It always started the same way: a quiet knock on the back door of Tannyhill when the lights were low and the rest of the world thought you were somewhere else.

No one was supposed to know.

Especially not John B.

Especially not any of the Pogues.

You were one of them—barefoot, sunburnt, loyal to the bone. A Pogue. And John B was your boyfriend. Steady. Sweet. Safe.

But then there was Rafe Cameron.

And Rafe wasn’t any of those things.

He was danger disguised as desire. Every time you told yourself it was the last time, you’d see that storm in his eyes, hear that crooked laugh, and all your rules would unravel.

Like tonight.

You were curled up in one of his hoodies, the scent of him wrapped around you like smoke. The two of you sat on the worn leather couch in his room, the only light coming from the TV playing something neither of you were watching.

His hand rested low on your thigh. Too low for someone who wasn’t supposed to be touching you at all.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he murmured against your neck, his lips brushing just enough to make you shiver.

“I know,” you whispered, already leaning into him.

But you didn’t move away.

You never did.

And he knew it.

Rafe kissed you like he hated how much he needed you. Like he was trying to get under your skin, into your head, all at once. And you kissed him back like you hated yourself for wanting him.

“Still with John B?” he asked between kisses, pulling back just enough to make you look at him.

You nodded.

His jaw clenched. “And yet here you are.”

“You’re the one who texted me.”

“And you came,” he said flatly. “You always do.”

The worst part was… he was right.

You’d told yourself it was just curiosity at first. A one-time mistake. Something reckless to remind yourself you were still capable of chaos.

But now it was something else. Something bigger. Softer, too.

Because when it was just the two of you—when no one was looking—Rafe wasn’t the villain the Pogues painted him to be. He was broken and bruised and trying. He let you touch the parts of him no one else got close to.

And you weren’t innocent, either.

You stayed the night. Wrapped up in his sheets, in his arms. His thumb brushed your lower lip when he thought you were asleep. He held you like he hated himself for loving it.

But come morning?

You slipped out the back the way you came. Hoodie pulled tight. Heart heavier than it should be.

And when you got back to the Chateau, John B kissed your forehead like nothing had changed.

But you had. And so had everything else.

Because secrets like this don’t stay quiet forever.