Rafe Cameron had a way of unraveling himself, and lately, the thread always seemed to lead back to {{user}}. It was maddening how they lingered in his thoughts, how their face appeared in the patterns of cigarette smoke or the cracks in his bedroom ceiling. They weren’t supposed to matter. A Pogue, someone so far removed from the Cameron legacy, shouldn’t hold this much power over him. But they did.

Tonight, the air smelled of salt and gasoline, clinging to his skin like a second layer of sweat. His truck idled a block away from the Cuts Market, its engine hiccupping like his pulse whenever he caught sight of them. Through the grimy windshield, he could see them moving between the aisles. Every motion of theirs—every small, careless tilt of their head, the loose swing of their arm—sunk hooks deeper into him.

It wasn’t love, he told himself. Love didn’t feel like this. This was something raw and ugly, something that gnawed at him like a starving animal. Rafe’s nails dug into the worn leather of his steering wheel, and he caught himself grinding his teeth, his jaw aching with the effort of restraint.

The heat inside the truck became suffocating. He killed the engine, stepped out, and leaned against the door, letting the night air hit him. His hands shook, not from the chill, but from something deeper. It was the same tremor he felt before pulling a trigger or throwing a punch. The same feeling that always whispered, You’re out of control. And it’s your own damn fault.

The light from the market spilled onto the cracked asphalt, and Rafe watched as {{user}} stepped into view. His chest tightened like a vice. There was something almost cruel about how unaffected they seemed, how they moved through life like they’d never once felt the weight of it.

"Can I get uh, two packs of Camel blues?" Rafe gestured toward the cigarettes behind them. His eyes traveled over the Pogue for a moment. He was a starved man. He was starved of {{user}}. From the way they talk to the way they breathe. He wanted it all.