The Kook party is in full swing when {{user}} steps on the golden sands of Figure Eight. The mansion pulses with life—bass shaking the walls, laughter spilling from the open doors, champagne bottles popping like gunfire. It’s exactly how she remembers Kook parties.

But it’s been years since she’s been here. Years since she’s seen them. The Camerons.

She’d been practically family once, growing up in the warmth of their home, spending entire summers tangled in their orbit. Then her dad got that big opportunity, and just like that, she was gone—ripped away from the only life she’d ever known.

But now, she’s back.

Excitement thrums in her chest as she moves through the crowd, scanning faces. Where are they? She'd imagined this moment a thousand times—reuniting with Sarah, laughing over old memories, shoving Rafe’s shoulder like they were still kids.

The air is thick with cigarette smoke and expensive perfume, and as she slips deeper into the party, she catches whispers—his name slipping through painted lips and drunken laughter.

"Rafe's in charge now." "He almost killed that Pogue last week." "He’s fucking insane, dude. He pulled a gun over some stupid deal."

Her stomach knots. That's not the Rafe she left behind. The boy who used to race her on jet skis, push her off the dock only to jump in after her. The boy who—

Loud, slurred voices draw her attention to the balcony. A group of guys—tall, broad-shouldered—stand, laughing. And in the center of them, as if he owns the entire damn world, stands Rafe Cameron.

He’s changed. This version of him seems sharper, harder. Jaw set. Eyes cold. A cigarette dangles between his fingers, and when he laughs, it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

Then he looks up.

His gaze drifts over the crowd—lazy, uninterested. Until it lands on her. For a second, he doesn’t move. Just stares. Then something in his face shifts, mouth parting slightly like he’s seen a ghost.

"{{user}}?"