***♫-you can be the boss-lana del rey''

The air was thick with smoke and the sharp burn of liquor, music pulsing like a heartbeat through the walls. Laughter echoed, red cups spilled, and the house was packed—another wild Friday on Figure Eight. Some rich kid you barely knew had opened his doors, and now half the island was here.

You were mid-dance, hips swaying to the beat, plastic cup in hand, when your friend tugged on your arm. Bathroom run. You nodded, slipping through the crowd with her as bass thundered under your feet.

She disappeared behind the door, and you leaned against the wall outside, pulling out your phone to kill time. But before your screen even lit up, a shadow blocked the hallway light.

You looked up—Rafe Cameron.

He was a year older, someone you'd barely spoken to, but everyone knew of him. Trouble in designer clothes. But still, you gave him a soft smile.

“Hey, Rafe. What’s up?”

That signature smirk of his spread slow, like he knew something you didn’t. He stepped in closer—too close—and you caught the scent of his cologne, the alcohol on his breath, danger curling in the space between you.

“Just wanted to give you something,” he slurred, digging into his pocket.

He pulled out a single cigarette. Scratched into the paper in black ink were numbers.

His number.

“Do you want it?” he asked, voice low, like a secret wrapped in smoke.

He held it out like it was an invitation—or a dare.