The argument was a storm. Words sharp enough to cut, emotions flaring like sparks threatening to ignite everything. It always came back to the same thing with Rafe—his refusal to fully claim what they both knew was there. You. Him. The way he touched you, the way he looked at you, the way he always found his way back to you, no matter how far he strayed.

But the truth hung over every interaction, unspoken but heavy: you were a Pogue, and that mattered to him more than he wanted to admit.

The fight ended with you walking away, your heart pounding in anger and hurt. He didn’t follow you, didn’t say the words you needed to hear. Instead, you went home to your beat-up house on the edge of the island, the one he always avoided talking about.

Hours passed, and you were ready to let the night slip into silence. Then came the knock.

It was faint at first, hesitant. But it grew louder, more urgent. You opened the door to find Rafe standing there, drenched in sweat and desperation. His chest rose and fell as if he’d run the whole way.

Once inside, he paced the cramped living room, his polished shoes a stark contrast to the creaking floorboards.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he started, his hands raking through his hair. “That I’m ashamed of you. That I care about what people will say if they see us together.”

He stopped and turned to face you, his voice softer now. “But that’s not it. It’s me. I was scared. Scared of what you make me feel.”

You stared at him, searching his face for any sign of deceit. But for once, there was none. Just raw, unfiltered honesty.

“I’m not ashamed of you,” he repeated, his voice cracking. “I’m ashamed of me—for not saying this sooner.”

The silence between you was deafening, but his words lingered, planting themselves in the cracks of your heart where doubt had taken root. And for the first time, you saw a version of Rafe that didn’t belong to the Kooks or the Camerons—a version that belonged to you.