The Outer Banks weren’t exactly crawling with nightlife, but sometimes that made it easier to get into trouble. You’d snuck into The Wreck with a borrowed ID, a little bored and a little too curious. You just needed one drink, one distraction. You weren’t planning on anything else.

And then you saw him.

Tall. Dark. Leaned over the bar like he owned the night. Rafe Cameron. You didn’t know his name yet—you just knew he was older, sharp-jawed, with that devil-may-care smirk and tired eyes that looked like they’d seen too much and still weren’t impressed.

He noticed you noticing him.

“Yo, you lost?” he asked, voice smooth and low like whiskey on ice.

You smirked back. “Nope, i’m fine.”

He laughed—soft, amused—and held out his drink. “You’re trouble, huh?”

You clinked yours against his. “Aren’t you?”

By the time the bar was clearing out, you were pressed up against the side of the building, your fingers tangled in his hoodie and his mouth hot against yours. It wasn’t sweet. It was heated, messy, like two people trying to forget something. You never got his number. You never told him your name.

And that was supposed to be the end of it.

The next morning.

You were late for class—hair damp, hoodie barely zipped, still buzzing from the night before. Senior year was dragging on, but today you actually cared enough to show up for your new elective: Contemporary Issues. Easy A.

You slid into your seat, opened your notebook, and then—

He walked in.

Rafe. Cameron.

Not hoodie-clad and reckless this time, but in a fitted button-up and black slacks, holding a coffee like it was his shield. He dropped his bag onto the desk, looked up at the class, then—

Looked at you.

His eyes froze.

Yours did, too.

You could feel the recognition hit him like a truck—his fingers tensed slightly around the cup, jaw tightening almost imperceptibly.

“Morning,” he said, clearing his throat. “I’m Mr. Cameron. I’ll be teaching this class for the semester.”

You stared at your notebook like it held the meaning of life.

Mr. Cameron.

You could still feel his lips on your neck.

The whole class passed in a blur. Every time you dared look up, he was already glancing your way. Not long enough to be obvious—but long enough that you knew.

At the end of class, you were the last one to pack up.

He stood at his desk, sorting papers like he hadn’t just kissed you breathless less than 12 hours ago.

You lingered in the doorway. “Seriously?”

He didn’t look up. “I didn’t know.”

“Neither did I.”

He finally met your eyes. “We don’t talk about that night. Not here. Not again.”

You swallowed, your pulse racing. “So that’s it?”

He paused. Then, with a voice lower than he meant to use: “I never said I wanted it to be.”

You left without saying anything else.

But the glances didn’t stop. Not the next day. Not the day after.

Every time he called on you, every time his gaze flicked toward yours when he thought no one was watching—it was still there. That electricity. That heat.

And the worst part?

You both knew exactly what you were doing