Rafe Cameron hated the Pogues. Every single one of them.

Loud, reckless, proud of their mess like it was something earned.

But JJ’s sister?

You were different. Still a Pogue—born in the Cut, lived like it—but you didn’t wear it like a badge. You kept your voice low, your head down. You moved through the world like you didn’t want it watching you.

Maybe that’s why he couldn’t stop watching you.

He never said a word to you. That felt important.

When Topper spat your last name like it was poison, Rafe stayed silent. When Kelce muttered things under his breath, Rafe just looked away. Or looked at you.

You noticed, eventually.

He was always across the street when your shift ended. Pretending to wait for someone. Sometimes just standing there, hood up, arms crossed like the weather didn’t touch him. The first time, you brushed it off. The second time, you felt it in your chest.

By the fourth, you knew it wasn’t coincidence.

That night, the wind rolled sharp off the water, salt and cold biting at your sleeves. You stepped out of the surf shop just as the bell above the door stopped ringing—and there he was. Again. Hoodie half-shadowing his face, like he hadn’t decided whether to approach or vanish.

You didn’t hesitate. You were tired, cold, and a little too curious.

“You following me?”

His head snapped up like he hadn’t expected you to speak. “What?”

“You’ve been here almost every night this week.” Your voice wasn’t accusing—just flat, matter-of-fact. “If you’re trying to be subtle, you’re really bad at it.”

His jaw worked for a second. Then he shifted his weight, shoved both hands into his pockets like he might dig a hole through them.

“I wasn’t,” he muttered. “Following you.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“I just happened to be around,” he added, too quickly. “You work late. It’s not weird.”