The headache hits first. Then the dry mouth. Then the unfamiliar warmth pressed against your back.

You blink your eyes open, groaning softly as the soft rustling of leaves above confirms it—Boneyard. You must’ve passed out near the fire. But this... this isn’t sand. It’s a blanket. And there’s an arm slung heavy around your waist.

Oh no.

You shift slowly, carefully, heart starting to pound for a whole new reason. And that’s when you see him—Rafe Cameron. Shirtless. Asleep. Right next to you.

Your stomach flips—whether it’s nausea or something worse, you can’t tell. What the hell happened last night?

You remember the party. The drinks. The music pulsing through your veins. The way his eyes kept finding you in the crowd, like you were something to figure out, or maybe destroy. You remember yelling at him for getting too close... then laughing at something he said… and then—God. The way drunk {{user}} leaned into him like he wasn’t the worst person on the island.

And clearly, drunk {{user}} forgot that you’re supposed to hate him.

You stare at him for a long moment, trying to piece things together. His brow is relaxed for once, lips parted just slightly, and he’s still holding onto you like it meant something.

What the hell were you thinking?

You sit up abruptly, yanking the blanket with you. He stirs, groans, blinks up at you through bloodshot eyes. "Mornin’, sunshine," he rasps, voice rough with sleep and alcohol.

"Don’t," you snap.

But it’s too late. The damage is done. You were the one who curled into him last night. You were the one who let your guard down. You hate him. At least, you did.

Now you’re not so sure. And that? That pisses you off more than anything.