathing sharp through his nose, trying to latch onto the feeling that’s already slipping. “She reached me,” he mutters, more to himself again. “For a second, she was—” His hand curls into a fist midair, like he’s trying to hold onto it physically. “It felt closed. Not outside. Not open water. It was… wrong.” His eyes flick up, locking onto Pope. “Dry.”

That lands.

Pope stills mid-step, his expression shifting as pieces start slotting together. “Dry,” he repeats slowly. “So not the marsh, not the docks, not anywhere near open access to the ocean…” His eyes widen a fraction. “They’re keeping her inland.”

Kiara’s head lifts. “There’s not much inland out here unless—”

“Private property,” Sarah finishes, her voice tightening. “Old estates, abandoned facilities, research sites—there are a few, but—” She hesitates, glancing at John B. “My dad used to talk about some of them. Places people don’t go.”

JJ lets out a humorless laugh, sharp and low. “Yeah,” he mutters. “Sounds exactly like where you’d hide something you don’t want found.”

Silence stretches again, but it’s different now—focused, coiled tight with direction instead of helplessness. The pieces are ugly, incomplete, but they’re something.

John B straightens slightly, slipping into that familiar role like it’s second nature. “Okay. So we split this,” he says, looking between them. “Pope, you start digging—property records, anything off-grid, anything recently bought or used that shouldn’t be. Kie, Sarah—check Wanchese anyway. Not for her, but for the aunt. If she made a deal, there’s a trail. People talk.”

“And you?” Kiara asks.

John B glances at JJ.

But JJ’s already shaking his head, already backing down the steps before anyone can assign him anything, that same restless, dangerous energy coiling tighter with every second. “I’m not sitting around,” he says flatly. “I’ll find her.”

“JJ—” Pope starts, but it’s useless.

JJ turns just enough to look back at them, something raw and unfiltered cutting through the usual deflection, the usual recklessness. “They hurt her,” he says, voice low, certain in a way that makes something twist in all of them. “I felt it. I don’t know how, but I did.”

The air goes still.

“And if we don’t move fast,” he adds, quieter now but somehow worse, “they’re gonna figure out exactly what she is.”

No one argues after that.

Because they all know what that means.

Hopelessness doesn’t hit JJ all at once—it settles in layers, quiet and suffocating, like humidity before a storm that never breaks. It clings to him as he moves, as he breathes, as he keeps going even when there’s nowhere left to go. There are no tracks, no signs, nothing real enough to grab onto—just that feeling, that sharp, fleeting connection that shouldn’t have been possible and yet was. You, brushing against his mind for a split second like something soft and exposed, something reachable. It should’ve made things easier, knowing you were alive. It should’ve grounded him. Instead, it makes everything worse. Because if you’re close enough to feel, then you’re close enough to be saved—and he still can’t find you.

It eats at him.

The idea of you locked somewhere—cold, contained, alone—while he drifts through open air and salt and sunlight like it’s nothing. The imbalance of it crawls under his skin, turns every breath into something sharp. He can’t stop picturing it, even when he tries not to. Concrete. Metal. The way your voice sounded the last time he heard it—quiet, strange, like you were always half somewhere else even when you stood right in front of him. And now you are somewhere else. Somewhere he can’t reach.

He keeps moving anyway.

The Cut feels different today. Or maybe it’s just him. Same warped docks, same peeling paint, same lazy buzz of late afternoon heat—but there’s something underneath it now, something off. Conversations dip when he gets too close. Strangers linger a little too long in places they don’t belong. Cars that don’t fit the island roll through slow, like they’re looking for something without wanting to be seen looking. JJ notices it all in pieces at first, half-distracted, half-consumed by his own thoughts—but the longer he walks, the more it starts to click into something uglier.

Outsiders.

Not tourists. Not summer money with loud voices and sunscreen and bad attitudes. These ones are quieter. Sharper. They watch instead of wander. And there are more of them than there should be.

JJ cuts down past the marina, boots thudding against sun-warmed wood, eyes scanning without really meaning to. A boat he doesn’t recognize rocks too still in the water, its hull too clean for this side of the island. Two men stand near it, speaking low, their posture wrong—too alert, too aware of everything around them. One of them glances up as JJ passes, just for a second, and it’s enough. There’s no curiosity there. No casual disinterest.

Recognition.

JJ doesn’t slow. Doesn’t react. But something cold slides into place beneath his ribs.

He’s seen that look before.

Not here. Not like this. But he knows what it means to be clocked, to be measured, to be filed away as something worth keeping an eye on.

His jaw tightens as he keeps walking, pace just a fraction faster now, mind moving quicker than it has all day. Outsiders don’t just show up like this—not in clusters, not with that kind of focus. And they definitely don’t start sniffing around the Cut unless they’re looking for something they think is worth it.

Or someone.

Your face flickers through his mind again, followed by the echo of that brief, raw connection—how open it felt, how unguarded. Not like words. Not like anything human. Just feeling.

And suddenly, it doesn’t feel random anymore.

It feels connected.

JJ cuts up toward town without thinking, the shift in direction instinctive. The streets get busier the closer he gets—more noise, more movement, more chances for things to hide in plain sight. He weaves through it easily, restless energy coiled tight in his limbs, eyes dragging over every unfamiliar face, every out-of-place detail. There are more of them here, too. Spread thinner, harder to spot unless you’re looking for it—but JJ is looking now.

A group near the hardware store, dressed too neutral, talking too quietly. A parked truck with tinted windows and no local plates. A man standing outside a bait shop, not buying anything, just watching the street like he’s waiting for something to happen.

JJ slows.

His gaze drifts past them, unfocused on purpose, like he’s just another bored kid with nowhere to be. But inside, everything sharpens. Threads start pulling together, messy and incomplete but there.

The stories.

Not the gold—not really. That’s always been John B’s thing, that half-crazy, half-hopeful chase for something buried and lost. JJ never cared about it like that. But the other parts—the parts people don’t talk about as much, the ones that get brushed off as superstition or coincidence. The water. The disappearances. The things that don’t add up.

You.

The way you moved. The way you felt. The way the ocean seemed to pull toward you instead of the other way around.

JJ’s tongue drags over his teeth as he glances back toward the men by the truck, something darker settling into his chest now. “They’re not looking for gold,” he mutters under his breath, the realization hitting hard and fast. “They’re looking for a way to find it.”

And you—

You’re the way.

The thought lands heavy, sickening in its clarity.

Of course they didn’t kill you.

Of course they took you somewhere controlled. Somewhere dry. Somewhere they could use you without interference.

JJ’s hands curl into fists at his sides, nails biting into his palms hard enough to ground him just slightly. His mind flashes again—unwanted, vivid—of that feeling snapping between you, the raw edge of something wrong before it was cut off completely.

They did something to you.

Not just physically.

Something meant to keep you from reaching out again.

His chest tightens, breath coming sharper now as the weight of it all presses in. No clues. No trail. Just this—pieces that don’t quite fit yet, circling something bigger he can’t fully see.

But it’s enough.

It has to be.

Because standing still isn’t an option. Not when you’re out there somewhere, close enough to almost touch, and still completely out of reach.

JJ lifts his head slightly, eyes scanning the street again—but this time with purpose, with direction. Not just looking.

Hunting.

And somewhere beneath it all, quiet but unshakable, that certainty still burns steady in his chest.

You’re alive.

And he’s getting closer.

JJ doesn’t realize he’s stopped moving until someone shoulders past him, knocking into his arm hard enough to jolt him back into his body. The noise of town rushes in all at once—voices overlapping, a car engine revving too loud, the distant cry of gulls circling somewhere overhead—but it all feels muffled, like he’s hearing it from underwater. His gaze stays fixed ahead, unfocused, while something slower and heavier begins to take shape beneath the surface of everything he’s already pieced together.

Because it doesn’t add up.

Not completely.

If they wanted you—if you were the key, the map, the thing that could lead them to whatever’s buried out there in the deep—then why risk exposure like this? Why bring in outsiders, stir attention, move this loudly across an island that notices everything when it wants to? Why not take you and disappear?

Unless—

His jaw tightens, something colder slipping into place.

Unless you weren’t the only thing they were after.

The memory hits him sharper this time, not fleeting, not half-formed—the woman at the docks, the one from the day after everything went wrong. The way she stood just far enough from him while talking like it was a boundary she couldn’t quite cross. The way her eyes had tracked him, not with curiosity, but with something older. Measured. Knowing.

Your mother.

He exhales slowly, dragging a hand down his face as the pieces shift again, rearranging into something worse.

They were already looking for her.

That’s why she was hiding. That’s why she kept you away from land, why there was that edge in her voice even when she didn’t explain it, why everything about her felt like someone constantly looking over their shoulder even when there was nothing there. It wasn’t just instinct. It wasn’t just caution.

It was fear.

JJ’s gaze flicks up again, scanning the strangers scattered through town with a sharper, more focused edge now. They don’t belong—but they’re not lost, either. They’re searching. Waiting. Watching.

“They expected her,” he mutters under his breath, the realization settling heavy in his chest. “Or they’re still expecting her.”

And you—

You’re not just leverage.

You’re bait. The thought lands hard enough to make his stomach twist. Because if they couldn’t find her before, if she was good enough at staying hidden to avoid whatever this is—then taking you? That changes everything. That forces her hand. Forces her out into the open whether she wants to be or not. Which means this isn’t just about what you are. It’s about what she knows.

JJ’s fingers curl tighter at his sides, breath coming slower now, more controlled, even as something volatile simmers underneath. It explains too much. The timing. The sudden influx of people who don’t belong. The way everything escalated too fast to be coincidence.

And it makes something else painfully clear.

You were never supposed to come to land.

Not really.

Not with whatever’s been circling out here, waiting for a reason to move.

His head tilts slightly, gaze dropping to the cracked pavement beneath his feet as the weight of that realization settles in deeper. You didn’t just leave the ocean to find something—you walked straight into something that had been waiting long before you ever set foot on shore.

And now you’re paying for it.

JJ’s chest tightens again, something sharper cutting through the haze of frustration and half-formed plans. Because if this is about drawing her out—if they’re watching, waiting for her to surface, to make a move—then that means there’s a window.

A moment where they’re not just holding you.

They’re anticipating something.

Which means they’re not untouchable.

His gaze lifts again, slower this time, more deliberate as he studies the people around him—not just seeing them, but reading them. Patterns. Positions. The way they linger near exits, near sightlines, near places where they can watch without being obvious about it.

They’re spread out.

Not centralized.

Which means wherever they’re keeping you… isn’t here.

But whatever they’re building toward?

It is.

JJ exhales through his nose, rolling his shoulders back slightly as the restless, directionless energy from before shifts into something tighter. More focused. Still reckless—but not blind anymore.

Because now he knows this isn’t just about finding you by chance.

It’s about getting ahead of whatever they’re waiting for.

And if they’re waiting for your mother to show up—

Then maybe he doesn’t need to find her first.

Maybe he just needs to figure out where she’d have to go.

His jaw sets, something steadier anchoring into place beneath the anger, beneath the fear. The ocean isn’t random. Neither are you. Neither is she. There are patterns to it, even if he doesn’t understand them yet.

And patterns can be followed.

JJ turns sharply, already moving again before the thought fully settles, boots hitting pavement with purpose now as he cuts back through town. His mind is racing, pulling at every fragment he has—the stories, the glimpses, the way you felt when you were close, the way that connection snapped when something interfered.

They’re trying to control you.

Contain you. Use you to reach something bigger. But they’re also waiting. And waiting means they’re not finished.

A flicker of something sharp crosses his expression as he pushes forward, weaving through the crowd without slowing. “Good,” he mutters under his breath, voice low, almost lost to the noise around him. Because if they’re not finished—Then neither is he.

JJ doesn’t slow down as he cuts off the main road and onto the narrower stretch that leads toward his house—the kind of place you don’t approach so much as you brace for. The air feels heavier out here, thicker, like it clings to his skin in a way that has nothing to do with heat. Gravel crunches under his boots, uneven and familiar, every step dragging up memories he usually keeps buried under noise and motion and anything that keeps him from thinking too hard. But now there’s no space to outrun it. Not with everything stacking up the way it is—your face, your voice, the way your mother looked at him like she knew something she wasn’t saying.

His jaw tightens as he reaches the porch, hand hesitating only for a second before he shoves the door open without knocking.

The smell hits first. Stale beer, sweat soaked into old wood, something sour underneath it all that never quite leaves no matter how many times the windows are opened or not. The TV drones low in the background, some rerun playing to an empty room, flickering light casting everything in that dull, washed-out glow. For a second, JJ just stands there, chest rising and falling, eyes adjusting, like he’s stepped into something he doesn’t fully belong to anymore.

Then—

“‘Bout time you dragged your ass back.” Luke’s voice cuts through the space, rough and slurred at the edges but still carrying that same bite JJ’s known his whole life. He’s slumped in his usual spot, one arm draped over the back of the couch, a bottle hanging loose in his grip like it’s an extension of his hand. His eyes flick up, dragging over JJ in a slow, unimpressed sweep.

JJ doesn’t answer right away. He steps further inside, letting the door slam shut behind him hard enough to rattle the frame. His gaze stays locked on Luke, something sharp and coiled sitting just beneath the surface. “I need to ask you something.”

Luke snorts, tipping the bottle back for a long swallow before lowering it again. “That so?” he mutters. “Didn’t take you for the ‘ask nicely’ type.”

JJ ignores that, stepping closer, boots thudding heavy against the warped floor. “You ever hear of a woman—” he hesitates, not because he doesn’t remember, but because saying it out loud feels like stepping into something deeper than he’s ready for, “—stays near the water. Doesn’t really come into town. Talks like she’s been around longer than she should have.”

Luke’s brow furrows slightly, not in recognition at first, but irritation. “That supposed to mean anything to me?”

“She knew you,” JJ presses, sharper now, something cracking through the control he was barely holding onto in the first place. “Or at least she said she did. Said you weren’t always like…” he gestures vaguely, jaw tightening, “…this.”

That lands.

Not big. Not obvious. But enough.

Luke stills just slightly, the movement small enough most people wouldn’t catch it—but JJ does. He always does.

“Plenty of people ‘knew me,’” Luke says after a second, voice flattening out in a way that’s more deliberate now. “Don’t mean shit.”

JJ shakes his head, stepping closer again, frustration bleeding into something more desperate. “No, this was different. She—she talked like she knew things. About storms. About before.” His voice drops, quieter but more intense. “About me.”

That gets Luke’s attention. His eyes sharpen just a fraction, the lazy slouch in his posture shifting as something more alert slides into place beneath the alcohol haze. “About you?” he repeats, slower now.

JJ nods once, quick. “Yeah. Said there’s a story. Something you didn’t tell me.” His throat tightens slightly, but he pushes through it. “So I’m asking you now.”

Silence stretches. The TV crackles in the background, the faint buzz of static filling the space between them like something alive. Luke doesn’t move at first, just stares at him, eyes darker now, harder to read. Then he laughs. It’s short. Dry. Not amused.

“Jesus,” he mutters, dragging a hand over his face before looking back at JJ with something almost like disbelief. “You really went out there and found yourself a ghost story, huh?”

JJ’s hands curl into fists at his sides. “Cut the shit,” he snaps, voice rising. “You know what I’m talking about.”

Luke’s gaze holds his for a long second. And then—something shifts. Not softening. Not easing. Just… settling. Like a decision being made. “Yeah,” he says finally, quieter now. “I know what you’re talking about.”

The words hit heavier than they should. JJ freezes, breath catching slightly as his stomach drops. “Then—”

“But you’re asking the wrong question.”

JJ blinks, thrown. “What?” Luke leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, the bottle hanging loose between his fingers. His gaze doesn’t waver this time—it pins JJ in place, steady and unflinching in a way that feels worse than any shouting ever has.

“You’re asking about her,” he says. “About stories. About shit that doesn’t matter compared to what you actually wanna know.”

JJ’s chest tightens. “What I—”

“—what you’ve been trying not to ask your whole damn life.”

The room feels smaller suddenly. Tighter. JJ’s jaw clenches, something defensive rising fast and sharp. “I didn’t come here for—”

“I’m not your father.”

It doesn’t land all at once.

It cuts.

Clean. Sudden. Deep enough that for a second, JJ doesn’t even react—just stands there, blinking like he didn’t hear it right. “What?” The word comes out rough, uneven.

Luke doesn’t look away. Doesn’t backtrack. “You heard me.”

JJ lets out a short, disbelieving breath, something close to a laugh catching in his throat. “Yeah, real funny,” he mutters, shaking his head. “That’s your big answer? That’s what you—”

“I’m serious.”

That stops him. The weight in Luke’s voice—flat, steady, stripped of anything resembling a joke—hits harder than the words themselves. JJ’s stomach twists, something cold creeping up his spine. Suddenly all the nights he spent hiding away and sporting black eyes fall flat. Like his will to survive his father's violence had been for nothing. That he could strike back, could leave. “No,” he says automatically, too fast. “No, that’s—no, you don’t get to just say that and—”

“You think I’d lie about this now?” Luke cuts in, sharper than before, something defensive flashing beneath the surface. “What the hell would I get outta that?”

JJ opens his mouth, then closes it again, breath coming quicker now, uneven. His hands flex uselessly at his sides, like he doesn’t know what to do with them. “This is—” he drags a hand through his hair, pacing once like he needs to move or he’s gonna explode, “—this is bullshit. You’re just—what, trying to mess with me? That’s what this is?”

Luke watches him, expression unreadable. “You asked about stories,” he says, quieter now. “There’s yours.”

JJ shakes his head again, harder this time, like he can physically dislodge it. “No. No, you don’t just—” His voice cracks, and he hates it instantly, jaw clenching tight. “Then what the hell is that supposed to mean, huh? Who—who is?”

Luke exhales slowly, leaning back again, but the tension doesn’t leave him. “Don’t know,” he says. “Not really. Your mom—” he pauses, like even that word sits strange in his mouth now, “—she showed up already pregnant. Didn’t say much. Didn’t stay long.”

The words feel distant. Muffled. JJ stares at him, heart pounding so hard it drowns out everything else. “You’re lying,” he says, but there’s no bite left in it now. Just something thin. Fraying.

“I’m not.”

Silence crashes down between them, heavier than anything that came before. JJ’s chest rises and falls too fast, his thoughts scrambling, trying to grab onto something solid and finding nothing. The room feels wrong now. Off. Like the ground shifted and didn’t settle back. And somewhere in the middle of it—Your mother’s voice echoes back, quiet and certain.

You carry more than just his blood in your veins.

JJ’s breath stutters. Storms don’t just change the land. Sometimes they change the lives waiting to be born. His head drops slightly, hands bracing on his hips as he tries to steady himself, but it doesn’t work. Nothing about this feels steady anymore. Because now it’s not just you. Not just the hunters. Not just whatever’s buried out there in the ocean waiting to be found.

Now it’s him, too.

The tangle in JJ’s chest doesn’t loosen—it cinches tighter, winding in on itself until it’s hard to tell where the anger ends and something uglier begins. It burns, low and constant, fed by years he can suddenly see too clearly: the split knuckles that weren’t his, the nights he learned how to stay quiet, the way he taught himself to take a hit and laugh it off like it didn’t matter. All of it—every bruise, every black eye, every time he tasted blood and swallowed it down because fighting back only made it worse—built on something that was supposed to mean something. A name. Blood. A reason. And now it’s nothing. Less than nothing. Just wasted hurt with no anchor to tie it to. The thought makes something inside him twist so violently he can’t hold it in his body anymore.

His hand snaps out before he fully registers it, fingers closing tight around the neck of an empty bottle on the table. The glass is warm from the room, slick with residue, and then it’s airborne—hurtling past Luke’s head close enough to make him flinch, shattering against the wall in a sharp, violent burst that scatters glittering shards across the warped linoleum. The sound rings out, loud and final, cutting through the stale air like a crack of thunder.

“What the fuck does that mean, huh?” JJ snarls, his voice coming out thinner than he wants, stretched tight with something too close to panic to hide. It shakes anyway, betraying him, cracking at the edges like a kid pushing back for the first time and not knowing if he’s about to get hit for it. His shoulders are already braced for it, muscles locked, weight shifting just enough to take the blow if it comes.

But Luke doesn’t move like that.

He straightens slower than JJ expects, gaze tracking the broken glass behind him before settling back on JJ with something harder now, less drunk, more present in a way that feels almost worse. His jaw ticks once, like he’s deciding something, and then he exhales through his nose.

“It means,” he says, voice rough but steady, “you’ve been asking the wrong man all this time.”

JJ lets out a harsh, disbelieving laugh that sounds more like a choke. “Yeah? No shit,” he shoots back, stepping forward, every word gaining heat, gaining edge. “So who the hell is the right one, huh? Who do I go to? You got a name? A place? Or is this just another one of your—” he gestures wildly, the word catching in his throat, “—your bullshit cop-outs?”

Luke’s gaze hardens. “I told you. I don’t know.”

“That’s not good enough!” JJ snaps, the volume cracking upward, desperation bleeding through the anger no matter how hard he tries to bury it. “You don’t just get to drop that on me and then sit there like it’s nothing. I lived here. I grew up with you—” his voice stumbles, falters just enough for it to hit harder, “—I took everything you threw at me, and for what? For nothing? You’re not even—” He cuts himself off, jaw clenching so tight it aches. “What the hell was the point?”

The question hangs there, raw and exposed. For a second, Luke doesn’t answer. His eyes flick away, just briefly, like he’s looking at something that isn’t in the room anymore. Then he huffs out a short, humorless breath.

“Point?” he repeats. “You think there was a point?”

JJ’s stomach drops, but he doesn’t back down. “There had to be,” he pushes, quieter now but no less intense. “People don’t just—” he swallows hard, forcing the words out, “—they don’t just do that for no reason.”

Luke studies him for a long moment, something unreadable shifting behind his eyes. When he finally speaks, it’s slower. Heavier.

“Your mom,” he starts, and the words alone are enough to make JJ’s chest tighten again, “she didn’t tell me much. Showed up outta nowhere, already carrying you. Didn’t stay long enough for questions.” He pauses, dragging a hand over his mouth. “Didn’t stay long enough for anything.”

JJ’s breath catches. “What happened to her?”

Luke’s gaze flicks back to him, something almost like reluctance settling in. “She’s dead.” The word lands flat. Final. JJ goes still.

“How?” he asks, the question quieter than anything he’s said so far, like part of him already knows he’s not gonna like the answer.

Luke hesitates, just for a second.

“Drowned.”

It hits harder than the bottle ever could. JJ’s head jerks slightly, like the word physically struck him, something cold sliding down his spine. “Drowned,” he repeats, barely above a whisper, the syllables tasting wrong in his mouth. And just like that—

Everything shifts again. Your mother’s voice, low and steady, threading through his memory like something pulled from deep water.

Storms don’t just change the land. Sometimes they change the lives waiting to be born.

The way she looked at him—not like a stranger. Not like someone guessing.

Like someone who knew.

JJ’s pulse starts to pound, louder now, sharper, each beat echoing against the inside of his skull as something impossible begins to take shape. “When?” he asks suddenly, voice tighter. “When did she—when did it happen?”

Luke frowns slightly. “Years ago. Before you could remember anything.”

JJ shakes his head, already pacing, hands dragging through his hair as the pieces start slamming together too fast to ignore. “No, no, that doesn’t—” he mutters, more to himself now, “she talked like she was there. Like she knew. Not just you—me.” He looks up sharply. “She knew things she shouldn’t.”

Luke’s expression darkens, suspicion creeping in. “What woman?”

JJ doesn’t answer right away. His mind is racing, dragging every detail back to the surface—the shoreline, the way she stood just out of reach of the tide, the way her voice carried something deeper than it should have.

The ocean.

Always the ocean.

His stomach twists.

“She said storms change things,” he says finally, slower now, the realization settling in piece by piece. “Said they change lives before they’re even born.”

Luke goes still. And this time, JJ sees it clearly—the flicker of something behind his eyes. Recognition. Or something close to it.

“What did she look like?” Luke asks, his voice rougher now.

JJ’s breath catches slightly. “Blueish black hair, odd colored eyes. Like she didn’t belong here,” he answers without thinking. “Like she was waiting for something.”

Silence stretches, thick and heavy. And in it, something clicks into place inside JJ, cold and unsteady but impossible to ignore.

If his mother drowned—

And your mother speaks like she was there—

Then maybe she didn’t just know what happened. Maybe she was part of it. Maybe she’s the reason he’s even standing here. The thought hits him like a wave, sudden and disorienting, knocking the breath from his lungs. JJ’s gaze drops for a second, hands clenching at his sides as everything shifts under his feet all over again. Because now it’s not just about who he isn’t.

It’s about what he might be connected to.

JJ doesn’t realize he’s stopped pacing until the silence stretches too long again—thick, waiting, like something in the room is holding its breath with him. His chest is still rising too fast, thoughts crashing into each other, but Luke doesn’t interrupt this time. He just watches him, really watches him, in a way that feels unfamiliar. Not annoyed. Not dismissive. Something closer to… measured.

Then Luke exhales, slow, dragging a hand down his face like he’s peeling something back he’d rather leave buried.

“You got her eyes,” he mutters, almost to himself at first.

JJ stills.

“What?”

Luke leans back slightly, gaze drifting—not away, but through him, like he’s looking at something layered over the present. “Your mom,” he clarifies, voice rougher now, less defensive. “She had that same look. Like she didn’t belong anywhere long enough to settle.” His jaw ticks once. “Like she was always half somewhere else.”

JJ swallows, throat dry.

“She wasn’t…” Luke pauses, searching for the word, then scoffs faintly like it doesn’t quite exist. “Normal,” he settles on, but it doesn’t sound like an insult. Not this time. “Didn’t act like the others around here. Didn’t move like them either.” His gaze flicks back to JJ, sharper now. “You’re the same. Always have been. Like you were born from something brighter than this place ever had to offer.” A humorless huff slips out. “Sunlight, maybe. Before it gets dragged through mud.”

The words land strange. Heavy. Not kind—but not cruel, either. Just… true in a way JJ doesn’t know how to process. He shifts slightly, tension still coiled tight in his shoulders. “That doesn’t tell me anything,” he says, quieter now but no less pressing. “You said she drowned. You said she showed up pregnant. That’s it? That’s all you’ve got?”

Luke’s gaze hardens slightly again, but not in the same way as before. There’s something underneath it now—something closer to reluctance than irritation.

“No,” he says after a beat. “That’s not all.”

JJ’s breath catches. Luke glances toward the broken glass behind the couch, then back at him, like he’s weighing whether it’s worth saying. “There was someone else,” he admits finally. “The night she showed up.”

JJ’s pulse spikes instantly. “Who?”

Luke doesn’t answer right away. His fingers tighten slightly around the neck of another bottle in his hand, knuckles whitening for a second before he forces them to loosen again.

“A woman,” he says slowly. “Didn’t stay long. Didn’t come inside.” His gaze narrows slightly, memory sharpening as he speaks. “Stood out near the waterline like she didn’t trust stepping too far in. Looked…” he trails off, frowning faintly. “Wrong, somehow. Like she didn’t fit right in the world.”

JJ’s stomach drops.

“You talked to her?” he asks, voice tight.

“Didn’t have much of a choice,” Luke mutters. “She came up to me like she already knew me. Like she already knew everything.” His jaw clenches slightly. “Didn’t ask if I’d take you. Just… handed you over like it was already decided.”

JJ’s breath stutters, something twisting hard in his chest.

“What did she say?” he presses.

Luke’s eyes flick back to him, something darker settling there now. “Not much. Not directly.” He leans forward slightly, elbows braced on his knees again. “But she mentioned a name.”

JJ’s entire body goes still.

“…What name?”

Luke hesitates.

“John Booker Routledge.”

The room tilts.

JJ blinks, sharp and disoriented, the name hitting somewhere deep even if it doesn’t make sense yet—shouldn’t make sense. “John B’s dad?” he breathes, disbelief threading through the words.

Luke shrugs slightly, but there’s no real indifference in it. “That’s what she called him. Said she was looking for him.” His brow furrows faintly. “Didn’t say why. Didn’t say what for. Just that it mattered.”

JJ’s mind is racing now, too fast to keep up with, threads snapping together in ways that feel wrong and inevitable all at once. “And you didn’t think that was important?” he demands, voice rising again.

Luke scoffs, sharper this time. “Kid, you showed up in my arms in the middle of a storm with a woman who could barely stand and another one talking like she stepped out of some ghost story. ‘Important’ wasn’t exactly the first thing on my mind.”

JJ shakes his head hard, frustration boiling back up—but it’s different now, tangled with something else. Something colder. “She knew,” he mutters, more to himself. “She knew what happened to my mom. She talked like she was there.”

Luke doesn’t deny it.

That’s what makes it worse.

“She was,” he says quietly.

JJ’s head snaps up.

“I didn’t realize it at the time,” Luke continues, slower now, like he’s piecing it together out loud. “But the way she talked about the storm… it wasn’t secondhand. It wasn’t guessing.” His gaze darkens slightly. “She knew exactly what went down out there in the ocean.”

JJ’s chest tightens painfully.

“And she brought me here,” he says, the realization settling in with a sickening weight. “After.”

Luke nods once.

Silence crashes down again, heavier than before, filled with everything neither of them is saying outright. JJ’s thoughts spiral, dragging you back into it whether he wants them to or not—your voice, your touch, the way the ocean seemed to answer you like it belonged to you. Your mother, standing at the edge of the tide like it was the only place she could exist without breaking.

And now—

John B’s dad.

The lost merchant.

The hunters.

It all tangles together into something bigger, something older, something that’s been moving long before any of them realized they were part of it. JJ drags a hand down his face, breath uneven, grounding himself just enough to stand upright again. “They didn’t just take her,” he mutters, voice low, steadying into something more dangerous. “They’re using her to find something. Something tied to all of this.”

Luke doesn’t respond. But he doesn’t look surprised, either. JJ’s jaw sets, something sharper locking into place behind his eyes now, cutting through the chaos. Because for the first time since this started, he doesn’t just have fragments.

He has a direction.

Even if he doesn’t like where it’s pointing.

The walk out of the house doesn’t feel real. The door shuts behind him, but the sound comes muffled, like it has to travel through water to reach him, and everything after that follows the same way—distant, warped, just slightly off. JJ keeps moving because stopping would mean thinking, and thinking right now feels like it might split something open in his chest that won’t close again. The air outside is thick, pressing against his skin, but he barely registers the heat. All he can feel is that weight lodged under his ribs, heavy and unmoving, like a panic attack that never quite peaks, never quite releases. It just sits there, suffocating. His conversation with Luke loops in fragments he can’t fully piece together—not your father, she drowned, she brought you here—each one hollow in its own way, like bones picked clean and left behind. No names. No faces. No trail. Just absence dressed up like answers.

And it makes something in him feel stupid. For hoping there’d be more. For thinking that if he pushed hard enough, demanded enough, something real would fall out of it—something he could use, something he could hold onto that wasn’t just another dead end. But that’s all it is. Another empty thing. His mother is gone, his father is no one, and Luke—Luke is just what he’s always been. A man who takes and takes and leaves nothing useful behind.

Except one thing.

JJ’s jaw tightens as he cuts down the path toward the Château, gravel crunching under his boots in a rhythm that doesn’t quite match the pounding in his head. The only piece that means anything—the only thing that actually points somewhere—is a name that shouldn’t even be his to carry.

John B’s dad.

The thought sits wrong and right all at once, twisting in his chest as he exhales sharply through his nose. Because of course it would circle back to that. Of course the one person who might connect all of this—the ocean, the stories, you—is the same ghost John B’s been chasing since day one. It almost feels like a joke. A bad one.

JJ lets out a quiet, humorless breath, dragging a hand down his face as another thought slips in, quieter but sharper. If it really was that simple. If finding answers was as easy as asking the right person the right question.

Then maybe—

His stomach twists hard enough to make him slow for half a step. Maybe you wouldn’t be gone. The thought hits deeper than anything Luke said. Because it’s not anger. It’s not confusion. It’s that slow, creeping kind of guilt that settles in your bones and refuses to move. He should’ve thought of it sooner. Should’ve connected it faster. You were looking for your father—your version of this same empty space—and JJ had a direct line to the one person who might’ve been able to give you something. Anything. A story. A picture. Proof that he existed beyond some vague, unreachable idea.

John B could’ve helped you.

And JJ—

JJ didn’t.

His jaw clenches tighter, shoulders stiffening as the Château finally comes into view through the trees, familiar and worn and somehow too normal for everything that’s shifted in the last few hours. The low murmur of voices carries out before he even steps onto the porch, overlapping, tense but… different. Focused.

JJ frowns slightly, pushing up the steps and through the door without announcing himself.

Inside, the air feels just as thick, but it’s charged now, not stagnant. Pope is mid-sentence when JJ walks in, words spilling fast, hands moving like he’s trying to physically piece something together in front of them. Kiara and Sarah are leaning in, attention locked, and John B—John B is standing, pacing just slightly, like he can’t quite stay still.

They all look up when JJ enters.

And something in the room shifts.

“There you are,” John B says, stepping forward immediately, something sharp and urgent cutting through his usual tone. “We’ve got something.”

JJ’s brows pull together, the words hitting slower than they should. “What?”

Pope exhales, running a hand through his hair. “Property records,” he says quickly. “You were right—about them being inland. There’s a stretch just past the marsh line, technically Kook territory, but no one’s touched it in years. Old research facility, shut down, off-grid. Recently accessed.”

“Like, very recently,” Kiara adds, arms crossed tight. “No official records, no permits. Just—activity.”

Sarah nods once. “And it lines up with when she was taken.”

The room goes quiet for half a second. JJ feels it hit—not relief, not exactly—but something closer to direction, cutting through the fog that’s been sitting in his head since he left the house. A place. Something real. A lead. His fingers flex at his sides, grounding himself in it.

“Where?” he asks, voice rough but steady.

Pope starts explaining—coordinates, access points, the fastest way to get there without being seen—but JJ only half listens, his gaze drifting instead, landing on John B. There’s something about the way he’s standing, the tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes keep flicking toward JJ like there’s something unsaid sitting between them.

JJ swallows, then jerks his head slightly toward the door. “Hey. JB.”

John B hesitates, then nods, following him outside without question. The porch creaks under their weight as the noise from inside dulls behind them, leaving just the hum of insects and the distant crash of waves filtering through the trees. JJ leans against the railing, gripping it tighter than he means to, staring out at nothing for a second before he speaks.

“Your dad,” he says, cutting straight through it, because he doesn’t have the patience for anything else right now. “You ever think he was into… weird shit?”

John B huffs a short, confused laugh. “Define weird.”

JJ’s jaw shifts. “Like—stories. Ocean stuff. Things that don’t exactly make sense.”

John B’s expression shifts slightly, the humor fading into something more thoughtful. “Yeah,” he says slowly. “All the time. He used to talk about the Royal Merchant like it wasn’t just a wreck—like it meant something more.” He glances at JJ. “Why?”

JJ hesitates.

Not long. Just enough for it to feel heavier than it should.

“He ever mention… anyone?” JJ presses instead, voice quieter now. “Like—someone connected to it. Not treasure. Not gold. Just… someone.”

John B frowns slightly, thinking. “Not directly,” he admits. “But he always said the story wasn’t just about the ship. Said there were things tied to it people didn’t understand. Things that didn’t stay buried.” His gaze sharpens a little. “JJ, what’s this about?”

JJ looks away, jaw tightening again.

He doesn’t answer that. Not fully.

Instead, he exhales slowly, pushing off the railing. “Nothing,” he mutters, even though it’s clearly not true. “Just… trying to figure something out.”

John B watches him for a second longer, like he wants to push, but he doesn’t. Not yet.

“Hey,” he says instead, quieter now. “We’re gonna find her.”

JJ’s throat tightens slightly at that, something sharp and fleeting cutting through the noise in his head.

“Yeah,” he says, not looking at him. “I know.”

When they step back inside, the energy hasn’t died—it’s sharpened. It feels tighter now, like something coiled and ready instead of scattered. Pope is already clearing space on the table, pushing aside empty cans and old papers to spread out a rough map he must’ve dug up from somewhere, edges curling, ink faded in places where the island’s lines blur into swamp and marsh. Kiara leans over it, one hand braced flat against the wood, the other tracing a path that cuts inland, away from everything familiar, while Sarah stands just behind her shoulder, pointing out access roads and property lines like she’s pulling them straight from memory. The room smells like heat and salt and something faintly metallic from the tension hanging in the air, but no one’s slowing down long enough to notice it. JJ shuts the door behind him, the sound grounding in a way nothing else has been, and for the first time since he left his house, it feels like he’s stepping into something that’s actually moving forward instead of circling the same dead ends.

“They’re not stupid,” Pope is saying, voice quick, precise, already three steps ahead. “If they picked this place, it’s because it’s isolated but still accessible. That means at least two entry points—one obvious, one not.” His finger taps the map twice, marking both with a kind of certainty that makes it feel real, tangible. “Main road here, probably monitored. But this—” he drags his finger along a thinner line that disappears into marshland, “—this could be our way in if we stay low.”

Kiara nods immediately, already adjusting the plan in her head. “We go at night,” she says, tone firm, leaving no room for argument. “Less visibility, less chance of being spotted before we’re close enough to actually see what we’re dealing with.”

“And more chance of walking straight into something we can’t see,” Sarah counters, but there’s no real resistance in it—just caution, the kind that sharpens instead of slows. “If they’re watching the perimeter, they’ll expect that.”

JJ steps closer without realizing it, drawn in by the map, by the shape of something solid forming in front of him. His gaze locks onto the marked area, something cold and focused settling behind his eyes as he studies it like it might give him more than just directions. “They’ll be watching both,” he says, voice quieter but steady, cutting through the overlap of their voices. “Doesn’t matter when we go. They’re waiting for something, remember?” His jaw tightens slightly. “They’re not just guarding her. They’re expecting someone else to show up.”

There’s a brief pause at that.

John B glances at him, catching the weight behind the words but not questioning it yet. “Then we don’t give them what they’re expecting,” he says instead, stepping in beside him. “We don’t go straight for the building. We scope it first. Figure out how many people are there, what kind of setup they’ve got.”

Pope nods, already shifting gears. “Recon first,” he agrees. “No rushing in blind. We need eyes on the place before we do anything else.”

Kiara exhales sharply, pushing back slightly from the table, but she doesn’t argue. Not really. “Fine,” she says, though there’s impatience threaded through it. “But we don’t wait too long. If they’re running tests or—” she cuts herself off, jaw tightening, “—whatever the hell they’re doing, every hour matters.”

JJ doesn’t react outwardly, but something in his chest twists at that, sharp and immediate. He doesn’t need the reminder. It’s already there, sitting heavy behind every thought, every breath.

“We split roles,” Sarah adds, stepping in smoothly, grounding the conversation before it tips too far into urgency. “Two for recon, two ready to move if something goes wrong.”

John B shakes his head slightly. “No splitting up too far,” he says. “Not this time. We stay close enough to back each other up.”

JJ’s fingers curl slightly at his sides, his gaze still fixed on the map, tracing the path Pope marked earlier without consciously meaning to. Marshland. Narrow access. Limited visibility. It’s risky. It’s messy.

It’s exactly the kind of place you’d hide something you don’t want found.

“I’ll go in first,” he says suddenly.

The words come out flat. Certain.

Everyone looks at him.

“JJ—” Kiara starts, but he cuts her off before she can get any further.

“I’m faster,” he says, not looking up from the map. “Quieter. If something goes wrong, I can get out quicker than any of you.” His jaw shifts, the edge in his voice not quite aggressive, but not open for debate either. “I’m not waiting around while they—” He stops himself, breath tightening slightly, then forces it back under control. “I’m going.”

Silence stretches for a second.

Then John B exhales, running a hand through his hair before nodding once. “Fine,” he says. “But not alone.”

JJ finally looks up at that, something flickering in his expression.

“I’m going with you,” John B adds, steady, leaving no room for argument of his own. “If this ties back to my dad—if it ties back to any of this—then I’m not sitting it out.”

For a second, it looks like JJ might push back.

Then he doesn’t.

“Fine,” he mutters instead, looking back down at the map, but something in his posture shifts—just slightly. Not lighter. Not easier.

Just… less alone in it.

Pope clears his throat, refocusing them. “Okay. So we move at dusk,” he says, tapping the map again. “Scout the perimeter, identify entry points, and then we decide if we go in or pull back and regroup.”

“And if we see her?” Kiara asks, quieter now.

JJ’s head lifts again, something sharp cutting through the room before anyone else can answer.

“We don’t leave without her.”

The words land heavy.

Final.

And no one argues with that.

They don’t linger after that. Plans, for them, are never things that sit—they move, they shift, they turn into action almost before they’re fully formed, and this is no different. The map gets folded, shoved into Pope’s bag along with anything that might pass for useful, and the room empties in that familiar, chaotic rhythm that somehow always works for them. It isn’t polished, it isn’t clean—but it’s theirs. By the time the sun starts dipping lower, dragging long shadows across the yard, they’re already outside, already moving. The van coughs to life with that same stubborn resistance it always has, and JJ slides into the passenger seat without thinking, elbows braced on his knees, gaze fixed ahead like if he looks away for even a second, something might slip through his fingers again.

The drive is quieter than usual—not tense, not exactly, but focused in a way that feels heavier than anything they’ve done before. No music blasting, no half-joking commentary to fill the space. Just the low hum of the engine, the occasional shift of gears, and the sound of the road stretching out beneath them as they leave the familiar parts of the island behind. Trees thicken. Houses thin out. The air changes, losing that open, salt-heavy feel and turning denser, greener, like the land itself is closing in. JJ barely registers any of it consciously, but his body does—every sense sharpening, every instinct pulling tighter as they get closer. It reminds him of that night at the boarding school, the way everything narrowed down to a single objective, the rest of the world falling away until there was only the plan, the risk, and the person waiting on the other side of it.

Except this time—

It’s worse.

Because this isn’t just locked gates and security cameras and some rich asshole’s rules.

This is something that’s been waiting.

They park further out than they need to, tucked behind a line of overgrown brush where the van disappears into shadow if you’re not looking directly at it. No one slams doors when they get out. No one speaks louder than necessary. Even Kiara, who’s usually the first to push forward, holds back just a fraction, eyes scanning the tree line like she can feel it too—that shift in the air, the quiet that doesn’t belong.

Pope pulls the map back out, flattening it against the hood under the fading light, but they barely need it now. The path is already set.

“Main road’s about half a mile that way,” he murmurs, pointing without lifting his voice. “Too exposed.”

JJ nods once, already turning slightly toward the marshline, where the ground dips and thickens, where the trees crowd closer together. “We go through there,” he says, tone low but certain. “Less visibility. Harder to track.”

John B falls into step beside him without hesitation.

“Of course it is,” he mutters under his breath, but there’s no real complaint in it—just familiarity. The same kind of resigned trust that’s gotten them through worse.

They move as a group at first, slipping into the brush with practiced ease, feet careful against uneven ground, bodies instinctively lowering when branches dip too low or the terrain shifts under them. The light fades quicker beneath the canopy, shadows stretching long and deep until everything takes on that dim, green-gray hue that makes distance harder to judge. It’s quiet out here. Too quiet. No voices, no distant engines—just the faint rustle of leaves and the occasional snap of something small underfoot.

JJ leads without being told to. It isn’t a decision—it just happens. His body knows how to move like this, how to navigate tight spaces, how to keep his weight light and his presence smaller than it should be. Every now and then, he glances back, checking positions, making sure no one’s too far behind, the same way he did that night at the boarding school—quick, efficient, unspoken.

When they finally slow, it’s because the trees start to thin.

The land opens just enough to reveal it.

Not all at once—just fragments at first. A fence line, half-hidden behind overgrowth but still intact. A structure beyond it, low and wide, concrete walls stained with age but not abandoned enough to be forgotten. There are lights, too. Not bright. Not obvious. But there.

Active.

JJ drops into a crouch without thinking, the others following suit almost immediately, bodies folding into the shadows at the edge of the tree line. His gaze locks onto the building, scanning, cataloging—windows, entrances, movement.

There’s someone near the side entrance.

Another figure passes briefly behind one of the windows.

Not empty.

Not even close.

His pulse kicks up, but his breathing stays steady, controlled, like everything inside him has narrowed down to this one moment.

He glances sideways at John B, voice barely more than a whisper. “Just like last time,” he mutters, something sharp flickering behind his eyes. “We find the weak point, we get in, we get her out.”

John B nods once, jaw tight.

Behind them, Pope shifts slightly, adjusting his position to get a better angle, while Kiara and Sarah stay low, eyes locked on the structure like they’re memorizing every detail.

No one says it out loud.

But it’s there, sitting between them.

This isn’t a test run.

This isn’t a maybe.

This is it.

JJ’s gaze flicks back to the building one more time, something colder settling into place beneath the urgency, beneath the fear.

Because somewhere inside that concrete—

You’re there.

And this time—

He’s not leaving without you.

For a few seconds, no one moves. It’s not hesitation—it’s calculation, the kind that settles deep in the bones before anything reckless can take over. JJ’s eyes drag slowly across the structure again, sharper now, adjusting to the dim, catching details he might’ve missed at first glance. The fence isn’t just for show—it’s reinforced, patched in places where it’s been cut before, which means they’re not the first ones to try getting in or out. There’s a rhythm to the movement, too. The figure by the side entrance shifts every so often, not pacing, not wandering—guarding. Another silhouette crosses the same window twice, spaced evenly enough to feel like a route. Not random. Nothing about this is random.

JJ leans forward slightly, one hand pressing into the dirt to steady himself, eyes narrowing. “They’re rotating,” he murmurs, barely audible, more observation than statement. “Not a big team, but enough to cover the obvious spots.”

Pope inches closer on his other side, squinting past him. “Cameras?” he whispers.

JJ scans again, slower this time, letting his gaze linger along the edges where shadows meet structure. “Yeah,” he mutters after a beat. “Two—maybe three. Corners and above the main door.” His jaw tightens. “Blind spots are gonna be tight.”

Behind them, Kiara shifts, lowering even more as she follows his line of sight. “Then we don’t go obvious,” she breathes. “We cut through where they won’t expect it.”

JJ huffs faintly at that, something humorless ghosting through his chest. “That’s the plan,” he says, but his voice stays flat, grounded, already moving ahead. His gaze drops to the fence line again, tracking it left to right until—

There.

A section near the back corner. Slightly warped. Not broken, not open—but weaker. Like it’s been tested before.

He nods toward it. “There,” he whispers. “We get through that, we’re behind the building. Less visibility from the front.”

John B leans in just enough to see it, then nods once. “Alright. Pope, Kie—you stay here. Keep eyes on movement. If anything shifts, you signal.”

Pope frowns immediately. “You sure about splitting—”

“We’re not splitting,” JJ cuts in, sharper than he means to, but he doesn’t take it back. His eyes flick to Pope, then Kiara, grounding the decision. “You’re our way out if this goes sideways. We need that.”

Kiara doesn’t like it. It shows in the way her jaw tightens, in the way her fingers curl into the dirt—but she nods anyway. “You don’t take too long,” she mutters.

JJ doesn’t promise anything.

Because he can’t.

Instead, he shifts his weight back slightly, glancing once more at the building, at the faint glow behind the windows, at the movement he can’t fully see but knows is there. His chest tightens—not panic, not quite—but something close. The memory of that brief connection flickers again, sharp and unwanted. You were there. Close. Close enough to reach.

He swallows it down.

Then he moves.

It’s quiet. That’s the first thing. Every step is deliberate, placed with care, avoiding dry branches, loose gravel, anything that might betray them. JJ leads without looking back, trusting John B to stay with him, to match his pace the same way he always does. The ground shifts underfoot as they move deeper along the edge of the clearing, softer, damper, the air thickening again with that marsh-slick scent that clings to everything. It reminds him of the ocean in the worst way—not open, not alive, just trapped.

They reach the fence faster than it feels like they should.

Up close, it’s worse. Taller. Heavier. The metal cold and rough where JJ presses his hand against it, testing, feeling the tension in it. The warped section gives slightly under pressure—not enough to open, but enough.

“Boost me,” he whispers.

John B doesn’t argue. He crouches immediately, bracing, and JJ steps up, gripping the top edge of the fence, hauling himself up just enough to get leverage. The metal groans faintly—too loud in the quiet—and both of them freeze for half a second, listening.

Nothing.

JJ exhales slowly, then shifts his weight, forcing the warped section wider with controlled pressure. It resists at first—then gives just enough.

“Go,” he murmurs, dropping back down and holding it open.

John B slips through first, quick and silent, landing soft on the other side before turning to help. JJ follows right after, easing the fence back into place behind them, leaving it looking almost untouched.

They don’t stop.

The back of the building looms closer now, concrete rising out of the ground like something buried that never fully stayed down. The air feels colder here, heavier, like it’s holding onto something it shouldn’t. JJ’s gaze flicks up to the nearest window—dark, no movement—but that doesn’t mean empty.

Nothing about this place feels empty.

He presses his back briefly to the wall, breathing steady, listening. There’s something faint inside—distant, muffled. Not voices exactly. Movement. The kind that travels through walls more than air.

His chest tightens again.

“She’s in there,” he mutters, barely sound.

Not a guess.

A certainty.

John B glances at him, something flickering across his expression, but he doesn’t question it. “Then let’s not waste time,” he whispers back.

JJ nods once, sharp.

Then his eyes drop to the side door just a few feet ahead—metal, closed, probably locked.

He steps toward it anyway.

Because locked has never stopped him before.

And it’s sure as hell not stopping him now.

The door isn’t reinforced the way the front would be. JJ can tell just by the way it sits in the frame—slightly off, like it’s been opened and closed too many times without care. He presses his palm flat against it first, feeling for vibration, for movement on the other side. Nothing immediate. Just that same low, distant hum bleeding through the metal, something mechanical layered over something else he can’t quite place. His fingers slide down to the handle, testing it once—locked. Of course it is.

He exhales slowly through his nose, then crouches, hands moving on instinct more than thought as he works at the edge where the latch meets the frame. It’s not clean. It’s not careful. It’s the kind of entry that relies on pressure and timing more than finesse, the kind that makes a faint, protesting creak when the metal gives just enough.

Both of them freeze.

JJ’s head tilts slightly, listening hard, every muscle locked, breath held tight in his chest.

Nothing.

No footsteps. No voices shifting. Just that same hum, steady and unaware.

He pushes again—slower this time, controlled—and the latch slips just enough for the door to ease inward with a soft, dragging sound that feels ten times louder than it actually is.

JJ doesn’t wait.

He slips inside first, shoulders low, movements tight and quiet, immediately stepping off to the side to make space for John B to follow. The air hits different in here—colder, recycled, tinged with something sterile that doesn’t quite mask the underlying dampness. It smells wrong. Like water that’s been trapped too long without movement.

The hallway is narrow. Concrete walls. Fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead, one of them flickering just enough to cast uneven shadows along the floor. There are doors on either side, most of them closed, some with small reinforced windows that show nothing but darkness inside.

JJ’s pulse kicks up, but his breathing stays even.

He moves forward slowly, steps measured, every sense straining. There’s sound here, more distinct now—footsteps somewhere deeper in the building, muffled voices that echo just enough to be disorienting. Not close. But not far enough to ignore.

John B stays right behind him, close enough that JJ can feel the shift of air when he moves, both of them falling into that same silent rhythm without needing to speak.

They pass the first door.

Then the second.

Locked.

Empty—or meant to look it.

JJ’s jaw tightens slightly, something restless building under his skin. This place is too controlled. Too clean in the wrong ways. It’s not just holding something—it’s studying it.

You.

The thought lands heavy.

He swallows it down, stepping closer to the next door, pausing just long enough to glance through the small window. Dark again. Useless.

They keep moving.

Further in, the hallway splits—one path leading deeper into the building, the other curving slightly out of sight. JJ hesitates for the first time, gaze flicking between them, listening.

There—

Faint. Barely there.

A sound that doesn’t belong to the building.

Not mechanical. Not structured.

Human.

His head turns slightly toward the deeper hallway, something sharp locking into place behind his eyes.

“She’s that way,” he breathes, barely audible.

John B nods once, immediate.

They start forward again, faster now but no less careful, tension winding tighter with every step. The air feels heavier the deeper they go, like it’s pressing in from all sides, thick with something unseen.

JJ’s mind is moving just as fast, though—faster than it should be, pulling threads together whether he wants it to or not. Luke’s voice. Your mother. The name.

John Booker Routledge.

It keeps circling back.

Keeps refusing to sit quietly.

And before he can stop himself—

“You know there’s a chance,” JJ whispers suddenly, the words slipping out low and rough, barely more than breath, “that she’s your half-sister.”

John B stops.

Not fully—but enough.

“What?” he breathes, the word sharp, disbelieving, like it doesn’t fit in the space they’re in.

JJ keeps his eyes forward, jaw tight, like if he looks at him, it’ll make it more real. “Your dad,” he murmurs. “My—” he cuts himself off, swallowing hard, correcting, “—Luke said some woman came looking for him. Same one who dropped me off. Mentioned your old man by name.”

The silence that follows is heavier than anything before it.

Footsteps echo faintly somewhere down the hall.

Neither of them moves for a second.

Then John B exhales, slow and unsteady, like he’s trying to process it and failing. “JJ—”

“I don’t know,” JJ cuts in quickly, voice still low but sharper now, like he regrets saying it but can’t take it back. “I’m just—connecting shit. That’s all.”

It’s not just that. They both know it. But there’s no time to sit in it. No space to unpack it, not here, not now. Another sound echoes from deeper in the hallway—closer this time. JJ’s head snaps forward again, focus locking back into place like a switch flipping.

“We deal with that later,” he mutters, more to himself than anything. Then he moves again.

Because whatever you are to John B—

Whatever you might be to any of them—

None of it matters if they don’t get to you first.

They move again like the pause never happened, like the words JJ just dropped don’t linger heavy between them, but they do—thick, unresolved, trailing behind every step as they push deeper into the building. The hallway narrows slightly, the lights dimmer here, one of them buzzing loud enough to grate against JJ’s nerves. The air shifts too—colder, damper, carrying that same wrong, metallic tang he noticed the second they stepped inside, only stronger now, sharper in the back of his throat. It makes his skin prickle, like something about this place is actively rejecting the idea of being lived in.

Another turn.

A door at the end of the corridor—different from the others. Reinforced. No window this time. Just solid metal with a keypad beside it, faintly glowing in the dim light.

JJ slows.

His chest tightens, not with uncertainty—with recognition.

“This is it,” he murmurs, voice barely there, but it lands with certainty.

John B steps up beside him, eyes flicking over the door, the keypad, the hinges. “Locked,” he mutters under his breath, already reaching toward it like that’s ever stopped them before.

JJ doesn’t answer right away. His head tilts slightly, listening—not just to the building this time, but past it. Through it.

And then—

There.

Faint. Fragile. But unmistakable.

A breath that doesn’t belong to either of them.

His pulse spikes.

“She’s in there,” he says again, quieter this time, like saying it too loud might break whatever fragile thread he’s holding onto.

John B’s jaw sets. “Then we get it open.”

JJ nods once, stepping forward, fingers brushing the keypad. It’s newer than the rest of the place. Cleaner. Maintained. Which means it matters. Which means they don’t have time to do this slowly. He glances back down the hallway once—quick, sharp—then makes the call.

“Move back,” he whispers. John B doesn’t argue. He shifts just enough to give JJ space, tension coiling in his posture. JJ doesn’t hesitate. He drives his elbow hard into the keypad. The plastic cracks with a sharp, contained snap, the panel caving inward just enough to expose the wiring beneath. It’s not clean. It’s not precise. But it’s fast. His fingers move immediately after, yanking, twisting—anything to short it, to force the lock to fail instead of hold.

For a split second—

Nothing.

Then— A dull click. The kind that feels louder than it is. JJ’s breath catches. He grips the handle, hesitates just long enough to listen—Still nothing coming down the hall. Then he pulls.The door opens. Cold air spills out first.

Not just temperature—pressure. It hits his skin like stepping into something sealed off from the rest of the world, something contained too tightly for too long. The room beyond is dim, lit only by a single overhead light that hums faintly, casting everything in a pale, washed-out glow.

And then—

You.

For a second, JJ doesn’t move. Because seeing you like this—It knocks something loose in his chest he didn’t even realize he was holding together.

You’re exactly where he imagined and nothing like it at the same time. Smaller, somehow, in the way your body is held—not physically, but contained, restrained, forced into stillness that doesn’t belong to you. Messy hair falling over your forehead and sticking there, whether it is from humidity or seat, JJ doesn't know. The metal. The salt. The dampness clinging to your skin in uneven patches where water must’ve been used against you, not for you.

His throat tightens.

“Hey—” the word slips out before he can stop it, too soft, too raw, like he’s afraid anything louder might break you.

John B steps in right behind him, but JJ barely registers it. His focus locks entirely on you, on the way your head lifts, on the smallest shift in your breathing like he’s tracking it instinctively.

He moves forward then, faster now but still careful, like approaching something fragile instead of something that could tear him apart if it wanted to.

“I got you,” he mutters, voice low, steadying despite everything clawing under the surface. His hands hover for half a second at the cuffs, taking in the salt packed into them, the way they’ve been set up to hurt instead of just hold.

His jaw tightens.

“Of course they did,” he breathes, more to himself, anger flashing sharp and immediate.

Behind him, John B shifts slightly, glancing back toward the hallway. “We don’t have long,” he warns quietly.

JJ nods once, already working.

His fingers move carefully this time, slower than before, testing the metal, looking for any give that won’t make it worse for you. The salt complicates it—burns even at a glance, deliberate and cruel.

“Gonna get you out,” he murmurs, softer now, like it’s just for you. “Just—hold on a second, alright?”

His hands steady despite the adrenaline, despite the urgency pressing in from every side. Because now that he’s here—Now that he’s found you—There’s no version of this where he leaves without you.

author's note: hi peaches.... wow, it's actually been so long i'm embarrassed to update this fic, or cherry bomb. but alas, as a writer i should push through and deal with the fact that i've got caught up into social life with uni and never got around to writing anything other smutty one-shots or half-chewed bullshit ideas for fics. now i do hope to get around to cherry bomb and glass eyed creatures, because i have like 3 ideas for one installment fics that i wanna write. so i'm trying, and i do still love this blog and the people that are still here. i'm sorry again yall but i promise i'm back for good.🥹💙

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The crush was a slow-burning ember, a secret you kept close to your chest. It was harmless, you told yourself, a fantasy to indulge in when the nights were long and the sound of the waves wasn't enough to drown out your thoughts. You never, ever thought it would become anything more.

That changed on a sweltering Thursday afternoon. Maisy was supposed to give you a ride home, but her car, a vintage Jeep she treated like a princess, had sputtered to a halt a mile from the Chateau. With a sigh of dramatic teenage suffering, she had called the one person she knew could fix it: her dad.

You’d waited with her at the garage, perched on a stool in the corner, trying to look anywhere but at him. He’d been working under the hood of another car, a beat-up pickup, his torso bent at an angle that made his back muscles ripple. The garage was a symphony of clanking metal and his low, frustrated curses.

“Alright, sweetheart,” he’d finally said, wiping his hands on a rag that looked dirtier than the engine itself. “Let’s see what the hell you did to this thing.”

He’d popped the Jeep’s hood, and you watched, mesmerized, as his large hands navigated the engine's intricate parts. He explained the problem to Sarah—a faulty alternator—but his eyes kept flicking to you, a knowing glint in them that made your stomach clench. Maisy, oblivious as ever, was on her phone within minutes, complaining to her boyfriend about the delay.

“You gonna just sit there lookin’ pretty, or you gonna hand me that 10mm wrench?” JJ’s voice was a low grumble, pulling you from your thoughts.

You blinked, cheeks flaming. “I-I don’t know which one that is.”

He chuckled, a deep, raspy sound that seemed to bounce off the concrete walls. He didn’t mock you; he just pointed with a grease-stained finger. “The one with the 10 on it, kid.”

You scrambled to obey, your fingers brushing against his as you handed him the tool. The contact was electric, a jolt that shot straight up your arm. His gaze lingered on you, his expression unreadable, before he turned back to the engine.

An hour later, Maisy was gone, called away by some emergency. She’d left you with a breezy, “Dad will give you a ride home!” and a promise to text you later. And then it was just you, him, and the lingering scent of gasoline.

“Guess it’s just us,” he said, shutting the hood of the Jeep with a definitive clang. He leaned against it, crossing his arms, his biceps straining against the sleeves of his shirt. He looked you up and down, a slow, deliberate sweep of his eyes that felt more intimate than a touch. “You’re not a kid anymore, are you?”

Your heart hammered against your ribs. “I’m nineteen.”

“I know how old you are,” he said, pushing off the Jeep and closing the distance between you in two long strides. He towered over you, his shadow engulfing you. “I also know you’ve been watchin’ me.”

You couldn’t deny it. Your throat was too dry to form a lie. You just stared up at him, wide-eyed and silent.

His hand came up, his calloused thumb gently brushing your lower lip. “You look at me like you wanna know what these hands can do when they’re not fixin’ an engine.”

That was it. The line was crossed. He didn’t wait for an invitation. His other hand gripped your waist, pulling you flush against him. The sheer size of him was overwhelming; his body was a hard, warm wall of muscle, and you could feel the solid ridge of his cock pressing against your stomach through your thin sundress. The size kink you’d only ever read about in books flared to life, a dizzying, potent wave of arousal.

“JJ…” you breathed, his name a fragile whisper on your lips.

“Nah,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your ear. “In here, you call me Sir.”

He didn’t give you a chance to respond. He lifted you as if you weighed nothing, setting you down on the hood of a nearby car that was covered in a protective blanket. The metal was warm through the fabric. He positioned himself between your legs, his hands firmly on your thighs, pushing the hem of your dress up until it was bunched around your hips.

“Look at that,” he growled, his gaze fixed on the damp patch on your cotton panties. “All this for me? Been thinkin’ about this, haven’t you, sweetheart?”

You could only nod, your body trembling with anticipation. His fingers hooked into the waistband of your panties, and with one sharp tug, he ripped them. The fabric gave way with a satisfying tear, and the audacity of it made a gasp tear from your throat. He tossed the ruined scrap aside without a second glance.

“Gonna make you feel so good,” he promised, his voice a dark, sinful caress. “Gonna make you forget all about those little boys you’re used to.”

He slid one thick finger through your slick folds, and the sensation was almost too much. You were already so sensitive, so worked up, that the simple touch sent a jolt of pleasure through you. He circled your clit with a maddening slowness, his eyes locked on your face, watching every flicker of pleasure.

“Please,” you whimpered, your hips bucking involuntarily.

“Please what?” he demanded, his tone stern. “Please what, Sir?”

“Please, Sir… more.”

He rewarded you by sinking one long finger inside you. The stretch was immediate, a delicious ache that had you arching your back. He pumped it in and out slowly, deliberately, his thumb still teasing your clit. It was a tantalizing taste of what you wanted, and it was driving you insane.

“You’re so tight,” he groaned, adding a second finger. The stretch intensified, a burning pleasure that had you mewling. “Gonna feel so fuckin’ good around my cock.”

He began to scissor his fingers, stretching you, preparing you. The heel of his hand pressed against your clit with every thrust, building the pressure inside you to an unbearable peak. You were so close, right on the edge, your hands fisting the blanket beneath you.

“That’s it, come on,” he urged, his voice a low rumble. “Come for me, let me feel it.”

Your orgasm crashed over you, a blinding, intense wave that stole your breath. You cried out, your body convulsing around his fingers. But he didn’t stop. He kept pumping them, his thumb rubbing your clit in relentless circles, pushing you through the first orgasm and straight into a second, more intense one.

“Too much,” you gasped, trying to squirm away from the overwhelming stimulation. “JJ, please, it’s too much!”

His free hand shot out, pinning your hip to the car. “I said, call me Sir,” he growled, his fingers curling inside you to stroke that sensitive spot deep within. “And you’re not goin’ anywhere. I wanna see how many times I can make you come before I even get my dick in you.”

This was the overstimulation you’d only dreamed of, the manhandling that made your head spin. He was in complete control, using your body for his pleasure, and the thought sent another gush of arousal through you. He leaned down, his mouth hot against your neck, sucking a dark mark into your skin as he continued his assault on your senses.

He brought you to the brink again, your body shaking uncontrollably, your vision blurring with tears of pleasure. And just as you were about to tip over the edge, he pulled his fingers away completely.

A desperate, frustrated cry escaped your lips. “No! Please, Sir, don’t stop!”

He just laughed, a low, wicked sound. He brought his glistening fingers to his mouth, his eyes never leaving yours as he licked them clean. “Taste fuckin' incredible,” he groaned, savoring your taste. “But you’re not coming again until I say so. Understand me?”

You nodded frantically, your body thrumming with a desperate, denied need. The orgasm edging was a exquisite form of torture, and you were completely at his mercy. He was so much bigger, so much stronger, his presence alone enough to pin you in place.

“Good girl,” he praised, his hands moving to the button of his grease-stained jeans. He popped it open, the sound loud in the quiet garage, and slowly dragged down the zipper. His cock sprang free, thick and heavy, curving up towards his stomach. The size of it stole the air from your lungs. It was flushed and angry-looking, the tip already beading with precum, and it was far bigger than anything you had ever taken. The size kink that had been a low hum before was now a roaring fire in your veins.

He gave himself a few slow, leisurely strokes, his eyes dark with lust as he watched you stare. “Told you you’d feel good around it,” he smirked. He gripped your hips, pulling you to the very edge of the car’s hood. The head of his cock nudged against your entrance, hot and insistent. “Gonna split you open, sweetheart.”

He pushed inside, and it was a slow, relentless stretch. Your body struggled to accommodate him, a burning, overwhelming fullness that bordered on pain. He was huge, and every inch he sank into you felt like a revelation. He let out a guttural groan, his head falling forward against your shoulder.

“Fuck… so tight. Takin’ me so good,” he gritted out, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. He gave you a moment to adjust, his thumb stroking soothing circles on your hip, a stark contrast to the punishing stretch between your legs.

Then, he began to move. He pulled out almost all the way before slamming back in, a deep, powerful thrust that knocked the breath out of you. He set a brutal, punishing rhythm, his hips snapping against yours with enough force to make the car rock. Every thrust hit you impossibly deep, stroking places inside you you didn’t even know existed. The initial pain melted into an all-consuming pleasure, so intense it was almost painful.

He manhandled you effortlessly, one hand sliding up your back to arch it, forcing you to take him even deeper. His other hand tangled in your hair, tugging your head back so he could devour your mouth in a messy, possessive kiss. It was all teeth and tongue, a desperate, claiming act that left you dizzy.

“You feel that?” he growled against your lips, his thrusts becoming harder, more erratic. “That’s my pussy now. You hear me? Mine.”

You could only moan in response, your nails digging into his shoulders through his shirt. The pressure was building again, that familiar coil tightening in your stomach, but this time it was different. It was bigger, more powerful, a tidal wave gathering strength.

“Please,” you sobbed, tears of pleasure streaming down your face. “Please, Sir, can I come? Please let me come.”

He slowed his pace, grinding into you, his pelvic bone rubbing against your clit with every devastating roll of his hips. “Look at me,” he commanded, his voice rough. You forced your eyes open to meet his intense, burning gaze. “You wanna come? Come for me. Now.”

That was all it took. The permission, the command, sent you flying over the edge. Your orgasm ripped through you with the force of a hurricane, a violent, shattering release that had you screaming his name. Your walls clenched around him like a vise, your body shaking uncontrollably as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over you.

He fucked you through it, his thrusts becoming erratic as he chased his own release. With a final, deep roar, he buried himself inside you, his cock pulsing as he spilled himself deep within you. The feeling of his hot release filling you was the final push, triggering one last, smaller orgasm that left you a boneless, trembling mess.

He collapsed against you, his weight a welcome, grounding pressure. You were both breathing heavily, the only sounds in the garage the hum of the fluorescent lights and your ragged breaths. After a long moment, he pushed himself up, his gaze softening as he looked down at you. He gently brushed a stray strand of hair from your sweaty forehead.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice a low, gentle rumble, a stark contrast to the dominant man from moments before.

You could only manage a weak nod, a blissed-out smile spreading across your face. He chuckled, leaning down to press a surprisingly soft kiss to your lips.

“Good,” he murmured, pulling out slowly and helping you sit up. He grabbed a clean-ish rag from his workbench and gently cleaned you up, his touch infinitely tender. “Because I’m not done with you yet. Not by a long shot.”

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