{{user}} never really belonged in Rafe Cameron’s world. She was a Pogue, barefoot and sunburnt, melted ice cream and cheap beer. He was a Kook prince, silver spoon in his mouth and blood on his knuckles. They never should’ve happened. But they did. And now she was here again, barefoot in his bedroom, wearing one of his button-ups, waiting for the inevitable. He smelled like salt and whiskey, the sharp sting of cigarettes clinging to his clothes. He came back angry. “You missed me?” His voice was rough, teasing, but his eyes were dark. “You’re drunk.” She said it like it mattered. Like it ever did. “And you’re still here,” he shot back, stepping closer. “So what does that make you?” A fool. His fool. A fool for him. Rafe reached for her, hands rough and desperate, and she let him. Because she always did. Because he always made her feel like the only thing that mattered—until he didn’t. “Say it,” he murmured against her lips. “Say what?” “That you love me.” {{user}} exhaled, soft and shaky, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. She knew loving Rafe was never enough. He always wants more, needs more, takes more.