the boneyard is quiet, the kind of quiet that only comes after the last partygoers have drifted away, leaving behind empty bottles and footprints in the sand. the moon hangs low, casting a pale glow over the rocks, where you sit alone, your eyes tracing the waves as they rise and fall, unbothered by time. the air is thick with salt and the remnants of laughter, but now, the only sound is the ocean.

rafe cameron walks along the shore, his steps uneven, still feeling the burn of whiskey in his chest and the anger simmering beneath his skin. his father’s words echo in his head, harsh and cutting, like they always are. he’d stormed out, like he always does, trying to outrun the disappointment that clings to him. but even here, at the boneyard, it follows.

and then, he notices you.

it’s not your face that catches his attention first—it’s your clothes. the frayed edges of your jacket, the worn sneakers, the unmistakable markers of a pogue. even in the dim light, it’s obvious. it pricks at something inside him, that easy division between your world and his. a pogue, here, sitting so calmly like you belong, in a place where the lines between kooks and pogues are rarely crossed at this hour.

he narrows his eyes, watching you for a moment. the way you sit, so still, so unaffected, only seems to irritate him more. while everything in his life is a whirlwind, you’re just sitting there, as if none of it touches you. he doesn’t understand it, doesn’t like it. the anger from earlier mixes with something else—curiosity, maybe—but mostly annoyance.

he walks closer, making no effort to hide his approach, the crunch of sand beneath his feet loud in the stillness. but you don’t move, don’t turn, just keep staring out at the water, as if you haven’t noticed him at all.

that sets him off. he stops just a few feet away, a twig signalling his arrival.