rafe cameron had a reputation to uphold. being a kook came with it's privileges, but also with it's rules. liking a pogue, for example, was out of the question, yet that’s exactly what had been gnawing at him for weeks now. and lately, the only way he could think to handle it was to avoid you. but that didn’t stop him from watching you across parties or when you and your friends hung around the pier.

when he spotted you in town one afternoon, every instinct in him told him to look the other way. you were laughing with a couple of your friends, your face bright and unguarded, and he felt that pang of jealousy he always tried to suppress. he knew he could never feel that way—carefree, not like you. being around you only reminded him of everything he wasn’t, everything he was supposed to hate. yet there was something about you, something that kept him coming back despite himself.

he ducked his head, hoping you wouldn’t see him. but you had, and you walked straight up to him, confusion in your eyes.

“rafe,” you said, crossing your arms. “are you avoiding me?”

he hesitated, his gaze flickering over your face as he tried to keep his expression neutral. “what are you talking about?” he said, a little too quickly. “i'm just… busy.”

“busy doing what?” you shot back, a hint of hurt in your tone. “you can’t even look at me anymore. did i do something?”

your question caught him off guard, and for a moment, he felt his resolve slipping. he could feel the wall he’d built up around himself start to crack, and it scared him. liking you was a weakness he couldn’t afford.

“it’s not… look, you don’t get it,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck as he tried to find the words. “you’re a pogue. and i’m… well, you know.”