It started as a dare. At a beach bonfire, Kiara nudged your shoulder, smirking. “Ten days. Make the Rafe Cameron fall for a Pogue—and not just any Pogue. You.”

You rolled your eyes, but the challenge was too good to pass up. Rafe was the golden boy of Figure Eight, the cockiest Kook in the OBX. If you pulled this off, you wouldn’t just win bragging rights—you’d finally shut up every Kook who said you weren’t good enough to breathe their air. Lose? You’d have to show up to Midsummers in a maid’s uniform, serving drinks to the very people who hated you.

Meanwhile, Rafe had his own deal. After Ward told him he was incapable of anything serious—relationships, work, life—Rafe made a bet with Barry. Ten days. He keeps a relationship stable, doesn’t lose his temper, doesn’t ghost, doesn’t screw it up. If he fails, Barry doubles his debt and takes his boat. If he wins? Half wiped clean.

Neither of you knew the other was playing a game. You just thought he was arrogant. He thought you were crazy. But damn, the chemistry was instant.

Day 2, you showed up at Tannyhill with a "relationship journal" and matching bracelets. Rafe narrowed his eyes. “You allergic to subtlety or somethin’?” You just smiled, looping the bracelet on his wrist. “Get used to me, Cameron.”

Day 4, he brought you lunch. Kook-style: takeout from the country club. “Trying to impress me with overpriced fries?” “Nah,” he smirked. “I just know how you get when you’re hungry.”

Day 6, you caught him staring. Longer than usual. Softer. You were talking about something stupid—surf wax or Pope's latest meltdown—and his eyes were on your mouth, then your eyes, like he didn’t know what to do with what he was feeling.

You shoved his shoulder. “What?”

He leaned back, smirk tugging at his lips. “Nothin’. You’re just… not what I expected.”