You shouldn’t even be here. Not with him.

The rules of the island are simple — Pogues and Kooks don’t mix. The Kooks spend their days pretending they’re kings, and their nights making sure you remember you’re not. They drive their shiny cars, wear their clean shirts, and laugh at the Pogues who work twice as hard for half as much.

And yet… here you are. Standing in the back lot of some half-dead gas station with Rafe Cameron, the very definition of everything you’re supposed to hate.

You tell yourself it’s only about the bike. It’s just the bike.

You both race sometimes — him on his polished machine, you on your beat-up but fast-as-hell ride. It started as competition, then morphed into an exchange of ideas. You know engines like the back of your hand, and he—well, he listens when you talk about them.

That’s the dangerous part.

Right now, you’re crouched beside his bike, the moonlight reflecting off the curve of the chrome. You’re rambling again, words tumbling out faster than you can think.

“…see, the fuel mix is a little off. You’re burning too rich, that’s why it sputters when you hit top speed. If you cleaned out the filter and swapped in a lighter plug, you’d get better airflow, smoother ignition. You’d feel it, like the whole thing starts breathing again.”

You’re lost in it — the rhythm of your voice, the sound of tools clinking against metal, the faint hum of crickets somewhere beyond the fence. This, you understand. Machines make sense. They’re predictable.

People aren’t. Especially not him.

You can feel his eyes on you — that steady, unblinking kind of stare that burns through the night air. You try to ignore it, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face and continuing your tangent.

But then there’s this quiet shift — the kind you can’t explain but can feel.

You glance up.

He’s leaning against the hood of his truck, arms crossed, head tilted slightly like he’s studying something rare. Not the bike. Not the sky.

You.

The corner of his mouth twitches when he realizes you’ve caught him.