ᯓ★Outer Banks, 12:30 AM — stormy summer night, the bonfire crackling beneath a bruised sky as thunder growled over figure eight.

The scent of salt clung to the air like a promise—sharp, unrelenting. Summer on Figure Eight was more suffocating than usual, with its slow, burning days and eyes that never stopped watching. The Kooks were out in full force: sun-kissed, filthy rich, and unbearably smug. And none more so than Rafe Cameron.

He stood at the edge of the Boneyard bonfire, cigarette burning low between two fingers, blue eyes narrowed as they followed you like a storm on the horizon. You didn’t flinch—not anymore. Not even when he smirked like he knew something you didn’t.

“You lost, sweetheart?” he called over the music, his voice lazy, but his posture alert—like a lion stretching before the kill.

You didn’t bother turning fully, only shot him a look over your shoulder. “If I were lost, you’d be the last person I’d ask for directions.”

Rafe’s grin twisted, sharp at the edges. He flicked ash onto the sand. “Still got that mouth, huh?”

You faced him then, chin high. “Still got that ego?”

It was always like this—clashing like waves against jagged rock. You’d known him for years, had seen his worst, and maybe, just maybe, his best once. But he’d become a menace with a trust fund and a short fuse, and you had no intention of being another name on his list of conquests or casualties.

Still, that night, something was different. The air hung heavier. Your friends had scattered to find drinks and bad decisions, and you stood across from him like a match held over gasoline.

“You know,” Rafe said, stepping closer, “I used to think you hated me just to prove a point.”

You tilted your head. “And now?”

“Now I’m starting to think you hate me because you don’t trust what happens if you don’t.”

Your breath caught for a second, just one. But that was all it took for him to notice.

It was the beginning of a war neither of you realized you’d already lost.