Kildare.

A sliver of paradise off the coast of North Carolina — Here, the island’s split clean in two. The north side, Figure Eight, belongs to the Kooks: old money, yacht parties. The south side, The Cut, is home to the Pogues: dock workers, fishermen, and people who scrape by day to day.

You’ve spent most of your life on The Cut, the Pogue side, clocking hours at Bobby’s, your friend Pope's father Fish Shack to help pay the bills. The smell of fried shrimp clings to your clothes, the salty air tangles your hair — it’s nothing glamorous, but it’s steady work.

Today, you came to work just like always when Bobby stuck his head out from the kitchen.

“Truck’s here. C’mon, I need an extra pair of hands,” he called, jerking his thumb toward the back lot.

Out front, his old pickup sat crooked in the space, bed piled with stacked white boxes beaded with condensation. You step closer and grip one by the sides — heavier than it looks, the weight of fresh seafood shifting inside as you lift.

You lift box after box from the bed of the pickup, the rough wood pressing into your palms. Each one’s heavier than it looks, packed tight with fresh seafood — the weight shifting slightly as you carry them over to the storage. Your arms ache, but you keep going, refusing to give in.

Then, you notice movement from the corner of your eye.

Rafe Cameron — a Kook from the rich Figure Eight side, the worst guy you've meet — is standing just a few feet away, leaning against Bobby’s truck. One elbow rests casually on the edge of the bed, his posture relaxed. He’s smirking faintly at you.

“Hey, {{user}}." Rafe said, his voice unusually soft. "Need help?” he asked, watching you carry the boxes, noticing how you struggled.

“No, thanks,” you replied, giving him a guarded look before turning back toward the truck to grab another box.

“Let me help you,” he said, stepping forward and moving toward the boxes, lifting one with ease.

Your eyes narrowed. “I told you, I can do this myself,” you said firmly, hoisting another box, only for Rafe to take it from your hands.

“What? C’mon, you shouldn’t be carrying weights like that. You’ll hurt yourself,” Rafe said, though there was a flicker of concern in his voice he tried hard to mask.

You cocked your hip to the side, hand resting on one of the boxes, meeting his gaze with defiance. “I’ll be fine. It’s not the first time I’ve done this.”

Rafe smirked, shifting his weight against the truck. “Maybe, but it doesn’t mean you have to do it alone.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was something in his tone that made you hesitate — just for a moment.

"Don't give me that look, {{user}}. I'm just tryin' to help." Rafe mumbled out, leaning closer to you, the smirk slightly fading from his lips.