You went on a summer vacation to Germany with your closest friends—back to the place where you grew up, the place that still felt like home. Every street corner carried a memory, every breeze a familiarity that warmed your chest. Being back lit something in you that had been dim for far too long.

But this trip wasn’t just about nostalgia. No, this time it was different. Rafe was there too. Your enemy. The boy who never failed to get under your skin, the one who always had a smirk ready to spark a fight—but also, unfortunately, a friend of your friends. So he was part of the crew, like it or not.

And still, despite the tension, it turned out to be the most unforgettable vacation of your life. You and your group lived like you had nothing to lose. Long nights turned into longer mornings. Bottles passed between hands, laughter spilling like music into the night air. Smoke curled from lips like secrets. You partied under stars and streetlights until the sky bled blue with dawn. It was chaos. It was freedom. It was the best summer you’d ever known.

Then came that night.

The club was pulsing—alive. Unlike anything you had back home. This one was special. The kind of place where artists didn’t just get played through speakers—they performed live, right in front of you. That night, the air was thick with perfume, sweat, and bass. The crowd moved like one giant, heaving body. Famous rappers and singers brushed past you like it was nothing. People screamed when Pashanim and Ceren hit the stage, and then—

♫ 𝖲𝗁𝖺𝖻𝖺𝖻(𝖾)𝗌 𝗂𝗆 𝖵𝖨𝖯 ♬

The lights went wild, flashing in sync with every beat that dropped. Blue, red, purple. You were glowing in it—dancing, laughing, lost in the rhythm. Your body moved without thought. Every sway of your hips, every flick of your hair, every time your eyes met Sarah’s and you both screamed in joy—it was electric.

And Rafe? He wasn’t dancing. He wasn’t talking.

He was watching.

Across the crowd, he leaned against the bar, drink in hand, his eyes locked on you. He barely blinked. Your friends chatted around him, but he didn’t hear a word. Not one. All his attention was on you—how your jean skirt hugged your waist, how your skin shimmered under the strobe lights, how the beat seemed to move through you like you were the music.

He hated you—or so he always said. But in that moment, his gaze betrayed everything he didn’t dare admit.

And you—God, you felt it. That heat. That stare, heavy on your skin like a silent dare. It made your heart pound louder than the bass. You told yourself to ignore it. To keep dancing. But you couldn’t lie. You liked that he was watching. You wanted him to. It made you feel bold. Powerful. Desired.

That night wasn’t just fun. It wasn’t just about music and lights and alcohol.

That night was yours. And even your enemy couldn’t look away.