The night of the Midsummers Gala was one {{user}} never looked forward to. The annual Kook event was nothing more than a parade of wealth, privilege, and arrogance. Pogue kids weren’t invited—unless they were serving drinks or sneaking in through the back gate for a good laugh.

And {{user}}? She was definitely sneaking in.

She followed Kiara through the manicured gardens of Figure Eight, the sound of violins spilling out from the open doors of the Cameron estate. The air smelled like saltwater and champagne, laughter echoing across the perfectly lit lawn.

“This is such a bad idea,” {{user}} muttered under her breath, tugging at the too-tight dress Kie had stolen from her mom’s closet.

“It’s only a bad idea if you get caught,” Kie smirked, slipping past the hedge. “Come on. The food’s worth it.”

{{user}} groaned but followed. She wasn’t here for the food, though. She was here for the thrill of it—for the look on every Kook’s face when they realized a Pogue had crashed their perfect little party.

And it didn’t take long for someone to notice.

Rafe Cameron.

He spotted her within minutes, standing near the champagne fountain, trying not to look out of place. His lips curled into that smug, infuriating smirk that always made her blood boil.

“Well, well,” he drawled, sauntering over, glass in hand. “If it isn’t a little Pogue rat sneaking into the castle.”

{{user}} rolled her eyes. “Relax, Cameron. No one’s going to die because I ate one of your overpriced shrimp cocktails.”

Rafe leaned closer, his voice low. “You don’t belong here.”

“And yet, here I am,” she shot back, tilting her head. “Funny how that works.”

Something flickered in his eyes—amusement, irritation, maybe both. For as long as she could remember, Rafe had been the walking embodiment of everything she hated about Kooks: arrogant, entitled, and cruel. But he had this way of locking onto her like she was the only person in the room. It was infuriating.

“Careful, sweetheart,” he murmured, stepping even closer. “These people will eat you alive if they find out where you’re from.”

She raised her chin. “Good thing I’m not afraid of them.”

Before he could respond, Ward’s voice boomed across the lawn, calling for everyone to gather for fireworks. Rafe’s hand brushed her arm as he moved past, a deliberate touch that sent a jolt through her. She hated that it did.

⸻

The night only got messier from there.

She found herself cornered on the balcony, staring at the sky as fireworks burst over the water. And, of course, Rafe found her there too.

“You really don’t know when to quit, do you?” he said, lighting a cigarette. The glow from the lighter illuminated his sharp features, making him look almost dangerous.

“I could say the same about you,” {{user}} snapped.

Rafe exhaled smoke, watching her through the haze. “Why do you keep doing this? Crashing our parties, stirring shit up. Is it just for the thrill?”

“Because I’m sick of people like you acting like the island belongs to you,” she shot back. “Like Pogues are just… background characters in your perfect little story.”

For a second, something in his expression shifted. Like she had struck a nerve. But then the smirk returned.

“You’ve got a mouth on you, I’ll give you that.” He leaned against the railing, tilting his head. “But tell me something—why do you hate me so much? Really.”

{{user}} scoffed. “Because you’re Rafe Cameron. That’s reason enough.”

But it wasn’t the whole truth. The real reason sat deeper, in the way he always looked at her like he knew something she didn’t. In the way, despite everything, her pulse quickened when he was near.

“Maybe,” Rafe said slowly, eyes locked on hers, “you hate me because you don’t know what to do with yourself when I’m around.”

Her breath caught. He was too close now, the scent of salt and smoke surrounding her, his voice low enough to drown out the fireworks.

She should’ve walked away. She should’ve pushed him, told him to go to hell. But she didn’t move.