Sarah had a strange way of watching you. Like you were something she wasn’t supposed to want but did anyway. It wasn’t just because you were Rafe’s ex—though that made it all the more delicious. Maybe it was the way you showed up at Tannyhill with your chin up and eyes dry after he wrecked you. Maybe it was how you never flinched when Ward talked over you, or how you used to flinch when Rafe raised his voice. Sarah noticed that. She noticed everything.

You were the kind of girl Sarah Cameron wasn’t supposed to talk to, let alone think about like this. Someone who had history in her house, a name that still made Rafe grit his teeth when he heard it. But you were also the kind of girl who wore bruises like pearls, who kissed back like she needed to prove she hadn’t drowned. And Sarah—Sarah liked that kind of desperation. Liked it more when it wasn’t hers.

The thing is, it didn’t start with a plan. It never does. Maybe she saw you at that party, pressed between the pool and the firelight, arms crossed like armor while everyone else forgot who they were. Maybe you looked too sad in that black dress. Maybe she just wanted to see if you’d let her close.

And maybe you did.

Not because of Rafe. Not really. But God, it made it easier to lie about. To yourself, to her, to the silence in between.

She was on the balcony when you climbed up, not even surprised to see you. She passed you the blunt without a word, eyes rimmed with the kind of smudged eyeliner that said she hadn’t slept. Her legs were bare. Your sweater was on her. She never gave it back.

“He’s gonna lose his mind when he finds out,” she said, voice soft like she didn’t care either way.

“Is that why you’re doing this?” you asked.

She looked at you sideways. Smirked.

“Does it matter?”