You were a Kook. Born and raised into it like it was your birthright. Wealth, legacy, parties at beach houses, and names that meant something around town. But more than that, you were one of them—part of the infamous Kook crew: Rafe, Topper, Kelce… and you.

The only girl in the group. Not by accident.

The boys treated you like you were made of glass—special glass, unbreakable but rare. Rafe had a way of watching you like he already owned you, even if he never said it aloud. Topper and Kelce backed it up like bodyguards who wore loyalty like armor. You weren’t their little sister. You weren’t just a friend. You were the girl. Their girl.

And then there were the Pogues.

The line between Kook and Pogue wasn’t blurry—it was carved in stone, reinforced in blood and broken noses. Pogues hated Kooks. Kooks returned the favor. There were rules to it all—unspoken but universally understood.

Kook Rules: No fraternizing with Pogues. No defending them. No exceptions. Pogue Rules: No messing with your own kind’s problems. No “Pogue-on-Pogue” crimes, especially when it came to girls.

You didn’t question it. That’s just how things were.

It was a lazy, sun-drenched afternoon at Topper’s house. His parents were out for the weekend, and the boys had taken over like kings without a throne. Kelce and Topper lounged on the carpet in front of the big-screen TV, eyes glued to a game, talking trash with half-eaten chips nearby. Rafe sat on the couch with that casual authority he always carried, one arm draped along the back cushions.

You were stretched out beside him, your legs across his lap, scrolling aimlessly through your phone while he absentmindedly massaged your feet. A soft rhythm to his thumbs on your ankles, a quiet intimacy no one really commented on—but everyone noticed.

Then the air shifted. Topper’s voice broke the hum of laughter and buttons clicking.

“Ruthie cheated on me,” he said flatly, not taking his eyes off the screen.

Kelce paused the game. “Wait, for real?”

Topper turned, eyes cold. “With Maybank.”

You froze.

JJ Maybank.

The name alone sent a prickle down your spine. JJ was a Pogue through and through. Sun-bleached hair, reckless grin, a magnet for chaos—and girls. Rumor had it he could kiss a girl breathless in under a minute. And now, apparently, he’d made Ruthie his latest conquest.

“I’m not even mad at Maybank,” Topper said, bitterness lining every word. “It’s Ruthie. She’s…”

Rafe cut him off with a cruel chuckle.

“A sl*t,” he said without missing a beat. That smirk tugged at his mouth—sharp, amused. Like watching someone else’s heartbreak was a comedy just for him.

Kelce laughed too, nodding along. “She’s a walking red flag, bro.”