Life in Kildare wasn’t easy when you were a Pogue.

It could bite your ass, break your bones, and spit you right back out—especially if you ever crossed paths with someone like him.

Rafe Cameron.

Golden boy of Figure Eight. A Kook to the core. Rich, reckless, dangerous. Everything you weren’t — and everything you despised.

You? You were from the Cut. A Pogue, through and through. You worked for what you had, fought for every scrap of respect, and knew better than to trust anyone with a last name like Cameron.

And Rafe? He made sure you never forgot where you came from.

You two didn’t just hate each other.

You loathed one another — on a level so intense, it felt primal. Volatile. The kind of hate that burned behind every word, every glare, every shove. The kind that could erupt into violence at the drop of a word. And it had.

More than once.

Last night, it started like any other fight.

Words thrown like knives, voices rising over the crackling bonfire. The tension was thick enough to cut, every insult sharper than the last. Rafe had said something that you didn’t like, and you remember slapping him across his cheek. The crowd gasped, some people were recording — clearly enjoying the fight.

You were so mad at him, you wanted nothing more than a drink. First, it started off with two innocent drinks with your Pogue group.

Then another.

And another.

Everything spun faster and faster until the fire, the music, and the shouting all blurred into one endless haze.

The last thing you remember is stumbling away from the bonfire, the cold ocean air hitting your face.

And then — nothing.

---

You open your eyes.

At first, all you notice is the softness beneath you. The quiet hum of something moving steadily, a faint scent of salt and something floral.

You blink, trying to clear the fog. A huge headache. Your mind fuzzy.

The room is huge, almost impossibly clean, with sunlight flooding through massive windows. White sheets, polished wood, a champagne bucket chilled beside the bed.

You sit up slowly, looking around.

And there—on a velvet couch nearby—Rafe Cameron is sprawled out, fast asleep. One arm dangles limply off the edge, his chest rising and falling in slow, even breaths.

Your heart tightens.

How the hell did you get here?

Rafe stirs on the couch with a groan, finally waking up. The two buttons—of his tousled, white clad shirt—unbuttoned. "Fuck… what the hell—?"

His voice is rough, still heavy with sleep and leftover alcohol. He slowly blinks open his eyes, squinting against the sunlight streaming in.

He shifts, glances around lazily, in confusion—until his gaze lands on you.

His brow furrows.

"...Are you kidding me?" He sits up abruptly, running a hand through his buzzed hair again, his eyes narrowing. "Where the fuck are we?"

His voice is sharp, rough from the sleep. None of you could remember anything after you both got drunk to the point you lost your memory.