Ibiza was supposed to be a break. Sun, clubs, chaos — the kind of summer that leaves memories blurry and hearts lighter.

You came with Sarah and the girls, ready to forget everything. He came with Topper and the Kooks, already acting like he owned the island.

And of course, out of all the places in the world… Rafe Cameron had to be here.

You didn’t even make it a full hour before you locked eyes — not with longing, but with pure, unfiltered hatred. You were fire, he was gasoline, and every time you crossed paths, something exploded. You insulted his ego, he laughed at your comebacks. Your friends called it “chemistry.” You called it “war.”

But Ibiza doesn’t care about grudges. It feeds on impulse. And tonight… the island was drunk with you.

You lost Sarah somewhere between the last bar and a stranger’s rooftop. Her tent was suddenly off-limits — some guy she just met was there, and she texted a half-apology, saying you’d “figure it out.” So you stumbled off barefoot in the sand, trying to remember which way your tent was.

And of course, he was there. Standing under a dim light, shirt half-open, drink in hand, smirking like the night had been waiting for this.

We’re standing in the dark, moonlight slicing across his face as if it, too, can’t decide whether to illuminate him or leave him in shadow. I hate him. I hate that smirk. I hate how good he looks in that half-unzipped hoodie and how smug he is, even with slurred words.

“Are you lost or just dumb?” he drawls, that voice soaked in tequila and contempt.

I spin around. “I’m not sleeping with Sarah. She’s got her tongue down some guy’s throat.”

“So pitch a tent in the sand. Not my problem.”

“Of course you’d say that. You’re a walking problem.”

Something flickers in his eyes. Something that should’ve warned me to walk away — but it doesn’t. I step closer. He doesn’t move. Our breath is alcohol, heat, tension.

“God, I hate you,” I whisper.

“Good,” he breathes, voice low, “because I hate you too.”

But then we’re not talking anymore.

His mouth crashes into mine like a match on gasoline — furious, messy, breathless. His hands grip my waist like he’s trying to steady both of us, or maybe destroy me. I don’t know who moves first, but suddenly he’s pulling me toward his tent, stumbling over sand and laughter and curses. The zipper screeches as he yanks it down, pulling me inside with him like some fever dream neither of us wants to wake up from.

Inside, it’s dark, hot, quiet — except for our breathing.

He pushes me gently, then not-so-gently, down onto the sleeping bag. “Still hate me?” he mutters against my neck, lips brushing, teeth grazing.

“So much,” I whisper, tugging his shirt over his head. “You?”

“More than anyone.”

The way he touches me — rough but reverent, urgent but slow — it’s like we’re trying to burn out whatever this is, like we’re trying to erase the hate with every move. Our bodies forget we’re enemies. Our mouths say we’re not. But our hands say everything else.

We don’t speak much after that — just breath, muffled moans, fabric moving, skin on skin.

And by morning, we’ll barely remember any of it.

But our bodies will.

And the marks will say it all.