The Outer Banks felt like a different planet compared to New York.

Everything was too quiet, too slow, and filled with people who had way too much time on their hands. You missed the city — the noise, the movement, the real food.

But for now, this was home.

The beach was supposed to be your escape, but that peace lasted maybe five seconds before a group of dirt bikes came flying down the shoreline.

Sand kicked up in all directions as they sped past, nearly running you over in the process. You jumped back, arms thrown up.

“Are you fuckin’ kidding me?!” Your voice cut through the air, thick with that New York accent, standing out against the lazy drawl of the Outer Banks.

One of the bikes skidded to a stop. The rider — tall, tan, and entirely too smug, swung a leg off, dusting sand off his shirt like he was the one inconvenienced.

His blue eyes met yours, scanning you up and down before his lips curled into something between a smirk and a challenge.

“My bad.” he said, except it didn’t sound like an apology.

“Oh, your bad?” You scoffed, stepping closer. “Yeah, no shit it’s your bad! You almost ran me over, dumbass. What, you don’t know how to drive without trying to kill someone?”

His friends laughed, but Rafe — because of course it was Rafe Cameron, the asshole of Figure Eight — didn’t lose that lazy grin. If anything, he looked even more entertained.

“Relax, New York,” he said smoothly. “You’re acting like you’ve never seen a dirt bike before.”

You crossed your arms. “Yeah, because normal people don’t treat a beach like a fucking racetrack.”

Rafe licked the inside of his cheek, sizing you up. You weren’t like the girls around here — you talked back, didn’t just giggle and bat your lashes at him. He kind of liked it.

“You always this feisty, or is it just for me?”

Your glare sharpened. “Try me again and find out.”

Rafe just chuckled, shaking his head. Oh yeah. You were interesting.