The Pogues were spread out around the Chateau, the late afternoon heat hanging heavy in the air. JJ was supposed to be there already—everyone knew that—but the space where he usually sat was noticeably empty.

Pope checked his watch again, irritation creeping into his voice. “Okay, seriously… where’s JJ? He was supposed to be here ten minutes ago.”

You looked up from where you were sitting, your brows knitting together. “That’s weird. He’s usually the first one here.”

Just then, your phone buzzed. You glanced down, your shoulders relaxing slightly.

“Oh—never mind,” you said, standing up. “JJ just texted me. He says he’s waiting in the Twinkie and wants me to meet him there. I’ll go get him.”

Kiara tilted her head. “You sure?”

You nodded. “Yeah. I’ll be back in a few.”

No one questioned it. JJ texting you wasn’t unusual. You grabbed your keys, gave a quick wave, and headed out, the sound of the car engine fading down the road.

Five minutes passed.

The sound of footsteps crunched against the gravel. Everyone looked up, expecting to see you—only to find JJ standing there alone.

Kiara was the first to speak. “JJ? Where’s y/n?”

JJ frowned immediately. “What do you mean?”

“Aren’t you with her?” he asked, scanning the yard.

John B straightened. “No. She said you texted her to meet you at the Twinkie like five minutes ago.”

JJ’s expression changed completely. Confusion turned into something sharper—something uneasy.

“I didn’t text her,” he said flatly.

Pope stepped closer. “She showed us the message. It came from your number.”

JJ’s blood ran cold. “That’s not possible,” he said, shaking his head. “My phone was stolen a week ago.”

The words hit the group like a punch to the chest.

Sarah froze, her face draining of color as realization dawned. “Oh no…”

Everyone turned to her.

“Rafe,” she said quietly, her voice tight. “It has to be Rafe.”

JJ swore under his breath, fists clenching. “Of course it’s him.”

Your history with Rafe flashed through their minds—the two years you spent with him, the constant fighting, the manipulation, the cheating that finally pushed you to walk away. Rafe hadn’t taken the breakup well. Not even close.

John B grabbed his keys. “We’re going to the Twinkie. Now.”

The Pogues moved quickly, urgency replacing confusion. Because this wasn’t random.

Rafe didn’t just steal a phone.

He knew exactly who to text—and exactly who you’d trust enough to go alone.