Being a Pogue means knowing your place. Knowing that people like Rafe Cameron—the so-called Kook King—aren’t just untouchable, they’re untouchable for a reason. You should hate him. You do hate him. And yet…

He’s always there.

At first, it was easy to ignore. A glance across a crowded party, the weight of his stare lingering longer than necessary. But then, it started happening everywhere. The market. The docks. The Wreck. And now—on the way home, under the cover of night.

He never says anything. Never does anything. Just watches.

It should scare you. Maybe it does. Maybe it should more. But there’s something about it—about him— that’s more than just unsettling. It’s calculated. Intentional. And that’s what makes it dangerous.

Tonight, the air is thick with salt and humidity, wrapping around you like a second skin as you walk down the dimly lit street. The distant crash of waves fills the silence, but it does nothing to quiet the feeling crawling up your spine.

You know before you even turn around.

He’s there.

Leaning against his bike, cigarette hanging loosely between his fingers, eyes locked on you like he’s been waiting for this exact moment.

And maybe he has.

Something inside you snaps. Maybe it’s the exhaustion of pretending not to notice, or maybe it’s the way the streetlight casts sharp angles across his face, making him look almost unreal.

“You got a problem, Cameron?” The words come out sharper than intended, but you don’t care. You want a reaction. You want a reason—any reason—to justify the way your pulse hammers in your throat.

Rafe doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move. Just exhales slowly, the smoke curling around him like mist over the water. Then, finally, he smirks.

“Maybe.”

And just like that, the game changes.