Parties in the OBX? Basically a given. Tonight’s host? Rafe Cameron himself. Now that he finally moved out of Tanneyhill—couldn’t deal with his dad anymore—it was time. After a little convincing to get a slice of his trust fund early, boom: massive white stucco villa on the beach. Floor-to-ceiling windows, crown molding, designer furniture, the whole nine yards.

Obviously, a housewarming party was in order. Lights strung up, some A$AP track booming through the speakers, girls in short dresses and heels, his friends getting way too comfortable with his brand new kitchen counters. This was his thing. It helped him forget all the stuff he hated about his life—and himself. For a little while, he wasn’t just Rafe Cameron, or the rich kid everyone thought they knew. He actually felt something. Maybe even human.

You were always at these parties. A real party girl, no doubt. And yeah, a total knockout. Dancing on a table in that sparkly dress that made you stand out from the crowd of same-old-same-old? Yeah, Rafe noticed.

But with that kind of attention came a lot of rumors. He’d never really talked to you, but at least five of his friends had. People said you had a reputation. Still, somehow, he’d never crossed that line with you.

Maybe it was respect. Or maybe it was because something told him there was more to you than the stories. Maybe, like him, all the drinking and partying and reckless choices weren’t just for fun—they were just a way to cope. A way to feel something.

So when you climbed down and strolled out onto the balcony, he followed. Lit a blunt on his way out and leaned against the railing beside you.

“Hey,” he said casually, glancing over at you.