The scent of salt and fried seafood lingers in the air, mixing with the low hum of conversation and the distant crash of waves. The restaurant is packed, a typical summer evening on the Cut, and you’ve been on your feet for hours.

Your head is pounding. Your apron is stained. And then, just when you think this shift couldn’t get any worse—he walks in.

Rafe Cameron.

He stands out like he doesn’t belong here, because he doesn’t. The Kook Prince in a sea of Pogues, dressed in a crisp white button-down with the sleeves rolled up, that smug smirk already playing at his lips. He doesn’t wait to be seated. Doesn’t even acknowledge the way people glance at him, some with caution, some with curiosity. He walks straight to the counter, straight to you.

“Didn’t know you worked here,” he says, lazily leaning against the register. His voice is smooth, laced with something that makes your skin prickle.

“Didn’t know you ate anywhere that didn’t have a dress code,” you fire back, barely sparing him a glance as you wipe down the counter.

Rafe grins, amused. “Touché.” He drums his fingers against the wood. “I’ll take—hmm—let’s see, what’s the most expensive thing on the menu?”

You exhale sharply. “Why does it matter?”

He tilts his head, watching you. “Because I can afford it.”

Your grip tightens around the rag in your hand. Of course. Of course he had to turn this into something about money. About status. About him.

“You wanna flex your trust fund, Cameron? Go do it somewhere else,” you mutter, scribbling down his order anyway.

Rafe just chuckles, slow and lazy, like he enjoys getting under your skin. “Relax, Pogue. I’m just saying—money makes things easier. You wouldn’t still be working here if you had enough of it, would you?”

Your jaw clenches. The words hit harder than they should because he’s right. Because you are struggling. Bills piling up, rent due, shifts stretching longer just to scrape by. And here he is, throwing his privilege in your face like it’s a joke.