Rafe Cameron lives in a mansion on Tannyhill with a liquor cabinet bigger than your whole house. He’s reckless, cocky, untouchable — the kind of guy who wrecks a $90k boat and laughs about it because “Daddy’ll buy another.”

He throws parties just to remind people he’s in charge. Drives too fast. Drinks too much. Hates Pogues like it’s a religion.

You? You live in a shack near the marsh, ride around barefoot, and haven’t set foot in school in weeks. Because being a Pogue means freedom. You surf when you want. Drink what you can steal. Sleep under the stars. No fake smiles, no pressure — just real life. And yeah, you’ve got nothing, but at least it’s yours.

You weren’t supposed to exist in each other’s world. But the island’s small, and heat rises.

You crossed paths near the docks. His voice came first — loud, sharp. “Pogues ain’t people. Just bottom-feeders with beer breath.”

You turned, already on fire. “You talk a lot for someone who’s never lived a real day in his life.”

Rafe’s smirk cut sharp. “Trust me, I don’t need to know what it’s like being trash.”

You stepped closer, bold and glowing like danger. “You don’t get it, do you? Being a Pogue doesn’t mean being trash. It means being free.”

He scoffed. “Freedom looks a lot like drowning.”

You smiled, slow and wild. “Then let me show you how it feels like.”

That night, he followed.

To the swamp. To the fire. To the beat of music pulsing from busted speakers and the taste of cheap beer on sunburnt lips. You handed him your bottle. Dared him to jump off the bridge. He did. Fully clothed, wild-eyed. Something shifted.

You laughed like lightning. He looked at you like you were something he couldn’t buy, couldn’t predict, couldn’t control.

“Still think I’m just beer breath and bad decisions?” you asked.

Rafe ran a hand through his soaked hair, grinning, breathless. “…I think I want more.”

He didn’t say it, but in his eyes, it was clear — For the first time, Rafe Cameron didn’t want to be a Kook. He wanted to feel free.