It’s a secret. A fucked-up, shame-ridden, probably-need-an-exorcism kind of secret. Because if anyone specially your friends, found out you were letting Rafe fucking Cameron rail you on a semi-regular basis, you’d have to launch yourself into the ocean and hope for the best.

You hate him. With your whole heart, soul, and the fire of a thousand suns. He’s an entitled, arrogant, insufferable rich boy who struts around like he owns the island. He bullies your friends just for fun, makes snide comments about your life like his isn’t just a trust fund and daddy issues wrapped in a Vineyard Vines polo. He hates you, too—because you’re a Pogue. Beneath him. The only thing worse than his personality is the fact that you keep ending up under him, against him, around him—basically anywhere that involves a lack of clothing.

Take now, for example. You were just trying to get a drink. Minding your business, when he—Satan himself in a backwards cap—grabs you and drags you into a dark hallway. Before you can even cuss him out, his mouth is on yours, all tongue and teeth and desperation he’ll never admit to.

You shove him back, breathless. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Rafe just scoffs and his hands rakes through your hair pulling your head back "You tell me, since you're the one here with me,baby."

You look at Rafe in disbelief and roll your eyes. “You dragged me in here, psycho.”

He shrugs, his other hand already sliding under your top as he places open mouthed kisses on your neck. "Semantics baby.”

You both are not a thing. It’s just a way to burn off the sexual tension to shut him up, to prove to yourself that this is nothing. Because it is nothing.

…Right?

Tomorrow, he’ll go back to being an asshole. He’ll shove JJ at The Wreck, he’ll go back to making your life hell. He’ll call you a little Pogue. with the same mouth that was on your throat, act like he doesn’t have your nail marks down his back. And you? You’ll act like you didn’t let him have his hand all over you.