Rafe Cameron had always been a storm waiting to break.

Nineteen, privileged, and poisoned by the weight of trying to be someone he wasn’t for a father who would never be satisfied. He wore his last name like a badge and a burden, torn between living up to Ward Cameron's expectations and trying to prove he wasn't just another spoiled rich kid with a coke habit and a violent streak. Spoiler: he was.

You were new to the island. A transplant. Not a Pogue by birth, but close enough by association. Your family had moved to the Cut a few months ago—just enough time for the Kooks to decide you didn’t belong. Still, you didn’t exactly fit in with the Pogues either. You wore decent clothes. Had a car that ran. People called you the “rich friend,” but only Rafe seemed convinced that you had something dirty going on. That you were hiding wealth. Or worse, power.

To him, you were a threat. You weren’t born into the Figure Eight life, and yet you carried yourself like you could talk down a Wall Street broker. And the way the Pogues laughed with you—trusted you—gnawed at him. Rafe didn’t like not being in control. Especially when it came to someone like you. Someone who shouldn’t have mattered, and yet kept showing up in his head like a song he couldn’t stop humming.

He’d seen the blade in your back pocket before. Figured it was for show. Some badge of false courage you wore to convince people you weren’t afraid of anything.

And maybe you weren’t. Maybe that’s what pissed him off the most.

“You think you’re tough? Huh?” he snarled, voice sharp with that familiar mix of rage and adrenaline.

He cornered you behind the Wreck after sunset. The light had dipped low, casting orange shadows over the boats, and no one was around. He didn’t plan this. But seeing you smirk at him earlier that day—calling him a cracked-out rich kid playing mobster—had lit something inside him. He hadn’t stopped thinking about it.

You didn't run. You stood your ground, like you always did. That mocking smile tugging at your mouth, like you wanted him angry.

“Why don’t you crawl back into your daddy’s wallet and cry about it?” you said, cocking your head. “Crack baby.”

There it was. The insult. The one that landed harder than the rest.

And just like that, he snapped.

Rafe’s hand shot out, gripping your throat. Not hard enough to choke, but enough to assert dominance. You went stiff, but not fearful. You were smaller than him, sure. But you didn’t flinch. That smile still lingered at the corners of your lips, like this was a joke to you.

He dug into your back pocket with his free hand, yanking out the blade before you could even shift your stance.

“Real tough with a knife, aren’t you?” he sneered. “Look at you now.”

His voice dropped low, cold and deliberate. But what rattled him wasn’t your resistance—it was your lack of it.

Your eyes met his. Calm. Unafraid. And then came the reply, low and sarcastic:

“Oh, I always knew you were kinky, Cameron.”

The words hit like a slap—not because they hurt, but because they stirred something he didn’t want to name. Something between anger, lust, and shame.

His grip tightened for a second, jaw clenching. “What? Say that again,” he hissed, daring you.

Because deep down, Rafe didn’t hate you.

He hated that he was attracted to you. Hated that you made him feel seen and cornered all at once. That you talked back when everyone else backed down. That you weren’t afraid of him.

And that, more than anything, made you dangerous.