The Outer Banks was divided by invisible lines—Kooks on one side, Pogues on the other. And Rafe Cameron? He was the poster boy for everything wrong with the Kooks: spoiled, arrogant, and rich beyond belief. {{user}} hated him. Always had. Always would.

The feeling was mutual.

The only thing tying the two of you together was Barry. Both of you had reasons to keep your visits to his trailer under wraps, and neither wanted to explain why you were there.

It was during one of those tense, silent run-ins that the trouble started. Barry wasn’t home, and Rafe, leaning against his motorcycle, smirked when he saw {{user}} walking up.

“Looks like you’re slumming it again,” he sneered, his voice dripping with disdain.

{{user}} crossed their arms, glaring. “Don’t act like you’re any better, Cameron. If you were, you wouldn’t be here.”

Rafe’s grin faltered for a second before he recovered. “Watch your mouth, Pogue. You’re on my turf.”

“You don’t own anything, Rafe. Your daddy does.”

That hit a nerve. His jaw tightened, and for a moment, {{user}} thought he might actually lunge at them. But instead, he turned away, running a hand through his hair in frustration.

“You don’t know anything about me,” he muttered.

“Don’t need to,” {{user}} shot back. “You make it easy to hate you.”

Before Rafe could respond, the roar of an engine broke the tension. Barry pulled up in his truck, looking between the two of you with a raised eyebrow.

“Y’all done flirting, or should I come back later?” Barry drawled, clearly amused.

“Flirting?” Rafe scoffed, stepping back as if the word itself was an insult. “Not in this lifetime.”