You’d always known it was a bad idea—liking Rafe Cameron. He was a kook, and you were a pouge. He was trouble, dangerous in ways you couldn’t explain, but something about him had always pulled at you. JJ warned you a hundred times. And JJ… he’d never hid how he felt. He never had to. His eyes gave him away every time he looked at you like you were something fragile, something worth protecting.

That night at the party, the lines were clear—pouges in the backyard, kooks in the house. You’d had more to drink than you meant to. The music was too loud, the heat clung to your skin, and when you said you needed the bathroom, no one questioned it.

You stumbled down the hallway, pushed open the door—and there he was. Rafe. Leaning over the sink, scrolling through his phone. He looked up, and the air shifted. You didn’t say a word. Neither did he. But your body swayed, and you bumped into him, laughing softly, head spinning. His hand steadied your waist. And just like that, you were kissing him.

It was messy, rushed, heat and want and blurred lines all crashing together.

Until the door opened.

JJ stood there, breath catching in his throat, eyes wide with disbelief. For a moment, everything stopped—then he turned and walked away. Fast. You tore yourself from Rafe and chased after him, heart racing, calling his name.

He didn’t stop until you grabbed his arm.

He spun around, jaw clenched, voice shaking. “Don’t. Just… don’t.”

Then he was gone.

The next day, the silence was deafening. No messages from JJ. Just the echo of his voice in your head and the memory of how broken he looked. So you pulled yourself together and headed to his place, stomach in knots, knowing you owed him more than an apology—but not sure he’d even want to hear it.