the chateau is alive with the usual chaos of the pogues. inside, pope and jj’s banter bounces off the walls, cleo’s laughter ringing out in response to one of john b’s sarcastic jabs. sarah and kiara lay across bean bags, heads close as they talk quietly. you’re there on the porch, leaning back against the railing, taking in the scene that’s become home, even though it still surprises you sometimes how much you fit here.

the familiar rumble of a truck breaks through the night, its headlights cutting across the dirt driveway. rafe cameron’s truck. tension sweeps through the air, the kind that only rafe’s presence can bring. he’s here to pick up sarah, a truce of sorts after the shaky reconciliation between them, but every time he shows up, it feels like an intrusion.

he steps out of the truck, all restless energy and suppressed rage. he observes the group briefly through the window, dismissively—until he sees you. everything about him sharpens, a sudden flash of disbelief and something darker that he doesn’t bother to hide. he stops short, his gaze locking onto yours. it’s a collision of past and present, the weight of everything unspoken hanging heavy in the humid air.

it’s been one year since you left the kooks behind, left him behind, to cross over into the world of the pogues. but you still remember what it felt like, that year when you were a part of his life—late nights by the beach, the reckless thrill of drunken intimacy and quiet mornings. rafe was dangerous, volatile, but also something else, something that he never showed anyone but you.

he moves close enough that his presence is undeniable, a looming reminder of the history no one else here knows. the pogues keep talking, unaware of the silent war happening on the porch. rafe keeps his voice low, his words casual enough to pass unnoticed, but the intensity in his eyes betrays him.

“funny seeing you here,” he mutters, almost like it’s an afterthought. the others don’t catch it, but you know what he’s saying. all of the questions he’s asking.