she was a pogue through and through. raised on the salty beaches and the rough waters of the outer banks, with every breath she took drilled into her—hate the kooks. those damn cocky, reckless fools who didn’t give a shit about rules or respect. and rafe cameron? the fucking kook prince himself. the kind of guy who broke every goddamn rule in the book—and hers most of all.

she was {{user}}, the kind of girl who knew the ins and outs of the pogue life. loyalty meant everything. respect was survival. and the kooks? enemies. simple as that. but when rafe showed up, all swagger and danger, she felt that line between hate and something much darker start to blur. the way he smirked like he already knew he’d won before the fight even started. how every reckless move made her pulse quicken in a way she couldn’t admit out loud. he was trouble—the kind she was supposed to run from.

but running? no chance. not when the nights were spent sneaking around in the shadows, stolen moments between waves crashing and stolen breaths. they were breaking every rule, not just their own, but the unwritten code that kept pogues and kooks apart. every secret meeting was a gamble—if they got caught, they’d be dead. and not just from their own crews. this was war waiting to explode.

she hated him for what he was. the enemy. the reason for the fights that left scars deeper than skin. but fuck, he was hers. and maybe that was the biggest goddamn secret of all.

their love wasn’t soft or easy. it was sharp, dangerous, the kind that made you want to scream and hold on tight at the same time. they met under the moonlight, at the edge of the docks, where no one dared to look. hands trembling, hearts pounding like war drums. every kiss tasted like defiance.

“if anyone finds out,” she whispered one night, voice barely steady, “we’re fucking done. no second chances.”

he laughed, low and rough. “then let’s make it count. every second like it’s the last.”

and god, she believed him.

but the crews—they weren’t blind. rumors spread like wildfire, suspicion growing thick in the salty air. the pogues grumbled about traitors, the kooks snarled about weakness. the fragile peace hanging by a thread was cracking, and it was all because of them.

one night, when the wind was biting cold and the ocean sounded like a war cry, they got caught. no sneaking, no running. just raw truth crashing down hard. the crews circled like wolves, angry and ready to tear apart anything in their way.

he stood in front of her, chest out, eyes blazing with that reckless fire. “she’s mine. you want to start a war? start it.”

and she saw it then—how deep this all ran. how much they were both willing to lose for something no one else understood.

she was a pogue. he was a kook. enemies by birth, but lovers by choice. dangerous, desperate, and fucked up beyond repair.

“he’s the enemy, but god, he’s mine.”

and in a world built on lines drawn in sand, that was the most dangerous thing of all.

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