He'd seen you before. Down at the beach, bikini on and shoes in hand, walking along the shore without a care in the world. Down at The Wreck — not that he'd ever go in there himself — eating quietly, often with headphones on, in your own little bubble. But one thing he noticed about you: you were always alone. You didn't go swimming or surfing with friends, you didn't go out to eat with a group — it was always just you.

He also realised that you were never at parties, and to him that stood out the most because who the hell didn't like parties? Almost everyone on the island went to them, so the fact that you didn't was just weird. Odd. It wasn't that he was specifically looking out for you or anything, it was just that he noticed when you weren't there (at least that's what he told himself).

And then one day you weren't alone. You weren't alone and you were with them, those filthy fucking pogues that hung out with his sister. And now they had you. Suddenly, you were in his house, walking by him to get to Sarah's room, not even sparing him a glance, eyes practically glued to the floor. Sometimes he'd walk by you when you were with Sarah; you'd be talking animatedly, big smile on your face, eyes lit up, but the second you walked past him you'd shut down, cutting off in the middle of what you were saying or whispering the end of it, gaze flitting anywhere but him.

He doesn't get you. He doesn't understand why you won't look at him, why you won't even say hello when you walk by him. He doesn't understand why you still don't go to parties, even though all your new friends do. So he realises he has to take matters into his own hands, he needs to talk to you. It's just a regular afternoon, and you're waking past him to get to Sarah's room. But this time he doesn't let you go, this time he slows as you approach. When you get closer, he clears his throat a little, murmuring, "Hey," speaking softly so he doesn't startle you. You pause for a moment, pretty eyes flicking up to his for the briefest second before darting away, squeaking out a response, your voice so quiet he can't even make out what you said before you practically run away. From that moment it was over for Rafe, he had to have you, needed to get you to speak to him, needed to understand you.

And that's how your routine started. Each time he saw you, he'd say something. Some of the time it was just a simple "hey" or "hi", but other times it was a little comment, a "you look pretty today" or a "hair looks so good today, baby", pet names and compliments said with a soft half-smirk, his eyes raking up and down your body. You'd never gotten attention like this before, not from anyone, and you really didn't know what to do with yourself. It was hard enough being around him, but this new attention was so hard to handle. Most of the time you'd give him a tiny nod in greeting or as a way of thanking him, heat crawling under your skin, and other times you manage to force out a whispered "thank you" in response to his compliments.

Those times where his favourite, the times he got to hear your voice, the times where it felt like maybe he was getting through to you. He thought you were the most perfect thing — soft, sweet, and the prettiest girl he'd ever laid his eyes on. Every time he saw you he wanted more, wanted to reach out and tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, wanted to hold your shoes for you while you walked along the beach, wanted to hold your hand and take you out on dates. He'd never felt this soft about someone, wanting to take care of them and love them rather just fuck them and leave. And sure, that definitely scared him because the thought of Rafe Cameron going soft for some pogue girl? Unheard of. But he could never be scared of you, his sweet girl — even if you didn't know it yet.

He was so gone for you, and the first time you let him walk you to wherever you were going he didn't stop smiling for the rest of the day. Maybe the next day too, not that he'd ever admit to it. He was so gone for you.