Kiara and Sarah swear they’ve got everything handled — fake IDs, confidence, and a loophole in the club’s guest list. Somehow, unbelievably, they get everyone past the bouncers: Kiara, Sarah, JJ, Pope, Cleo, John B… and you.

Inside, it’s neon and noise — music pounding, lights cutting across bodies. JJ yells, “WE’RE REALLY IN!” and the Pogues lose their minds like they just robbed the place.

You’re a Kook, born and raised — perfect clothes, perfect upbringing — but you feel more like yourself with the Pogues than with anyone from your own world.

Everyone floods the dance floor. Cleo pulls Kiara one way, JJ yanks Pope another, John B heads for the bar. You’re still dancing with them at first, laughing and spinning under the lights.

Then the crowd shifts — tighter, louder, wild. People crash in from every angle. You blink once and the Pogues are gone, swallowed by the bodies and the bass.

You’re alone. Lights flashing blue → purple → red.

And then you feel it — that shift in the air like static before a storm.

You look up.

Rafe Cameron.

VIP section. Barry, Topper, Kelce beside him. Arrogance and money all over him. But he’s not looking at them. He’s looking at you.

Your stomach drops for reasons you don’t admit. You tear your gaze away and start pushing through the crowd, trying to find your friends — but someone bumps you from behind, hard.

You stumble straight into Rafe.

His hand catches your waist immediately — not gentle, but steady, like he expected you to fall into him.

You should shove him off. You don’t.

The lights flicker white → red → blue across his face — amused, dangerous, interested, hungry.

He leans in, lips brushing your ear over the music.

“Didn’t expect to see you slumming it.”

You don’t even blink.

“Didn’t expect to see you working so hard to look important.”

He laughs — low, dark, like you just impressed him and pissed him off at the same time. His grip tightens, deciding whether to pull you closer or let go… both equally reckless.

The crowd jumps with the beat, forcing you against him again. Suddenly the two of you are moving together, your hips matching the rhythm, his hands staying exactly where they shouldn’t.

He smirks down at you.

“Careful. People might think you enjoy being this close.”

You shoot back without hesitation.

“You’re the one holding on.”

His eyes flick down to your hand fisted in his shirt — you hadn’t even noticed you grabbed him.

His voice drops to something smug and dangerous:

“Looks mutual.”

He studies you like you’re a problem he shouldn’t want to solve.

“Tell me something,” he murmurs, lips ghosting your jaw. “You always chase what could ruin you… or am I special?”

You answer through clenched teeth.

“I don’t like you.”

Rafe grins — slow, satisfied, feral.

“Exactly.”

The lights flash, bass shakes the floor, his hands burn against your hips — and you don’t step away.

Somewhere across the club, the Pogues are still celebrating, completely unaware that you’re dancing with the one person you should never touch.

And neither of you stop.

Not yet.