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dumbasscorn · 4 days ago

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RAFE CAMERON ⟢ Love through the hate

x FEM!reader ⟢ MASTERLIST

SUMMARY: (kind of / loosely) based on: @pommeauromarin: “Enemies to lovers, but only one of them thinks they're enemies. The other has been entirely obsessed since the beginning.”

WORD COUNT: +7.6k

GENRE: fluff

CONTENT WARNING: obsessed!Rafe, enemies to lovers, slowburn, fighting, gunshots, badly rewritten scenes from Outer Banks but changed to fit into the story

The fire crackled loud against the distant thump of bass, the salty air thick with smoke, sweat, and cheap beer. Red cups dotted the sand like litter, and someone was yelling about a drinking game that no one was actually playing.

You sat between Pope and Kiara on a log that had seen better days, kicking sand off your flip-flops and trying not to spill your drink as JJ reenacted — badly — his failed backflip attempt from earlier.

“You know,” JJ said, pointing a wobbly finger at you, “I’m just sayin’, if you’d recorded that, I could’ve gone viral, it was that good.”

“You landed face-first in the sand,” you deadpanned. “The only good thing would’ve been the concussion.”

“How is that good?”

“Considering it’s only a concussion and not a broken neck, I’d say that’s good,” Kiara shrugged her shoulders.

Pope snorted. “He's gonna be in the next CDC report.”

“Y’all are so unsupportive,” JJ said, dramatically flopping onto the sand like a starfish. “All I want is love. And maybe another beer.”

Kiara handed you her half empty drink and stood up, brushing off the sand on her shorts. “I’ll get him one before he cries. You want anything?”

“Yeah,” you said, glancing into your cup. “Surprise me.”

“I’m gonna get tequila,” Pope said, already trailing behind her. “You’ve been warned.”

You laughed and leaned back on your hands, watching Cleo, Sarah, and John B somewhere near the fire pit — dancing wildly with zero rhythm and even less dignity.

“You know,” JJ called from the ground, shielding his eyes from the firelight to squint at the crowd, “If I didn't know any better, I'd say you almost look relaxed tonight.”

You smirked. “Almost.”

Your eyes flicked to the edge of the firelight and there he was, like a killer walking out of the shadows: Rafe Cameron. His expensive Ralph Lauren shirt unbuttoned, eyes glinting like a knife in the dark, and somehow already radiating annoyance.

“Well, well, well,” he said, voice smooth like oil on water. “Didn’t know this party had a petting zoo.”

You groaned under your breath, turning just enough to glare at him. “Shame they let the actual animals in.”

Rafe smirked, taking a slow step closer. “You’re really committed to this Pogue cosplay, huh?”

JJ sat up from the sand like he’d been summoned. “Hey, man. You come here to cause problems, or are you just naturally this unpleasant?”

Rafe didn’t even look at him. “Wasn’t talking to you, Barbie.”

“I was talking to you,” JJ shot back, and you bit back a smile.

But Rafe’s gaze was locked on you, and your body tensed as he moved closer. Not scared. Not quite.

Just...bracing.

He always had that effect — like a thunderstorm you could see rolling in, but couldn’t avoid.

“You and your little Pogue friends are not special,” he said, voice low now, just for you. “You’re just loud, annoying and in my way.”

You raised Kie’s cup to him. “And every time you speak, I lose brain cells. So here we are. Even.”

He tilted his head like he was studying you. “You think hanging out with these rejects makes you tough?”

“No,” you said, stepping forward, not backing down. “But at least they don’t treat people like trash and make it their personality.”

“Ohh damn,” JJ muttered under his breath, grinning like a kid watching a fight break out.

Rafe’s jaw clenched. “You always this mouthy, or is it just when you’re slumming it?”

You smiled, slow and sharp. “Just when I’m bored. And you’re incredibly boring, Rafe.”

He stared at you for a beat — too long — eyes flicking over your face like he was trying to find a crack in the armor. He opened his mouth to say something back, but you leaned in just enough to make his smirk falter. “You talk like you matter. You don’t.”

Before he could say anything else, Kiara and Pope came back, drinks in hand, and Pope immediately clocked the tension.

“Rafe,” Pope said with zero enthusiasm. “Wow. What a total...surprise.”

“Don’t worry,” Kiara added. “He’ll slither away when the music stops.”

You took your drink from her, raising it in salute. “To fire hazards and emotional damage.”

JJ stood and slapped a hand on Rafe’s shoulder, not gently. “Why don’t you go yell at some seagulls or whatever it is you rich boys do when you get bored?”

Rafe looked at you again, eyes narrowed, something unreadable simmering behind them.

And then he walked off into the crowd, jaw tight, hands in fists. You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

Pope shook his head. “You really love to poke the bear, huh?”

Kiara shrugged. “He’s not a bear. He’s just a glorified chihuahua with a coke problem.”

JJ cackled. “That is accurate.”

But as the night went on and the drinks kept flowing, you couldn’t help the way your eyes kept drifting toward the shadows.

And you definitely didn’t want to talk about the fact that sometimes… Rafe looked back.

You didn’t even mean to turn heads — it just kind of happened. Maybe it was the outfits, maybe it was the energy, maybe it was the way the four of you waltzed into the Outer Banks Country Club like you owned it.

Because technically, you kind of did, with the amount of money you had spent in that place.

“Okay,” Kie said, eyes scanning the patio as you made your way toward the sun-drenched lounge chairs. “Place your bets. How many fake smiles before someone passive-aggressively mentions our ‘behavior’?”

“Three,” Cleo said immediately, sliding her sunglasses up into her curls.

“Four,” Sarah countered, stretching as she sat beside you. “They’ve been extra fake lately.”

“God, I miss their confidence,” Kie laughed. “Give me a transfusion.”

It was supposed to be a break from everything — from Pogue drama, Kook drama. A little peace.

This was about you and your girls — an afternoon of overpriced drinks, and shared cheesy fries.

“Remind me why we don’t do this more often?” Kiara asked.

“Because someone swore off the country club lifestyle,” Cleo said, giving you a pointed look.

“I swore off Kooks, not cocktails and free appetizers,” you replied, already waving a server over. “Let’s not confuse the enemy with the amenities.”

Sarah grinned, lounging across two chairs like she hadn’t grown up in this exact spot. “You can take the girl out of the country club…”

“But you can’t take the cocktail menu out of her hands,” cleo finished.

The waiter came by, clearly trying not to stare too hard as he took your drink orders. Mojitos, iced rosé, something blue for Cleo “just because,” and of course your fries with melted cheese and bacon.

It was almost peaceful. Almost.

Then the air shifted.

Kiara saw them first. “Incoming storm in tennis shoes,” she muttered.

Laughter rolled in from the other side of the terrace — loud, obnoxious, and unmistakably Topper Thornton.

Kelce followed close behind, eyes already red from either alcohol or something stronger. And right behind them was Rafe Cameron, who you could swear made it a personal mission to show up everywhere you didn’t want him to be.

Of course, trailing behind them like a reality TV extra was Ruthie — Topper’s girlfriend, a walking hair ad in kitten heels.

Rafe spotted you instantly, the same way a lion spots its favorite chew toy. His smirk kicked in before he even got within range.

Of course.

You didn’t move. Neither did the girls. The four of you sipped your drinks pretending you couldn't feel the instant tension.

“Well, well, well,” he drawled, voice as gratingly smooth as ever. “Didn’t know this place started letting strays in.”

“Oh my goodness,” Cleo muttered under her breath. “Does he just appear whenever you start having a good day?”

“I think it’s instinct,” Kie said. “Like a shark smelling blood.”

You exhaled, placing your drink downp. “You know, it’s actually impressive how fast you manage to ruin the mood in any room you enter.”

Topper scoffed. “Still got that mouth on her, huh?”

“She’s consistent,” Kelce offered with a laugh, but Cleo was quick to shut him down, “No one asked you, Kelce.”

Rafe raised a brow. “Careful, princess. You’re staring again.”

You didn’t flinch. “And the air just got heavier with disappointment.”

Rafe tilted his head. “You think anyone’s impressed by the way you slum it now? Hanging out with the Pogues doesn’t make you edgy, sweetheart. It makes you sad.”

You looked up from your glass, “Yeah, you keep saying that.”

He stepped closer, jaw tight. “You’re real tough when there’s an audience.”

You grimaced. “I don’t know what’s worse—your ego or your complete lack of self-awareness.”

“And yet,” he said, eyes flicking to your mouth, “you keep coming back.”

You tilted your head. “Or maybe I just enjoy watching you embarrass yourself in public.”

Something in his smirk twitched — like the words hit just a little deeper than he wanted to admit.

“You talk a big game for someone who doesn’t belong anywhere,” he said

“You’re exhausting, Cameron,” Cleo murmured.

“And yet… still irresistible.” Rafe hummed, smirk flickering like a challenge.

Kiara rolled her eyes and turned to face the group. “Delusional might suit you better.”

Rafe gave a low laugh, shaking his head. “Y’all really don’t know when to quit.”

“Rafe, just leave already,” Sarah’s voice cut through the tension.

Rafe just stood there, jaw tight, sunglasses slipping back down his face to hide his eyes — but you saw it.

A second too long staring after you.

Like he hated you.But he couldn’t look away.

Sarah leaned over with a whisper. “Just tell us when you finally kiss him so we can all go scream into the ocean.”

The music was shaking the walls like the house itself was about to get up and dance. Bodies pressed together on the back patio, people yelling over the bass, cups getting refilled with things no one could pronounce anymore.

You were three drinks in, riding the high between tipsy and floaty, lounging in a corner with Sarah and Cleo while Kiara and Pope were in the kitchen pretending to know how to DJ. John B and JJ were off doing God knows what.

Cleo leaned back in her chair and pointed to a group near the firepit. “Okay, that guy has done a full spin around this yard trying to flirt with four different girls. We’re witnessing the Olympic sport of mediocrity.”

You laughed into your drink. “Give him a medal. Bronze, obviously.”

Sarah giggled beside you, blonde hair falling into her face as she leaned forward. “I swear, these parties get worse every time.”

“I mean, we’re here, so that’s at least one point in its favor,” you said.

She smiled. “That’s true.”

And that’s when it started.

Topper was standing across the yard, solo cup in hand, eyes locked on Sarah like she was the only thing keeping his two brain cells in orbit. You noticed it before she did.

He was staring — like, lingering staring — the kind that had no business happening after a very public breakup and about six too many awkward run-ins.

“Hey,” Cleo said quietly, nudging her. “Creep at two o’clock.”

Sarah turned, eyes catching his instantly, and you saw her whole vibe shift. Her back straightened, smile gone. She turned back to you quickly.

“God. Not tonight.”

As if summoned by the sheer weight of your collective discomfort, Topper started walking over.

“Nope,” you muttered, sitting up straighter. “He better not.”

But he did.

“Hey, Sarah,” Topper said, voice way too casual for someone you knew was not sober. “Didn’t think I’d see you here.”

Sarah gave him the smallest, coldest smile known to man. “Yeah. Kinda hoped you wouldn’t.”

He didn’t get the hint. “You look... really good. Like, really good.”

“Thanks,” she said flatly, not even looking at him.

Topper laughed like that was an invitation. “Just saying. I mean, you always did. I was just—y’know, thinking about old times.”

You leaned forward immediately, your drink forgotten. “She said no, Top.”

He looked at you like he’d only just realized you existed. “I’m talking to Sarah.”

“And Sarah’s not interested,” Cleo said, voice sharp enough to slice through the bassline. “So take the hint and walk away.”

He turned back to her. “C’mon, Sare. We used to—”

“No,” Sarah cut in, firmer this time. “Stop.”

His face twitched, ego clearly bruised. “You don’t have to be a bitch about it.”

He was still hovering, leaning into Sarah with the grace of a drunk mosquito. His words were slurred, his posture lazy, like rejection just didn’t register in his brain.

“Come on, Sare,” he said, standing way too close. “You know you miss me.”

“No,” Sarah said, voice flat. “I miss peace and quiet. And personal space.”

“Topper,” Cleo said sharply, “how about you go find someone who actually wants to talk to you? There’s probably a mirror inside.”

Topper scoffed, but didn’t move — and then— the sound of heels slapping the patio.

Spinning like a storm cloud in a miniskirt: Ruthie. Makeup flawless. Hair curled to perfection. Rage? Blazing.

She made a beeline for you and Sarah, Topper still frozen mid-drunk flirtation.

“There she is,” Ruthie snapped, eyes locked on Sarah like a heat-seeking missile. “I fucking knew it.”

Sarah’s shoulders tensed. “Oh shit. Ruthie.”

“You just can’t help yourself, huh?” Ruthie spat. “Flirting with my boyfriend like it’s some sport?”

Sarah blinked. “Your boyfriend? He’s been hanging off me like a wet towel for five minutes.”

Topper mumbled, “I wasn’t flirting.”

“You’re pathetic, Sarah,” Ruthie snapped. “Still desperate for attention, still acting like you’re better than everyone.”

Sarah folded her arms, tone cold and calm. “Trust me, I wouldn’t waste time waiting for Topper. He’s not that interesting.”

Ruthie’s mouth dropped open — and then came the low blow:

“You think you’re better than everyone just because you ditched the Kooks and play poor now?”

Sarah took a breath, chin lifted. “No, I just know when something’s toxic. You should try it—it’s called self-awareness.”

That’s when Ruthie lunged — hands out — and shoved Sarah back.

Hard.

Sarah stumbled two steps, barely catching her balance. You didn’t even think. You were already stepping in, already in front of her, voice sharp as a knife.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” you asked.

Ruthie sneered. “Don’t act all high and mighty,” she snapped. “You’re just as fake as her, only you’re just quieter about it.”

You stepped in, eyes locked on hers, voice steady but burning.

“Funny. You call it fake, I call it knowing how to stay unbothered while insecure girls throw tantrums.”

That did it.

“Shut up!” Ruthie screamed — and without warning, her fist flew.

You saw it half a second before it landed.

CRACK.

White-hot pain bloomed across your jaw. People around you gasped. Sarah lunged forward. Cleo yelled something. Kie dropped her drink.

You stumbled back, caught by Sarah’s hands just in time, heart pounding, lip already swelling.

“Are you insane?” Cleo shouted, getting between you and Ruthie.

“Are you proud of that?” Kie snapped, stepping up beside her, DJ long forgotten. “You just punched a girl at your own party. Real classy, Ruthie.”

Topper looked stunned. “Ruthie, what the hell?”

“I warned her!” Ruthie barked, voice cracking, breathing hard. “They both needed to be put in their place.”

You wiped your mouth, blood on your fingers.

The metallic taste of blood lingered, but you didn't flinch, didn’t let the sting show.

Ruthie was still standing there, chest heaving, her lips curled into a twisted, manic smirk.

“You think you're untouchable, don't you?” Ruthie’s voice was almost a screech. “You think you can just waltz in here with your Pogues’ trash and get away with anything.”

You wiped your fingers against your jeans, wiping the blood off, and then let out a sharp laugh. “What are you even so mad for?”

Ruthie stepped closer, her eyes blazing. “You don’t get to talk to me like that. I’ll—”

Before she could finish, the door to the backyard swung open with a loud bang. All eyes snapped to it.

Rafe.

He stepped out into the garden, his presence thick and commanding, as usual.

His gaze swept across the scene: Ruthie’s manic energy, the group standing around you, the tension that could be cut with a knife. His eyes locked on yours for half a second, but only for a fleeting moment before he focused back on the chaos.

And then, like an awkward little side note, Topper wobbled in behind him, a couple steps behind with Kelce — the two of them stumbling with drunken energy, clearly trying to keep up with Rafe.

“Ruthie,” Rafe said, his voice clipped. “What the hell is going on here?”

Ruthie, now clearly emboldened by his presence, didn’t miss a beat. “They’re out of control. And i should do something about them.”

You couldn’t help the sarcastic chuckle that slipped out.

Ruthie glared at you, but she didn’t have time to respond before Topper stumbled up beside her, his eyes wild, drunker than ever. “Rafe, man, don’t listen to her. These girls—” He slurred, gesturing to you and Sarah like you were some kind of animal in a cage. “They just want drama. Just look at them.”

Sarah rolled her eyes so hard she almost gave you a headache. “Drama? Seriously, Topper? Look at what you’ve been doing all night. You don’t know what the word ‘boundaries’ means, do you?”

Rafe, went to stand off to the side, didn’t step in.

He just watched with a bored expression, barely paying attention as Ruthie and Topper continued their tantrum.

But then JJ and John B. were moving, sliding through the crowd like human wrecking balls, stepping in between you and Ruthie, before anything could escalate further.

“Alright, enough,” JJ barked, his voice low and menacing, but still carrying that scrappy, protective energy. “We’re not doing this. You’re not getting another swing in.”

John B. chimed in, hands raised in an attempt to de-escalate. “Guys, seriously. Can’t we just chill for one night without everything turning into a fight?”

Ruthie, clearly past the point of reason, spat back. “This little bitch—” She jabbed a finger at Sarah. “—she can’t just come in here and mess with things like she’s some kind of queen. She deserves to be put in her place.”

Sarah raised a brow, wiping the last of the blood off your lip with a tissue. “Put me in my place? You really think you're in a position to do that?”

JJ stepped in front of you, his posture stiff, fists clenched as if ready to throw down if Ruthie made a move. “No more punches. We’re done with this. Everyone’s had enough.”

Ruthie didn’t like being told what to do, not when she thought she was on top. But with JJ and John B. standing between you and her, she was forced to take a step back, throwing you one last glare as if she could still burn you with it.

“You’ll regret this,” she muttered, teeth gritted.

And with that, she stormed off, pushing through the crowd, leaving a trail of tension in her wake.

Topper, not really knowing what to do with himself, stumbled behind her, giving a half-hearted wave to Rafe as if to signal his exit.

“Yeah, yeah, leave,” JJ muttered, rolling his eyes as Topper drunkenly followed Ruthie inside.

The backyard was quiet again, but the air still buzzed with that charged feeling.

Rafe didn’t move, still standing off to the side, watching it all unfold with that same detached, almost bored look in his eyes.

Sarah took a step back toward you, giving you a small, apologetic smile. “Are you okay?”

You gave her a tight-lipped smile in return. “Yeah, just a scratch. Nothing I can’t handle.”

JJ gave you a half-grin. “If she comes back, I’ll personally drag her out by the hair.”

Pope raised his cup in a mock salute. “Hell yeah. We're not letting her make a scene like that again.”

You glanced over at Rafe once more, catching him watching the exchange, his face unreadable.

For a second, it felt like maybe he was about to do something — but then, as if on cue, he started walking back toward the house with Topper and Kelce trailing behind him.

No words. Just that signature, cool Kook detachment.

You didn’t let it bother you, though.

The sun was too bright for the mood hanging over your head.

The town was quiet in that sleepy, late-morning way, all golden light and passing cars. You pulled your hoodie higher, sunglasses sliding slightly down your nose, but you didn’t bother adjusting them. Let people stare. Let them talk.

The warm air stung your lip where Ruthie’s punch had landed, the dull ache now sharp with every breath. You’d already replayed it a hundred times in your head.

Should’ve hit her first. Should’ve hit her harder.

You just needed Vaseline to soften the wound.

You hadn’t gone home. Not after the party. Not after Ruthie.

You hadn’t wanted to be alone, but you hadn’t wanted to be with anyone, either.

So you just... kept moving.

The pharmacy was a couple blocks away. You just needed to get there. Get what you needed. Go.

But halfway down the block, a shadow cut across the sun.

You felt it before you saw it.

“Seriously?” you muttered under your breath before you even turned around.

He was standing across the street, backlit by the sun, hands in his pockets like he owned the pavement.

No Topper. No Kelce. Just Rafe.

Alone. Again.

He crossed the street without saying anything. Just looking at you.

You stopped walking. “You stalking me now, Cameron?”

No hesitation. No explanation.

Just him.

You watched him like he was a threat, but not one you were afraid of. One you were used to. The kind that walks beside your worst instincts and whispers, go on — do it anyway.

He stopped a few feet in front of you. Looked at your lip.

“You didn’t clean it,” he said. Not a question. Just a fact.

“Wow, good to know you’re keeping tabs,” you said, dry. “Are you here to play nurse or to judge how bad she wrecked my face?”

He didn’t react.

“I’m here,” he said, slowly, “because I watched someone touch you like they had the right to.”

You blinked, scoffed, turned your body slightly like you might keep walking.

“That’s not your problem, Rafe.”

He stepped closer.

You looked up at him, sunglasses hiding the fury in your eyes — barely.

“I hate you,” he starts, jaw tense. “I really fuckin’ do. But no one else gets to touch you.”

You laughed, bitter and short. “You’re really fucking insane.”

“No,” he said, “I’m angry.”

“You watched it happen. You didn’t move. You didn’t even blink.”

“I didn’t move,” he said tightly, “because I knew you’d handle her. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t want to kill her for laying a hand on you.”

You shook your head, backing up. “You don’t get to pretend this is some noble, protective thing. You’ve hated me since day one.”

“And I still do.”

His words were sharp — but his voice cracked with something else.

“You’re the most infuriating person I’ve ever met,” he said, and you could feel it unraveling. “And if you walk away from me, I swear to God I’ll follow.”

You shook your head slowly, glare sharp enough to draw blood. “Dude, are listening to yourself? You sound insane.”

“Maybe I am,” he said. “You make me that way.”

Your jaw tightened.

“I saw your face,” he said, voice quieter now but still burning. “I saw the blood. And I don’t care how much I hate you, it made me see red. I almost went back for her.”

“I didn’t—don’t need you to.”

“I know. That’s the worst part.” He exhaled like he was holding something in. “You never need me. But I still wanted to do something for you.”

You stopped.

Frozen in sunlight. In heat. In something dangerous that had no name.

You turned back toward him, voice quiet. “You don’t care about me.”

“I shouldn’t.”

He stepped closer, just enough that the space between you felt electric.

“But every time I see someone else look at you, talk to you, touch you—” his eyes darkened— “I lose it. I don’t want anyone else near you.”

You swallowed.

Your lip still hurt. Your heart hurt worse.

“You’re the last person I’d trust to keep me safe.”

“I know.”

“And still...” you trailed off.

“Still,” he echoed.

The sun beat down. The street was quiet.

And between you — fire and ruin, bruises and want, and a thousand things neither of you could say out loud.

Not yet.

The door creaked open quietly, as if the house could sense you were trying not to be noticed.

You stepped inside, the familiar scent of fresh linen and some overpriced candle hitting you like a memory. The house was too bright, too quiet. No yelling. No music. Just the sound of the door shutting softly behind you and the echo of your own heartbeat.

You didn't even get halfway down the hallway before you heard your mom’s voice from the kitchen.

“Sweetheart, is that you?”

You cleared your throat, adjusting your hoodie. “Yeah. Just got in.”

Her footsteps approached before you could hide yourself, and suddenly she was standing there, eyes scanning you automatically like moms do.

And then they landed on your lip.

She stopped.

“What happened?”

Your heart jumped.

You blinked. “What?”

She pointed, her brows pulling together. “Your lip. What happened?”

You ran your tongue over it unconsciously, feeling the dull ache still sitting there like a shadow.

“Oh. Uh—” You shifted, not meeting her eyes. “Wasn’t a big deal. Just tripped over some uneven pavement near the Boneyard. Stupid, really.”

You gave a tiny laugh like it was ridiculous even to say. Like you didn’t remember the way Ruthie’s ring caught the corner of your mouth. Like it wasn’t still playing on repeat in your head.

Your mom stared a second longer, like she knew you were lying — but didn’t know why.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” you nodded quickly, a little too fast. “Totally fine. I’m just gonna go clean it up and crash for a bit. Didn’t sleep much.”

She nodded slowly, reluctantly. “Okay. But let me know if it starts swelling again. We’ll put ice on it.”

“Got it.”

You turned, taking the stairs two at a time, not stopping until your bedroom door was closed behind you.

And then... silence. No voices. No chaos.

You stared at yourself in the mirror. The cut on your lip. The faint bruise forming at the edge of your jaw. And that familiar hollowness behind your eyes — like you’d come home, but never actually made it back.

You touched your lip gently.

The storm had swallowed the sky by late afternoon.

Everything outside was dark and violent — trees swaying, sirens wailing, the air thick with tension. But inside, your house felt weirdly warm, like the eye of a hurricane.

You were curled up on the living room floor in an old hoodie and fuzzy socks, a blanket wrapped around your legs and one of your sisters tangled in your side like a little koala.

“—and then, Mrs. Grant told him that if he licked another desk, he’d be cleaning them all after school with bleach,” said your youngest sister, eyes wide as she retold her tale of elementary school chaos.

You snorted, finally letting yourself laugh a little. “Why was he licking desks?”

“I don’t know, he said it ‘tasted like math,’” she replied with an exaggerated shrug.

Your middle sister, who had claimed the other end of the couch and was flipping through a fashion magazine, didn’t even look up. “Boys are weird.”

You smiled, warmth blooming in your chest — the kind of warmth that doesn’t burn. Just sits there, soft and still, while the world outside rattles the windows.

You’d needed this.

No parties.No fights.No yelling. No Rafe. No expectations.

Just your sisters, chaos and innocence wrapped into little bodies with glitter nail polish and chocolate on their sleeves.

“Did you really get in a fight?” the youngest asked suddenly, like the question had been sitting behind her teeth for days.

Your heart thudded. “What?”

She pointed at your lip — still healing, still visible. “That girl Ruthie, right? Mia said her cousin saw it. Said you got punched real bad.”

You hesitated. Then gave her a lazy shrug, trying to play it off.

“She just got lucky.”

Your sisters gasped like that was the coolest answer they’d ever heard. You grinned.

Your other younger sister looked up from her magazine. “Was it like...a real fight-fight? Or like, high school drama fight?”

You raised a brow. “What do you think?”

They both squealed.

“Mom’s gonna flip if she finds out,” one whispered dramatically.

“Only if you tell her,” you warned playfully.

They zipped their lips and laughed like it was a shared secret between queens.

Outside, the wind picked up. Thunder rolled across the sky like it was angry. But in here, on this stormy day, you were untouchable.

“Can we paint your nails later?” your youngest asked, already reaching for her backpack full of chaotic colors.

“Sure,” you murmured, settling back into the couch, letting the noise of the storm fade into background static. “Why not.”

The storm had left the island in a hush.

No more sirens. No howling winds. Just puddles in the roads, fallen branches, and that wet silence that only comes after something wild has passed through.

You were with the Pogues again — the first time in days. No one said much as you walked along the marshy trail that led toward the dock. Everyone was moving slower, still kind of processing the storm, the drama, the bruises that hadn’t quite faded.

“Uh… is that a boat?”

Everyone looked down.

And yeah — there it was. Sunken near the edge of the bottom, like it had been thrown there by the storm.

It looked sleek, not so expensive — white hull scraped and cracked down one side like it had been running from something and lost.

JJ whistled low. “That’s not good.”

Pope leaned over the boat, stepping closer to the edge. “This is sketchy.”

Kie stepped into the mud. “Let’s check it out.”

“Nope,” you said quickly. “This is literally how horror movies start.”

Sarah grinned over her shoulder at you. “C’mon, live a little. You almost fought a girl in the middle of a party. You can handle a ghost boat.”

“I was defending you,” you shot back, following as they jumped in the water

Windshield was cracked.

Sides were banged up.

Inside, it was eerily empty.

No blood.

“No way this thing just sunk,” JJ sputtered as he came back up, the rest of you following. “Something happened.”

“Or someone didn’t survive the storm,” Pope said grimly.

A chill ran down your spine.

You looked out at the still, silent water. The way it sparkled now, like it had no idea it had been angry just twenty-four hours ago. And the boat, sitting crooked, dripping, like it had secrets it wasn’t ready to spill.

Everything felt weirdly still. Too still.

“This doesn’t feel like a storm thing,” you muttered. “This feels like a setup.”

Sarah nodded slowly. “Something about this is… off.”

Kie pulled out her phone. “Should we call it in?”

JJ smirked. “Or we keep it. Fix it up. Pirate life.”

“JJ,” Pope warned.

But you weren’t listening anymore.

You were staring at the boat, suddenly very aware of how boats like this didn’t just wash up for no reason.

The water was still as glass.

JJ had just thrown something back into the wreckage, muttering something about “weird energy,” when Kiara suddenly stiffened.

“Guys,” she said, low and sharp. “There’s another boat. Behind us.”

You whipped your head around, heartbeat already spiking. Sure enough, coming around the curve of the inlet was a second boat—sleek, black, fast. Two men on board, both wearing caps pulled low. One at the wheel, one standing.

Too fast to be casual. Too quiet to be friendly.

Pope was already jumping back into your small skiff. “Let’s go. Now.”

Kie shoved Sarah forward, urgency in her voice. “Pope, faster!”

You barely got your footing in the boat before the roar of the engine behind you got louder—close enough to feel it vibrating off the water.

Then—

Gunshot.

JJ dove flat. “Holy fuck!”

Another crack. This one punched into the water just feet behind your boat.

Pope didn’t even shout—he just slammed the throttle forward.

The engine coughed, then roared to life, and suddenly you were surging through the water so fast the bow lifted off the surface.

Everyone lurched.

You were thrown forward.

Your arms scrambling for balance, but the slick metal deck didn’t give you a chance—your knee slammed into the side.

Your elbow slipped, and your shoulder hit the bench with a thud.

Your head knocked the edge—not hard enough to knock you out, but stars burst behind your eyes as you collapsed onto your side with a hiss.

“Shit—” Sarah grabbed your arm, trying to steady you.

Kie had fallen too, her knee visibly scraped and already blooming into a red-purple bruise.

She gritted her teeth and pulled herself up, crouching low.

Another gunshot cracked through the air.

“They’re shooting at us!” JJ shouted, ducking down behind the small sidewall of the boat. “We didn’t even take anything!”

You groaned, trying to sit up as the boat rocked hard again from Pope swerving sharply through a tighter inlet.

“Get down!” Kie yelled, dragging you lower into the body of the boat. “You good?!”

“Yeah,” you gasped, blinking through the ache. “Arm’s bruised, maybe my ego too.”

“Add me to the list,” she muttered, clutching her knee. “I swear, if we survive this—”

JJ peeked up. “They’re still behind us but we’ve got space—Pope, dude, go!”

“Going as fast as this thing can!” Pope shouted, his voice taut with focus. “I didn’t tune up for high-speed shootouts, bro!”

The boat jumped over a wake, crashing back onto the water with a spray of salt.

You clung to the side, lip still throbbing from the last fight and now your arm radiating fresh pain.

Sarah crouched next to you, her face pale. “Who the hell were they?”

You shook your head, dazed but aware. “Definitely not locals.”

Another shot—this one missing by a wide margin.

“They’re losing control,” JJ said, glancing back. ��Might not know these waters like we do.”

“Let’s hope Pope remembers every shortcut,” Kiara said through clenched teeth. “Because if not—we’re screwed.”

Cleo looked up as your group stumbled through the gate like a ragtag army returning from battle.

JJ flung himself into one of the lawn chairs dramatically, arms flopping over the sides. “I almost died, by the way.”

“We almost died,” Kiara corrected, limping slightly as she made her way to the porch steps, her knee wrapped in a makeshift bandage from Sarah’s hoodie string.

Cleo squinted, standing now. “The hell happened to you?”

You followed last, one arm clutched to your ribs, bruised but mostly intact. Your lip was still healing, and now your arm and shoulder were yelling at you too.

Cleo clocked the look on your face and raised a brow. “You look like you got run over by a jet ski.”

You pointed at JJ. “Blame him.”

JJ gasped. “What?! I didn’t shoot at us!”

“No, you only made us go to that boat, which could’ve killed us.”

Cleo’s face dropped. “Wait. Hold up. Who shot at who?”

Pope walked in behind you all, out of breath, eyes still wide. “There were two guys. On a boat. Armed.”

“Chased us down after we found a wrecked one near the marsh,” Sarah added, flopping onto the porch beside you.

Cleo blinked. “Okay, back up. You found a boat?”

“Half-sunken,” Pope nodded. “No plates. Expensive. Definitely not a local.”

“No bodies,” you added. “But something about it felt… wrong.”

“I told them it was giving horror movie energy,” you muttered, rolling your shoulder with a wince.

“You also went inside,” Sarah said, nudging you. “So don’t act all cautious now.”

“Peer pressure is real.”

Cleo looked between all of you like she was trying to decide whether to laugh or scream. “So let me get this straight. I stay back, clean up beer cans and wash mildew outta towels, you find a mystery boat, get chased by two armed dudes, JJ almost pees himself, and no one thought to text me?”

“We were busy not dying,” Pope deadpanned.

JJ threw his hands up. “I texted you a skull emoji!”

Cleo just stared.

“That was supposed to mean danger,” he added weakly.

Kie rolled her eyes. “We’re gonna to be real cautious.”

You sighed, leaning your head back against the porch wall. “Or a week without almost dying.”

Cleo snorted. “You joined the wrong friend group for that.”

Everyone laughed — even you, sore but glad to be back on solid ground.

The beach was quiet — at least, for now.

The tide rolled in soft and slow, the sun warm but not blistering. There was still a sting in your shoulder every time you moved too fast, and your lip was healing into that awkward itchy stage. You could feel the yellowing bruise blooming across your bicep every time the salty breeze touched it. But at least it was peaceful now.

You were perched on a towel next to Pope, who was leaning back with a book in his lap and sunglasses sliding down his nose.

“What are you reading again?” you asked, sipping from the warm can of soda you’d found in the cooler.

“The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle.”

You gave him a look. “Of course you are.”

Pope just smirked. “Don’t hate just because your brain’s still concussed.”

“Barely concussed. Lightly bonked.”

He raised a brow. “You fell face-first in a moving boat while being shot at. That’s more than a bonk.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped.

Out on the water, JJ was yelling something that sounded like encouragement but had the tone of someone absolutely making it up as he went. Cleo was paddling awkwardly on a too-big board, eyes narrowed at him.

“You said it was like skating,” she shouted.

“It is! Ocean skating!”

Cleo wiped seawater from her eyes and flipped him off with a grin before trying again.

“She’s gonna kill him if she wipes out,” Pope murmured.

“She’s gonna kill him even if she doesn’t,” you replied, watching as JJ dramatically flopped off his own board just to float beside her.

Pope snorted and turned the page.

Further down the beach, Kiara and Sarah were already waist-deep, catching easy waves like they’d been born there — which, honestly, wasn’t far from the truth.

The two of them were laughing so hard about something that Sarah nearly wiped out mid-turn.

You stretched your legs, watching the sunlight glitter across the water, catching on their wet hair, the bright colors of the boards, the foam dancing at the edge of the beach.

It was the kind of moment you wanted to press between the pages of a book — soft, salty, untouched by the chaos waiting in town.

“You gonna try to surf again?” Pope asked without looking up.

You smirked. “Let’s not pretend I could even before getting thrown around like a ragdoll.”

“You could. You’re just stubborn about letting people teach you.”

You nudged his arm. “Says the guy who brought Murakami to the beach.”

Pope lifted the book slightly. “Touché.”

You sat back again, letting the sun warm your face, the noise of your friends filling the air — yelling, laughing, splashing.

The ocean was still calling in front of you — soft, rhythmic waves crashing, the sound of JJ yelling “SURF’S UP, BITCHES!” echoing over the sand like it was still 2003 — but the sun was starting to warm your skin a little too much, and your mouth felt dry from all the salt in the air.

You stretched, shoulder still sore, and stood from the towel with a lazy groan. “I’m going to get a drink,” you told Pope, who gave you a distracted wave without looking up from his book.

The beach bar was tucked under a canopy of palms, with half-rusted stools and a neon COLD BEER & HOT REGRETS sign flickering in the afternoon light. You walked barefoot across the warm boards, brushing sand off your legs as you slid onto one of the stools.

The bartender barely looked up. “What can I get you?”

“Sex on the Beach,” you said without hesitation, chin resting on your hand. “Extra beach, hold the regrets.”

He gave a faint laugh and turned to mix the drink.

You glanced out toward the water, watching a few couples stumble across the shore in the sun.

Everything felt weirdly normal. Like the world had hit pause on the chaos. Even the dull ache in your arm and shoulder felt distant in the ocean breeze.

Until it didn’t.

You didn’t hear them before you saw them — that’s the thing with them. It’s never loud at first, it’s just a shift in the air. A sudden change in the atmosphere.

And then: them.

Rafe. Topper. Kelce. And Ruthie, of course.

They strolled in like they owned the place — like the rest of the world was just background noise.

Rafe’s shirt was half unbuttoned, sunglasses perched low, that same lazy swagger in his step like he hadn’t nearly watched his entire life unravel three times in a row.

Topper was mid-rant about something, gesturing wildly, while Ruthie laughed like it was the funniest thing she’d ever heard.

Rafe barely reacted — scanning the bar instead.

Until his eyes landed on you.

You didn’t move.

Just took a slow sip of your drink as his gaze lingered a beat too long, like he was trying to figure out if you were real or just another sun-soaked hallucination.

Then—he looked away.

You didn’t miss the twitch of his jaw, though.

Or the way Ruthie leaned into Topper’s side like a snake claiming territory. She hadn’t noticed you yet.

Neither had Topper or Kelce.

But he had.

And for some reason, that was enough to shift the mood completely.

Your grip on your glass tightened just a little.

So much for peace and quiet.

You stayed at the bar longer than you planned.

The drink was half-melted, condensation slipping down your fingers, but you nursed it slowly — mostly because you didn’t feel like walking back just yet. The salt in the air, the sound of the waves behind you, the buzz of people laughing in the distance — it all made the bruise on your arm feel less like a warning and more like a ghost.

You didn’t look at him.

But you knew he was looking at you.

So, you didn’t give him the satisfaction of looking over.

But you felt it. The shift. The tension.

The moment he stood from his group — Ruthie too distracted by Topper to notice — and started walking toward you.

You caught it in your periphery, jaw tightening. You kept your eyes forward, lips brushing the rim of your glass like you hadn’t already braced for him.

The barstool next to you creaked.

His presence hit like it always did — heavy, hot, and far too close.

“Let me guess,” you said, not looking at him. “Bar ran out of trust fund cocktails, so now you’re slumming it?”

“Shut up,” he muttered.

You smirked, lips brushing your straw. “Such charm. You’re really spoiling me.”

He didn’t laugh. Didn’t even blink.

His eyes were on your arm.

Specifically, the bruise.

Dark, ugly, and only half-hidden beneath the strap of your tank top.

“What happened?” he asked sharply.

You blinked, feigning cluelessness. “To what?”

He gave you a look — one of those don’t insult me looks. “You gonna tell me what the fuck happened to your arm?” Rafe said low, voice taut.

You sighed, leaning back a little. “It’s from surfing. JJ bailed in front of me and I ate it on his board.”

Rafe didn’t even try to pretend he believed it.

His jaw ticked. “Try again.”

You rolled your eyes. “Rafe, dude, calm down. You think I’ve never taken a board to the ribs before?”

His voice dropped, low and tense. “You’re not limping. You’re not walking like someone wiped out. You’re moving like you hit something hard and didn’t want anyone to see you fall.”

You didn’t answer.

His voice was quieter when he added, “You don’t have to lie to me.”

You scoffed. “I’m not lying. Not everything’s some mystery waiting for your approval.”

Rafe’s fingers tapped restlessly against the bar. “You’re really pissing me off, but if anyone touched you…”

You turned your head slowly, daring him to finish that sentence.

The beach noise dulled behind the moment.

Just your pulse, your bruised arm, and the weight of him staring like he knew something and hated not being part of it.

“Well, no one touched me,” you answered again, cool and unbothered.

“You sure?” he asked, voice colder.

You held his stare. “Yes. I’m sure.”

Rafe sat back, tongue pressing against his cheek, still watching you.

Still not convinced.

Not even close.

“You’re a terrible liar,” he said after a beat.

You smirked, sliding off the barstool, drink empty in your hand. “And you’re still a worse person.”

Then you turned and walked away — not fast, not flustered, just done.

But you felt him watching the whole time.

And he didn’t move.

Didn’t follow.

Didn’t do anything.

Just watched as you turned your back to him. Again.

The sun had dipped lower by the time you made it back to the group, casting everything in a golden haze.

Kept your drink in your hand even though it was mostly just melted ice now — gave you something to do, something to not say.

JJ got you first.

He was half lying in the sand, arm draped over his eyes like the sun was personally attacking him, but the second he heard your footsteps, he sat up and squinted.

“Was that Rafe?” he asked immediately, voice sharper than his relaxed posture let on.

You didn’t answer right away.

Just kicked off your sandals and dropped onto the towel next to Pope, who was still pretending to read.

Kept his eyes trained on the book, but he was definitely listening.

Kie pulled her sunglasses down, eyes narrowing. “Again?”

Cleo raised her brows. “Please tell me you weren’t about to throw hands again.”

JJ looked up to watch Rafe from afar. “Do I need to fight him? I will fight him. Let me just take my shoes off first.”

Cleo looked up from braiding Sarah’s hair. “What the hell did he want this time?”

You shrugged, brushing your hair back. “It’s fine. He just asked what happened to my arm.”

JJ made a noise that was half scoff, half growl. “Oh, did he? And what, you told him it’s none of his business?”

“I told him I hit JJ’s board surfing,” you replied, giving JJ a pointed look.

JJ blinked. “Wait, what—you did? When?”

You gave him a weird look.

He caught it instantly. “Ah. Right. Yeah. That totally happened. Board. Impact. Gnarly wipeout. My bad.”

“Thank you,” you muttered.

Pope, who put down his book, looked between all of you. “Wait. Why do I have a feeling you’re not saying something?”

“I’m not,” you said too fast.

“You are,” Sarah said at the same time.

Cleo narrowed her eyes. “You’re a terrible liar.”

JJ leaned forward. “Okay but real talk—are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” you insisted. “Rafe was just… being nosy. Like usual. He didn’t do anything.”

Everyone quieted just a little. The ocean still roared behind you. The sun was almost gone now, orange fading into that soft blue hour.

You looked at them — at all of them. Sand in their hair, bruises still healing, sunburned and wild and yours.

“Yeah,” you said. “I’m okay.”

Another lie.

But none of them pushed it.

Instead, JJ tossed you a marshmallow from the bag in his lap.

You leaned your head on Pope’s shoulder, the warmth of your friends grounding you in a way nothing else could.

“You guys worry too much,” you mumbled.

“Yeah, well,” JJ muttered, flicking the lighter, “maybe we have a reason to.”

Cleo hummed. “I still say next time I see him, I trip him in the sand. Just for fun.”

That finally made you smile.

Kie nodded, “And then I steal his wallet. You know, for charity.”

You laughed softly, eyes still on the horizon, the bruise on your arm pulsing in time with your heartbeat.

But surrounded by them — the chaos, the care, the loyalty — it felt a little smaller.

A little less like it owned you.

And Kiara leaned into your side with a sigh.

And Sarah smiled that knowing smile that said she’d circle back later to the conversation with you, when no one else was around.

Because that’s what Pogues did.

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