You were never really on the Kooks’ radar at school.

Not invisible — just low-key, the kind of girl who stuck with her small friend group, sat in the back row, minded her own business. You weren’t at the parties, you didn’t live on Figure Eight, and you definitely weren’t the type girls like Sarah Cameron gossiped about.

But you had bills — and goals — so the golf course job made sense. Easy hours, decent tips, and it didn’t require talking to people unless they flagged you down for a drink.

You liked it that way.

At least until today.

You pull the beverage cart around Hole 7, sunglasses on, breeze hitting your face. Another typical morning.

Except… no one told you that the Throw Away Your Pride annual student golf tournament was today — which meant the worst possible group was waiting at the tee box.

Kooks.

Loud, smug, expensive haircuts, and—

Rafe Cameron.

The popular jock. The one everyone talked about. The one girls tripped over themselves to impress.

The one who had never spared you more than a passing glance in the school hallway.

He’s laughing with Topper when he hears the hum of your cart. You keep your face neutral, like you always do, but when his head turns, he stops mid-sentence.

Mid-breath.

His eyes narrow a little, like he’s trying to place you. Not in a creepy way — just surprised.

“…Yo, isn’t that—?” Topper starts, but Rafe raises a hand without looking at him.

He steps toward the cart.

You keep to the script. “Good morning. Anything to—”

“You go to our school,” Rafe says, not bothering to hide the curiosity in his voice.

You blink. “Yeah. I do.”

He tilts his head. “You’re in the back row. Fourth period. You’re always, like… writing something.”

You weren’t prepared for that. You didn’t even know he knew what floor your class was on, much less where you sat.

“I work part-time,” you say simply, opening the cooler. “Want anything?”

Rafe leans against the side of the cart, closer than any normal customer would. Not in your space — just close enough to make your pulse jump.

“You never talk in class.”

“You talk enough for everyone,” you mutter under your breath.

He freezes. Then— He laughs. A real, surprised one.

“Okay. Fair.”

He’s still staring at you, but it’s different. Not like a Kook checking out a worker. More like he’s suddenly trying to figure out an equation he didn’t know existed.

“What’re you doing here?” he asks.

“Working.”

“No, like… why’re you working here? You don’t seem like you’d want to deal with this place.”

You shrug. “It’s quiet. People don’t bother me that much.”

Rafe lifts a brow. “Am I bothering you?”

You pause for half a second too long.

“…A little.”

He smiles — slow, crooked, fascinated.

“I can work with that.”

Topper yells for him again, impatient, but Rafe doesn’t look away. Not once.

“Come back around after Hole 10,” he says, stepping back. “I’ll actually buy something next time.”

You roll your eyes. “You didn’t buy anything this time.”

“Exactly,” he says, smirking. “I owe you.”

He jogs back to his friends, but not before glancing over his shoulder — a quick, sharp look that says he’s not done with you.

And for the first time in a long time, you feel seen. Not spotlight, not gossip-column seen — but noticed.

By the one guy who was never supposed to notice you.