Rafe had been sent to kill you.

His father, Ward Cameron, was locked in a race for gold with the Pogues—your people. When he saw you alone at night, retrieving supplies, he saw an opportunity. Slowing the Pogues down meant getting rid of you. So he sent Rafe.

It had been months since you last spoke. There was something real between you once, but it never worked—Kook and Pogue, two worlds never meant to mix. Now, with the hunt for treasure driving a deeper wedge, you were nothing more than enemies.

Rafe stood in the shadows, gun raised. His fingers trembled against the trigger, breath unsteady, torn between everything he was supposed to do and everything he couldn’t.

Your breath caught as your eyes met his.

“You won’t do it,” you whispered.

His grip tightened.

“You can’t pull the trigger.”

His jaw locked, eyes flickering with desperation and grief. His breath was ragged, lips parted as if he wanted to speak, but no words came. His hands shook in silent rebellion.

You didn’t move. Your face remained still, but your eyes—wide with fear, glistening with unshed tears. A shallow breath shuddered through you, but you held his gaze.

“You can’t pull it because you love me,” you said quietly.

His chest rose unevenly. The gun wavered. His wild gaze searched your face—desperate for doubt, fear, anything to make this easier. But all he found was truth staring back at him. His breath betrayed him, shaky and uneven, as if the weight of it all was crushing him.

“Isn’t that why you’re waiting?”

Your voice was calm, but your eyes weren’t—searching, torn between fear and understanding. A faint tremor ran through you, but you didn’t step back. Instead, you held his gaze, daring him to admit what you both already knew.

“That’s not true!”

His voice cracked. His grip tightened, knuckles white. His breathing was uneven, too fast, too hard. His eyes darted away for a second—guilt, hesitation—before snapping back, burning with frustration.

Not just at you.

At himself.

“You don’t think I’ll do it?”