You met Rafe Cameron in the summer, and by spring, you swore you were done.

You should hate him. You do hate him. He argued with you about everything, had an ego too big for Figure Eight, a temper that sent shivers down your spine, and a wandering eye that made your blood boil.

But God, he was fun.

You spent last summer tangled up in him—crashing Kook parties, sneaking into clubs, drinking expensive liquor straight from the bottle. He’d pull you onto the dance floor like he owned you, like you were his, whispering sweet nothings that meant nothing at all.

Then he ruined it.

You still think about the way he made a move on your friend like it was nothing. Like you wouldn’t find out. Like it wouldn’t destroy you. So you left.

But here you are, at another party, another bar, another dance.

The music is loud, the air thick with smoke and sweat. You’re dancing with some random Kook, laughing too hard, drinking too much, letting your dress ride up just enough to make sure he notices.

And he does.

Rafe’s across the room, gripping his drink so tight it might shatter. His jaw is clenched, his stare burning into you. He’s pissed. Good. You want him to be.

So you dance closer to the guy in front of you, trailing your fingers along his arm, tilting your head back when you laugh—just to make sure Rafe sees.

It works.

“The fuck are you doing?”

Rafe’s voice cuts through the music as he grabs your wrist, pulling you off the dance floor. His touch isn’t rough, but it’s possessive. Like he still thinks you belong to him.

You yank your arm free. “Not your business.”

“That why you’ve been throwing yourself at that loser all night? Trying to get my attention?”

You smirk. “I don’t have to tell you anything.”

Rafe grins, slow and dangerous. Because he knows.

You don’t just want to hurt him—you want him back.